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Most specifically it recalls François Truffaut’s “Shoot the Piano Player,” about a traumatized concert pianist hiding out playing rinky-tink jazz in a dive bar, when gangsters arrive to threaten his family.

No one perishes, and the gang war turns to open revelry when the combatants, richly creamed but unbowed, lay down their arms and join in a rinky-tink anthem to brotherhood.

He ambles in to the rinky-tink beat of Joseph Lamb's rag, Bohemia, a little guy in a shiny satin shirt and crushed-velvet breeches.

Most of them�foot-pumped jobs with no concert-grand pretensions�were being played for the sheer rinky-tink fun of it by people who own either vintage instruments rescued from dusty oblivion or brand-new 1962 models, bought in a shiny showroom.