It can be somewhat difficult to consider your parents as human beings, as
individuals with hopes and dreams and desires of their own. Well, as
uncomfortable as it may sound, I watched my mother fall in love with bass
saxophonist Colin Stetson Thursday night. Stetson is one of
those acts at this year’s Jazz Fest that paid off for those who took the
chance. His association with Tom Waits made my mind up in a hurry, and
suggested an evening of non-conformist, antagonistic glee. I know I’m onto
something whenever there’s an exodus for the door after the first tune.
Stetson took to the Kilbourn Hall stage silently, strapped on his bass
saxophone — or rather strapped himself to it. It’s an instrument so big that it
needs license plates, and emits a tone so big and hellacious and hypnotic that
it threatened to replace the air in Kilbourn Hall. The valves were so big on
this behemoth that they added an audible tap and rhythm to the multi-octave
madness, the looped tones and occasional shouts.
It was hard to decipher how Stetson created this cacophony, and what
actually came first in his parade of tones as it swirled big and bad toward its
climax. Best club show yet. I think I saw mom slip him her phone number.
Caught a bit of Ruthie Foster and The
Family Band‘s second set at the Harro East
Ballroom. Foster sings strong and soulful, and she has a broad, mainstream
appeal. The audience ate her up. She was good. And that’s the problem. With
artists like Colin Stetson flipping my wig, the bar has been raised. Sometimes
good just don’t cut it. This year’s line-up has turned me into a spoiled brat.
I said the other night that steel guitar was like catsup; it’s good on
everything. Well apparently Daryl Hall feels the same way
about reverb as the entire mix for his show at Kodak Hall sounded as if it were
mixed by The Ventures. His band was tight, particularly in the vocal
department. Hall raged and raved with his blue-eyed soul. But I’ve got to say,
the night belonged to Keb‘
Mo’, whose succinct guitar playing and singing (picture a young,
skinnier Lou Rawls) came off casual and cool while splashing in Lake Reverb.
I was especially looking forward to St. Louis’ Pokey LaFarge & the South City Three, and the band didn’t disappoint me, or what appeared to be the biggest — and
most rabid — crowd in the Abilene
tent so far. The group’s aw-shucks, Mayberry shtick
was genre-appropriate and didn’t get in the way of the band’s old-timey gramophone strain. I mean, they had 78s for sale and
everything. It was Tin Pan Alley with hints of Western swing and gypsy jazz. I
would almost say it was the best night so far, but I’m going to see one of my
all-time favorite guitar players, Jimmie Vaughan, tonight.
This article appears in Jun 27 – Jul 3, 2012.
