A week of jazz and blues in San Francisco, part II

I wasn't quite sure what to expect from Archie Shepp. One of the avant-leaning fire-breathers of the '60s and '70s, the saxophonist rarely performs Stateside these days, and I had heard mixed reports about the state of his chops. But when he took the stage of the stately Herbst Theater, one of SF Jazz Fest's main venues in the War Memorial downtown, I was put at ease as soon as he put reed to lips. Sounding strong and lively, Shepp began with a tune in tribute to the late pianist Elmo Hope, which started out as a ballad but developed into a hardbop swinger.

Attired in a sharp charcoal suit and fedora, the 71-year-old Shepp (a Fort Lauderdale native!) appeared dapper and in full command of his excellent band featuring Tom McClung on piano, Avery Sharpe on bass and the exceptional Ronnie Burrage on drums. As far out as he's traveled, Shepp has always remained connected to the blues, and he offered some honky-tonk choruses during a read of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" on which he also took a vocal turn, playfully shouting the blues and affecting an Ernie Andrews-style phrasing. The leader also brought Burrage up front to demonstrate a lightning-handed hambone, relating it back to African and slave tradition before launching into a very moving piece about New Orleans that made use of both singing and spoken-word performance ("Take this cannibal's kiss and turn it into a revolution") and evoked the best of his '60s-'70s work. Other highlights included a celebratory song he wrote for his daughter — titled "Ujama," it also relates to Kwaanza; and a nice read of "Lush Life," on which Shepp took the vocal lead in classic balladeer style, and perhaps in recognition of John Coltrane's gorgeous version, blew a breathtaking solo that seemed to echo Trane's tone. But best of all was "Steam," the beautiful sing-song melody that has captivated me since I first heard it on Shepp's 1972 recording Attica Blues. Explaining that he wrote it for a cousin who was killed in a knife fight when he was just a teenager, he proceeded to sing the sighing melody and blew some lovely lines on soprano sax. I couldn't get the song out of my head, and whistled it all the way back to my hotel.

STILL TO COME: Cecil at Grace Cathedral, Marilyn Crispell at the Florence Gould and Maceo Parker on the one

A week of jazz and blues in San Francisco, part I

For a little more than a month, the San Francisco Jazz Festival presents an array of jazz acts from across the spectrum of subgenres and generations and tosses in a few nonjazz performances, as well. Not having the ability to spend most of October and a bit of November in the Golden Gate City, I studied the schedule and decided on a week when Archie Shepp and Cecil Taylor were playing. It was a very, very good week.

The jazz gods were smiling. On my first night in town, Billy Bang was playing Yoshi's, the venerable Oakland jazz venue that last year opened a sister club in San Francisco's Fillmore District. The violinist displayed remarkable soul and technique as he and his quartet navigated melodically and spiritually rich compositions such as the opening "Prayer for Peace" and "At Play in the Fields of the Lord," a song inspired by and titled for the film of the same name. He also delved into the obviously deeply felt "Moments for the Kiamia" (that's "killed in action/missing in action") from his Vietnam: The Aftermath recording. Still, the feeling was mostly upbeat and uplifting, as Bang led his talented young group through a wild song dedicated to former employer Sun Ra, which also showcased his fine pianist (I'd like to tell you his name, but I dropped my notebook in the cab on the way back to the hotel, and didn't notice till after the guy took off), and even plunked his violin tres-style by way of introduction to a Buena Vista Social Club-like descarga.

The next night presented an interesting double-bill, as SF Jazz paired 22-year-old singer Melody Gardot with 83-year-old vocal master Jimmy Scott. Gardot, who was injured in a bicycle accident at the age of 19 and subsequently discovered her songwriting gifts, lightly leaned on a cane as she took the stage solo, tinted glasses shading her sensitive eyes. She proceeded to sing a smoky a cappella number that came across almost like a field chant or gospel number, keeping time by clapping her hands. Her wonderfully responsive band joined in on the next tune, featuring to nice effect the undertstated, often-muted trumpet of Patrick Hughes, the melodic upright bass of the big-bearded Ken Pendergast and the shimmering cymbals and brushes of Charles Staab. Charming and self-effacing, Gardot won over the crowd with her sexy-joky manner, but was most affecting when she put aside the vamping and really showed something of herself, as she did on a remarkable piece titled "Love Me Like a River Does." By the time she finished the tune, on which she also plays piano, she was wiping away tears.

