Herbie Hancock, Michael Brecker & Roy Hargrove, Barbican Hall, London

Take three musicians, all leading players of their instruments, add a top bassist and drummer in George Mraz and Willie Jones, and what do you get? It all depends on what you're baking. As all good cooks know, though, you shouldn't follow a recipe too exactly. In the case of this quintet, the stated aim was to pay tribute to Miles Davis and John Coltrane, the triple Michelin-starred chefs of jazz. But I'm afraid that Directions in Music didn't have quite the right ingredients. The expectations were too high, and the soufflé fell a little flat.

There were plenty of excellent solos, particularly from Hancock; Mraz, looking like Eric Clapton would if he took up an academic post, is a very classy double bassist indeed; Brecker and Hargrove were fluent and intelligent as ever. The problem was that when Davis and Coltrane were playing these tunes, and it has to be said that they're not easy listening on the whole, they were such authoritative figures that the music was an extension of their personalities. This quintet sounded to me much more like Davis's late Sixties band with Wayne Shorter, Ron Carter, Tony Williams and, of course, Hancock himself, than a Trane outfit. No matter. The point is that that was a period of tough, challenging music where ne'er a pretty chord grew amid the sinuous weeds. You listen to it now on record because it's Miles playing; the effort (and it is an effort) being justified by the authenticity of the performance.

There's still a thrill in witnessing, albeit 35 years on, the ground being broken, the risks being taken, and the incomparable interaction between the players tackling the curdled compositions of that period. The ghost of that band hung heavily over Directions in Music. Lacking the compelling personality of Miles, Directions also failed to move.

There were two times when it worked, or almost worked. Hargrove was building up to that edge-of-the-seat feel in one solo. Then, just as the tension should have become unbearable and he should have peaked, he flunked it. He swung his trumpet down, took a breather, and tailed off. Hancock did manage it at one point. He and Willie Jones locked together over some crashingly dissonant, randomly repeated chords. The moorings were breaking loose, and it was getting dangerous. That was what we were there for – a moment of extreme discomfort when for all we knew the very walls could have been about to disintegrate.

To experience one moment like that is something special. I can't help thinking, though, that the mission to pay tribute to Miles and Trane placed too much of a burden on these fine players. Hargrove and Brecker, especially, seemed afraid to be themselves. That was a shame, because Brecker's worth catching any day of the week.