If someone wanted to take a snapshot of the contemporary jazz scene, he could do no better than to click on the James Williams Sextet's performance last Friday night. All the elements that constitute a great jazz concert were there: three generations of excellent horn players, a tight, driving rhythm section, good choice of materia, and a talented and charismatic gig leader to shine before a responsive crowd. The performance at Scullers Jazz Club at the Guest Quarter's Suite Hotel was a solid, fulfilling set of mainstream jazz.

Onstage, James Williams is a relaxed presence, with a genuine smile and a slight trace of a Southern drawl. Originally from Memphis, home not only of the blues but also of his strong influence, the jazz piano legend Phineas Newborn, Jr. He is a main figure in the current vanguard of middle-generation jazz pianists who often suffer neglect as the media's spotlight falls on young lions and old masters. That is why Friday's concert was a fascinating twist; the middle man was the star, with older and younger in strong supportive roles.

This pattern was obvious from the srart, with the opening Victor Feldman tune "Seven Steps to Heaven." Williams announced that the evening's music would be a tribute, "celebrating [the] legacy of Cannonball Adderly, Miles Davis, and John Coltrane," as this first tune was long associated with the late trumpeter Davis. The front line of elder Lew Soloff on trumpet, younger Javon Jackson on tenor saxophone and Williams' contemporary and dynamo Bobby Watson on alto sax blasted out the tunes' head. The roles were set from then: Soloff showing incredible range in high notes mixed with David-like licks in the middle range, Watson with veritable sheets of sound wailing, and Jackson with a mature and noticeably improved opening solo. Running alongside, bassist Richard Reid was consistent and swung well, while drummer Louis Hayes' creative intensity locked with Williams' comping style. Williams' own solo included everything from neo-bop lines to booming bass octaves with his left hand, putting his own mark on the tune.

Next was a brisk tempo 50's tune, "Janine," followed by a Williams piano solo. This solo number was Williams' chance to express himself, without the flashiness of the horns, especially Boddy Watson, to crowd him out. What Williams offered was very beautiful, if curious. He played an old gospel tune, interspersing pop harmonies with lots of polychords reminiscent of Keith Jarrett's style.

The highlight, indeed the climax of the entire evening, was the Wayne Shorter composition "Footprints." Drummer Hayes launched the band off on a simmering version of this '60's jazz classic. This tune featured Soloff's trumpet paying homage to Miles, and he did so in grand fashion. The piece built from a melancholy, loping waltz to frenzied round of everyone's best solos. Soloff first pointed his trumpet towards the sky and tossed out notes, then engulfed the microphone with his horn's bell and a smattering of Miles' licks. Williams closed his eyes for much of this tune, moving his head slowly side to side as he listened to his band. Watson was his characteristic self on this tune, looking like a sly serpent when he blew into his golden saxophone and smiled deviously. He slowly gyrated in his Armani suit as he played, moving his enormous aerodyamic Afro, like something from a Schlitz malt liquor ad. When his solo shot up to the high end breathlessly, it was easy to see why he is heralded as on of the best saxophonists of his generation. When the piano's turn came, he built up a solo that climaxed with two-fisted fullkeyboard runs, booming bass octaves, and distinct mid-range lines. This performance made the evening.

By nature jazz depends upon a collective effort. Williams took as risk putting this many headliners on the same bandstand. Any of them, especially Watson, could have stolen the spotlight. But no one did. It is a tribute to Williams' command as a subtle leader among team players that this chemistry worked. The musicians knew it. The audience knew it. And Williams knew it, even if he was too modest to admit it.