The Nick Garison Quintet

The trombone is one of the oldest voices in jazz, an instrument that learned early how to sing like a person and cry like one too. In Nick Garrison's hands it does both, threading between New Orleans parade tradition, straight-ahead jazz, early swing, and the deeper blues current that runs underneath all of it.

Garrison spent twelve years working through Baton Rouge, Lafayette, and New Orleans before settling in Asheville, and he carries that geography with him as something closer to lineage than résumé. He talks often about the transparency of the chain, where the music came from and through whom, and that reverence shapes every choice he makes on the bandstand. He's shared stages with Ellis Marsalis, Rufus Reid, the Treme Brass Band, Sonny Landreth, Wessell "Warmdaddy" Anderson, and trombone elders including Joseph Alessi and Bill Reichenbach.

A classically trained crossover artist, Garrison holds the second trombone chair with the Acadiana Symphony, has performed with the Louisiana Philharmonic, the Charlotte Symphony, and the Asheville Symphony, and teaches Applied Trombone at UNC Asheville while pursuing a Masters in Jazz Studies at the Peabody Institute. He founded NOIRE there, the New Orleans Inclusive Repertory Ensemble, a class dedicated to teaching the music of the Crescent City the way it's actually learned, by ear, with attention to role and idiom.

As a bandleader he fronts ensembles in quintet, quartet, and trio formations, singing and playing through traditional New Orleans tunes, deep-cut jazz standards, and originals. He has appeared on more than twenty albums since 2014 and toured in more than thirty-five states and eight countries. Beyond music he is a ceramic potter, a cocktail bartender, and an advocate for social justice, which feels of a piece with how he plays: hands-on, attentive to material, interested in where things come from.

From San Antonio street corners to Michael Bublé's Grammy-winning stages, Jacob Rodriguez has woven a musical tapestry that spans continents and genres. This Manhattan School of Music alumnus doesn't just play saxophone—he channels stories through reed and breath, whether he's painting midnight hues with Ambrose Akinmusire in Brooklyn's underground scene or igniting arena crowds alongside pop royalty. Now nestled in Asheville's Blue Ridge embrace, Jacob has become the valley's secret weapon, teaching the next generation at UNC Asheville while moonlighting with everything from Hard Bop Explosion's fire-breathing quintet to the mystical rhythms of Coconut Cake's traditional Congolese explorations. His baritone sax doesn't just anchor the low end—it rumbles with the wisdom of a world traveler who's learned that the most profound music happens when you're brave enough to blend your influences into something entirely new.

From Nebraska to Harvard to Little Jumbo, Dr. Bill Bares embodies the scholarly soul of jazz—a NEH Distinguished Professor whose academic credentials from Amherst College read like a jazz education manifesto written in political science and piano poetry. When a lip injury ended his All-American trumpet dreams, Bares discovered that sometimes life's detours lead to destinations you never knew you were seeking. Now directing jazz studies at UNC Asheville after teaching stints at Harvard, Brown, Berklee, and the New England Conservatory, he transforms every performance into a master class where bebop meets book learning, where chord changes become cultural commentary. His scholarly articles in American Music and Jazz Research Journal prove that the deepest musical truths emerge when academic rigor meets artistic passion, making every Little Jumbo appearance a reminder that jazz isn't just entertainment—it's American intellectual history told in real time through eighty-eight keys.

On their twelfth Christmas, Pete Page gave one son a guitar and the other a bass. The old man loved Booker T. & the M.G.'s and worshipped Duck Dunn, and he had a theory that every good band needs a good bass man. He wasn't wrong. Andy got the guitar. Zack — four minutes younger, identical in face, opposite in instrument — got the bass. Their mother came from the McGhees of Pilot Mountain, North Carolina, a family whose old-time music roots run back generations through the Appalachian soil. Their grandfather used to drive Pete up from small-town Carolina to Philadelphia and New York to hear Miles Davis and Horace Silver. The whole household was a frequency map: church choirs, blues records, hard rock bleeding through bedroom walls, a father pointing out bass lines on Ray Brown albums the way other dads pointed out constellations. Black Sabbath coexisted with the Mingus Big Band. It all went in.

Zack started on electric bass at eleven. He didn't touch an upright until he arrived at UNC Wilmington in 1991, where he begrudgingly agreed to major in Music and then graduated summa cum laude. While there, the university's jazz combo was invited to the Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland — the kind of experience that recalibrates everything a young player thinks is possible. After Wilmington came Los Angeles, then New York City, where he absorbed the relentless focus and the relaxed intensity that defines the best session environments. Theater companies, cruise ships, jazz clubs, studio dates — the work took him to all fifty states, the Caribbean, Australia, South America, Europe, and the Far East. He played with Billy Higgins, one of the most recorded drummers in the history of jazz. He played with Delfeayo Marsalis, Cyrus Chestnut, Marvin Stamm, and Eddie Daniels. He recorded with Babik Reinhardt, the son of Django — a connection that would come to shape one of his longest-running projects.

Then he came home. Not to New Jersey, where he'd grown up, but to the mountains his mother's family had known for centuries. Andy had already settled in Boone, teaching jazz guitar at Appalachian State. Zack landed in Asheville and became the bassist everyone calls. Not the one who waits for the right project — the one who says yes because every musical situation is worth inhabiting fully, a lesson New York burned into him. He co-founded One Leg Up, Asheville's gypsy jazz ensemble, channeling his Babik Reinhardt connection and his love of Django's Hot Club into a string-swing outfit that has been a fixture of the regional scene since 2003. With Andy, he launched the Page Brothers — twin brothers leading a rotating cast through gypsy swing, straight-ahead, fusion, and, on occasion, extreme black metal, because the kids from Rock Road never fully outgrew Iron Maiden. Their album A to Z, recorded at Ticknock Studio in Lenoir, documents the particular telepathy that comes from sharing a womb and thirty-plus years of bandstands.

Page averages roughly 275 gigs a year. That number has held steady since the mid-1990s, which means the man has played somewhere in the neighborhood of eight thousand performances — a body of work that exists almost entirely in the memories of the people who were in the room. He teaches at UNC Asheville. He anchors sessions at Landslide Studio alongside Jeff Sipe. He holds down the low end for folk-rock storytellers and hard bop blowouts with equal commitment. Trumpeter Justin Ray once observed that Page has the hallmark of every great musician: he makes everyone around him better. That's the Duck Dunn principle, passed from a father's record collection to a twelve-year-old's Christmas present to a career spent proving, night after night, that the old man's theory was right all along.

In Asheville's Monday night jazz ecosystem, Evan Martin represents the rare breed of drummer who understands that sensitivity and power aren't opposites—they're dance partners. As a cornerstone of the local scene, Martin has mastered the art of musical telepathy, reading room dynamics and bandmate intentions with the precision of a master craftsman who knows exactly when to whisper and when to roar. His kit becomes a conversation partner rather than a time machine, responding to melodic phrases with percussive punctuation that feels both inevitable and surprising. This is drumming as collaborative art form, where every snare accent and hi-hat whisper serves the greater musical narrative, making Martin not just a timekeeper but a storyteller whose vocabulary happens to be built from wood, metal, and perfect timing.