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

As promised, here is the final installment of my recent adventure at the San Francisco Jazz Festival, the rest of which is recounted in previous posts below.

The Cecil Taylor concert at Grace Cathedral was highly anticipated, and San Franciscans showed up in number to hear the ever-thorny 75-year-old avant-garde pioneer. Pews were packed, as were extra seats in back. Visibility of the stage and performer were almost besides the point; the space itself — cavernous and magically lit — with its sweeping gothic arches and high-vaulted ceiling, was charged with excitement. Taylor's voice appeared before he did — there was a seven-second delay, we were told, until what happened on stage hit our ears — as his booming voice came echoing out of the darkness and the pianist recited cryptic verses that had something to do with the elements and the origin of man, his delivery wild and incantatory.

Then, suddenly, Taylor appeared, looking quite miniscule against such a massive backdrop. But when he took his place at the piano, his sound was huge. Lengthy pieces were dramatic, sweeping, building in intensity like the clouds of a gathering storm. Furious flurries of notes issued from the apse, thunderous, rolling chords contrasting with more filigreed, delicate sounds. Wizened and wizardly, Taylor truly presented a performance worthy of the space. I left the church dazzled but at peace and sat in the adjacent courtyard listening to the splash of a fountain before making the climb down Nob Hill.

The next afternoon's festival performance would prove equally remarkable. A dense fog had descended, cooling off a week of unseasonably warm weather, and the view of the bay (let alone the Golden Gate Bridge) from the hilltop Legion of Honor was almost entirely obscured. Inside the stately, columned building, Marilyn Crispell presented a solo piano concert in the round jewelbox of the Florence Gould Theater.

Attired all in black, Crispell seemed totally absorbed in her music, her brunette tangle of hair obscuring her features as she leaned into the keyboard. Crystalline notes seemed to hang suspended, as Crispell orgainically built her emotionally involving narratives. While they certainly are spiky, Crispell's compositions are nowhere near as untethered as Taylor's, and snippets of melodic and rhythmic passages appeared almost as if in collage. Transitions between edgy and melodic movements seemed natural albeit sometimes jarring; in one particular piece, the lovely tune seemed to lose its mooring and descend into a chaotic jumble as notes crashed and tumbled one over the next before returning to the serene music with which it started, like the sun breaking through again after a storm. The near-capacity audience cheered wildly, enticing the shy pianist, who spoke not a word, to re-emerge for a couple of encores, one spiky as hell, the other just gorgeous, which was a perfect a summation of what had just gone before.

I switched gears that evening with a concert by funk maestro Maceo Parker, James Brown's famed right-hand saxophonist and composer fronting his own tight ensemble. Tall and dapper, black wraparound shades hugging his bald head, Parker was Mr. Excitement as he danced to the funk rhythms, blew his signature alto and sang in a quite engaging voice. Amused at being included in a jazz fest, Parker did a double-take looking at the SF Jazz banner behind him and jokingly played a few bars of "Satin Doll." Parker knew what he was there to do, and he proceeded to stir up an ecstactic rhythmic stew, tossing in classics by the Godfather of Soul as well as The JB's, the latter represented with a no-way-to-keep-still read of "Pass the Peas." Indeed, seats up front were cleared and those so moved go up offa that thang and made themselves feel better. All in all, a perfect capper to the week's performances.

The only disappointing night of the event was the double bill of the Eldar Trio and singer Sophie Millman. I had never seen 21-year-old pianist Eldar Djangirov, but his recordings, which I have been listening to since he was being touted as a teenage prodigy, have never elicited much more than a "eh, the kid's talented" response. Live, I realized even more why I don't care much for his music. Grandiose and showy, Eldar lacks subtlety; he subsitutes virtuosity and flash for soul or any kind of meaningful expression or emotional connection. The sheer volume at which he played made his hands seem like canned hams crashing on the keyboards, each finger like an individual sledge hammer. Bassist Armando Gola was no help, and he actually sounded kind of lost, although I really enjoyed drummer Justin Brown's performance. (He'll be performing for South Florida Jazz in January if you want to see for yourself.) As for Millman, middling is the best way I can describe her. There was absolutely nothing special about her delivery or song selection, and there's no way in hell she should be headlining a major jazz festival, although many in the audience felt otherwise; she was enthusiastically clapped back for an encore, although I didn't sit through it.

Blues road warrior gives all, string quartet does Trane

Janiva Magness was tired, frazzled from a tour schedule that had her hopscotching all over the state during her recent swing through Florida. While she may be in need of some (well-deserved) time off, she never half-assed her performance on Friday at The Back Room in Boca. At the start of the show, the vocalist apologized if her pipes were rustier than the way fans may have remembered from other gigs (including the previous weekend's appearance at the NSU Blues Fest), but I didn't detect too much degrading of her powerful instrument till I tried to talk to her after the show and she could barely whisper. And it seemed like she gave her usual all-she's-got on-stage, as she belted out blues and soul and danced and shimmied along with her excellent band. This is a woman who struggled and scrapped to get where she is today (she copped back-to-back Blues Music Awards for Contemporary Blues Female Artist of the Year in 2006 and 2007), and she's well aware that she did it one audience at a time.

Guitarist Zack Zunis proved a great foil for Magness, his tortured leads recalling West Side Chicago touchstones such as Otis Rush (a great influence on Magness) as well as a host of Texas string-benders, and he brought plenty of emotion and showmanship to his solos without ever sounding overindulgent. But for me, keyboardist Benny Yee stole the show, somehow pulling the sound of a 500-pound Hammond B3 out of a slender electric piano and working all kinds of grooves and atmosphere with his busy hands.

