Old soul, young soul in the midnight hour at TLA

It would take some investigating to see what 28-year-old New Orleans native Troy "Trombone Shorty" Andrews and 65-year-old Charles Bradley, born in Gainesville, Fla., have in common beyond music. That said, the roots in deep, abiding soul, gutsy R&B, and slippery, jazzy funk indigenous to each man's area of origin would be enough to create binding ties - and to sell out South Street's Theater of the Living Arts on a humid Saturday.

That they did so together, and with a start time of 11 p.m., meant that this was truly an evening of towering old-soul vibes struck in the midnight hour.

Though you'd hardly label Bradley an opener, the shouting, juking singer did those honors, making it nearly impossible for young Andrews to better him. The onetime James Brown impersonator (performing as "Black Velvet") got his soul start late in life with the release of No Time for Dreaming in 2011. But with his muscular Otis Redding growl, a powerful high-pitched scream, and dance moves equal parts kung fu master and male stripper, Bradley seemed to be making up for lost time on the psychedelic soul of "Confusion" and the dusky funk of "Now That I'm Gone (Look How You're Crying)."

To say that His Extraordinaires were extraordinary is inadequate. Whether crafting slow, church-organ-filled soundscapes or strobe-flickering flights of fancy, they brought Bradley a richly burnished backing for his chattering, masculine vocals.

Before getting to Trombone Shorty, it's necessary to discuss his Orleans Avenue band, in particular raving guitarist Pete Murano and saxophonists Tim McFatter (tenor) and Dan Oestreicher (baritone). While the low-range saxes provided a unified bottom (think the late, great Morphine), conspiring with the rhythm section to create an insistent rumble, Murano's punkish riffs and bluesy flips made him equal parts Jeff Beck and Stevie Ray Vaughn.

As for Andrews, unlike Bradley he didn't wait a minute to start his playing career at age 6 (thus the "Shorty"), so it's fascinating to see him now, a grown man, turning the trombone into a rocking lead ax.

His riff-heavy instrumental passages (e.g. "Slippery Lips") were like listening to a dozen marching bands roaring at once, but what was really surprising was how supple he's grown as a vocalist, doing the bluesy lover-man routine on "The Craziest Things" and out Kravitz-ing Lenny Kravitz on that songwriter's bump-and-grinding "Sistamamalover."