The Indie gone big band Interpol has just announced a Rochester date, Thursday, July 19, at The Harro East Ballroom, 155 Chestnut Street, 454-0230, 8 p.m. Tickets go on sale Saturday, June 2.

The Jazz Fest folks threw a swank party at Max at Eastman Place Friday night, and Netsky and I made the scene. And kids, I got two words for ya: crab Rangoon. And two more: John Nugent. I know these things can be a bit of a circle jerk where politicians and officials rub elbows and chuckle and use disingenuous terms like "patron of the arts" and "rich cultural heritage," but Nugent is the real deal. You really oughta hear this man play. With a trio's support, Nugent honked happy for those digging the scene and those crab Rangoon things I was telling you about - they were so good, I ate one I had dropped. I can hear it now: "Not only is he not a patron of the arts, but I saw De Blase eating off the floor." Anyway, Nugent played it relatively safe, but I know and I've heard deadlier stuff coiled and waiting in his repertoire. You'll hear it too at the nightly jam sessions next week at the Crown Plaza, fo' sho'.

The first East End Fest of the season was blaring as I left, and I toyed with checking it out, what with Joe Beard playing and all, but was assailed by someone covering The Divinyls and decided to split.

Saturday night, I caught Third Estate at The Bug Jar. I've been following them steadily for a while now, and they have really tightened up. The songs are short and sweet without too much posturing or pyrotechnics. This is the perfect blend of pop and punk, and when you see it in a small setting, it's just good old rock 'n' roll.

Shared Genes' Teddy Nicolosi finally penned his first tune - like I always knew he could - and debuted it on "The Shakedown." I was blown away. "April Morning" is an exquisite fingerstyle number peppered with gorgeous tapped harmonics and Nicolosi's mesmerizing chord explorations. He always goes on and on about heroes like Acoustic Alchemy and Tommy Emmanuel, but it won't be long before these guys consider this way-talented kid a contemporary.

Frank De Blase:

Tonight I plan on seeing a bunch o' music, like Esperanza Spalding and Madagascar Slim, and Steps Ahead, and Raul Midon. But if i just wind up seeing King Solomon Burke tonight, I'll be all right....

Ron Netsky:

I've got my Jazz Festival program all marked up and I'm ready to make downtown Rochester my second home for the next nine days. I've been careful not to schedule any meetings before 10 a.m. next week so that I can catch late concerts and maybe an occasional jam session. There will be plenty of time to sleep the Sunday after the festival; it's time to savor nine days of great music and a spirit that transforms Rochester into a world-class city.

For me, it starts with a bang. The first concert of the festival's opening night features one of my favorite pianists: Geri Allen.  I'll be in the Kilbourn Hall line early. I'll also catch Solomon Burke and Raul Midon at the Eastman Theatre and I hope to get over to a new RIJF venue, Harro East, for the late Steps Ahead show.

As usual, I have too many things circled on my program. Somehow, I'd love to catch some of Esperanza Spalding, an intriguing newcomer at Max of Eastman Place, and excellent guitarist Jonathan Kriesberg at High Fidelity. I'm not going to say I wish I could be cloned because I actually have a clone (my identical twin brother) and it has never helped me be in two places at the same time. But too many great choices is nothing to complain about.

So, jazz fans: Where are you heading to for Night 1? Post your picks below.

I started Friday evening with a wonderful show by pianist Geri Allen at Kilbourn Hall. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that the drummer in her trio was, as Allen put it, an icon --- Jimmy Cobb.

No matter what Allen played, from Mal Waldron’s beautiful ballad “Soul Eyes” to more up-tempo originals, her technique was never less than extraordinary. I don’t know if I have ever seen a faster and more tasteful right hand in all of jazz.

With Cobb on hand, Allen played Charlie Parker’s “Al-Leu-Cha,” a tune Cobb played with Miles Davis. Cobb’s solo was understated and excellent. Allen took a new approach to every chorus; they flowed like a string of Paganini variations.

Bassist Kenny Davis also did some fine solo work, and Cobb played an even more spectacular solo on the trio’s encore. But it was Allen who consistently amazed with her luxuriant cascades and swirls around every melody.

The Eastman Theatre was less than half full for Raul Midon and Solomon Burke, but those in attendance got nothing less than a great show. Midon is a true original, rarely doing anything normal on the guitar. He slaps the strings and taps the guitar’s body, while occasionally letting loose lightning-fast flamenco strums and startling harmonic chords. He’s got his own style of singing too. It’s reminiscent of Stevie Wonder, but like his guitar playing, it seems unleashed, barely tamed.

He scats and sings his stream-of-conscious lyrics, the only somewhat weak link. Occasionally, like Wonder’s, they could use a bit more refinement. Just because something rhymes, that doesn’t make it a good line. But all is forgiven because his talent is overwhelming. Talk about a one-man band; Midon plays percussion, bass and rhythm all at once on guitar, and then there’s the trumpet.

