Let there be light?

A jazz band's natural habitat is a dark nightclub with a crowded floor, smoke in the air, glasses clinking, a hint of the illicit, a revolt against conformity, a resistance against the fixity of a score, an unscripted, unpredictable performance. Transplanted to a gallery space, the artifice clears - the rhythm is precise, the volume controlled, the silences are conscious, the musicians tightly coordinated. This is no chaos. Except, that under the bright lights, old habits are revealed. Random water bottles are scattered among the instruments. Electric cords wander like stray serpents across the stage. The drummer set down next to him two lumpy knapsacks. The hefty keyboardist - in the middle of a tune - turns his back to the audience and bends over to connect two instruments with a cord. Wet umbrellas in plastic wraps tumble in the corner. Hipsters of the dark, revealed in the light.