Music reviews and comment by Forrest Dylan Bryant
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Joshua Redman performs with James Farm. Photo by Forrest Dylan Bryant
Saturday, 11:00 p.m. — Dizzy’s Den
It’s getting late, but the crowd is fired up at Dizzy’s Den as the four-man supergroup known as James Farm tries to close the Monterey Jazz Festival’s second night on a high note. There’s chops to spare in saxophonist Joshua Redman, pianist Aaron Parks, bassist Matt Penman and drummer Eric Harland, but it doesn’t hit right away: after being rushed out to the grounds directly from an earlier set in the Arena, the quartet needs a couple of tunes to regain their stride.
Things settle down with “Unravel,” a slow, cerebral piece. Penman’s busy bass solo entwines itself around Parks’ sparse chords, and then Parks takes a turn that sounds like a musical puzzle, fitting together short segments of notes, turning them, rearranging them, and sometimes unlocking a flowing stream. Redman closes this one with a hushed melody that calmly re-centers the room.
And then things start cooking. Everybody clicks on “Chronos,” which rises from an exotic-sounding theme on delicate piano patterns until Redman and drummer Eric Harland hurl it audaciously forward, recalling the sort of dynamic that they and Penman used to forge in another supergroup, the SFJazz Collective. Harland is a clockwork dynamo on this piece, infusing tremendous energy without overwhelming his bandmates. Redman steadily turns up the heat with a rapid-fire outpouring that gathers itself into a brief, primal burst… but just as he seems about to break through to a higher level, he abruptly steps aside, the solo over.
Redman sits out the intro to “Low Fives,” an aching, bass-led tune with an open feel. But when he returns, the quartet shows a fine ensemble sound. All four musicians enter a constant sway behind their instruments, as if physically falling into the swelling melody. The tune’s cresting climax sets up “I-10,” a rousing closer that brings the set’s promise into fulfillment. Harland kicks it into gear, starting with a quiet chatter but then bursting into a thick, tumbling roll that sets Redman loose at last. All stops out, the saxophonist quits teasing us and tears it open with a sustained, wailing solo that has the late night crowd yelling along. It’s a killer ending to a solid day at Monterey. Bring on Sunday!
Bill Carrothers — Photo by Forrest Dylan Bryant
Saturday, 9:30 p.m. — Coffee House Gallery
Two sides of the Bill Carrothers Trio are on display in the second of three sets in Monterey’s smallest, darkest room. On one hand there are heavy, high-powered blasts that pound the floors as if trying to drill through to bedrock. But in between these monoliths drift lighter, bittersweet airs that leaven their overall density with an uplifting sense of optimism.
The first strain reaches its thundering climax with, believe it or not, “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”
Irving Berlin’s Depression-era chestnut has seen many transformations over the years, from swing extravaganza to synth-pop novelty to laugh-getter in Mel Brooks’ movie “Young Frankenstein.” But it’s never had a rendition like this: fast, dark and careening like a runaway freight train, absolutely dominated by a massive, chugging piano riff and Bill Stewart’s unceasing application of force on drums. Bassist Drew Gress can lay out here, because Carrothers is filling the low end of the sonic spectrum all by himself, alternately grinning, grimacing and scowling as he goes.
But just minutes later, the trio is airborne, dancing through a ballad with complex interplay and deep, subtle harmonies to savor and get lost in. Gress’ bass solo runs both high and low, balancing economy and emotional depth, and Carrothers toys with a little ostinato figure, nudging it gently up the keys until it drifts away in gauzy diffusion.
“Church of the Open Air” sounds like a hymn, slow and lush, with Carrothers humming quietly along to the serenely beautiful theme. Gress slips in with a contemplative solo, while Stewart gradually envelops the whole in a softly rising swell of cymbals. It’s a spellbinding moment in a most interesting set.
Geri Allen’s Timeline. Photo © Karl Giant
Saturday, 8:00 p.m. — The Arena
Tap dance is far from a lost art, but it’s fair to say it’s become a somewhat arcane one, and downright underground where modern jazz is concerned. So it’s refreshing to hear an artist like pianist Geri Allen embrace tap percussion in her Timeline quartet, adding dancer Maurice Chestnut to her trio with Kenny Davis on bass and Kassa Overall on drums. And it’s even more interesting when that group gets the Monterey Jazz Festival’s annual commission for new work.
Any group that has tap as a core component is bound to be rhythmically focused, even with Allen and Davis playing at their most lyrical, as they do for the first part of the evening’s set. Overall’s drumming throughout the early going is stellar, sensitive yet uplifting, propulsive yet airy and seemingly effortless. He’s not just playing “in the pocket,” he’s sketching all around the pocket too.