Midon has a way of closing his mouth and emitting uncanny trumpet-like solos. The last one he did even went a bit flat, in a manner that recalled Miles. I know he did it on purpose. The tour-de-force performance of the evening was his take on Chick Corea’s “Spain.” Corea can play it and Al Jarreau can sing it, but Midon can do both at the same time.

Because he is super-sized and fairly stationary, Burke ruled his band --- and the audience, and a lighting technician --- from his throne in the middle of the stage. It was old-school soul all the way and Burke still has the soaring voice to pull it off. Many of his tunes were tributes to other singers, from Otis Redding to Little Richard.

Burke got increasingly upset about the intensity of the spotlight shining on him. He said it kept him from seeing the audience. After several complaints, it was turned off. There was no question about his involvement with the audience.

Throughout his set Burke called on those in the balcony to come down to the front and many did. At one point he instructed his grandson (along with his daughter, a background singer) to give flowers from the pots on the sides of the throne to the ladies in the audience. Dozens came to get them. And later, he coaxed 30 or so fans (including a cool looking Frank De Blase) to get up on the stage and dance.

Harro East is an attractive new venue for the RIJF. Unfortunately the late Steps Ahead show had sound so distorted that not even the excellent musicians in the band could overcome it.

Saturday night I’m looking forward to hearing singer Tessa Souter. I had never heard of her before the festival, but her album knocked me out. I’ve never seen Jerry Lee Lewis, so I will definitely be there. Then I’ll have to choose between trumpeter Randy Brecker, guitarist Cornelio Tuto and Norway’s avant-garde Zanussi 5.

Kicked it all off with the Geri Allen Trio at Kilbourn. The music began as a gentle cascade, much like the impending cloudbursts outside. Allen traversed the keys widely as if in search of a melody, despite the fact that there were already at least two cavorting around our ears. About 15 minutes into the first piece (Netsky tells me it was two sewn together) the group began to chop it up a little and really swing. Twenty minutes into it they were still playing and I split for Max to dig Esperanza Spalding.

Spalding was just so much fun, weaving her scat around the thump and moan of her bass. And where jazz is often full of call and response passages, Spalding introduced a piece as being like the moment in an argument where you realize you've lost but keep on going. She was engaging and beautiful. And Link Hayes ain’t got nothin’ on that hair.

Is it odd to give a standing ovation to a blind man? Well, that’s just what we did. Raul Midon thumped his guitar so percussive and strong I swear I could feel a breeze. Again, his mouth-borne trumpet-scat blew folk away, as did his gentle ballads. His lyrics are simple and to the point, unlike his guitar, where the blur of his finger and palm attack creates such a compelling groove you can’t help but twist a little while you grin and listen.

And let’s talk about pageantry. King Solomon Burke’s blue sequined suit and cape would have given Liberace vertigo. And his set last night gave me the spins as well. What an unbelievable master of the voice. Phrasing, tone, soul… everything. But the King had to work hard, as everyone in the modest crowd seemed glued to their seats. From his throne, he continually beckoned folks to the stage to dance and to give roses to the ladies. It was when he finally brought the place to a boil with a revved-up take on “Proud Mary” that the audience took him up on his offer. About 50 happy souls --- including mine, complete with two left feet--- shook what god gave us with the King. Netsky can tell you how cool I looked.

Highlights for me were actually mellower detours when Burke hit on Ivory Joe Hunter’s “Since I Met You Baby” (one of my favoritest songs ever), the Tom Waits-penned “Diamond In Your Mind,” and his Grammy hit “Don’t Give Up On Me,” which brought a little precipitation to my eyes. Hell, it was in the air already.

Backstage the King was gracious, and after hearing of my impending nuptials got on the phone and sang an impromptu, off-the-cuff love song to my baby. He also wished her happiness and at least 15 children. So I went home right away. I had some work to do.

It’s one thing to hear a superb set from a known giant like Randy Brecker; it’s a different, particularly exhilarating feeling to witness a great performance by a relatively unknown singer like Tessa Souter. Judging from the ovations she received at High Fidelity Saturday night, the entire audience felt the same way.

And they should have felt special; at one point Souter invited all of us back to her hotel room. That was part of her effortless, funny and flirt-heavy between-song patter. At least I don’t think she was serious. I hope nothing major went on without me.

Souter has a way of entering a song, living it intensely for a few moments, and then returning to the real world. She performed some wonderful Brazilian tunes, but my favorite was her own “You Don’t Have To Believe.” Among the fine musicians backing her was Essiet Essiet, who took two excellent bass solos.

My next stop was the Eastman Theatre, where Jerry Lee Lewis played a short but memorable set.  Fifty years after his “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” changed the course of music history, Lewis still pounds the ivories at both ends in a manner that reminds us in no uncertain terms that the piano is a percussion instrument. And he’s still got the voice to convince us that love can explode like “Great Balls of Fire.”

If we needed a reminder that Lewis hails from the earliest days of rock & roll, we didn’t have to look any further than his back up band, neatly clad in matching Meet-the-Beatles suits.

Aside from the “Shakin” and the “Great Balls,” a more subtle highlight came when Lewis performed a beautiful honky tonk rendition of “Over the Rainbow.”

