Miami soulman Bobby Stringer: Still in the mix

On his new disc, I'm Not To Blame, veteran Miami soulman Bobby Stringer more than lives up to the album's promise of "deep soul, downhome blues and a lil' funk." While he can smoothly croon a silky soul ballad, Stringer is equally adept at getting down with a slowburning blues. Dig his sweat-raising vocals on "I've Been Trying To Get Next to You," in which the singer engages in a little back-and-forth with the heated guitar licks of South Florida blues stalwart Jimi Fiano. Throughout, Fiano and his frequent bandmates, bassist Vinnie Fontana and drummer Guido Marciano, provide expert accompaniment, and are joined on a few tracks by saxophonist Stan Waldman and backup singer Betty Padgett.

You can catch Stringer on-stage 8-midnight tonight (Saturday, Aug. 29) with his Special Touch Band at LJ's Paradise Gardens Banquet Hall (12783 S.W. 280th St., Homestead, 305-257-1006). On Sept. 5, he'll share the marquee with longtime friend and colleague Jesse Jones Jr. for what's being billed as An Evening of Jazz and Blues at the South County Civic Center (16700 Jog Road, Delray Beach, 561-495-9813). Saxophonist Jones will supply the jazz part of the evening with his own set, while Stringer and Special Touch do their own funky thang. At the end of the evening, both men will come together to relive their glory days in the clubs of Coconut Grove, Overtown and Liberty City in the 1960s and '70s.

In the meantime, check out my interview with Stringer, which appeared on WLRN on Friday.

So then ... a conversation with Jesse Jones Jr.

It's always a treat catching up with Miami sax great Jesse Jones Jr. Earlier today, WLRN (91.3-FM) broadcast my interview with Jones, in which we talked about his new recording, The So Then Collection, and his recent experiences performing at the Umbria Jazz Festival in Perugia. Check out the interview here and dig Jones' performance of a Charlie Parker classic alongside his excellent band and the always-remarkable Ira Sullivan (above).

The sublime leading the sublime

The group was supposed to be a democracy, drummer Adam Nussbaum jokingly informed the audience. But he was the one with the microphone, and so the role of dictator fell on his shoulders. Nussbaum's leadership wasn't limited to emceeing Saturday night's Nuttree Quartet concert at the Miniaci Performing Arts Center in Fort Lauderdale, though. Among the most musical of jazz drummers, he drove the action from behind his kit, providing a veritable swatch book of colors and textures as he traded sticks for brushes, brushes for mallets and swung in all tempos. More of a role player than a dazzling soloist, he shone brightest when supporting his bandmates than in his solo spots.

Joined by longtime colleague John Abercrombie on guitar, Gary Versace on Hammond B3 organ and Bill Evans on tenor and soprano saxophones, Nussbaum led the group through two sets of exciting and highly imaginative modern jazz. Although incarnations of the quartet recorded two albums of standards (last year's uninspiringly titled but brilliant Standards, which featured Jerry Bergonzi on saxophone, and the soon-to-be-released Something Sentimental, with Dave Liebman on sax and Jay Anderson on bass), the concert rarely delved into the Great American Songbook. And when it did, the pieces were so radically reharmonized as to render them almost unrecognizable. Irving Berlin's "How Deep Is the Ocean" was taken at a brisk clip and featured some outstanding solo work from the ever-creative Versace, who approximated the bubbly sounds of the briny deep. Evans stated the theme to Cole Porter's "What Is This Thing Called Love," but then Abercrombie's superb solo unraveled the skein of the melody like a cat toying with a ball of yarn.

A master of understatement, Abercrombie's hushed and sublime sonics provided a counterweight to his bandmates' exuberance, commanding a dazzling array of lovely chords and exuding quiet eloquence on his deeply soulful solos. The group opened with a couple of the guitarist's more joyful compositions, the brightly hued "Jazz Folk" and an ever-shifting tune he penned for his wife. On the latter, Nussbaum handed the microphone to the seemingly taciturn Abercrombie who got the night's biggest laughs with his intro to the piece; he explained that he wrote it at the suggestion of his wife after forgetting to get her an anniversary present. Another Abercrombie original, "A Nice Idea" showcased a mysterious and complex melodic line.

A couple of Nussbaum's original tunes made it to the highlight reel, as well, with the ballad "We Three" seguing into the charging "BTU," which the drummer teasingly said stood for something a mite more personal than "British Thermal Unit" (maybe "Black Thong Undies?"), and once again displayed the group's dynamic synergy. Evans offered a big, confident sound on tenor, his horn perhaps a bit too prominent in the mix. Still, his ideas were terrific, and his tone and phrasing even more engaging on the soprano sax. His composition "Cool Eddie" kicked off the abbreviated second set on a funky, uptempo note, and gave Abercrombie the opportunity to unspool some fiery blues licks, as well.

But the biggest revelation of the evening was Versace. Ensconced behind what appeared to be a much-used B3, he appeared to be having a blast, his playfulness and orginality on the instrument in evidence throughout. Cherrypicking notes, providing warm atmospherics, keeping a pulse on the bottom end and even dipping into reggae riddims, the keyboardist was truly a breath of fresh air.

