John Scofield is the Showcase Artist at the Monterey Jazz Festival this year, which means that each evening he appears on stage with a different band. For tonight’s Arena capper, a tribute to the late Ray Charles, the guitarist is working with electric bass, drums, and the festival’s seemingly ubiquitous Hammond B3 organ.

The quartet kicks things off with “Sticks and Stones,” propelled by drummer Steve Hass’ chicken-strut backbeat. Scofield, never shy about effects, tweaks out with a one-finger electronicized solo that sounds uncannily like a turntablist scratching vinyl.

Meyer Statham lends both vocals and trombone to “I Don’t Need No Doctor,” a tasty strut with some excellent organ/guitar dialogue. But the featured vocalist tonight is the great Mavis Staples, who incredibly has already pulled double-duty today with a pair of solo shows at the Festival.

When Staples emerges in a spangly black dress, the now-complete band eases gracefully into “Georgia on My Mind.” Staples’ raspy voice gives a gentle spiritual weight to the song, making it sound something like “His Eye Is On the Sparrow,” until Scofield lightens the tone with an optimistic solo. The tune ends with Scofield and Staples standing face-to- face in a lighthearted jam.

An upbeat revival-tent feel pervades “Talkin’ About You,” the frst duo vocal of the night. And in Charles country-music hit, “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” Scofield ramps up the reverb while Staples goes all-out, wresting every bit of feeling from the song.

The band wraps up a few tunes later with “What’d I Say,” taken here with a rumba beat. Bassist John Benitez doubles on conga while Scofield again surprises by imitating a cuica on his guitar. But despite the good band energy, and spirited vocal sparring from Staples and Statham, the tune underscores that no tribute will ever match the real thing. We miss you, Ray.

There’s barely a free seat in the house when the Andy Bey Quartet takes the stage. The master vocal stylist gently insinuates himself into his set with “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” the Depression-era lament given a modern treatment as Bey twists the phrasing, scats, and toys with the melody on piano. His extended coda fades gently as Bey repeats and varies the title line again and again.

Joking about his dreadlocked hair during the band introduction, Bey identifies himself as Ziggy Marley. But Marley, talented as he may be, has never treated a lyric with the almost painful tenderness Bey gives to “Never Let Me Go.” Indeed, no other singer sounds quite like Bey, who glides freely from a husky whisper to a high-pitched squeak and into a powerful soul shout, bending notes as he goes in a way that occasionally gives his elusive voice a guitar-like quality. For “Midnight Sun,” Bey steps away from the keyboard and stands, caressing the ballad with a slow, tension-laden dance around the tunes melody.

I can hear Miguel Zenón starting to pour it on across the road in Dizzy’s Den, but I can’t tear myself away as Bey rolls through “Caravan,” taking the first chorus smoothly before belting out the second. Although I have heard some excellent performances so far at this year’s festival, Bey’s is the first truly transformative experience. I sit for an hour that feels like fifteen minutes, and glance down at my notebook to find I have written almost nothing.

I make it across the Fairgrounds in time to catch the last few numbers from the Lounge Art Ensemble, an inviting modern-jazz trio led by drummer Peter Erskine. A steaming post-bop brew is bubbling here, and the room is about two-thirds full despite the large crowds gathered elsewhere for singers Tony Bennett, Sheila Jordan, and Ledisi.

It’s a trio of listeners, three guys who have a good time playing together as they spin around the gravitational center of Erskine’s busy drum kit. Taking on the standard “Sweet and Lovely,” the three start with a quick, staccato rephrasing of the melody before sliding into a cool but slightly askew solo section. Bob Sheppard, playing tenor sax at the moment, renders “Sweet and Lovely” in a sweet and pulpy way, while Dave Carpenter walks all over the chords with his six-string electric bass.

“Mr. Jones to You,” based loosely on “Have You Met Miss Jones,” takes on a low rolling rhythm line under a popping melody. Sheppard moves from tenor to soprano sax mid- tune, and his previously bouncy play smoothes out into longer, flowing lines over rapid bass and drums. The set concludes with “Cats and Kittens,” an Erskine original with a cool strutting rhythm and a bit of bluesy, second-line funk in the approach.

Commissioned works have become a central part of the Monterey tradition. For this year’s festival, the unpredictable Carla Bley has cooked up a beautifully conceived suite entitled “Appearing Nightly at the Black Orchid.” Before premiering it, however, Bley puts her 17-piece Big Band (featuring many fine Northern California musicians) through their paces in two preliminary numbers.

“On the Stage in Cages” opens with a Monkish statement followed by percolating solos from trumpeter John Worley and George Young on alto sax. With Bley herself alternating between the piano chair and conducting the group, the piece moves through several distinct phases: it’s a quirky mechanical bounce one moment, a slow gospel moan the next, and at one point each horn blows in turn for about a measure and a half.