I ended the night in Kilbourn Hall with trumpeter Randy Brecker’s hard-driving quintet, featuring saxophonist Ada Rovatti.  The group played all originals, most of them by Brecker. One of the best moments came when they slowed down a bit to perform a new “Moon Suite” merging tunes by Brecker and Rovatti. 

Brecker is a stunningly great trumpet player; every solo was perfect. Rovatti was not as muscular on her tenor, but shone particularly well the one time she picked up a soprano sax. Ultimately, it was pianist Dave Kikoski who stole the show with his manic, frenetic solos.

As for Sunday, with no headliner at the Eastman Theatre I can catch more of the great club acts.  I’ve got to hear Benny Golson, a legendary saxophonist and a great composer. Fred Hersch is too good a pianist to resist. And, I’d like to check out Lalo, an excellent vibraphonist.†

The Killer was filler

Tillotson was the thriller

At the last night

Outasight

Jazz Fest routine

Brecker bopped tough

Kilbourn couldn’t get enough

Tutu

Worked his Montgomery voodoo

Gibbs was the place to be seen

Tessa’s take

On Caravan was jake

The lady cooed

The lady wooed

As the ghost of Sarah raved Vaughn

Goudie’s bop

Was a lightning hop

Los Lonely weren’t lonely

Or feelin’ so only

With the thousands they Texas turned on

But The Love Trio cools

Had ’em howlin’ like fools

The Worm scored

The whole room was floored

By a trio that righteously rules

Fred Hersch has got to be one of the most cerebral pianists in jazz. At Kilbourn Hall Sunday evening he played originals and standards in a manner that suggested a deep analysis of each tune's structure and harmony. His trio, with†John Heberton bass and Nasheet Waits on drums, played with the precision of a classical ensemble. In fact, when they performed Thelonious Monk's "Work," it came off as a playful contemporary classical piece.

Hersch played several songs from his new album, "Night & The Music," including a wonderful take on Irving Berlin's "How Deep is the Ocean." Waits was especially effective on this tune,† with his brushes nicely evoking waves rolling in.

Hersch also played the fittingly poetic and delicate "At the Close of the Day," an instrumental part of his "Leaves of Grass" suite. (In 2005 he set Walt Whitman's poetry to music.)

I don't mean to imply anything negative about Gress and Waits, who were both excellent, but my favorite performance of the evening occurred when Hersch came back for an encore alone. He sat down at the piano and played an absolutely gorgeous version of Duke Ellington's "Mood Indigo."

Benny Golson attracted a huge crowd for his first show at Harro East. The legendary saxophonist/composer treated the audience to a narration of key events in his musical life illustrated occasionally by songs. Two funny stories involving growing up and performing with John Coltrane in Philadelphia led to a performance of Coltrane's "Mr. P.C." A sad story about the death of trumpet great Clifford Brown was followed by Golson's own beautiful tune, "I Remember Clifford."

With all of the storytelling, Golson played only five songs during the set. I felt a bit shortchanged --- I especially wanted to hear my favorite of his compositions, "Whisper Not." But he is, after all, in his late 70s and probably wanted to preserve some energy for his second set.

His quartet featured three superb musicians: pianist Antonio Ciacca, bassist Dennis Irwin, and local drummer Mike Melito. All three of them took wonderful solos. Golson still plays beautifully, occasionally adding some of Coltrane's sheets-of-sound technique to his own full-bodied sound.†

On Monday I plan to check out the great young pianist, Eldar. And, two years ago Frank De Blase raved about Mamadou Diabate with such passion that I felt like I'd missed the best act of the festival, so this time I will try to see him.

Strolled down Gibbs to Urban Transit's funky thunder rolling outta the big tent. These cats lean heavy on the Steely Dan (anybody know where they got that name?), or smooth and funky jams in that vein. I could go for a bit more grit and guitarist Adam Bradley looks like the guy to deliver it as the band gets more and more dialed in.

I don't know what it is with the Kilbourn shows so far, but everyone I've seen there seems inclined to peel back the layers real slow. I mean, I ain't complaining, I'm just saying... The Fred Hersch Trio did just that, with Hersch's piano revealing the melody even as it seemingly buried it in improve. The trio's escalating complication proved to be a beautiful simplification, if that makes any sense. Kinda like doing a Rubik's Cube in reverse.

Lalo vibed Max with a cool noir air despite the burning daylight. The vibraphone has always been the slink of villains, the strut of harlots, the pachuco's swagger, and the derelict's stagger. However, guitarist Jack West worked his eight-string guitar percussively with thumps and chops, along with cool accents that slid off with a slide just shy of being blue. This again may have taken from the black and white cinemascape I wallow in, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

If anyone had any doubts about whether the word "phenomenon" accurately describes Eldar, they were dispelled Monday night at Max of Eastman Place. His technique was simply supernatural. In fact, at one point during a solo, he was playing so fast that I swear I heard a phantom melody that formed above the music his two hands were playing. I think that is possible; does anyone know?