The Nuttree Quartet concluded its performance with a read of Wayne Shorter's modern classic, "Footprints," a tune from Nuttree's Standards disc that truly allows Nussbaum to shine. From his (abbreviated) tribal intro to his slippery, snaky cymbal work and insistent sticking, he snapped the reins and drove the team through a quickstepping jaunt on this bit of modal exotica that surely sent what remained of the audience out the door buzzing. Of course, those expecting to hear a night of standards played the way they've always been played had already split.

Pianist has South Florida Jazz wrapped around her finger

You probably could run on-stage and beat Randy Brecker's kneecaps with a tire iron and the cat wouldn't make a bad note. Fortunately, no one tested that theory Saturday night at the Miniaci Performing Arts Center in Davie. The trumpet master blew one gorgeously toned solo after another in the company of pianist Lynne Arriale's new quartet, which provided a preview of its recording, Nuance: The Bennett Studio Sessions, due out in May. The superb rhythm section from the recording, bassist George Mraz and drummer Anthony Pinciotti, were also along for the ride.

Like a graybearded alchemist, Brecker turned brass into liquid fire, effortlessly shaping notes of great volume and clarity on trumpet and flugelhorn. As he inserted a mute into the bell of his horn before a sublime read of "Ballad of the Sad Young Men," Brecker asked the soundman to turn up his mike. But even without amplification, it's likely he would have been heard out in the parking lot.

Possessing enormous melodic gifts, the fiery-haired Arriale was hardly overshadowed. In fact, her assured touch and supple phrasing are quite compatible with the trumpeter's, as displayed from start to finish on-stage and on the new recording. Arriale used the platform Saturday to showcase Nuance, performing the album in its entirety (or damn near), but out of sequence. The program began with the mellow uplift of the pianist's spritely original "Carry On," a perfect kickoff that spotlighted the pairing of sparkling piano and burnished brass. The ensemble then delved into Sting's "Wrapped Around Your Finger," teasing out the cool, mysterious vibe of the song, which was particularly evident in Arriale's solo, one of her finest of the night.

The group also flexed well-honed bop muscles on an excellent and nonderivative read of Monk's "I Mean You," on which the musicians seemed to revel in the tricky, push-pull rhythms, and also hung fire on Dizzy's "Night in Tunisia," as drummer Pinciotti seemed to be channeling Roy Haynes or Max Roach. But the ensemble's ballad playing was breathtaking. On the aforemenioned "Ballad of the Sad Young Men" (check out my Examiner page for a brief history of the tune), Brecker's muted horn perfectly captured the song's aching wistfulness, contrasting beautifully with Arriale's brighter but no-less-contemplative solo and tender comping. Pinciotti's light touch with brushes and mallets and Mraz's minimalistic bass notes added sensitive shadings, and the bassist's fine, elegant solo that ushers the song to its close serves as a reminder why he's been in demand since emigrating from his native Czechoslovakia more than 40 years ago.

After intermission, Brecker played the second set entirely on the flugel, sacrificing none of his fluency or fluidity on the softer-sounding horn. The group dived right in on a dreamy, avant-garde-sounding read of "I Hear a Rhapsody," which was reminiscent of Freddie Hubbard's take on Beiderbecke's "In a Mist."

Always drawing a crowd in South Florida — where she's long performed for South Florida Jazz, the organization that brought her back Saturday for its Impressions series — Arriale proved a charming hostess. Dressed, as is her custom, in elegant stage attire, she introduced the spiky original "Yada Yada Yada" by explaining that European audiences were often confused by the idiom that entered our lexicon, like so many, via Seinfeld.

Look for Nuance in stores or online beginning May 12.

A young drummer sparks the Branford Marsalis Quartet

Branford Marsalis wouldn't choose just any old drummer to fill in for his longtime comrade Jeff "Tain" Watts. No, he selected a turbo-driven windmill named Justin Faulkner, and the recently turned 18-year-old stole the show from his accomplished bandmates Saturday night at the Gusman Center in downtown Miami.

A packed house roared its approval after each dynamic solo, even hooting wildly when the exciting young Philly drummer was augmenting solos by pianist Joey Calderazzo, bassist Eric Revis and saxophonist Marsalis; while the other musicians elicited sometimes enthusiastic, sometimes obligatory applause, there was no mistaking the exuberance this crowd felt for the battering batterista. "You don't have to live with him," Marsalis groused, as he jokingly implored the audience to tone down its appreciation for the sure-to-be-swell-headed Faulkner.

