The 54th annual Monterey Jazz Festival has come and gone, one more weekend of music and merriment to file in the list of fond jazz memories, but with a few desperate hours in the middle your friendly neighborhood Jazz Observer would just as soon forget. Luckily Sunday’s website outage had only a limited impact on coverage, and overall it was a grand time.

A strong focus on female composers and bandleaders was the hallmark and highlight of the weekend, but only one aspect of a diverse roster that spanned genres and generations, opening with one of the music’s brightest young stars in Robert Glasper, closing with one of its mightiest veterans in Sonny Rollins.

Here are the memories I’ll take with me:

Favorite Performances:

A tough list this year, with two real standouts and a whole bunch of performances that were all about even in my mind, very fine but not quite great. Ask me tomorrow and #3–5 might be completely different.

1. Tia Fuller Quartet
2. An Afternoon in Tremé
3. Helen Sung Trio
4. Robert Glasper Trio
5. Steve Coleman and Five Elements

Greatest Regret:

Not taking better precautions against website disaster. Also missing sets by Carmen Souza and Herbie Hancock among others, and not sticking around long enough to review Scott Colley.

Quotable:

“We got time for one more before we call it a night. Let’s just call this the encore.”
– Joey DeFrancesco

“I’ve always been afraid someday I’d make that mistake.”
– Joshua Redman, after accidentally calling it the Montreal Jazz Festival

“Whatever you’re doing, if you’re doing it in New Orleans, it’s got to be funky.”
– Wendell Pierce, introducing Dumpstaphunk

“We found this next tune on a transcription record, Gene Autry meets Charlie Parker. Hey, it could have happened. Probably did.”
– Bruce Forman

Sonny Rollins. Photo by Forrest Dylan Bryant

There’s a crazy rumor going around that Sonny Rollins just turned 81 years old.

Impossible. Can’t be.

There are times when you can see the effects of age on Sonny, who was at the very first Monterey Jazz Festival, back in 1958. When he walks, for example, or when he speaks into the Arena microphone. But not when he plays the tenor sax. When he blows into that horn — as he was the instant the vast red curtains opened on his Festival-closing show and would still be doing some two hours later — time becomes simply irrelevant.

This performance is classic Sonny. There he is with that trademark look: the brilliant red shirt, untucked; the hip shades; the snowy mad scientist afro and excellent beard. He moves from one position to another around the front of the stage, leaning further and further into his sax as he plays… and plays… and plays. These are long, jamming tunes he’s giving us — another trademark at this stage of his career. The tempos are easygoing, many of the tunes are simple, but that just gives everybody more space to stretch out and do their thing.

Sonny’s tone remains vigorous, huge and authoritative. He can still heat things up with quick spinning runs and long braying notes, guttural grunts or high-toned squeals. But check out what he does when the band takes on a slow bluesy ballad: the way he seems to wring out those sobbing phrases. Or the way he breaks style to trade spiky little morsels with guitarist Peter Bernstein. Fantastic.

Bernstein makes a great fit for this band, which also packs a percussive punch with drums and congas side-by side. Along with percussionist Sammy Figueroa, Bernstein’s full, ringing tone and overall buoyancy help keep things moving, even on those occasions — and let’s be honest, there are a few — when the open-ended tunes begin to drag. One early number starts out beautifully but completely deflates when bassist Bob Cranshaw turns in a sluggish, meandering solo. It takes a while for the energy to recover after that, but it does. How can it not? I mean, come on. It’s Sonny goddamn Rollins up there, he’s barely gotten started, and he’s gonna keep this show going for as long as he can.

Steve Coleman. Photo © Patricia Magalhaes

The best avant-garde jazz is often that which effectively combines the cerebral and the physical, challenging the mind with new ideas but still speaking to the essential connection between music and movement.

Saxophonist Steve Coleman and his adventurous quartet is bridging that space easily before a sparse but attentive crowd in the dark chill of the Monterey night. Drummer Jim Black’s herky-jerky rhythms, like an automaton with a stuck cylinder somewhere, support percolating interactions between Coleman and trumpeter Jonathan Finlayson. The two horn players toss and combine improvisational lines with the dexterity of jugglers, crossing paths to form intricate patterns over Matt Brewer’s mathematically complex bass lines in a clomping, clockwork motion.