For her part, Magness passionately revisited tunes from her terrific new album, What Love Will Do (her debut for the Alligator label), and kicked some serious ass on Tina Turner's self-empowerment anthem "Get It, Get It," as well as Annie Lennox's "Bitter Pill" and the über-funky "That's What Love Will Make You Do." The singer must have been grateful when she spotted longtime friend and current Singer Island resident Terry Hanck in the audience, handing over the bandstand (and her band) to the honky-tonk sax master who lit it up with his Junior Walker-inspired wailing and soulful vocals and providing Magness a much-needed breather. All in all, a tremendous night.

Saturday night, I was eager to hear the Turtle Island Quartet. The string ensemble was on-hand to help South Florida Jazz celebrate its 17th anniversary at the Miniaci Performing Arts Center, not so much a stretch when you realize that TIQ has delved into the songbooks of Monk, Ellington and most recently, Coltrane on its excellent 2007 recording, A Love Supreme: The Legacy of John Coltrane.

I was a bit disappointed at first, as the foursome seemed to lack the passion and gravitas they exhibited in playing Trane's music, and tunes such as Cedar Walton's "Bolivia" were merely pleasant. But then, the group seemed to awaken a bit, particularly when they played violinist Mads Tolling's intriguing composition inspired by the mischeivous Norse deity Loki, and generated some sparks with a piece by Ralph Towner, of Oregon fame.

But the best was saved for last, as Turtle Island took the stage after intermission and jumped right into Coltrane's "Moment's Notice," the frisky jazz tune that opens their recording, as well. They offered a brief but lovely version of the shiver-induing love song "Naima," and invested all of the substance seemingly lacking in the first set into the Love Supreme suite of "Acknowledgment," "Resolution," "Pursuance" and "Psalm." The fact that David Balakrishnan's warm, burnished tone was featured more prominently, and that cellist Mark Summer was plumbing the richer, fuller depths of his instrument, also made the second set far more rewarding.

NSU Blues Fest: Groovin' on a Sunday afternoon

Truth be told, I wasn't all that tantalized by the lineup of this past weekend's South Florida International Blues Festival. Now in its second year on the nicely groomed main campus of Nova Southeastern University, the event was heavy on the generic blues-rock guitar slingers, nothing new in these parts. But I was intrigued enough to attend at least a few shows Sunday afternoon.

I was most curious to hear what Daniel "Slick" Ballinger was up to. Last I had seen the babyfaced guitarist-blues shouter at the Riverwalk Blues Festival, I was mightily impressed by his insistent grooves, powerful tenor vocals and almost involuntary rubber-legged dance moves; the kid seemed to be channeling the spirits of the Deep South, and had certainly absorbed plenty through his mentor, the late cane-fife master Otha Turner. But apparently, Ballinger, 24, had a religious awakening some years ago, and now was putting his talents in the service of the Lord.

The grooves were as thick as ever, as Ballinger took the stage noon Sunday, accompanied solely by a drummer for a set of hardcore gospel sermonizing set to mesmerizing, neck-snapping cadences. Looking like a country preacher from another era, a well-scrubbed Ballinger was attired in a dark suit and tie, his combed, close-cropped hair parted near the middle. He then proceeded to launch into some heartfelt hollering — even when he was singing blues, you couldn't doubt his sincerity, but this was something closer to the marrow, as he sang his love for Jesus and the importance of getting right with the Lord with evangelical fervor. Yet, it never came off as obnoxious, and secular audience members (like me) could appreciate the hard-bitten Hill Country rhythms that defy your body parts to remain still, as well as the conviction in Ballinger's performance. Oh yeah, and in case any fans were wondering, Slick remains as animated as ever, and even in his church clothes (he did shuck his jacket), he danced about the stage and leapt and landed with both feet, as if he were stomping his defiance of the devil himself.

Next up was Blind Mississippi Morris Cummings, who played harmonica on Ballinger's Oh Boy recording Mississippi Soul. Joined by his longtime musical partner Brad Webb on guitar and drums, Morris was in excellent voice. Resplendent in striped scarlet-on-scarlet slacks and vest, the Memphis bluesman put over some hoodoo blues with great humor and charisma, providing a contrast to Ballinger's spiritual material as he explored spooky Deep South mythos involving the crossroads and more earthly delights, and even evoked in one lyric the age-old African marriage tradition of "jumping over the broom." Morris and Webb were soon joined by a band of South Florida stalwarts — Darrell Raines on keyboards, George Coleman on bass and Richie Coricelli on drums. While the guys did fine work, the show somehow seemed less special with the addition of the band.

The singular James "Super Chikan" Johnson followed, and he appeared to be having a great time as he burned up a lime-green guitar that was customized with his signature bejeweled decorations. Accompanied by a tight and funky quartet, including his daughter on drums ("at least that's what her mama tells me," he joked), Super Chikan worked very electric territory, bending strings and evoking the late Albert King. While not as idiosyncratic as his acoustic shows, in which he plays his homemade "Chi-kan-tars" and sings more personal, Delta-centric material, this performance was nonetheless quite a bit of fun, for audience and entertainer.

I was determined to check out former South Florida harmonica hotshot Jason Ricci, at least for a couple of songs, and that's really about all I could sit through. His opening two numbers could hardly have been more generic and less engaging. And given that the sun was fierce and there was really no appreciable shade out on the main festival grounds, I split, deciding to catch powerhouse vocalist Janiva Magness, who I've seen before, at another time (namely, this weekend at The Back Room).

So, my advice to festival organizers for next year: Put up a few tents, even if they're not the costly big tops of years past, so people can duck out of the sun, and please, give us more acts like Ballinger, Morris and Super Chikan.