The quartet drew heavily from its excellent new recording, Metamorphosen (Marsalis Music), opening with its first two cuts. The pulse-quickening Watts composition "The Return of the Jitney Man" — which kicks off both Metamorphosen and Watts' recent self-titled release for Dark Key Music — provides a showcase for Marsalis' swift bop riffs on tenor and Calderazzo's equally fast-stepping runs. The foursome then downshifted into Calderazzo's lovely ballad "The Blossom of Parting," as Marsalis switched to soprano, getting a sweet, sentimental clarinet-like sound on the straight horn. As on the recording, the tune features a lengthy sax and drums duet. Faulkner truly made the most of the moment, his limbs blurring as he drummed up a hurricane-force reaction to Marsalis' masterful blowing, which was never overwhelmed or obscured by the percussive onslaught. Undoubtedly flashy, Faulkner never showboated at the expense of any song or bandmate.

The quartet also nodded to Thelonious Monk, an obvious influence on its rhythmic and harmonic approach, with a superb read of the bop icon's "Think of One," and revisited Marsalis' own "In the Crease," a burner from the early days of the quartet, which has now been together for 10 years. Returning to Metamorphosen, the group offered Marsalis' slippery "Jabberwocky," as the leader took his alto sax for a rare spin; another tearstained Calderazzo reflection in "The Last Goodbye"; Watts' intriguing "Samo," which cooked on a higher flame than on the recording; and Revis' beautifully toned solo showcase "And Then, He Was Gone." Unfortunately, several ADD-afflicted audience members took the last title literally and made a mass exodus to the bathroom or bar; perhaps goosed by Faulkner's spark-throwing displays, Revis also unleashed a few fleet-fingered (and somewhat superfluous) flurries that, predictably, brought wild applause.

In Faulkner, Marsalis has snared a young lion by the tail and seems to be enjoying the drummer's uncaged ferocity — not to mention the gape-mouthed, goggle-eyed reaction of audiences on both coasts. Make no mistake: Watts is indeed the percussive pivot on which this band turns, and he drives his bandmates as well as complements them with restraint and sublty and color, as is brilliantly evident on Metamorphosen. Still, there's something about hearing a young, unknown musician out to make his bones that brings another dimension of crackling electricity to this band.

Sam Rivers: An avant master awes UM

Sam Rivers talks pretty much like he plays. Ideas come fast and furious as the words tumble forth, and you get the sense that he's improvising a good deal of the presentation. Such was the case as the 85-year-old, Orlando-based avant-garde jazz icon gingerly took the stage Friday night at Gusman Concert Hall on the University of Miami campus and joined the Frost Concert Jazz Band in a raucous set of his big-band compositions. A bit winded, Rivers explained that he had recently fractured a hip and, while in the hospital, developed pneumonia which necessitates his use of a breathing tube, although the apparatus did not appear on stage. Nor did his condition, which seemed to improve as the performance wore on, keep him from issuing a torrent of humorous anecdotes, reminding one and all that his career not only encompassed stints with the greatest jazz figures of his time in both the avant and mainstream realms, but that he also shared stages with the likes of T-Bone Walker, B.B. King and even Jimi Hendrix (too bad no tapes exist of that matchup). Although he soloed infrequently, what he played was richly toned and masterful — especially on the soprano sax — if less forceful than in his heyday.

Under the direction of trombonist and educator Dante Luciani, the young musicians — all male — of the Concert Jazz Band were more than up to the task of playing Rivers' challenging charts. The maestro, who bopped, shimmied and mugged from his perch atop a wooden stool, truly seemed to enjoy hearing them interpreting and improvising on his music. Warming the stage for their guest, the band swung hard on a few numbers, joyously digging in on a handclapping, pew-shaking read of Don Rader's "Hallelujah Time." Best of all was a gorgeous version of Kenny Werner's "Compensation," which made use of a muted tonal palette that recalled the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis band, for which it was written.

Living up to his rep as a spontaneous showman, Rivers had no intention of merely following the concert's printed program. In fact, the first tune he played, an absolutely stunning tenor-sax ballad, was one he had just written and it didn't even have a title yet. Apparently, he was able to run through it with the rhythm section, and pianist Dan Strange, guitarist Sam Petitti, bassist Josh Allen and drummer Danny Susnjar provided inspired support. The next piece, "Duke," an exuberant homage to Ellington, involved the full band and included ample room for solos, and was also nowhere to be found on the program, which proved pretty much useless as Rivers roamed where the muse took him.

A funky, sinewy piece titled "Vines" was inspired, said the saxophonist, by his amazement at how vines can grow on brick and concrete walls, and "Neptune," which he introduced with a humorous tale of keeping track of the planets now that Pluto has been downgraded, boasted a galactic vibe reminiscent of the space-travelin' Sun Ra. Of course, he had to play "Beatrice," the lovely composition he penned for his wife, who passed away three years ago. Rivers acknowledged that out of the many, many pieces he'd written over the decades, this was the only one that really made him any dough, as the lyrical melody has become something of a standard.

Rivers is truly one of the great figures of modern jazz. The Frost School is to be commended for honoring his legacy and giving its fine student musicians the opportunity to work with this one-of-a-kind artist.

