After a 20-hour nap, I’m back. Tin Man and I tripped down
the soggy brick road for more Jazz Fest lo-jinx, taking pictures, taking names,
taking our time, taking care of business. First stop on Friday was Max of
Eastman Place, where the security guards look imposing despite the polyester in
a “you look suspicious” kinda
way. This works well, as we’re all guilty of something. The Hilario Duran Trio took the stage after Maggie Brooks’ bonified
stab at stand-up. No really, I’m not being a twit — she was actually funny.
And the Cuban-born Duran’s trio was elegant with a complex, yet uncomplicated,
ease. Duran’s playing was light but not wispy as he strode the 88’s. And man, his drummer helped redefine Latin polyrhythms. You could feel it in your soul. I would’ve
stayed longer if it weren’t for the polyester gestapo
breathing down my neck…
Saw a re-tooled and re-invigorated Shemekia Copeland on the Chestnut Street stage next. The weight this
beautiful lady has lost has simply been shifted over to the sound of her band. Man, these
cats played heavy — twin slide guitars and a bottom end heavier than a Puerto
Rican Toyota low-rider. Copeland’s music leans a little on the funky side, and
she strikes me as a soul-shouter at heart. But mixed together it’s a hell of a bluesy
kick in the gut. She was magnificent.
I’ve seen soul sensation James Hunter about five times now, and this time I saw firsthand
the importance of crowd response in a show. The crowd has to give back
something or the show falls short. It’s that simple. It’s like a game of catch
with just one person. That’s not catch, it’s just
throw. The tired and wet masses huddled under their umbrellas and looked more
as if they were duck hunting than witnessing one of the greatest white soul
singers since Van Morrison. And the man can sling a stinging string or two off
of his TV yellow Junior. Hunter sounded great, despite
the lackluster response as he wove through a set of most excellent R&B set above a thick shag laid down by the twin sax attack and the juicy bellow and wail from the B3. I just love
that B3. To quote Chris Isaak, “B3 is like catsup;
it’s good on everything.”
But for me, the night belonged to New York City’s Gas House Gorillas, who absolutely
nailed the frenzied audience to the ceiling at Abilene. It was a punked-up and energized controlled catastrophe in the sprit
of Louis Jordan wielding a chainsaw. The mostly original material was
augmented with detours to New Orleans and rocked-up and -out nods to
Cheap Trick and The Ramones. Most fun I’ve had with my pants on in a long time
–and they didn’t stay on for the whole show, either (just ask anyone who was
there). Gabbagabbahiddeyhiddey hey ho, let’s go.
This article appears in Jun 26 – Jul 2, 2013.
Will Clark’s comment on sound is interesting. Youn Sun Nah and Ulf Wakenius brought their own sound person and I assume equipment with them. It was amazing. You could understand every word, hear every breath and every tap to the chest. In a singer heavy festival, which had me convinced my hearing was worse than ever, it was a breath of fresh air. The excellent sound was an important element of this show, allowing the musicians to express their creativity.