When Chestnut joins the trio, it’s as if someone just found the secret combination that opens up the band. Chestnut and Overall immediately enter a partnership of call and response, solo and counter-solo, shadowing each other with lightning-fast moves that have Chestnut’s arms flailing and his feet a blur. He opens his shirt to reveal a Muhammad Ali t-shirt underneath, and it’s a fitting touch: he is most definitely floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee.
Allen is restrained for the most part, letting her colleagues shine while her own tidal ebb and flow keeps the pieces moving and grounded. It’s highly entertaining stuff, but when it comes to the commission, entitled “The Dazzler,” it’s really just more of the same — there’s no new element to distinguish it from the rest of the set. The piece is inspired by Sammy Davis, Jr., but it doesn’t particularly evoke the man or his life, despite a few subtle references, such as Chestnut’s shadow-boxing early in the piece, or the snazzy blues that comes in later.
All in all, it’s a satisfying set, but one that feels like it could have been more.
Sarah Wilson. Photo © Lenny Gonzalez
Saturday, 4:00 p.m. — Coffee House Gallery
While composer/trumpeter/singer Sarah Wilson is introducing one of her quirky compositions, drummer Matt Wilson (no relation) interjects a comment under his breath: “…with special guest Huey Lewis!”
Yes, the heart of rock and roll is still beating over in the Arena, and we can hear it clearly in the Coffee House Gallery whenever Wilson’s band pauses between songs. But what they’re putting together on this small stage is quite different: often surprising, sometimes beautiful, and completely unique.
In a set being recorded for broadcast on NPR, Wilson’s bi-coastal band draws on a most unusual array of influences. There’s folksy Americana, free-jazz abstraction, a few touches of African pop, all building from deceptively simple melodies to thickly woven, densely layered tapestries.
Wilson’s trumpet and vocal style are similar: her horn work is direct and largely unadorned, usually playing either a straight melody or focusing on a single unusual effect. Her singing is unassuming, almost deadpan. But she also shows a facility for quick changes of course, turning unexpectedly into obscure alleyways. Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” is a non-obvious tune selection, but it fits her approach perfectly.
It takes an equally unique band to keep pace with this, and Wilson’s fits the bill, mercurial and shape-shifting. Take that Joy Division song: it’s musically twisted, with violinist Charlie Burnham playing otherworldly, abbreviated tones run through an effects box, and five-string bassist Jerome Harris turning in a strange solo full of dense clusters of fat-toned notes, roaming hither and yon before yielding to John Schott’s spiky twang on guitar.
Matt Wilson brings another dimension to bear on the music. His insistent, rapid-fire drive and perennial good humor repeatedly push the ensemble into sweeping rhythmic surges, balancing the off-kilter elements. It’s this curious mix of the avant-garde and the familiar, of hard swing and floating dispersion that makes Wilson’s music so hard to pin down, and that winds up winning over a crowd that seemed to be caught slightly off-guard at the start of the set. “This is a dream come true,” Sarah Wilson says of playing at Monterey. But she’s made it come true on her own terms, and further established herself as an artist to watch.
SOUL REBELS BRASS BAND / IVAN NEVILLE’S DUMPSTAPHUNK / KERMIT RUFFINS
Saturday, 1:30 p.m. — The Arena
The Soul Rebels Brass Band has just declared Monterey an honorary neighborhood of New Orleans.
It was a surprisingly simple process. It began with an invocation of sorts, a soaring speech by actor Wendell Pierce (of HBO’s acclaimed tv series, “Tremé”) that exhorted the Arena crowd to give themselves up to the spirit of the Big Easy before the Soul Rebels Brass Band came marching through the stands and up to the stage. The octet wasted no time in constructing a massive wall of sound, with a pounding two-drum beat and slamming horns turning Stevie Wonder’s “Living for the City” into a furious fanfare, getting the crowd on their feet and clapping along. And then came the induction, with a hand-waving call-and-response chant of “5-0-4″ (as in the telephone area code). And just like that, we’re in. Feels pretty good.
The Soul Rebels are just the first act in a revue-style musical cavalcade the Festival calls “An Afternoon in Tremé: The Musical Majesty of New Orleans.” And this young band seems to encapsulate all that fabled diversity in one compact package. Second-line marching, classic r&b, dancehall reggae and mothership funk all interlock in their thundering, unstoppable drive.
Kermit Ruffins joins the group later on, his tack-sharp suit striking a contrast with the t-shirt and jeans look of the Soul Rebels. But musically they are in complete accord, with a joyous South African medley of “Skokiaan” and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
It seems impossible to turn the wattage up much higher, but Ivan Neville’s Dumpstaphunk manages it. With Hammond B-3 organ blasting over two basses, guitar and drums, the group can’t miss in the deep groove department. But there’s more. Vocal duties are spread around the band, but Nick Daniels’ spine-shaking voice leads the way through a series of consciousness-raising messages: help the needy, they implore, not just in New Orleans but everywhere. Stop the violence. “We gotta turn this thing around.” Special guest trumpeter Terence Blanchard appears on stage and adds even more fuel to the fire, as the greasy groove swirls up into an almost psychedelic trip.
