Bird Land

But then they started to play, and the sound was so tight their eclectic appearances became both surreal and irrelevant. To the casual observer, Schimke, Horst, and Bates seemed to be reacting to Granros. He wasn’t demonstrably leading—calling out or signaling solos and other changes—and they all say the band is run by egalitarian committee. But he possesses an undeniable sense of gravitas. He’s the performer most difficult, even for his bandmates, not to watch.

“As time goes by,” Granros says, referring to the band’s cohesiveness, “the things that are important in what you’re doing last and the superfluous things fall away because they’re not worth the energy. At this point, we’re all about the music.”

“The music is what we gig for,” says Bates. “The greater, collective thing that happens when we’re in that zone of creating something. It happens in every gig, and that’s the essence of jazz and improvisation—that spontaneity.”

They all agree that a certain freedom exists within HBW—“I can try things with this band that I can’t do with 95 percent of the bands I play with,” says Horst. “There are more chances to take musical risks”—and though none of them can say exactly why, Bates seems to come closest. “My approach is that we don’t need to play songs the same way every time, and the end result is more satisfying,” he says. “The overall approach is not playing it safe. We play in the moment, in reaction to the input coming at us right then and there. We all have to trust each other. In the current lineup of the band, we’re relying on that trust, and on the joy of playing with guys who can play that way.”

The music in both sets was ferocious—not banging and wailing, but swinging with lovely aggression—and never swirling among the musicians for their own benefit, but constantly heading straight toward audience. Less than a minute after wrapping up a fierce version of “Do It Again,” with Schimke on vocals, the guys were coiling cords, packing instruments, and quietly chatting. The last few people settled their bar tabs with Horst’s son David, while Horst sipped a glass of red wine at the bar. As a young man, Horst, who was raised on St. Paul’s West Side, played often enough in typically black clubs—the Jet Away, Big Al’s, the Blue Note—that he was once named by KUXL radio as the Twin Cities’ “Best Black Drummer.” For six of the eleven years he’s owned the AQ, it was on Jackson Street in St. Paul. Before that, he worked at the club’s Minneapolis location for five or six years. “I ended up [buying the AQ] because—and this sounds egotistical—I’d been the lifeblood of the place before I owned it. Basically, the owner didn’t want to do it anymore, and I wanted to keep the music going.”

“Are you glad you bought the club?” someone asks.

“Sometimes,” Horst says, with a warm, wry laugh. “The way it is now, almost all musicians have some sort of a day job. They teach or tune pianos or do something like Dean or Chris. I just figured I may as well stay this close to the music.”

Jan. 3, 10, 17, 24 & 31. Artists’ Quarter, 408 St. Peter St., St. Paul, 651-292-1359

Chris Godsey profiled The Current DJ Mark Wheat in January 2006.