Well, the 16th edition of the Xerox Rochester International
Jazz Festival took off its clothes and did a cannonball. The energy in the
thick arid air was surprisingly electric; a vibe this strong at Jazz Fests past
usually didn’t get this feverish so quickly. It must have been the battle for
souls raging on two different stages last night … but first let’s take a look
at the show I knew we’d all enjoy: a confection of a swingin’
band and a swingin’ ma’am, Barbra
Lica.
It starts and ends with Lica’s
voice. It’s a bright, vibrant contralto one minute, laconic and syrupy the next
when she lets a phrase die on the vine and trail off. Lica’s
songs are little, self-deprecating vignettes about drunken first dates and
finding an ex-lover on social media. She peppered her originals with some Duke
Ellington (“Just A-Sittin’ and A-Rockin'”),
some Cole Porter (“Just One of Those Things”), and a version of “A Spoonful of
Sugar” — however, the way Lica pulled it off, light
and airy and delivered at hyper speed, earns it the new title of “A Spoonful of
Trucker Speed.” Her band was tight and a vision of precision. Lica was charming through and through. Her voice was
beautiful … heart-breaking, really.
Barbra Lica will play again Saturday, June 24, at Montage Music
Hall. 6 p.m. and 10 p.m. Tickets are $30, or you can use a Club Pass. barbralicamusic.com.
I’m convinced now more than ever that soul wants your soul.
Soul music isn’t for the betterment of your soul or to lift your spirits high;
it wants you to feel it deep in the fissures of your fevered brain all the way
down to your naughty parts. Me? Hell, I’m down with it and will go along
willingly. I’m the devil in Miss Jones after all. And I witnessed the devil in
Miss Stone with 1800 other lost souls in Kodak Hall to see Joss Stone.
Stone was a lot better than I’d heard in the past. Her voice
tends to get a tad brassy when going for those notes way up high in the
penthouse suite, but how many singers do you know can hum — just hum — a
melody? Well, Stone did it early in her set, and she totally unglued me. The
barefoot chanteuse had ’em all on their feet by the fourth
song. The Burt Bacharach send up was excellent.
While Stone was stealin’ our souls
gently, St.
Paul and The Broken Bones were doing it with heretical splendor and
volume on the free East and Chestnut stage. Front man Paul Janeway
intoned the opening lines in a chasuble before slinging it aside to reveal a red
suit. The band was like a blast furnace with the horns punching and kicking
dangerously to counter the non-stop wail of Janeway’s
howling pipes.
So there you have it, suckers; two ways to sell your soul. God
damn us all. See you tomorrow night when I’ll be digging on The Quebe Sisters at Harro East and
Adam Wakefield at Anthology.
This article appears in Jun 21-27, 2017.