Right on Q: Terry Adams' rock 'n' roll anarchy

Like the Marx Brothers on a mission of musical anarchy, Terry Adams and his Crazy Trio stormed the stage at Alligator Alley Saturday night, launching right into a hayseed-gone-haywire rendition of "Hey Good Lookin'" that combined the fractured bebop of Thelonious Monk with the sourmash hillbilly stomp of Hank Williams. Among the small but mighty crowd of NRBQ die-hards who had come to see the cult band's founding pianist, a way-jazzed Bonefish Johnny suggested the term "Thelonious Hank" to describe the tantalizing mashup.

Joined by original NRBQ drummer Tom Staley, who lives in St. Pete, Chicago-based vocalist and guitarist Scott Ligon and central Florida-based saxophonist Gene Oliveri, the idiosyncratic piano wildman slapped, pounded and caressed a pair of electric keyboards, and seamlessly traded off on vocals with Ligon, who played bass for most of the show. (And yes, even though the "trio" had four members, Adams proved he could count when the group gleefully launched into the Q classic "12 Bar Blues." ) The absence of guitar put the emphasis squarely on Adams' antic piano work, as he provided his own take on boogie-woogie, blues and honky-tonk, filtered through the avant-garde sensibilities of Monk and Sun Ra and performed with the elan of showmen like Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard. Oliveri hung fire on tenor and soprano saxes, peppering the proceedings with old-school rock 'n' roll bravado.

Staley's relaxed demeanor and seemingly effortless time-keeping belied his righteous snare-drum crack, while the sweet-voiced, baby-faced Ligon proved the perfect foil for Adams's Kentucky twang. The vocal pairing was particularly effective on NRBQ classics such as "Wacky Tobacky" and "Rain at the Drive-In," and the infectious new Adams gem "My Girl My Girl," which leads off his latest solo recording, Holy Tweet, also featuring Ligon. Also from the new album, they performed "Feet," an ode to a lovers' tootsies that somehow doesn't come across as freaky, and "Not Tonight, Hon," in which Adams screeches the familiar lament, "Not tonight, hon, I've got a headache!" Versions of "Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone" and "When You're Smiling" captured a surreal early-jazz vibe, you know, back when the music was still dangerous and fun. Adams did actually play a Monk tune, but as Bonefish pointed out, just about everything he did started off as if he were going to launch into "Misterioso."

Although the now-defunct NRBQ boasts roots in Miami, having formed here in 1967, they split for points Northeast soon after. However, Adams is currently staying with friends in South Florida, and rumor has it, he may be looking to return to the area. A bit of luck for local rock 'n' roll fiends, if that means more shows like Saturday's.

Didn't they ramble? Dirty Dozen, Kermit Rufffins, Lil' Ed hit town

For the past few years, Hollywood Beach has done Mardi Gras right. Crescent City royalty including Dr. John, Allan Toussaint and Marcia Ball have all celebrated Fat Tuesday South Florida style, trading in the bustle of Bourbon Street for the roar of the surf. And this year's edition continued the good-time tradition, as The Dirty Dozen Brass Band and Kermit Ruffins capped the all-day beach party with spirited night-time performances.



• Helmed by the veteran front line of baritone saxophonist Roger Lewis (above), trumpeter Efrem Towns, tenor saxophonist Kevin Harris and trumpeter Gregory Davis, Dirty Dozen put on a signature set of rollicking brass-fueled New Orleans classics. With a festive and furry oversize hat shading his eyes, the cannonball-shaped Towns served as the merry master of revels, handling most of the vocals and even blowing two horns at once, one of which was the toy-size pocket trumpet favored by Don Cherry. Each musician took a turn in the spotlight, with Lewis consistently delivering the greasy goods on the bari, while tenorman Harris unleashed brawny yet sophisticated fills and solos. Trumpeter Davis also killed, while the big man, Julius McKee, held down the bottom end with his burping sousaphone. Of course, you can't do justice to tunes like "Mardi Gras in New Orleans" or "Big Chief" without a snap-tight rhythm section, and drummer Terrence Higgins laid down the parade-ground sound with snap and excitement, while guitarist Jake Eckert unspooled some razor-wire solos. Keeping still was not an option, as audience members dutifully shook their booties and grubbed for beads tossed from the stage; even the ocean seemed to be in on the act, as the wind churned the surf nearby.

• Unfortunately, the momentum faded as about 40 minutes elapsed between Dirty Dozen and Ruffins. A large portion of the audience wandered away, not exactly riveted by the shapely, hand-painted contestants vying for top prize on the neighboring black-light stage. When Ruffins and his quartet did take the stage, the crowd had dwindled, and the music was far more low-key than what Dirty Dozen had offered. No question, Ruffins is a top-flight musician and entertainer, blowing some beautiful solos on his trumpet and singing standards in an engaging voice. However, going from the full-on, high-octane brass assault of the Dozen to a more-sedate jazz-club set was kind of a letdown, at least as far as the energy level goes. In hindsight, event organizers should have reversed the order of the acts, and, while sometimes it's unavoidable, they need to keep in mind that long delays between performances are the ultimate buzz kills.