Eldar's trio took off right out of the gate with an absolutely frenzied piece. It only slowed down when Eldar began to play an electric piano with his left hand and the acoustic piano with his right. He is, of course, entitled to experiment with whatever sounds he desires, but the electric piano seemed entirely superfluous; he was most effective when both hands were at the same instrument.

It was fascinating to watch those hands hover over the keyboard, with fingers dropping down like the keys of a sped-up typewriter, making surgical strikes on perfect combinations of notes at a dizzying pace.

His take on the Bobby Timmons' classic, "Moanin'" was introduced by way of a lesson in the evolution of jazz piano, moving from stride to honky-tonk to swing. The tune morphed into a leap-frogging rendition of Thelonious Monk's "Well You Needn't," which was followed by an original, the Chopinesque "I Remember When." Every time Eldar took off on a solo, it was breathtaking.

Todd Strait did a fine job keeping pace on the drums. And in any other band, bassist HarishRaghavan would have stood out with his impressive solos.

If Sweden's Midaircondo isn't the most unusual act at the festival, I will start believing in UFOs.

If you weren't there, picture this: two young women, one blond and the other brunette, both with their hair up the same exact way and both wearing loose-fitting silver outfits that looked like they would fit comfortably on androids.

Add a table full of laptop computers and a variety of other gizmos capable of creating and enhancing instant loops of sound that built, layer upon layer. Mix in a bass flute and tenor sax that the women occasionally picked up and played (quite well), and two voices used for spoken words, drone-like sounds and, finally, a Björk-like melody.

O brave new world that hath such people in it.

Strangely, it all worked. The sounds were trance-inducing and, in the context of the beautiful Lutheran church with stained glass windows, the performance took on a ritualistic aura.

The show was multimedia in more ways than one. Behind the women was a screen that occasionally came to life with incongruous images of fake swans, reindeer and, at one point, what seemed to be a deranged lawn ornament with an ax.

I don't know if this really is the music of the future, or a projection of what the women of Midaircondo imagine it will be, but it was far more engaging than any other electronic music I've ever heard.

Tuesday night I'll be checking out the all-star line-up in Trio Beyond. I'm also looking forward to hearing Five Corners Quintet. They may be the festival's best band you've never heard of. After listening to their album, I wouldn't miss them.

Mamadou Diabate fleshed out his life-size music box with a whole ensemble this time. It was a little more percussive than last time but still elegant. But as an ensemble it seemed less appropriate in the sit-and-stare affair of Kilbourn as the joyful polyrhythm and cascading notes had fans squirming in their seat just itchin' to dance.

Something that hasn't really been tossed into the mix at the fest - Ragtime - came bounding out of Max, and I bounded in. Young piano wiz Eldar was positively infusing some Joplin in his jump and was in full gallop. What a frenetic and wild player.

Caught 4 Brothers 7 at High Fidelity with their beautiful wall of harmonious horns. It struck me as street corner doo-wop with saxophones. I could get with this, no prob. Mellow and beautiful.

Walking back toward Gibbs Street I detected a sudden cut in my strut, a little extra glide in my stride, and a smile on my dial. Yup, that's what happens when Fred Costello gets behind the wheel of his big, beautiful B-3. Get Kimberly Westcott on the shotgun side and things get real Frigidaire.

Then things got weird. The two young Swedish lasses that comprise Midaircondo build loops of spacey, sonic exploration primarily with their voices. Like two little moon children of the corn, they floated and warbled and squeaked, causing a mass exodus from the Lutheran Reform Church after the third song. It was psychedelic and dreamy, but a little too slippery for the average listener to grab hold of.

Moving to a more conventional weird, I spied Dan Hicks and the Hot Licks with my little eye at the Big Tent. Hicks tin-panned the alley and swung Western in his trademark laid-back, smart-aleck way. Truly an American classic.

Damn that John Nugent. I just realized he got me to go to church two days in a row --- and enjoy it. All I can say is, them Lutherans can swing.

With members who seemed to be in their 20s, Finland's Five Corners Quintet is a third-generation hard bop ensemble in the style of the first generation's Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers. With roots in considerably different soil, the members of this band are a little like an American early music ensemble covering the hits of the Renaissance. The difference is Five Corners writes its own music in that great 1950s style.

The band is so true to that era, its members dress up in suits and ties, just like Blakey's group did. Only the highly energetic drummer got to take off his jacket. (He was either the leader or the only one who spoke English.)

Anyway, these guys were just fabulous. The tunes had great, catchy heads, usually played in harmony by sax and trumpet. The solos that followed --- on piano, horns, and drums --- deserved and got wildly enthusiastic responses from the large audience. The group, which sold all of the CDs it brought before the second show even started, seemed stunned by the exceedingly friendly welcome to America.

I don't know who or what was to blame for the disappointing performance by Trio Beyond. Was it the sound system in the Eastman Theatre, the person who turned the knobs on that sound system, or was it that the Eastman Theatre is not made for heavily electronic groups?

The problem at Eastman and in Kilbourn Hall is that both are designed as acoustically sensitive concert halls. The drums, which can't be turned down, carry very loudly to all ends of the theatre, so everything else is turned up to compete. 

