Lots of drumrolls for Haynes

Roy Haynes is simply one of the greatest drummers in jazz. Born in Roxbury in 1926, his career encompasses almost the whole of the music since bebop began. He replaced Max Roach in Charlie Parker's quintet in 1949, and has since supported a roster of jazz eminences, from Sarah Vaughan to Thelonious Monk to John Coltrane, before becoming a fine bandleader himself.

Saturday night at Scullers, Haynes appeared before a jam-packed house with saxophonist Jaleel Shaw, pianist Martin Bejerano, and bassist David Wong, whose combined ages barely exceed that of their leader. All three are talented players, but there was no mistaking who was in charge, as Haynes alternately shadowed, cushioned, or lit a fire beneath them.

The quartet opened with a scorching version of the Harold Arlen/Johnny Mercer standard "My Shining Hour." Shaw's solo gave a personalized tour of the history of the alto saxophone, evoking by turns Parker's astonishing flights, Jackie McLean's stark cries, and the zig-zag dissonances of Eric Dolphy. Bejerano's piano solo was fleet and inventive. Wong walked and soloed commandingly, displaying his warm, woody tone. Haynes asserted himself with an explosion of toms and a flurry of crashing cymbals to end the number.

The set's highlight was Dave Kikoski's exotic, suspenseful "Inner Trust." Shaw switched to soprano sax, displaying a full, burnished tone unusual for the instrument. His solo opened with long, slow Johnny Hodges glissandos and built gradually to full-on Coltrane in snake-charmer mode. Bejerano's impressive bi-tonal turn began with exquisitely spaced flourishes of notes, like a magician fanning decks of cards and then making them vanish. Haynes sculpted his stream-of-consciousness solo with wit and economy, exploring every nook and cranny of his kit for melodic and rhythmic potential.

Pat Metheny and Lyle Mays's un-swinging "James" interrupted the momentum, Shaw struggling manfully with the tune before Bejerano miraculously pumped life into it with a two-fisted, Latin-inflected solo.

The set ended with the Al Jolson/Saul Chaplin chestnut "Anniversary Song," in swinging 6/8 time that gave plenty of latitude for Haynes's elaborate cross-rhythms. Then Haynes emerged from behind the drums to wordlessly sing the folkish melody, coaxing the audience into joining him.

What might have seemed corny in other hands seemed , coming from Haynes, a celebration of a shared, unrepeatable moment. The audience ate it up.