The hollow double tonk--timbre somewhere between a Fender Rhodes and a child's knuckle on a picture window--of the raven overhead evokes the tart agnosticism of Dolphy on the Village Vanguard dates, each solo built up from a couple of notes like cell division, flipping like real estate, vocalic, a wet knot of material unravelling and then its the laces and then its a new knot again, a little tight which is good: meanwhile Coltrane has installed the drapes, driven you to the airport and won't shut up. An epidemic of scattered applause greeted the New Thing, as out of the cthonic mists of Hawthornian repression came the men whose beards had been struck by lightning. Wedding the iron control of Sousa with the prophetic indignation of John Brown they stood at the pillars of the Williamsburg Bridge blowing as if the very rivets would begin to loosen, the hinges of capital buckle and hesitate. And let us have a moment of silence before six punters look up in time to slap their palms twice against their wrists before resuming a loud-voiced, multi-pocket token search.