Another singer with a fragile heart pinned to his tuxedoed sleeve, Jimmy Scott was rolled on-stage in a wheelchair, looking every year he's lived but in seemingly great spirits as he beamed broadly and seemed to treasure being in front of a crowd that was excited to see him. A superb band featuring alto saxophonist T.K. Blue, pianist Dee Spencer, bassist Hillard Greene and drummer Dwayne Cook Broadnax provided the settings for his dramatic, soaring tenor as he lingered over syllables in timeless tunes such as "Sweet Embraceable You" and "Time After Time." But when Scott belted out "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child," the emotional impact was just stunning. (Scott's mother died in a car accident when he was 13.) Long, bony fingers gesticulated, sliced the air and came to rest on his wrinkled brow as he listened to the instrumentalists about him. Thunderous applause prompted an encore, and Scott went all the way back to the beginning with a terrific read of "Everybody's Somebody's Fool," his 1950 hit with the Lionel Hampton band.

Biscuits and Blues, a great basement blues joint, was nearly empty later that night, as a crowd of maybe 20 people showed up to hear sparkplug blues-shouter and harmonica-blower John Nemeth. But Nemeth and his band played as if they were in front of a packed house, although the singer took the opportunity to down glass after glass of Maker's Mark. (I didn't care if he wanted to chug whiskey, as long as it didn't effect his performance adversely, and it didn't seem to, but I was really put off by his desperate attempts at cadging drinks from the audience. Not classy, although several people were happy to oblige. And he also begged drinks for his band, so I guess that makes him at least a good bandleader.) Anyway, the cat is terrifically entertaining, has a huge voice and is a damned decent harpoon man. As the show wore on and the liquor hit its mark, Nemeth grew increasingly animated; with remote mike and harp in hand, he roamed the room, climbed the bar, shook his ass, disappeared into the kitchen and even went upstairs, all while keeping his harp buzzing. Not for the last time that week, I went back to my hotel smiling.

Next post: Shepp gets steamy, Cecil gets spooky, Amoeba takes my money and Marilyn Crispell ... ahh, Marilyn Crispell

A sweaty, entertaining night of Dutch chamber jazz

Dutch trumpet virtuoso Eric Vloeimans must have been regretting his choice of a red velour shirt last night. The scant air-conditioning at the Byron Carlyle Theater on Miami Beach did little to cool the air on this ridiculously humid October night, and a visible sheen of sweat glistened on Vloeimans and his Fugimundi trio-mates, pianist Harmen Fraanje and guitarist Anton Goudsmit. However, the music they created was fresh, engaging, expertly played and very, very entertaining.

The drumless trio's blend of chamber music with a modern jazz aesthetic was far from ponderous or overly intellectual. If Vloeimans' outfit didn't give it away — besides the ill-suited red top, he also sported yellow, checkered pants of the Barnum and Bailey variety and extremely pointy white shoes — perhaps tunes he explained were inspired by the funny little motor carts at the airport, The Godfather and Bonanza might have made it plain. Then, of course there was the living cartoon of guitarist Goudsmit, but more on him later.

Vloeimans proffered a warm, sensual sound, and his dynamics were fascinating to observe; utilizing tremendous control, he played for the most part at a very low volume, occasionally placing his hand inside the bell of his horn, a much less strident alternative to using a mute. On another occasion, he just allowed his breath to emanate from the trumpet, as he rhythmically blew into his mouthpiece. Of course, when he wanted to, Vloeimans let go with high C blasts that cut through the soupy air like a siren. Compositions such as "Corleonne," the piece he related was inspired by The Godfather, were rich and complex, yet full of romantic feeling.

