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.

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.