For an unadvertised event, a surprisingly large audience fell sky down in silence and stuck as silently into the lacquered gym floor. The quartet drew a collective breath and the scattering of chairs moved imperceptibly closer to the stage. Electric anticipation bottled in a transformed venue; there was just the level of informality necessary to all memorable performances. Kojun stated he desired the performance of the night to be fun and energetic. It was both.

Redesigned to house Kojun Sato’s senior recital, the gymnasium of other times was now a strange dive. A collapsible stage hunkered down in amber light, hemmed in place by shadow. This arrangement allowed for a peculiar arching effect, although the room was appallingly square—a splay of jazz addicts surrounded. The dig, minus the cats’ tails of trailing smoke, harkened back to a time where jazz moved about in a body. The audience merged with the quartet, all fingered through a palpable collective memory, all deeply in love. Praying through chord progressions and changes, through diatonic foreplay. Never forgetting that in music lies humanity.

It was a good turn out. With a line up like this one it would be hard to falter: Greg Bandy on drums, Adam Faulk on piano, Ben Purcell on bass, and last but naturally not least, Kojun Sato on tenor saxophone. The program selections favored Thelonius Monk and also included works by Irving Berlin, Billy Strayhorn and Dexter Gordon. Why Monk? Kojun’s measured reply was the desire to marry the lyricism of modern jazz to the rhythmic swing of the holy influence. Monk, situated as the canvas, poses an indubitable challenge to the post-modern musician’s pallet. This pallet is in obvious debt to the pioneers of art genres, specialized education and the host of amazing musicians known as “influences.” All artists must contend with this challenge in the struggle to define their personal style.

With feet planted firmly in the throes of “Epistrophy,” Kojun swung low in a dip. His head guiding, he then leaned way back and poured forth deep vibrato and quickly in an upsweep, squawking high altissimo. Wound tightly, he struck a dissonant raw splenetic sound. The feather swift rhythm section conversed brilliantly, raising phantom scaffolding around the soloist through banter and interplay. In “Ruby, My Dear,” they rocked her slow up and down the spine and laid down illustrious cool tones and swarming hums. Two notes smoldered in a simple reminder that it’s not only fire that burns.

I found Kojun at the Feve later that night, drawing delicately on a cigar and sipping an amber fluid, presumably scotch. Borrowing him from the midst of celebration, he told me tomorrow morning he was on a plane to New York. He spoke then of the world to come, challenges on the horizon, and the learning that only life in New York can provide. He spoke of the relief it was to find such a talented bassist at the last minute. “It was fun, and energetic,” I spoke demurely, “Congratulations.” He nodded. He seemed happy. Many well wishes for the future.