The March 2003 issue of The Atlantic has an article on Wynton Marsalis and the state of jazz. While I skimmed the bulk of it, mostly reading like a draft obituary for one of my hobbies, I did find this tasty bit:
On a Tuesday evening in late August of 2001 I was wandering around Greenwich Village and ended up at the Village Vanguard. ... The fourth song was a solo showcase for the trumpeter, who, I could now see, was indeed Marsalis, but who no more sounded than looked like what I expected.
He played a ballad, “I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance With You,” unaccompanied. Written by Victor Young, a film-score composer, for a 1930s romance, the piece can bring out the sadness in any scene, and Marsalis appeared deeply attuned to its melancholy. He performed the song in murmurs and sighs, at points nearly talking the words in notes. It was a wrenching act of creative expression. When he reached the climax, Marsalis played the final phrase, the title statement, in declarative tones, allowing each successive note to linger in the air a bit longer. “I don't stand ... a ghost ... of ... a ... chance ...” The room was silent until, at the most dramatic point, someone's cell phone went off, blaring a rapid singsong melody in electronic bleeps. People started giggling and picking up their drinks. The moment -- the whole performance -- unraveled.
Marsalis paused for a beat, motionless, and his eyebrows arched. The cell-phone offender scooted into the hall as the chatter in the room grew louder. Still frozen at the microphone, Marsalis replayed the silly cell-phone melody note for note. Then he repeated it, and began improvising variations on the tune. The audience slowly came back to him. In a few minutes he resolved the improvisation -- which had changed keys once or twice and throttled down to a ballad tempo -- and ended up exactly where he had left off: “with ... you ...” The ovation was tremendous.