Bley gives a deadpan introduction of “One Way,” describing the piece as “really simple.” And on one level it is simple, a big-band ballad built largely on variations of a two-chord vamp. But this is a Carla Bley concert, and even simplicity comes with a twist. Occasional dissonant moments of decision crop up throughout, and each time the piece threatens to spin wildly onto a new axis before settling back into the original theme.

“Appearing Nightly at the Black Orchid” has its origins in a solo gig Bley played in Monterey as a teenager, fifty years ago — “my first and last gig as a cocktail pianist,” she quips. To set the scene, Bley’s bandmates gather round her piano like lounge patrons as Bley plays a medley of standards such as “My Foolish Heart,” absolutely straight.

A perky guitar riff and vague horn rumblings get the suite rolling in earnest, gradually building to a stylized bop line which bounces amongst the horns. Fragments of standard melodies, presumably the same 17 tunes Bley says she knew in 1955, sneak in at intervals, each time subtly changing the suite’s narrative flow. A percussion-led breakdown shows that Thelonious Monk influence again, before settling into a Latinized bop groove with extended solo space for trombone.

The suite moves into an after-hours mode as Bley’s contemplative piano break leads into a smoky trumpet melody from Worley. The “set ‘em up Joe” balladry continues for a while before the previous movement’s thematic ideas reassert themselves. The massive horn section all begin trading fours as the ensemble rises to a rousing conclusion. Bley doesn’t stick around long for the applause, but “Appearing Nightly” is a success that deserves to be released on CD soon.

Branford Marsalis is midway through an on-stage conversation with journalist Yoshi Kato, and he’s talking about roaches.

In response to a question about the future development of jazz, Marsalis argues that today is a great time to be a jazz musician, precisely because the music is so unpopular now. When something is trendy, he explains, the “roaches” come out of the woodwork, jumping on the bandwagon for all the wrong reasons. But tough economic times drive the roaches away like a sudden light in the kitchen, leaving the musicians who really want to work alone on the scene. “Its amazing how many young cats come up, make two jazz records that don’t sell, and then their third record is a funk record,” he quips.

Speaking expansively on a range of topics, Marsalis also gets into hip-hop/jazz fusions, which he finds unsuccessful. “It doesn’t work well,” he says, arguing that the static beats of hiphop and funk are incompatible with the more organic needs of jazz. He points out that on his own funk records, he uses the band’s name rather than his own to avoid muddying the waters, and he never refers to such efforts as jazz.

Later, Marsalis reveals his thinking on duo recordings, which he says are too often treated like quartets with two players missing. He talks about writing specifically for the duo format. If working with drummer Jeff “Tain” Watts, for instance, Marsalis would use his knowledge of Watts’ drum tuning to write pieces that Watts could play, rather than just writing generic drum parts as so many others seem to do.

Moving on to education, Marsalis discusses a generational gap he has perceived: he believes that current student musicians play better than his generation did, but they’re more focused on being part of the jazz scene than simply being musicians. And the conversations he hears today are more often about gigs and selling records than about the intricacies of music.

Marsalis also gets fired up on the subject of bootlegging. He refuses to join industry anti-piracy campaigns, saying, “hell, I learned to play by bootlegging music! We all did!” He declares that it is the industry, not “12-year-old girls,” who are the true pirates. After endlessly repackaging the same records over and over, “They’re suing kids, and they wonder why they’re in trouble?”

Straw hats run neck-and-neck with baseball caps as the headwear of choice in the Arena, where the huge, milling crowd resembles nothing so much as a massive block party. But it all becomes orderly in time for Larry Carlton’s set with the Sapphire Blues Band.

Casually dressed and flanked by a four-man horn line on one side and a bulky Hammond organ on the other, Carlton blends pure Chicago blues with dollops of fusion and a dose of Steely Dan in his set. He also takes time to revisit the pop hit “Minute By Minute.” But it’s the blues numbers that are most impressive.

For the slow-burn vibe of “Night Sweats,” Carlton plays a clear, vocalistic line that sowly builds heat; then he wails, the notes suddenly tumbling out in an uncontrollable blue sob. Keyboardist Greg Mathieson kicks it up a notch, and then another, with a molasses-thick break that leaves him red-faced. And Carlton brings it home has drummer Moyes Hayes pounds the path flat.

Tenor saxman Mark Douthit makes his mark on the fusion numbers, playing from somewhere between uptown and downtown before engaging Carlton in some spirited interplay. Local jazz/blues/soul singer Ledisi will join the band soon, but I’m off to…

Matthew Bourne is attacking his piano — literally — going straight for its musical jugular. Arms flailing, body rocking in a sort of St. Vitus dance, Bourne creates abstractions of startling density and violence, at one point leaving the keys entirely to bang on the piano’s body.