Soon, inevitably, they’re all up there together: Dumpstaphunk, the Soul Rebels, Ruffins and Blanchard, kicking into a rolling, beat-altered jam on “Night in Tunisia” that sounds like a DJ remix and again whipping the crowd into a frenzy. They’ll all be back, playing the Garden Stage in separate sets later in the afternoon. Can they top this?
Saturday, 12:30 p.m. — The Fairgrounds
Now that the frantic pace of Friday night has been left behind, Saturday afternoon offers the first real chance to walk around at leisure and soak in the atmosphere of the Monterey Jazz Festival.
Gigantic outdoor parties are always fun, of course, but there’s something special about the atmosphere at Monterey. There’s an easy sense of community here that makes the Festival seem more intimate and friendly, almost like a family reunion. There are old pals one meets every year at Monterey (and only at Monterey). For writers, Sunday brunch is an annual tradition. Keep a sharp eye open as you walk the grounds, and you’ll spot many of the performers strolling around too, maybe with a camera or a lemonade in hand.
For those who haven’t seen the Fairgrounds, a quick orientation is in order (yes, I do this same post every year. Return readers, please bear with me). The layout is linear, with the Arena anchoring one end and a smattering of indoor stages strung along to the opposite end. A long row of vendor booths provides the backbone, with arts and crafts alongside the Arena and food mostly ringing the open West Lawn area. In the middle, close to the main gate, is the Garden Stage.
The Arena has an old-fashioned, rodeo look, with tiered seats surrounding a sawdust-coated flat floor and a very large stage at the front. It seats (if memory serves) about 2,000, with separate admission required. And those seats are quite possibly the most uncomfortable in the world, bare metal folding chairs crammed together in several straight phalanxes. If you’re heading for the Arena, seat cushions are essential. Those without Arena tickets have the run of the grounds, which includes the open and pleasant Garden Stage with its grandstand seating, two large rooms (Dizzy’s Den and the Night Club), the intimate Coffee House Gallery, and a theatre room that screens documentary films and live simulcasts of the Arena shows. There is also music in the West Lawn and the landscaped courtyard just inside the main gate.
It seems to be a rule that if an artist plays both in the Arena and out on the grounds, the grounds show will be better. Maybe it’s because they’ve already warmed up in he Arena, or maybe it’s because the crowd is closer, but grounds shows always have more energy. On the other hand, the biggest headliners appear only in the Arena, and there’s definitely something to be said for a reserved seat, no matter how rough on the rear.
One welcome addition this year is San Francisco record store Amoeba Music, which has lugged down great piles of vinyl, including some nice collectibles, along with a tempting selection of CDs and jazz-related DVDs. Amoeba replaces a national electronics chain as the Fairgrounds music store, and trust me, those other guys and their weak selection will not be missed. The challenge for me will be to stay out of Amoeba and focused on the live music.
Which is about to begin right now. More later…
John Santos. Photo © Tom Ehrlich
Friday, 9:30 p.m. — Night Club/Bill Berry Stage
Conguero John Santos is all about family, history, and tradition. Those are prominent themes in his entire body of work, but especially in his latest project, a sprawling suite called Filosofía Caribeña. So it’s not surprising that Santos immediately invokes the spirits of two departed giants of Bay Area jazz in his compelling set at the Night Club stage. His Latin jazz sextet opens with “He Was One of Us,” a tune originally dedicated to Santos’ longtime bandmate Ron Stallings but tonight played in honor of drummer Eddie Marshall, whose death last week sent shockwaves through the local community. And from the first notes, with Melecio Magdaluyo’s saxophone filling the large hall in a heavy, Coltraneish surge, it’s clear these guys mean business.
This band is a force, combining two of the Bay Area’s best front-line players in Magdaluyo and Dr. John Calloway on flute with a rock-solid rhythm section and Santos’ deep-rooted compositions, not to mention his own strong, authoritative percussion. But they reach another level entirely when guest MC Rico Pabón takes the stage. Pabón has a slicing delivery, building up in a passionate, percussive flow of Spanglish syllables that cut to the heart of some deep issues of cultural identity in troubled times and bring several audience members to their feet, hands raised.
Calloway digs deep too, with one leg bouncing as he pours it on, intensity rising in a rapid-fire flutter. And when Santos starts jamming with drummer David Flores, it’s as if they merge into a single polyrhythmic, multidimensional entity.
Pianist Marco Diaz moves away from the bench briefly for “Mr Stallings,” another tribute, playing muted trumpet over a thickly churning groove spiked with bold vocal interjections from Santos. And the leader takes some time out to call attention to the protest over NARAS’ decision to eliminate many categories from the Grammy Awards, including Latin Jazz. It’s a satisfying, stimulating set from these local artists, and one with real heart.