Much of this music carries an oblique geometry. At some times, Coleman’s melodies have a parabolic feel, gently reaching out and doubling back upon themselves while Finlayson’s counterpoint juts out at sharply defined angles: a curious correspondence to his rigidly vertical stance when not playing. At other moments, the sax hops about while the trumpet sticks to a sort of rhythmic drone. Throughout, Black and Brewer engage in a constant redefinition of the space, pushing out here, pulling in there until it’s impossible to tell straight from curved: all parallels must converge.

But there’s an earthy quality to all this as well. It doesn’t take much effort to hear the bluesy tone lurking in Coleman’s playing, and it’s difficult to avoid getting caught up in the oddball rhythms. This isn’t an easy sound for the uninitiated to get into, but once you’ve found the right internal frequency, it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Saxophonist Tia Fuller first came to Monterey playing in a student ensemble. But her powerhouse performance at the head of her own band is more like a master class. Fuller has a special blend of spiritually inspired, deeply soulful jazz that uses faith as a launching point for some serious improvisational chops, building up towering, fiery solos but never straying from that deep foundation.

The set begins with some stately medium-tempo tunes that get everyone settled in, but soon moves into bright, bustling neo-bop. The band is tight, and it’s little wonder: this is pretty much a family affair, with Fuller’s older sister Shamie Royston on piano, Shamie’s husband Rudy Royston on drums, and Fuller’s longtime associate Mimi Jones on bass. In one tune, Rudy Royston fuels the theme with a snappy rhythm before Fuller breaks it down into sharp outbursts and snaking uptempo streamers, spinning around Jones’ swift-flowing walking line. Soon, Fuller is in a red-hot duo with the drummer, blasting and squealing against Royston’s ceaseless percussive pressure. Then Shanie Royston is off to the races, climbing the scale and the intensity meter with speedy exuberance, mixing in Latin jazz flourishes that give the piece a slightly funky twist until Rudy takes over with a great rumbling roll. His drum solo is one of the few performances that’s a match for the inevitable flyover from Monterey’s nearby airport, bane of so many other performers at the Festival. It’s a simply exhilarating performance of a type that Fuller’s albums show in only brief flashes, but here sustained and built upon to ever-greater heights.

Fuller’s gentler side is in evidence with “Wind Soar,” fluttering and stretching against an open backdrop, but even here she begins to ramp up the energy level, setting up a towering climax in which Shanie Royston plays with such forceful chords that she frequently lifts off her piano bench to gain extra leverage against the keys.

The stirring “Katrina’s Prayer” and positive-message funk of “Ebb and Flow” make the music’s spiritual aspect more obvious, but really, this is all music of praise, rising from the deep wellsprings of the soul, calling out to the heavens and bringing the Garden Stage crowd to roaring approval.

The database disaster which took the Jazz Observer website offline for nearly five hours today kept me away from the Monterey Jazz Festival until deep into the afternoon, but I managed to gather a few quick impressions before the early shows ended…

It’s a good vibe here today, as is typical for a Sunday afternoon. The weather is perfect and everything seems mellow: people have settled in by now and are feeling good, full of food and drink and looking forward to the evening’s main events. But nobody told the crows. Monterey is a long way from Bodega Bay, but you cound be forgiven for thinking you’re in an outtake from “The Birds” after taking a look at the large flock of black birds who have taken up positions around the main courtyard, all chattering and watching. But as long as Tippi Hedren doesn’t show up, I won’t worry.

Over at the West Lawn, the hypnotic sounds of African strings (kamale ngoni, to be precise) fill the air as Mamadou and Vanessa offer up gentle improvisations on lovely patterns. They’re actually a trio, with two ngoni accompanied solely by a quiet, rhythmic skritch skritch, and their beatific smiles are matched by the small crowd of listeners gathered around them.

Meanwhile it’s all cowboy hats and boots over at the Garden Stage, where Cow Bop is keeping things light and fun with some excellent Western swing. Bruce Forman’s hot guitar licks and Phil Salazar’s fiddle keep it hopping, and Pamela Forman’s vocals are right on the money. Not typical fare for a jazz festival, perhaps, but as anyone who’s listened to a Bob Wills record can tell you, western swing isn’t that far afield from the regular variety. “We found this next tune on a transcription record,” Bruce Forman quips, “Gene Autry meets Charlie Parker. Hey, it could have happened. Probably did.”

Joshua Redman performs with James Farm. Photo by Forrest Dylan Bryant

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

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

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.