• There was no letdown — nor letup — when Lil' Ed and the Blues Imperials hit the stage at The Back Room Friday night. Together now for 20 years, the Chicago blues vets kept the engine revving through two long and energetic sets. Lil' Ed Williams remains a marvel of kineticism, as he expertly worked his steely slide over the strings of a black Epiphone — a guitar he acquired in a swap with Back Room owner John Yurt — and sang in a hoarse baritone holler accompanied by the cartoonish expressions of his elastic features. While the crowded room and limited stage space didn't allow for much in the way of acrobatics, Williams did, at one point, stroll through the house, beaming broadly as he continued playing a typically fierce solo.

Crowned by his signature fez — a snazzy, red and gold-embroidered number — Williams performed tunes from his new album, Full Tilt, as well as a few Chicago blues classics. Among the latter, he offered up a boogeying rendition of J.B. Lenoir's "Mojo Boogie," (its lyrics, "I been to New Orleans and I sure had a wonderful time" perfectly suited to Mardi Gras week) on which he ripped some wicked slide licks on a cigar-box guitar. Another highlight was a terrific read of the tear-stained slow-blues "As the Years Go Passing By," although Williams' eye rolls and mugging were kind of distracting. But then, you could always choose to look at outstanding bassist James "Pookie" Young, Williams' half-brother, who seemed to really be feeling it; with his eyes squeezed shut, the big man appeared to be lost in reverie. Guitarist Michael Garrett and drummer Kelly Littlejohn were spot-on, as usual; hell, after 20 years, this band practically breathes as one. As many of the audience can attest — particularly the Ed Heads, who sport fezes of their own — Lil' Ed and the Blues Imperials damn near guarantee that you'll leave whatever venue they're playing feeling better than you did when you walked in.

What a week: Carter, Winstone and Németh hit SoFla

Jazz and blues lovers have had pretty rich pickin's this past week. Here's a sample.

• Last Saturday, Ron Carter brought his quartet into the Miniaci Performing Arts Center for a Valentine's Day show. Attired in tuxedos, the foursome took the stage with the elegance of the Modern Jazz Quartet, but once they started playing, it became plain that this was not going to be the romantic, straight-ahead jazz show many people in the audience (not to mention their mates and dates) were expecting. Carter, as always, was magnificent, pulling a tone from a borrowed upright rivaled by few — Charlie Haden springs to mind — and laying down the foundational and often quite funky grooves upon which his quartet built. An opening vamp teased Miles Davis' familiar "So What," as the group began playing — and playing, and playing, and playing — the first of a series of lengthy rhythmic explorations that must have tested the endurance of all but the most avid listener. (And yet, maybe because it was Valentine's Day, audiences were more than respectful and seemed determined to make the best of it, although I suspect the applause was often a burst of relief that the song had finally ended.)

Carter was beyond generous with his sidemen, particularly percussionist Rolando Morales-Matos, who was ensconced in a curio shop of congas, gongs, wood blocks and assorted noisemaking implements. No knock against the very talented Morales-Matos, but, like spicy mustard on a sandwich, a little goes a long way; I wanted to go up on-stage and hide his freakin' triangle, which he ting-tinged with the glee of a second-grader and which seemed to amuse Carter who smiled broadly at him whenever he employed it. I might have enjoyed drummer Payton Crossley under different circumstances, but in this setting, I just found my attention wandering during his solos. Pianist Stephen Scott carried the burden of injecting tunefulness into these very non-melodic proceedings, and again, in a different context, I might have enjoyed him more. However, his challenging reharmonization of "My Funny Valentine" — Carter's single reluctant nod to playing on Feb. 14 — was a bright spot, as he segued into "Cheek to Cheek" and a lovely read of Leon Russell's "Song for You."

I love free jazz, and have had near religious experiences while hearing it performed live. However, Carter's show, for the most part, had me shifting in my seat and counting ceiling tiles. In retrospect, I think it was the over-busy percussionist who sunk this concert, and I wonder how much better it would have been with just bass, piano and drums, or better yet, just bass and piano. Ambition is to be applauded, but not at the expense of providing an interesting and entertaining listening experience.

• By (very welcome) contrast, Norma Winstone and her trio performed a remarkable show Wednesday night at the O'Keeffe Gallery in Palm Beach that was both artful and extremely palatable. A veteran of the London underground jazz scene, Winstone brought along Italian pianist Glauco Venier and Austrian reed player Klaus Gesing, both of whom accompanied her on her sublime 2008 recording, Distances, which earned her a Grammy nod for Jazz Vocal Album of the Year. (She lost to Cassandra Wilson's more mundane Loverly.)