Tweaking a sampler atop his instrument, Bourne suddenly finds himself playing along with a monologue by Homer Simpson, allowing the animated character’s cadences to become a part of his thunderous improvisation. Bits of cartoon melody break through the splintered maelstrom, which abruptly ends, just as surprisingly as it began.

Now playing off an Irish storyteller, Bourne is spare and melodic, the cyclone gone to reveal a blasted plain, quiet and lonely. But soon, Bourne’s raw, passionate creativity will again push him up and outwards, with snippets of Harlem stride, locomotive chugging, or haoor-movie themes giving way to massive block chords.

Turnover is high in this room, and when Bourne’s sampler alights on a raunchy comedic monologue from the film “Team America: World Police,” a number of listeners scurry away, stony expressions set on their faces. Others sit rapt, laughing along with the samples and leaning in as Bourne’s intensity rises. It all fits the flow of the set. This is music which holds nothing sacred and finds everything useful.

It is time to bring the funk.

Sharon Jones’ band, the mighty Dap-Kings, announces this in no uncertain terms as tenor saxophonist Neal Sugarman strides to the front of the Jimmy Lyons Stage and lets loose a blistering attack punctuated by the acid sting of David Guy’s trumpet.

The band runs their set like a 1960s soul revue and nails every twist, warming up with retro grooves both hot and mellow before bringing out their star performer. Introduced with a barrage of cool-cat lingo that puts those old JBs records to shame, Jones knows the stage is 100% hers from the get-go, and struts and shimmies with abandon. She draws from and feeds the lightning grooves of her band, which in an earlier decade would have topped the R&B charts.

The band, which even looks the part in their suits, shades, and sideburns, turns Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” into a high-octane blowout, before turning serious for two tunes. After taking a point-blank shot at the government’s slow response to Hurricane Katrina, Jones launches into “Stop Paying Taxes,” the latest in a long line of soul tunes going back at least as far as James Brown’s Watergate jams. The theme continues with “This Land Is Your Land,” reworked into an anthem for the urban poor.

A handful of older folks in the audience can’t handle it, and make for the exits even before Jones gets up to full steam. But most of the arena crowd keeps up just fine, and they are treated to a rollicking hour of pure entertainment. When Jones demonstrates a wild dance purporting to blend African and Native American moves, and the band throws itself into a manic crescendo, all cylinders in overdrive, the Arena goes nuts. Jones will expand on this theme in a later set at the Garden Stage, running through the full spectrum of 60s dances, from the mashed potatoes to the jerk.

On the Garden Stage, Jay Collins is tearing it up.

Collins is the kind of glorious musician who gives writers fits. With his rough voice, explosive chops on saxophones and flutes, and a killer band behind him, Collins gleefully evades categorization. At any given moment, the Collins band might evoke a vintage Stax soul record, Dr. John’s voodoo-tinged funk, or the blues-rock band at your neighborhood bar.

Many of the tunes in this set wrap serious messages inside tasty riffs. “Songbird and the Pigeon” attacks religious fundamentalism of all stripes while Dred Scott lays down a strong line on Hammond organ and Moses Petrou lends solid conga support. The same duo connects on “Running in a Circle,” a tune whose insistent, perky groove, monotone vocals and street-smart sax solo recalls Eddie Harris and Les McCann’s “Compared to What.”

And then Collins mixes it up with tunes like “Taking My Landlord to Court” or “My Dreams Came Back Last Night,” friendly little ditties that sound like Randy Newman fallen through the looking-glass. What is to be made of this band? What can be said is that everything Collins does onstage exudes an urban hipness, and the music is consistently engaging.

Forty years ago, John Handy’s quintet took Monterey by storm with a fiery, innovative set that helped to cement the alto saxophonist’s career as a leader. To commemorate the milestone, Handy is opening this year’s Arena program with a nearly identical group.

A soul-drenched “Basin Street Blues” opens the set with searing breaks from Handy and violinist Carlos Reyes, but then the group suddenly changes gears, moving into a slinky India-inspired tune. Handy trills and glides through his lengthy lines, then leaps into a series of squeaks to set up Reyes, who accompanies his own searing solo with a wordless vocal. Guitarist Steve Erquiaga follows with a rippling, classical break that bridges the traditions of Asia and Europe.

For the enigmatic standard “Nature Boy,” Handy announces a special guest singer: pop/bluesman Steve Miller. Reyes, now on harp, swoops from a quietly meditation into a bright South American rhythm before settling down for Miller’s breathy vocal.

Miller sticks around to lend some guitar licks and another vocal turn to “St. Louis Blues,” an old-fashioned jam with a Latin beat slipped into the bridge. Then Handy returns to an Eastern frame of mind, his searching solo dovetailing with some energetic Flamenco- tinged playing from Erquiaga. Somewhere in the middle of this, the band explodes. Reyes is like a man possessed, rocking and twisting through a furious violin solo, and Erquiaga burns through some unison comping from sax and violin. The crowd roars with each new twist.