sanders, boyd, page & hall

Every atom in your body was forged in the belly of a dying star. The calcium in your bones, the iron in your blood, the carbon threading through every strand of your DNA — all of it cooked at temperatures beyond human language, scattered across the void, and reassembled over billions of years into something that walks into a bar on a Tuesday night and listens. Sanders, Boyd, Page & Hall are four collections of stellar debris who have chosen to spend their brief window of consciousness making original music together. Not playing songs. Not running repertoire. Building something in real time from the raw material of attention, instinct, and decades of accumulated craft — compositions that didn't exist before these particular particles arranged themselves around instruments in this particular room. Sanders' guitar refracts melody through a prism of everything from Sharrock to Hartford, bending light no one else can see. Boyd's reeds and winds carry frequencies rooted in the red clay churches of South Carolina, now orbiting through dimensions his EWI opens like airlock doors. Page — a man who has averaged 275 gigs a year since the mid-nineties — provides gravitational pull, the low-end mass that keeps the whole system from flying apart. And Hall, four decades deep into a conversation with rhythm, treats percussion less like timekeeping and more like particle physics — breaking beats into smaller and smaller pieces until something fundamental reveals itself. Their compositions move through jazz, soul, free improvisation, Americana, noise, and territories that don't have names yet. The through-composed pieces give way to groove explorations that give way to the kind of collective free fall where nobody knows what's coming next and everybody trusts the landing. It's the sound of matter becoming aware of itself and deciding to swing. Little Jumbo curates evenings like this one — where the creature on the wall watches over a room full of exploded stars who showed up to experience something unrepeatable. This is free. Always free. The universe doesn't charge admission to witness itself in motion.