The Page Brothers Quartet

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.

Nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Andy Page has become a cornerstone of Boone's vibrant music scene as a senior lecturer of jazz guitar at Appalachian State University's Hayes School of Music. For over two decades, this versatile virtuoso has woven his guitar strings through the fabric of the High Country's musical landscape, transforming local venues into stages of sonic storytelling. Together with his twin brother Zack, Andy has been known to arrive at open jams and parties, captivating audiences with their deep groove and seemingly endless musical creativity. His fingers dance across fretboards with equal fluency in jazz, rock, and original compositions, while his academic pursuits span from the History of Rock Music to Heavy Metal Culture. A true musical nomad, Andy has carried his craft from the Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland to Japan's Muroran Jazz Cruise, and through jazz workshops in Germany. Yet he chose to plant his roots in the mountains of North Carolina, where he continues to nurture the next generation of musicians while maintaining his own creative flame through groups like The Page Brothers Trio and Swing Guitars—a testament to an artist who found his perfect harmony between teaching and performing in the shadow of the Appalachians.

Before Alan Hall played his first drum lesson, he played concerts. He and his sister would turn on the radio and perform for the neighborhood kids in San Jose — no instruments, no training, just the instinct that sound was meant to be shared and that sharing it required an audience. His mother was a pianist who sang and taught. His grandparents were Spanish dancers on the vaudeville circuit. His father's father wrote pop songs. The family had been in the business of moving people's bodies for generations before Alan was born. He just happened to pick the instrument that does it most directly.

He started formal lessons in fifth grade, where a band teacher named Chuck Heller — a bassoonist, of all things — told him he had talent. That was the first door. The second was a ninth-grade teacher named Tony Nigro who started hiring him for professional gigs and featuring him in concerts. The third was a San Jose Mexican-American party band called Los Unicos, which put Hall on a professional bandstand at thirteen years old. By seventeen he had won the Percussive Arts Society's eight-state drum set competition, beating out drummers who would go on to their own significant careers. The judge was Carmen Appice, a rock drummer who had no particular reason to reward a kid playing jazz, but who praised the musicality and called it refreshing. Hall still remembers that.

He went to Berklee College of Music expecting to study with Alan Dawson, the legendary drummer and educator whose teaching had shaped a generation of players. Dawson was already gone. Hall spent two and a half years at Berklee, studying with Bill Norine on drums and briefly with Ed Saindon on vibes, then left and found Dawson teaching privately from his home. For two years, Hall worked through Dawson's program — the Ritual, the rudiments memorized over months until the warm-up became a twenty-five-minute meditation, the tunes played with Dawson on vibes while Hall soloed through forms with weird structures designed to test his memory and his ears. Dawson was formal. He was encouraging but never flattering. He didn't let things slide. And he modeled something Hall carried for the rest of his career: a life where the teaching and the playing existed in balance, where excellence was its own project, where the craft was serious enough to spend a lifetime refining. That standard of excellence, Hall has said, had a very strong impression on him.

In 1986, Hall joined the Berklee percussion faculty. He taught there for seven years, confronting students from around the world who could do things he couldn't — and discovering that his job was to find the holes in what they could do and help fill them. It was at Berklee that he noticed something that would define his contribution to drum education: students could read through Dawson's exercises, could execute the patterns on the page, but when Hall closed the book and asked them to improvise with the material, they couldn't. The language wasn't in their bodies. It was in their eyes. That gap — between reading and internalizing — became the seed of his book Internalization: A Non-Reading Intensive Approach Toward Mastery of the Jazz Drumming Language, which he spent years developing and finally published in 2005. It is a method for getting the vocabulary of jazz drumming off the page and into the muscles and the mind, and it is used by teachers and students who may never know the story of its origin in a Berklee practice room where a young professor watched a brilliant student play every note correctly and miss the point entirely.

