La Perfecta II is a reformation of Palmieri's Sixties conjunto, La Perfecta, which made waves by bringing trombones for the first time into the Afro-Cuban rhythm section. The new century's band ñ or at least the slimmed-down ten-piece that represented it on Sunday night ñ is a disciplined machine, not as raw or wild as even some of the studio recordings from forty years ago, but packing a punch of a different kind. The material would have been familiar to fans of the first incarnation ñ Vamonos pa'l monte, MuÒeca, Tir·ndote flores, El Niche, ploughing the endlessly rich furrow of the son cubano ñ but the approach was new. Palmieri himself stood at an electric piano placed disdainfully on top of the Blue Note's Bˆsendorfer grand, and the symbolism was significant for an artist who has refined his once visceral style into something more cerebral than physical.

The other musicians looked on with a mixture of amused indulgence and (especially among the percussionists) occasional panic, as the 66-year old casually bent bar lines in and out of shape and twisted the sprung melodic lines into outrageous whole-tone and chromatic sequences. It was as if Debussy or Stravinsky had been invited to jam with Tito Puente. At one point Palmieri settled into a regular riff exactly a quaver behind the start of the bar, and the self-possession of claves and congas was truly impressive. The sparkle in his eye recalled a naughty toddler testing the limits of acceptable behaviour, but the playing betrayed the soul of a mathematician, in highly ordered, systematic improvisations all the more outrageous for their inner consistency. Most of the time, though, Palmieri was a generous accompanist to a line-up that boasted (among others) the down-home Spanish vocals of Herman Olivera, the jazz-inspired virtuosity of flautist Karen Joseph and the trumpet of Brian Lynch. Ironically enough for an Anglo, Lynch displayed probably more Latin spirit in his playful, melodic improvisations than any of the other soloists in the band. Goes to show.

The band certainly never stopped enjoying themselves, nor did the very enthusiastic audience, for whom the infectiousness of the impressively tight rhythms was only ever enhanced by the wayward bandleader's tricks. The relatively short set (being played for the second time that night) ended on a surprising note, with the band letting their hair down in a compasa ñ furiously fast Cuban carnival music, probably a much-needed catharsis perhaps after the rigours of the evening. This reviewer's verdict? Ay, quÈ rico!