The threesome started out with the perfect kickoff tune, the rousing "Chamber Music," which superimposes James Joyce's lyrical love poem of the same name (its opening line: "Strings in the earth and air make music sweet") atop a musical foundation based on the hymn "Nearer My God to Thee." At 67, Winstone still possesses a rich and gorgeous voice, and her intonation and elocution remain impeccable. The trio pulled several tunes from Distances, including an absolutely riveting read of "The Mermaid," in which Winstone sings her lyrics of a homesick sea nymph to Venier's mysterious melody. All three musicians subtly added otherworldly sounds to the proceedings, and Winstone gave her cohorts extended solo time. Even more moving, Winstone sang the lyrics to "Ciant da li Ciampanis" entirely in the Italian Friulian dialect. Another lament of a faraway homeland, its words were penned by Pier Paolo Pasolini and fitted, by Venier, to a piece by Erik Satie. No matter what language, her delivery was astonishingly heartfelt. A reconstruction of John Coltrane's "Giant Steps," the sighing "Giant's Gentle Stride" was offered as an ode to Trane, as Winstone's lyric alluded to the spiritual nature of his music: "Every song was a prayer." Got that right. The tune also provided Gesing ample room to craft a very non-Trane-derivative solo on soprano sax.

Venier is a marvel of understated accompaniment, his phrasing and tone perfectly suited to Winstone's voice and temperament. Same goes for Gesing, who switched from soprano to bass clarinet, upon which he offered staccato rhythmic bursts as well as longer lines, quiet breathy sounds, and perhaps inadvertently, the gentle clacking of his instrument's keys. All of it made a terrific backdrop for these rich explorations of words and tones.

Sadly, the show was far from overcrowded, and much of the music seemed to sail over the heads of the elderly Palm Beach crowd, who may have been expecting something more within their comfort zone. However, unlike the Ron Carter show, the disconnect didn't appear to be the fault of the musicians. With any luck, Winstone will book a hipper venue — perhaps the Manuel Artime Theater in Little Havana? — if she returns to South Florida.



• Last night (Saturday), the dynamic John Németh and his four-piece rocked The Back Room into worse health than Chinese drywall. Németh was in exceptionally good voice as he took the stage attired in a sharp blue suit and his trademark snap-brim hat, and worked the mike like a natural-born soul man for two high-energy sets. The Bay Area vocalist and harmonica player owns a flexible tenor that can swoop up to a chill-raising falsetto, and he tested that range on a truly moving rendition of "Fuel for Your Fire," a tune from his new album, Love Me Tonight, that recalls vintage Philly and Memphis soul. Accompanied by a superb band — guitarist Bobby Welsh, bassist Michael Phillips and one of the best blues drummers in the biz, June Core — Németh performed several tracks from the new recording, which has been owning the Billboard Blues Chart since it was released earlier this month. Switching among chromatic and standard harps, Németh displayed an easy mastery, never overblowing and, as my pal Mark Fodera pointed out, eschewing the over-used bullet-mike that has become almost de rigueur for West Coast harpsters these days.

The personable and charismatic Németh introduced a couple of standout tunes from the new recording with humorous anecdotes, relaying the dangers of mother-in-laws before launching into the slinky "Daughter of the Devil," which has a menacing Slim Harpo-Magic Sam type groove, and talking about how he ended up in San Francisco after following his girlfriend from his native Idaho as a prelude to the autobiographical "Country Boy."

Németh and this exceptional band have been working at a fever pitch, touring hard behind the new recording, which, with any luck, will raise the 31-year-old blues and soul singer's profile even higher. Last year's Magic Touch, also for the Blind Pig imprint, earned him a Blues Music Award for Best New Artist Debut, and Love Me Tonight should get him at least on the list for even more categories next year.

Talkin' blues: John Hammond's tales liven a lively show

John Hammond put on a fierce, expertly played solo show Saturday night at the Colony Theater on Miami Beach. No surprise there. However, the veteran blues troubadour also charmed with autobiographical tales that led into many of his selections, regaling a rapt audience with stories from his youth, early career and dealings with some of the genre's legendary figures. Always affable and charismatic — especially when he gets lost in song and his rather elastic features contort into a roadmap of anguish — Hammond often comes across as shy and diffident on-stage. Not this time.

Fresh off the Blues Cruise, and a more-intimate Friday night boat trip with a few friends of Tigertail, the arts org behind the Colony show, Hammond seemed relaxed and was more talkative on-stage than I'd ever seen him. Hammond told of how he headed for California as a neophyte blues guitarist and found work pumping gas at a station on Wiltshire. One day, a guy pulled up in a convertible and caught young Hammond eyeing the expensive Martin guitar inside. The motorist asked Hammond to play him something — which he eagerly agreed to, just for the chance to lay his hands on the coveted instrument. Well, the driver turned out to be Hoyt Axton, who booked Hammond immediately, which led to more gigs and his eventually earning enough scratch to buy a car and get the hell out of L.A.

Another tale involved the idiosyncratic, nine-string guitarist Big Joe Williams, who Hammond met in Chicago through his friend Michael Bloomfield. One night, Bloomfield, who had already established himself as an young guitar ace on the Chicago blues scene, brought Hammond to Silvio's, a rough South Side club, to hear Howlin' Wolf. Outside the club, a bottle whooshed by Hammond's head, smashing against the wall behind him, apparently thrown by a member of the menacing street gang across the street. The barrel-shaped Williams, who had learned to take care of himself after decades of hoboing, pulled his piece, which Hammond described as looking — and sounding — like a cannon, and fired a blast at the hoods, who sensibility made themselves scarce. Hammond said he didn't know who to be more frightened of: the gang or Big Joe.