John Scofield, Jack DeJohnette, and Larry Goldings are all great musicians. But the sound was way too loud and distorted. After the first tune about a hundred people left. After the second suite of tunes another hundred walked out. I was outside the theatre for a while after my own ears had had enough and the flow continued. There's something wrong with that picture.

As for Wednesday night's picks: Dave Brubeck is one of the greatest pianists and composers in jazz history. I'll be there. I also want to catch a keyboard player of a different (Latin) style: Hilario Duran.

Harry Allen played cool and close to the two-tone jazz 'n' cocktails sound you'd expect to hear a little more of at a jazz festival. He and his tight, tight quartet kicked off with "I Get A Kick Out Of You" and fleshed it out nice, avoiding the temptation to turn it inside out. This was utterly classic and slick --- including the weird expression frozen on Allen's mug. This was music for mashers on the make; however, Kilbourn ain't really condusive to seduction.

Nancy Kelly certainly knows to amplify her supple voice, and the air around her with dramatic swoops and waves of the mic. She looked like a bishop dousing the maxed-out Max crowd in holy water and jazz. She works her voice out around the standards as if the charts were monkey bars.

Then it was through the angry crowd who couldn't get into the SRO Bonerama show at Montage. This band goes to 11, started on 11, and stayed at 11. This was a trombone-driven bulldozer of intense, relentless funk; loud, undeniable, unavoidable, unpredictable, and wild. And I really dug the trombone pumped through a wah-wah. Bonerama is a brass tidal wave. The crowd went nuts.

Finland's Five Corners Quintet was another act of the night that kept it more traditional at The Lutheran Reformed Church, even within its individual solo protractions.

Caught Jean-Luc Ponty at the Eastman Theatre and have to admit, I really don't like this smooth stuff at all --- no edge, no balls. Nor do I like violins for the most part. Fiddles, sure. There's plenty of folks who dig this guy, his violin, and smooth jazz (and who probably think I'm a jerk), but I simply had to flee. It ain't for me.

Again, call me a jerk if you want, but Ted Michaels singing standards on the Gibbs Street Stage was strictly B-grade wedding fodder; amateur and rather un-imaginative. With so many bands and artists clamoring to get on this festival, this was a complete waste of space.

Last stop was the Harro East Ballroom to catch the Kyle Eastwood Band. When I first arrived Eastwood was playing electric and sticking to the upper register. At this point his tenor sax player was the only thing really giving the sound a push. But when Eastwood sidled up to his abbreviated upright bass and launched into a solid stab at "Big Noise From Winnetka," I was sent.

When Dave Brubeck finished his sixth or seventh tune after playing for an hour and 10 minutes, he announced an intermission. The audience was a bit stunned; the 87-year-old pianist was not finished. By comparison, last Saturday night Jerry Lee Lewis , a mere 71, played for 45 minutes and left the stage.

But Brubeck was really into it. He has great memories of Rochester and, as he has in past appearances, talked about how much the Eastman Theatre and the late Eastman School of Music faculty member, Rayburn Wright meant to him.

He played beautifully, building his solos and, on one occasion, launched into a little bit of ragtime-style playing. Much of the concert was closer to chamber jazz, including a performance of the second movement of his brother Howard Brubeck’s “Dialogue for Jazz Combo and Symphony Orchestra.”

At previous RIJF appearances I’d been a bit disappointed that of all of his classic tunes Brubeck only did “Take Five.” This time it was great to hear “Three To Get Ready.”

Brubeck quartet is superb, but especially wonderful were all of the solos on alto saxophone and flute by the great Bobby Militello.

Over at Max at Eastman Place Hilario Duran play absolutely sparkling Afro-Cuban-style piano. When his drummer picked up the pace of the Latin beat on “Hot House,” Duran played a counter rhythm, creating a delicious tension. On “Peanut Vendor” Duran took off on a complex chord-based solo followed by lightning legato runs.

I would have stayed for the entire set, but the buzz on Bettye Lavette was so strong I couldn’t resist going over to Harro East to catch her show.

Lavette is a tiny woman with a gargantuan voice. She is the embodiment of great old-school r&b, the kind that’s been shoved aside by hip-hop. Every song told a story and Lavette  put them across with her magnificently raspy voice and her expressive body language. She sang some of her old hits like “Your Turn to Cry” and “He Made a Woman Out of Me,” and some songs from her new album, including Joan Armatrading’s “Down to Zero.” When she slowed it down and sat on the edge of the stage to sing a ballad, you could hear that proverbial pin drop.

I ended the night at the Jam Session over at the Crowne Plaza, where RIJF Artistic Director John Nugent joined Bob Sneider and his excellent trio for some burning tunes.

Thursday night I’m looking forward to Wynton Marsalis conducting and playing his (and Yacub Addy’s) new piece, “Congo Square.” Before and after Marsalis, I’m hoping to catch the great James Moody and The Latin Side of Miles Davis. But then there’s Jason Moran & The Bandwagon … (Offer to Nugent: Need any help with the scheduling next year?)

