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.
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.
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…
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.
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…
The cool September evening gives way to stuffy heat as this indoor space fills up for the Benny Green/Russell Malone duo’s first set. The pair will have this stage to themselves for the evening, playing until midnight.
With the lights turned down to a cave-like darkness and a few impotent ceiling fans struggling vainly overhead, the pair waste no time in demonstrating the art of melodic conversation.
At the outdoor Garden Stage, San Francisco vocalist Jacqui Naylor is turning the Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime’ on its ear. Sounding more like a Joan Armatrading composition than one of David Byrne’s, the melody flows like the underground water Naylor sings about, buoyed on the familiar pop-fusion bassline of Joe Zawinul’s “Birdland.”
In the hours before the gates open, the atmosphere in the fairgrounds is relaxed and collegial. Vendors crack jokes as they set up their wares. The sound of Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet wafts out of the double-wide booth of a national record store chain. A guitarist — John Scofield, perhaps? — tunes up in a little hut away from the main drag. Workmen straighten banners as the yellow-jacketed event staff prowls the perimeter.