The stories lent insight into Hammond's musical performance. Switching between acoustic guitar and a vintage National steel, and accompanying himself on rack harmonica, he dipped into the rich and often poetic country blues songbook, offering stunning renditions of Robert Johnson's "Come on in My Kitchen" and Blind Willie McTell's "Love Changing Blues," both of which were played on the silvery steel. Blustery reads of "I'm Just Your Fool" and "Mean Ol' Lonesome Train," the latter of which he introduced as a Sleepy John Estes tune, conjured up the requisite mix of swagger and self-effacement that makes lyrics like "Gonna buy me a shotgun, aimed dead at you" seem less like abuse than humorous hyperbole. Over the past six years or so, Hammond has been writing original material, as well. His own swaggering "Slick Crown Vic," written about that first car he drove out of L.A., and "Come to Find Out," with the evocative lyric "The wind is howling, the leaves turned inside out/My world has unraveled, boy, I come to find out," held up just fine alongside the classics.

Expect a new recording by Hammond in March, on the Chesky label. As yet untitled, it will be a solo acoustic disc, recorded at a Chelsea church in New York City. As anyone who's seen him live can attest, Hammond needs no assistance, as he generates groove for days and blows notes on his rack harp that could cut steel.

With so many great stories at his command, Hammond could easily fill a book or two with rich, insightful tales of his 45-plus years in the business. Even if he doesn't write them down, I hope they become a regular part of his repertoire.

Jazz on the hoof

One of the bright spots on the South Florida jazz scene this past year was the re-emergence of Kenny Millions. The world-renowned avant-garde artist generally keeps a low-profile locally as the owner and operator of Sushi Blues Cafe and Blue Monk Lounge in downtown Hollywood. When he does play, it's usually at the café, and usually in more straight-ahead jazz or blues settings. However, in 2008, Millions decided to scratch his itch for off-the-wall expression, and his last Thursday of the month outings (pun intended) at Radio-active Records in Fort Lauderdale have provided some of the most raw and vital live performances this town has seen in some time. (Scroll through this blog and you'll find details.)

Now, Millions reports, he's really hit the big-time: Someone actually named a race horse after him. (Go to www.uk-jumping.com/h_september.htm.) A 4-year-old bay gelding with the name Maslak (Kenny's real last name) has turned up in the U.K., and is described as having "gained a reputation for being a bit of a thinker, in the worst sense of the word" in a scouting report that is somewhat circumspect about the horse's prospects. The listing goes on to say that he was named for the jazz saxophonist and clarinetist, "whose alternate stage name is, encouragingly for coincidence buffs, Kenny Millions ..." Be sure to check out the photo caption, too. Those Brits are real cards!

"Don't know the horse's owner, but he must be a real eccentric music fan to like my shit enough to name his horse after me," Millions told me in a recent e-mail.

Kenny's next round of lunacy mixed with supreme musical mastery takes place Jan. 29 at Radio-active, and he'll be joined by the very entertaining Ketamine Blow Dart and DJ Skidmark. The place is located in the Gateway Plaza, on Sunrise Blvd. just east of Federal, and stocks a truly thorough selection of jazz vinyl. (Go to Churchillspub.com.) You can also find him at the huge International Noise Fest taking place at Churchill's Pub in Little Haiti Feb. 12-14. You might also inquire about buying a copy of his live recording titled Eat Shit at Churchill's, which, incidentally, is also a bitchin' name for a race horse.

Some last words from Freddie Hubbard

Freddie Hubbard was the baddest trumpet player on the planet, and everyone knew it. His virtuosity and inescapable soulfulness snagged him invites to the hippest bandstands and studio sessions of the day, from a worldwide jaunt with Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers and his playing on Oliver Nelson's Blues and the Abstract Truth to his somewhat atypical inclusion on such avant-garde classics as Ornette Coleman's Free Jazz and John Coletrane's Ascenscion. Of course, he also released a string of classic albums under his own leadership on the Blue Note and CTI labels, and penned the standards "Little Sunflower" and "Up Jumped Spring." And while a devastating lip injury pretty much put the kibosh on his career in the early '90s, it could hardly diminish Hubbard's lasting influence on the jazz world, which should be recognized all the more following his passing on Dec. 29 at age 70.

I interviewed Hubbard in 2005, preceeding a gig he was playing at the Jazziz Bistro at the Seminole Hard Rock Casino. The show itself was just sad: Hubbard had nothing left and simply couldn't make the notes. Fortunately, he was backed by the excellent band of saxophonist Jesse Jones Jr., and the audience was more than polite and respectful. But my interview with Hubbard remains a favorite. He was as cool and laid-back as can be, and surprisingly candid about the folks he worked with and his own damaged chops. Here are some excerpts.