JAZZ BLOGG DAY 6

Both shows I went to last night were so goddamn riveting that they’re all I saw.

Maiden voyages, premieres, debuts, first times… there’s a whole list spinning in my memory. I cherish the who, what, why, where, and when the cherry broke in many situations; the lowdown surrounding the first time getting to second base, first concert, where I was when Elvis died are all carved in my brain permanently. Just like last night, when I got to hear Dave Brubeck play “Take Five.” I’ll never forget it.

Brubeck and his trio played for nearly two hours. The band was so seasoned that when the master threw curve balls --- songs that weren’t on the set list --- they blended flawlessly with those that did. Tenor saxophonist Bobby Miletello played his head off even when he brought it waaaaaaaaaaay down with a flute on a gorgeous duet of “Over The Rainbow” with Brubeck. Funny, he’s the second artist this year on this stage to do that number. The Killer honked and tonked on it with equal heartache and style, but the near 90 Brubeck totally outplayed him.

Plus I couldn’t help but notice that Brubeck got to luxuriate on a gorgeous grand Steinway. Lewis was parked behind a Yamaha (from an ESM classroom, no doubt). I guess the promoters heard that story of the night Jerry Lee Lewis upstaged Chuck Berry by setting the piano on fire. If only we had been that lucky…

Bettye Lavette is so fine. I got to see her second show, where she wailed and roared with a smoky tone from a hot fire below. She pulled out cuts from her new “I’ve Got My Own Hell To Raise,” including ones penned by Lucinda Williams and Dolly Parton. Lavette is somewhat underground, which I imagine is rather tough on one’s career, but it has left her alone, untarnished, and unscarred. Or rather it has left her alone, allowing the tarnish and scars to pour out in a soulful torrent like you’ve never heard. Yeah, I like that description better. God she was great.

There are still two nights left in the jazz festival, but I think it’s safe to say that Thursday night’s performance of “Congo Square” by Wynton Marsalisand The Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra with Odadaa! will be remembered by those who were there as the high point of this year’s RIJF.

For more than 90 minutes Marsalis, the orchestra, and Yacob Addy’s Ghanaian ensemble, Odadaa!, reached peak after peak of musical elation in one of the most dynamic pieces of music I’ve ever heard. (Because co-composer Addy had health issues, his brother Otey Thompson, the featured drummer in Odadaa!, took his place.)

In the 18th and 19th centuries New Orleans’ Congo Square was the only location where African slaves were allowed to perform their music and dances. Rather than try to recreate the sounds of Congo Square, the piece celebrated the music that emerged from it by reacquainting jazz with its African roots.

It was like a reunion between two long-separated families. One had stayed in the old country while the other traveled to America, intermarried, and produced a diverse family. When the descendants got together several generations later the dialogue was still common and rich in possibilities.

A recurring theme in “Congo Square” was call and response, whether it was African or American. But the overriding call and response was between the orchestra and Odadaa!. Throughout the piece, the ensemble would set up a rhythm (often so complicated that Marsalis would count it to the musicians) that the orchestra would respond to. Marsalis integrated almost every strain in the evolution of jazz into these responses, from Dixieland through swing to funk.

Marsalis was dripping with charisma throughout. He began the piece with his trumpet, but then he began to sing, combining a traditional work song form with contemporary lyrics about Hurricane Katrina. (One line: "I said shame on FEMA.") Toward the end he strutted around the stage while the orchestra and Odadaa! played a down and dirty New Orleans march.

There were brilliant solos by Marsalis and Marcus Printup on trumpet, Victor Goines and Ted Nash on saxophone, several of the drummers and other orchestra members, but it was the group sound that had audience members on their feet applauding several times. In terms of musical coloration Marsalis used every shade on the palette. Odadaa! expanded the spectrum.

In a way this piece was an inadvertent response to those who have raised questions about whether the RIJF is really a jazz festival. All of this music, whether it’s played by African Americans or blonde-haired Swedes or Jerry Lee Lewis pounding on the piano, came from somewhere. That place was Congo Square.

Earlier in the evening, I saw James Moody at Kilbourn Hall. Although he is an excellent saxophonist, I was disappointed that he seemed more interested in being a comedian. He told corny jokes and sang a juvenile version of “Pennies From Heaven” that, I have to admit, the audience seemed to love.

Far better was his signature tune, “Moody’s Mood For Love,” a song based on his sax solo on “I’m In The Mood For Love.” But even during this vocal performance, he couldn’t resist clowning around.

When he got down to playing tunes like “St. Thomas,” he and the band, featuring Bill Dobbins (piano), Phil Flanigan (bass), and Mike Melito (drums) played very well together, with each providing wonderful solos.

As for Friday night: Don Byron is one of the greatest clarinetists on the planet, so I won’t miss him. And I’ve got to see Swedish guitarist Andreas Petterson because he’s phenomenal.†

There was a time not too long ago that if I saw a band without a drummer, it was incomplete. I used to feel that there were duos, trio, quartets, and so on, but they weren’t bands until somebody was pounding something with sticks. I say this now because 1) I’ve obviously grown up a little and 2) bands like the one backing up singer Catherine Russell can still pack a wallop with just bass, guitar, and piano. Granted, Russell’s freight-train-full-o-soul vocals don’t need much else, nor is there really any room. Her early set was a nice mix of soul and torch. It was steamy, too, as High Fidelity opted for the swampy allure of no a.c.

