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Columbia Heights jazz guru Tom Porter likes to tell the story of how he caught John Coltrane for like a week straight in a tiny New York club. All you can do with that story is beam back at him and go, “Cool,” or “Awesome,” or “Holy shit.” And then pretend you don’t want Porter’s autograph. These days, jazz—live, sweaty, thumping, get-up-from-your-seat-and-shout jazz—is all but left to punks with trumpets who mostly play venues that aren’t in D.C. Jazz, here, is of three varieties: free but just pleasant, cheap but so J.V., or plain deduct-from-your-savings expensive. Where are the performances that let you know these are men: real men, weird men, soulful men, sad men, frightening men? Actually, they are here all day today. The Smithsonian is screening rare footage of Duke Ellington, Earl Hines, Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans, and Oscar Peterson. You see old Duke (pictured) in Technicolor, mourning Billy Strayhorn, his rummy eyes wistful against droopy bags, his old-man hands still slinking down the keys, introducing “Black Beauty” like this: “recorded in 1928 before black was beautiful.” Then you get Duke’s wink. You watch Hines spider up and down his Steinway, sweating through that huge-ass pompadour. And you get Monk, looking cool-as-fuck behind those shades, doing and re-doing “‘Round Midnight,” his whole body jabbing into the piano. Try not to get chills. The program begins at 11 a.m., Saturday, April 26, at the National Museum of American History’s Carmichael Auditorium, 14th and Constitution Avenue NW. Free. (202) 357-2700. (Jason Cherkis)