Yoshi’s, Oakland — September 2, 2009 — 8:00 p.m.

It doesn’t require any great insight to realize that Brass Ecstasy — the latest project from polymorphic trumpeter Dave Douglas — takes its inspiration from Brass Fantasy, a boundary-busting ensemble led for many years by the late trumpet trailblazer Lester Bowie. But don’t make the mistake of labeling this a mere tribute band.

Tapping a vein that spans centuries and continents in their early set at Yoshi’s, Douglas and his merry band channeled the street musics of New Orleans and Central Europe, mixing intricate improvisation with the brash exuberance of kids jamming in the Times Square subway station.

Much like Bowie’s group, Douglas’s bold, dexterous quintet — four horns plus drums — posesses virtuoso chops but doesn’t take itself too seriously. Digging into earthy grooves or dropping into overt humor without warning, they keep the audience and each other on their toes. But there is always the sense of deeper layers under the surface, challenging and teasing even as the music glides or stumps along.

When the horns played together, they produced unexpected, expanding tones filled with attractive yet pulpy harmonies, changing instantly from stern clomping to light breezes or slow, gooey flows.

Taken singly, the musicians displayed exciting, unique voices. Douglas exploited the full dynamic range of his instrument — blaring, wide-open notes, warped walking lines laden with swing and bebop quotations, scurrying taunts and silly effects. Marcus Rojas went just as far on tuba, calling forth exotic evocations of didgeridoo and cuica, then engaging in a fantastic dialogue with Vincent Chancey’s French horn that tumbled from a tangled squeal to a spelunking, guttural growl.

The French horn wasn’t really meant to swing, but Chancey made it sound easy. Expressive, buttery and soulful, he worried at high notes and slipped down melodic alleyways, as elusive as mercury. And Luis Bonilla charted thoughtful but technically treacherous course on trombone. As he bobbed and wove, bunching up his torso, it looked for all the world as if his trombone were reaching inside him, physically drawing out those jabbing, acrobatic strings of notes.

Holding it all together, drummer Nasheet Waits not only supported the horns but also filled up the spaces between them. His playing was finely nuanced and effortlessly melodic: even when taking an extended solo at a breakneck pace, Waits’s ceaseless rolling contained wheels within wheels, making his drums breathe and speak.

It’s a pity that the band had only one night in town, in a tough midweek slot that drew perhaps 100 people. For this is a group that should be heard.