The juxtaposition on stage at The Eastman Theatre was easily one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra occupied stage left in slick cream-colored suits and two-toned shoes. Next to them was Odadaa! in colorful traditional garb. Yes, the music was a back and forth between the two cultures, between brass and drum, between primitive and divine. But each style blurred in deference to the other, with a sort of spiritual glue holding it togeher.

The most amazing thing to me was the musicians’ body language, especially when it spoke outside the lines. During the African drum passages, the jazz cats clapped and copped to the polyrhythmic pulse. And when Marsalis got the band to swing (and how) it was so cool to see the cats in shimmering robes sway and cut little pieces of rug. It was simply beautiful. And though Marsalis adds an unparalleled excellence and sophistication to it all, he proved that it really goes back to the beat of the drum.

Most of my favorites so far this year have been on the jazz fringe. Corey Harris is on the blues fringe, as well giving a bit of a world beat twist to his standard trio. It was like Delta in the desert. Harris picks like Lightning (Hopkins, that is) but allows the music to swirl and swell and hypnotize as he did last night in the Big Tent.

If Wynton Marsalis and The Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra with Odadaa! provided the festival’s finest Eastman Theatre concert Thursday night, Don Byron’s "Ivey Divey" delivered (in my opinion) the festival’s best performance on the Club Pass at Friday evening’s second show in Kilbourn Hall. No small reason for this was that aside from Byron, an extraordinary clarinetist and saxophonist, the trio also boasted one of the finest young pianists in jazz, Jason Moran, and the great drummer, Billy Hart.

"Ivey Divey" is the title of Byron’s 2004 album exploring the style of Lester Young, who Byron called “a codifier of melodic invention.” Byron is best known as a clarinetist, but in this incarnation, if he began a song on the clarinet, he most likely ended it with a tenor sax solo.

One of the best things about jazz is the manner in which great players inspire each other to reach new heights. With three top soloists on the stage, this happened in every tune.

Byron’s solos were consistently inventive. Just when you'd expect him to go somewhere logical with a melody he’d throw you a curve, often shifting to the most outside harmony. Then he’d fly even farther out and, just when you think he might have strayed too far to find his way back, he came in for a perfect landing.

Moran also played some astonishing solos, building his final one to a grand dynamic climax that had the audience shouting. It was fun to watch Byron anticipating where Moran would go, with nods of his head. Byron was also keenly interested in Hart’s wonderful solos, and expressed genuine awe at his prowess.

The repertoire consisted mostly of songs from Ivey Divey, including “Somebody Loves Me” and “Freddie Freeloader,” but there were some departures, notably a powerful take on “Giant Steps” and a gorgeous rendition of “Body and Soul.”

Earlier in the evening, I caught the quartet of Swedish guitarist Andreas Petterson at the Lutheran Church. Petterson, an absolutely astounding player, concentrated on tunes from his new album that explores the music of George Gershwin.

Watching the fingers of Petterson’s left hand fly over the neck of the guitar was reminiscent of watching a spider madly scurrying to get out of harm's way. But this spider had impeccable taste when it came to concocting melodies. Every dizzying solo fit beautifully over the chords.

On tunes like “Summertime” and “Strike Up The Band” Petterson shared the solo spotlight with pianist Daniel Tilling, who proved to be equally dexterous and tasteful.

Later at the Crowne Plaza, when Bob Sneider’s trio took a break, Petterson’s quartet kept the overflow crowd entertained with a terrific blues tune.

The festival’s final night is packed with great concerts. My priorities are the superb bassist Avishai Cohen and the great overseas players assembled in Jens Winther’s European Quintet.†

Unlike most Kilbourn acts this week, Don Byron’s Ivey Divey blasted out the gate at a trot. Byron’s flow was flawless on both sax and licorice stick. Pianist Jason Moran was incredible as he formed rhythmic phrases and melodies by not playing the actual notes, but rather by framing them with the notes around them. It was Thelonious Monk’s doing this that first made sense to me. A lot of times it makes about as much sense as Chinese algebra… but I still like to listen.

And speaking of Monk, you ever see concert footage of him in later years? The man was borderline batshit. Omar Sosa reminded me a lot of this with his completely wild and frenetic playing over absolutely savage drums (including a kick drum beater cheater). Sosa’s interjections and piano exclamations on top, in, and around the cacophony was only topped by his animated stage presence. The cat bobbed and squirmed as if his bones wanted to come out and play. The loudest thing I’ve heard at Max.

