In November 2001, they were turning the crowds away at Ronnie Scott's for the Branford Marsalis Quartet's appearances; the word had shot round that this was a new all-star band, as happy to discover fresh strengths as audiences were to watch them do it, and the word was proved right.
But while a great string quartet, for instance, might refine and deepen its interpretations of a standing repertoire over decades, an improvising ensemble is a more volatile and impermanent affair, as this Barbican concert by Marsalis's group confirmed.
Almost 18 months on from those Frith Street appearances, it was as dazzling a display of postbop virtuosity as ever. But in the big hall, Jeff "Tain" Watts's remarkable polyrhythmic drumming sounded booming and a little brutal where in the club it had sounded explosively detailed.
And the band often opted for sequential long solos rather than collective dialogue, revealing less of its old, relaxed give-and-take. The quartet remains one of the best contemporary small jazz bands on the planet, but on this occasion, at least, its early sparkle had dimmed a shade or two.
As well as Watts, the band features Joey Calderazzo on piano and Eric Revis on bass. This evening's repertoire took a broader sweep across jazz history, with the leader close to the gruff tenderness of long-departed swing stars such as Coleman Hawkins or Ben Webster on tenor at times, and touching on the bittersweet eloquence of Sidney Bechet on soprano sax for Ruby in the Pearl.
Between these more lyrical episodes were typical post-Coltrane saxophone furores, like the straight-swinging opener In the Crease, which brought the first of the night's flooding solos of keyboard-length runs, frenzied trills and pummelling chords from Calderazzo. Marsalis played a trance-like four-note repeat at the end, against which the unquenchable Watts launched the kind of exhaustive drum barrage usually reserved for finales.
Marsalis's Bechet-like turns on soprano were one of the night's most attractive features: his timing was exquisite and his phrasing full of deft turns and unexpected shimmers. Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was a powerful groover, and the lyrical Nocturne, with its breathy tenor-sax sound, hissy cymbals and restless bass variations, freed the group from the rather monochromatic quality that had stubbornly clung to it.