On first arriving in New York from his native Indianapolis, Indiana, in 1958, at the age of 19-20: "When I got to New York, man, it was rough. I was walking around the streets of Harlem, talkin' 'bout, 'What's up?' But it was fun. I went to Adam Clayton Powell's church, I hang with him. I listened to Malcolm X and Farrakhan make speeches everyday at 126th and Seventh Avenue. I used to live right by the Apollo, I used to follow James Brown and all them cats into the Apollo, Dinah Washington. I'd be sittin' up there, and they say, 'Who are you?' I'd follow all the cats around. I saw Wilson Pickett. Sarah Vaughan. She used to come over my house, man. Carmen McRae. They were all so great."

On avant-garde alto saxophonist Eric Dolphy, with whom he shared an apartment in Brooklyn: "We practiced all the time. Eric was out there. I used to have to lend him money, because he didn't want to take no regular gigs. He wrote this record Outward Bound [on which Hubbard played], the cat got popular for a while. I know nobody sounded like that. You know, he used to sound like Cannonball. He was with Chico Hamilton, when he was playing with Chico, he was playing in. When he got out there by himself, he said, 'Man, I'm not gonna play no more conventional music.' "

On playing avant-garde sessions with Dolphy, Coltrane and Coleman: "All those records were out. I didn't know what I was doin' half of the time, I was just blowin. I said, 'Ornette, why you want me on your record?' He said, 'I want your energy.' But man, that was some of the weirdest music, I mean, at that time. Some of it sounds regular now. But when [Ornette] first started playing that stuff around New York, Leonard Bernstein went down there kissing him on the lips. They didn't know what it was. But Ornette, he's quiet, but he takes care of himself, takes care of business."

On recording only one song, the title track, on Sonny Rollins' East Broadway Run Down: "He said, 'I don't want to hear none of that Coltrane shit.' I said, 'Well, you got Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones here. What you mean you don't want no Trane stuff? Why'd you get them?' He gave me $600 and I was gone."

On replacing Lee Morgan with Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers, which also included Wayne Shorter, Cedar Walton and Curtis Fuller at the time: "After Lee left, I said, 'Ohh, what am I gonna do?' 'Cause Lee had the hit with [Blakey], you know, 'Moanin'. And after he did The Sidewinder, he was hot; he was hotter than Miles. Everybody was followin' Lee around. So I was going in there behind him. He got kinda messed up, bless his soul. But that was a helluva band, man. We went all over the world. We were all young, and we got to write and arrange. We were tight. We stayed together about three years."

On the ups and downs of working with Blakey, who was known as a taskmaster: "Oh my goodness. Boy, that was the time of my life, cause we did some music. He let us all start writing. I did that thing on 'Pensativa,' you know we did 32 takes? I said, 'Aww, what are you tryin' to do, kill us?' I had to go home and soak my lips in some ice water. Thirty-two takes all the way through. When I think about it, I get mad. ... Aw, man, we were like little Muslims and shit up there, standing up straight, suits, bow ties, uniforms. We were clean, though. I got some tapes and DVDs of when we played. It was funny, man. Everybody was skinny."

On the influence of the Epistolic church in Indianapolis, and his mother, who was a faith-healer: "They was sanctified and shit. I had to play my trumpet in church while they hollered and stuff, jumped up and down. That's the kind of religion I'm talkin' 'bout, the Holy Spirit. 'Ahhh!' My mother would jump up and throw her pocket book up in the air. I'd say, 'Ma, don't throw the bag away, you might lose it.' So I'd run and catch it. She'd be dancin' and gettin' the Holy Ghost. They really did get into that."

On the reaction to his political recording Sing Me a Song of Songmy: "That was some weird stuff. They banned the record. 'Man, you ain't supposed to be talkin' about Vietnam and all that shit.' I was talkin' bout, 'Black man, don't go in the Army.' People sayin' 'What are you talking about?' They said, 'Take that shit out.' I put that record on in my house, people started knockin' on the walls and shit. I lived in an apartment building. 'I don't know what that shit is, Freddie, but take it off.'"

On recording Red Clay for CTI in 1970:"Creed [Taylor] told me, 'Write a hit, man. Write something somebody will remember.' I didn't think nothing about it when I did it, but I did it. Of course, he told me to get Herbie [Hancock] and Ron Carter to make it good, you know. Joe Henderson played his can off."

On his more commercial recordings for Columbia: "I was makin' money, man. I was livin' up in Hollywood Hills, big house, swimming pool, cats comin' up sayin' 'You rich, man!' I say, 'No, I'm just workin'."

On his lip injury in the '90s: "Aw man, I was playin' too much. I was jumpin' out the Blue Note [in NYC], flyin' to Finland, flyin' back to New York. I was working so much, man, flying all over the world, trying to make all the records, make all the gigs and shit, and I split my lip. It's been funny ever since."

"I had a sore on my lip, and it was getting bad and it never would heal. I kept playing on it, and one day, it said, 'No mo'.' Man, I lost feeling in that thing, 'cause I couldn't put it on that spot, it cause me so much pain. So I start tryin' to move it around. Didn't work."

"I got ready to quit for a while. I took a layoff, and I went back to work and it felt good ... then it broke open again. I got to playin', I thought I was playing better than I was before I had the spot. But I did it too quick."