There's nothing to entertain the unconverted except sheer musicality when it comes to the Boston saxophonist Jerry Bergonzi. He and his band don't talk much, nor move any muscles other than the ones that unleash a sound, and look as if they would be more at home leaning on a bar discussing the Sopranos than playing in front of one. But Bergonzi is one of the most remarkable jazz saxophonists left on the planet after the premature loss of Michael Brecker.

Bergonzi played with Dave Brubeck in the 1970s, but his tenor sound has a rough, crackling quality now, and between the twisting, dry-toned runs he hammers home a dramatic punctuation of snorting Coltrane-like split-notes and startled cries. He's a supreme spontaneous melodist, however. The sound effects of free jazz are markers on compellingly logical yet constantly diverted journeys.

His regular partners (Renato Chicco, piano, Dave Santoro, bass, Andrea Michelutti, drums) operate in a crisp but unobtrusive manner, sometimes sounding a little sober against the leader's restlessly varied lines. But Bergonzi carried all before him, sometimes with a Rollins-like force, sometimes with an enigmatic Wayne Shorteresque airiness.

Kenny Dorham's La Mesha began as a yearning theme that Bergonzi developed into a flurry of lateral figures after Santoro's early bass solo. He opened each sax break with a startling new motif, which jacked up the sense of anticipation every time he came to the microphone, and his unaccompanied coda here was astonishing. Cookarache was a Latin groover that started smooth and got wild, Thelonious Monk's Pannonica rattled with alternative Bergonzi stories, and a fast Who Cares? found him in an effortless stride of skidding, wriggling phrases resolving in whoops. The set closed on a stunning postbop melody-conundrum - it was called Stumbelina, but nobody faltered for an instant.