Seated at an upright piano that looked like it had been dragged out of a rehearsal room, Fraanje also maintained an exquisitely light touch, for the most part lyrically comping behind his bandmates. However, his understated expressions on the above-mentioned "Corleonne" and on an otherwise unremarkable duet with Vloeimans on "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" made me want to hear more from him; in fact, I wish Vloeimans had let him perform the tune on his own. Fraanje also wrote several of the evening's most interesting compositions, including the delightful "March of the Carpenter Ants," which did indeed conjure the image of the tiny buggers on the move.

But it was Goudsmit who really stole the show. Resembling a younger, thinner Brian Posehn or Chris Elliott, the guitarist mugged shamelessly throughout the concert, for example blurting out the word "Bumpercars!" like a Tourette's sufferer on the aforementioned piece about airport transport buggies. However, his musicianship was so fine, his goofy antics so seemingly natural, that it hardly detracted from his or his bandmates' performances; in fact,it looked like Vloeimans was truly getting a kick out of his guitarist, who, he explained to the audience, behaves the same way off-stage. Drawing angular, Bill Frisell-like lines, Goudsmit subtly worked a foot pedal and flipped an effects switch to and fro or rapped on the body of his instrument for percussive effect. His wordless vocals were tuneful and pleasant, as opposed to say the piercing cries of Keith Jarrett, a welcome accompaniment to his intriguing solos. The audience hooted at this unusual character's odd tics, as when he pretended to be adjusting controls in his head or launched into a hilarious parody of rock and blues shredder excess on a tune that Vloeimans wrote for him titled "Anton."

The closing number, the piece which the trumpeter explained was inspired by watching Bonanza as a kid growing up in The Netherlands, was one of the trio's least interesting, hardly conjuring images of Hoss and Little Joe, nor offering a particularly compelling melody. But in no way did it keep the audience from cheering wildly or leaving the show with grins fixed to their mugs. It was truly a treat to witness musicians, particularly jazz musicians of this caliber, who don't take themselves too seriously.

I pity the fool who missed Bobby "Blue" Bland

Bobby "Blue" Bland's still got it. Even at age 78, hobbling gingerly up the steps to the stage and remaining seated throughout his performance, the soul-blues giant radiated charisma and riveted the attention of an adoring audience Saturday night at City Limits in Delray.

Accompanied by his veteran, three-piece horn section and a phenomenal band, Bland dug into the classics that have made him such a revered icon: "Farther Up the Road," "I Pity the Fool," "That's the Way Love Is/There Ain't Nothin' You Can Do," "Goin' Down Slow" and "Driftin' Blues," among them. "If you're gonna walk on my heart," he crooned throughout, almost as punctuation and clearly enjoying the humor and crowd reaction, "please take off your shoes." As is his practice, Bland also singled out a woman from the audience for vocal seduction, singing a sexy line and then asking her, "Can you handle it?" She obviously could, as she remained plastered to the front of the stage for the duration.

Bland's voice has held up quite well over the decades, perhaps not as powerful an instrument as it once was, and yet still full of that beautiful honeyed tone that makes him a master of the tear-stained ballad and slow-blues burner. One of the great moments for me was when Bland launched into "Stormy Monday Blues," his reading all-but definitive of this T-Bone Walker classic. And while I was delighted to hear "Members Only," a late career hit from the mid-'80s that takes me back to my college years (if you heard it playing on the jukebox at the Rathskellar at Washington University, you knew I was in the house), Bland kind of beat it to death by dragging out a battle-of-the-sexes sing-along contest that grew tiresome after a dozen choruses or so. ("OK, let me hear the men again," etc. etc.)

No question, Bland is a master entertainer, and it was cheering to see a packed house to honor the man, even on a night when the rain was slanting sideways and the highways were particularly treacherous. It was also great to see a more-integrated than usual audience, as often black audiences stay away from blues shows, especially if they're in venues that are deemed "white." However, that seems to be more a statement about Bland and the great esteem in which he's held than about how black audiences are flocking to blues shows.