He’s got the look. Quintessential. Black beret, a chin perfectly shaped for his silver-white goatee, and wearing a soft, black collar shirt with two, broad panels of brown-gold that run from the top of the shoulder to the un-tucked shirt tail. A jazz musician if I ever saw one. Straight from central casting. He wrapped himself around the upright, double bass as though he was caressing a long-time lover. He defined the quartet and his velvet paisley harmony outlined the smoky sound that the guitar, tenor, and percussion filled in. He may have been the manifestation of the bebop bassist Paul Chambers teletransported from the 30th Street Studio while working with Miles on the Kind of Blue album. Who knows, stranger things have happened. Sadly our crowd was sparse. So few to enjoy a most pleasant jazz night. It was a mix of devotees and yakety-yakers who were clearly oblivious to the magic happening in their midst.