Six years ago the Canadian tenor saxophonist, Seamus Blake, came with me from Cork to Dublin. He didn't say much in the car; he'd been jamming all night at the Guinness Jazz Festival and had two hours sleep before he put his holdall and saxophone case in the boot that morning. At a stop in Kilkenny he was too tired to eat. By the time we reached his uncle's house in Dublin, he was so crushed by lack of sleep they must have thought a zombie had come through their front door, like in the movies; if they did, they can console themselves that, unlike a movie zombie, the ever-polite Seamus had waited for them to open it first.
A day and a lot of sleep later, he had rejoined the human race, so he came down to Hughes's, an old pub behind the Four Courts, comfortable as an armchair, where Irish traditional musicians played. He loved it. And though the talk always came back to music, it wasn't just about jazz; somehow, classical music - especially Messiaen - kept cropping up. Reminded of it, he says, simply; "I haven't been out to see any classical music live for a while, but I found a DVD of Messiaen performing his organ music and I was amazed by it. I just love that stuff."
And the reason for the Dublin visit? Simple. His father is a Dubliner. His mother is Canadian; they met in London, where he was born, and moved to Vancouver, where he grew up, when he was four. If genetically, then, he's half-Irish, halfCanadian; culturally he's Canadian - although in a year or so of jazz studies at Boston's famed Berklee College, almost a decade of living in New York and being on the road in the States, Japan and Europe, something else must have rubbed off in cultural terms.
It's a tough life but he's doing OK. He's one of the gifted generation of young turks who came out of Berklee in the 1990s, people such as guitarist Kurt Rosenwinkel - "we were roommates for about a year-and-a-half in college" - and tenors Joshua Redman, Mark Turner, Chris Cheek and Chris Speed. And if he hasn't achieved the major label profiles of Redman and Turner, it's probably because he's a little too laid-back for his own good.
It's certainly not lack of ability. He broke through on the hard-as-nails, unforgiving Big Apple scene very quickly in the early 1990s, which he attributes to Victor Lewis - an outstanding drummer and, coincidentally, part of his quartet on this tour - who heard him play in Berklee and called him for a record session. "That, I guess, was a big door to pass through, because he's quite established and recognised on the New York scene, so having me on his record is a statement. It certifies me, in a way, in the eyes of other musicians.
"Then," he adds, "I also did one with this trumpet player, Franco Ambrosetti. They certainly helped and they got me some gigs and exposure. But there was a certain amount of scuffling, too, sitting in for free and going to jam sessions, meeting people, and doing little, small tiny gigs that didn't pay very much and having trouble making ends meet at different times. But I was lucky enough to get enough things to survive on and I've been able to watch it grow into something that's enjoyable."
Recordings are just like calling cards? "That's true," he says. "In terms of dollar per minute, they pay more than a concert does. But you can't live off making the odd jazz record here and there - unless you're recording constantly or you're a studio musician playing jingles and things like that.
"And that scene is not really around anymore. It's been replaced by more computer music and by djs. The irony is the better the technology gets, the harder it is to tell if real instruments are playing. Even musicians can be fooled by the quality of a sample sometimes."
A "whole slew of musicians" from that once-lucrative New York studio scene, he says, can be found in the touring Mingus big bands, a venture run by Mingus's widow, Sue. He's been there, done that, too.
It can't have been all sweetness and light. There were stories of dissatisfaction in the band when it was here last year. In any event, the volcanic Mingus is long dead, so its musical driving force is gone. It can only be about re-creation of a repertoire, not about moving forward musically - and some musicians must resent that, especially if the tour is a rough one.
"I know there's been some gigs where I've been downright embarrassed to be actually in the group," he says candidly. "And then there have been other moments where I've been quite proud of being there. Mingus's music is very deep, very powerful and there's a lot of beauty to it and some of that beauty still comes out."
Did he find it musically useful in any way to be in the band? "I think I felt all kinds of different feelings," he answers. "I think there have been times where I've felt it's been so great just to be amidst all those musicians. A lot of times there's been cream of the crop players in the group and in a big band it's kind of rare now. Sometimes that makes the ensemble a little less, because there's more ego and everyone's wanting to be heard, but . . ."
His own musical instincts have no doubt been shaped in part by classical music and the fact that his first instrument was the violin. But classical analytical methods could only go so far with jazz and he saw the need to reconcile this with finding a natural jazz voice. Big Apple acceptance is proof enough he's on the way and the repertoire of his touring quartet - completed by a marvellous young pianist, Kevin Hays, a quality bassist, Ed Howard, and Lewis - should provide a guide.
"A large portion of it should come from the most recent record," he explains. "I felt I had played my own tunes on a lot of previous records and that it might be good to try to play some other people's music and interpret it in my own way. But at the same time I didn't want to just do Irving Berlin and the same run-of-the-mill jazz repertoire." So some Sondheim from the musical, A Sunday In The Park With George, will rub shoulders with the likes of the Beach Boys and his own originals, among other things.
It's a wise decision from someone whose jazz idols include Charlie Parker and Sonny Rollins - of Rollins's masterpiece, Blue Seven, he says: "It's untouchable. You've to appreciate it and love it and find other things". And then there's the later John Coltrane of the tremendous spiritual statement of A Love Supreme - "like Jackson Pollock is to the Impressionists, or something" - a giant whose influence should still carry a health warning.
It's a warning the likeable, refreshingly honest Blake clearly doesn't need. Anyway, he has another group, The Bloomdaddies, which reflects some of his other interests, including funk and rock'n'roll. "I'm certainly still picky with quality," he warns, "but I'm pretty open-minded." The evening we spoke he was off to play duets in a small East Village spot with a piano player from Down Under. "Do you get more open-minded than that? I'm joking, by the way," he adds. "Oz is my second favourite country. After this one."
The Seamus Blake Quartet plays Garter Lane Arts Centre, Waterford (Saturday, February 24th), Crescent Arts Centre, Belfast (Sunday, February 25th) and The Shelter @ Vicar Street, Dublin (Monday, February 26th).