When I was a tender, young wonk living in NYC about a zillion years ago, I’d close the spreadsheet and head down to the Village to the great jazz haunts like Bradley’s piano bar on University.  There I often heard a young man named Mulgrew Miller absolutely tearing it up, lending his awesome chops to standards like this one.

Now I hear he’s gone, lost to a stroke at age 57, way, way before his time.  I know the piano chair has got be awfully crowded up there in the celestial sphere, but I suspect Duke and Oscar and Monk and Nat and Teddy will be perfectly happy to step aside and let Mulgrew sit in for a set or two.