Then he left. He walked away from a faculty position at one of the most prestigious music schools in the world, moved back to the Bay Area, and delivered cookies for a year. No teaching job lined up. No gig waiting. Just the knowledge that the regularity of the academic calendar was slowly suffocating something he needed to keep alive. Word got out. Dave Eshelman's Jazz Garden big band brought him in. The late pianist Smith Dobson started calling. Art Lande hired him whenever he came through town. He recorded at Fantasy Studios in Berkeley, at the Record Plant in Sausalito. He played with Paul McCandless from Oregon, with Russell Ferrante of the Yellowjackets, with pianists Taylor Eigsti and Geoffrey Keezer and Ed Simon, with Lee Konitz. He worked Cirque du Soleil at Madison Square Garden and Teatro Zinzanni in San Francisco and the national tour of Wicked. He became one of the Bay Area's first-call drummers — the person you hire when the music requires someone who can navigate anything and make everyone in the room sound like the best version of themselves.

Twenty years into that California life, he started composing. Ratatet — a sextet featuring bassoon, trombone, and vibraphone on the front line — was born in 2014 out of Hall's realization that his musical ideas needed more harmonic architecture than any trio could provide. The debut album Arctic, released on Ridgeway Records in 2016, was named one of the top ten Bay Area jazz releases by the San Jose Mercury News. Several of its compositions were inspired by visual artists — Jean-Michel Basquiat, Cy Twombly, Agnes Martin — because Hall is also a painter and photographer whose work hangs in private collections on both coasts. Music and visual art function as what he calls positive feedback loops: two different modes of expression that keep amplifying each other. Heroes, Saints and Clowns followed in 2018, a response to political turmoil rendered in seven sonic portraits of the people who inspired, empowered, or infuriated him.

Hall now lives in Weaverville, just north of Asheville. He teaches at the Jim Beaver School of Music and maintains his position at the California Jazz Conservatory remotely. He founded the Asheville Jazz Collective and plays Tuesday nights at Little Jumbo with Jay Sanders, Will Boyd, and Zack Page in a quartet that treats every set as an act of mutual discovery. He has been a professional drummer for more than forty-five years and a teacher for more than forty of those, which means he has spent nearly half a century doing two things simultaneously: refining his own craft to the highest standard he can reach, and helping other people find the language they didn't know was already inside them. The kid who put on concerts for the neighborhood never stopped believing that music is meant to be shared. He just got better at it.

In 1975, a group of students at the University of Miami School of Music — the same halls that produced Pat Metheny, Jaco Pastorius, and Bruce Hornsby — recorded a demo album called The Great Spectacular and pressed a thousand copies. The keyboardist was Steve Davidowski. Two years later, on the strength of that tape and a tip from Allman Brothers keyboardist Chuck Leavell, Capricorn Records signed them. The album was Free Fall. The band was the Dixie Dregs. And the sound — an impossible braid of rock, jazz, classical, country, and bluegrass played with a virtuosity that bordered on the absurd — would earn six Grammy nominations across the decade that followed and influence generations of musicians who heard it and thought, wait, you can do that?

Davidowski left the Dregs after Free Fall to join Vassar Clements, the legendary fiddler whose own genre-defying approach to the instrument earned him comparisons to Miles Davis and Isaac Stern in the same breath. Playing saxophone and keyboards in Clements' band, Davidowski moved deeper into the territory between jazz and roots music — a space most musicians talk about occupying but few actually inhabit. When he resurfaced with the original Dregs lineup for the Dawn of the Dregs reunion tour in 2018 — the first time all five members had shared a stage in over forty years — reviewers noted that his runs and solos sounded like they'd never stopped evolving, as though the intervening decades had only deepened whatever reservoir he draws from.

These days Davidowski lives in Marshall, just up the mountain from Asheville, in Madison County — a place music scholars identify as a source community for Appalachian balladry, old-time, and bluegrass. He fits into this landscape the way a jazz chord fits into a hymn: unexpectedly, but once you hear it, inevitably. He walks around town with a piccolo in his hand. He runs a Monday night blues jam. For over sixteen years, he has organized an annual benefit concert for Neighbors in Need, a food pantry and crisis organization serving Madison County — a tradition that continued even after the flooding that devastated the region. He plays piano, saxophone, keyboards. He leads a band called Xenobilly. He is, by all accounts, exactly the kind of musician a small mountain town is lucky to have and rarely knows it has.

Little Jumbo's Monday series brings Davidowski into a room built for exactly this kind of encounter — where a musician who helped launch one of the most technically ambitious bands in American rock history can settle into a cocktail bar full of strange art and play whatever he wants, for whoever shows up, for free. The creature on the wall has heard a lot of music in this room. It hasn't heard this.