Sisters Euclid’s Kevin Breit (also known as Norah Jones’ Kevin Breit) was slingin’ a Tele and an electric mandolin at the same time when I arrived at Montage. This man can play anything with strings. He could probably even play a kite. Early in the set he pulled out an incredible guitar lead where the notes were struck and slid in such a way that they sounded as if they were coming out backwards. It made me miss Danny Gatton. And when he began to shred on the mandolin’s upper register, it made me miss my dog. These notes plinked and plunked so high I know they had to be heard in dog heaven. Tarzan, I miss you buddy.

Dried my eyes and went to the Eastman Theatre to catch Dr. John with Madeleine Peyroux. It was certainly the right place at the right time as John and his modest band brought the gris gris. They did an outstanding slow funk take on “Saturday Night Fish Fry”--- one of my favorite Louis Jordan songs ever.

Peyroux sashayed out un-announced and launched into some Leonard Cohen before arriving at Bessie Smith. She sings so pretty, but I had to high tail outta there. Rumors were flying that Eric Clapton was going to sit in with Toots and the Maytals on the East and Alexander stage, but ol’ Slow Hand was a no-show-hand. Still, I got to dig the 63-year-old Toots bound around like a teenager. Ex-Majestic, ex-Bahama Mama, and Eastman Theatre stage manager Ron Stackman was beaming, exclaiming repeatedly “The hits just keep comin.’”

Giant Panda Guerilla Dub Squad (just back from Jamaica) opened up earlier in the blinding sun with a beautiful sunny groove. They draw the hippies for sure, but I don’t care who you are, you get in front of this band and your ass is gonna move, baby.

Caught a taste of the Motor Kings at the other end of the street. It was pretty average rock, obviously influenced by pretty average classic rock, but singer Julie Stewart has got some awesome pipes.†

On the festival’s final night I saw three virtuoso musicians and their groups.

During his first set at Montage, bassist Avishai Cohen not only explored every inch of the fingerboard, he added percussion by slapping and tapping, he strummed and played occasional harmonics, and, when he wanted to really accent a note, he struck it extra harshly. Even his bowing work was unusually percussive. Cohen has expanded the vocabulary of the bass and made it an effective lead solo instrument in the process.

While most of the tunes his trio played were from his current album, one of the most beautiful ballads, “Seattle,” was written two weeks ago and performed for the first time at Montage. Because we are used to middle- and upper-register lead instruments, hearing melodies played so beautifully on such a low-register instrument is an almost subliminal experience.

Jens Winther’s European Quartet performed only two lengthy compositions during the first set at the Lutheran Church, but both were rich vehicles for the group’s powerful brand of post-bop jazz. Winther was obviously steeped in mid-to-late-1960s Miles Davis, blowing spare solos punctuated by fiery bursts of notes.

On “Once Upon A Summertime,” Winther enhanced the sound of his trumpet by walking over to the open piano and playing his solo directly into the strings two or three inches away. This created a haunting effect with the stings reverberating softly under his melodies.

Bill Frisell has developed the best twang in jazz guitar and it fit “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” beautifully. But Frisell is not satisfied to simply play; like a mad scientist he is constantly twisting knobs, and pushing buttons to obtain sound effects. As a result, “I’m So Lonesome” grew into an apocalyptic Frankenstein monster with chaotic and distorted guitar and crash-and-burn drumming.

Frisell is a master guitarist, but sometimes the sound effects become overdone. It would be fun to hear him without them.

At the risk of sounding like a broken CD (does that even make sense?) this year’s festival was the best ever. I know I say this every year but every step the festival has taken to expand has proved to be just right.

The Scandinavian series at the Lutheran Church was a great success with full houses every night. Several of the bands arrived in the United States for the first time and played their first American concerts to adoring crowds that bought up all of their CDs, and the musicians got to play in a beautiful space, surrounded by stained glass windows. They must have thought they died and went to heaven.

Even the creatures from Midaircondo, on their long, long, flight home, must be raving about how friendly earthlings are.

(For the record, I do not believe in heaven and will not set foot in a church until next year’s festival. But thank you, Lutherans!)

Harro East was also a terrific, elegant new venue, and the festival’s expanded free concert series provided the best street party Rochester has had in years. 

My greatest festival thrill was hearing Wynton Marsalis and The Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra with Odadaa! play “Congo Square.” My greatest festival regret was missing Wynton Marsalis jam for over an hour with the Bob Sneider Trio at the Crowne Plaza after the concert.

Sunday I’m looking forward to… sleep!!!

Saturday night. Downtown. I found the sweet spot. It was roughly at Main and Gibbs and how sweet it was. Standing there arms outstretched, eyes heavenward, I took in the music of Walter "Wolfman" Washington, Rusted Root, The Soul Rebels, and Shooter Jennings all at the same time. Didn't make a whole lotta sense but it was beautiful all the same; all different styles of music making a joyful noise on a beautiful night. People were everywhere, bouncing like pinballs from venue to venue, stage to stage. It was the short-attention span mambo in 4/4 time. Even the flummoxed flatfoot posted almost equal distance between the two East Avenue stages didn't know which beat to dance to.

Whereas at Jazz Fests past I would Padre Pio all over the map, this year I decided to focus on things I really wanted or needed to see. Yeah, I missed a few things this way, but Nugent had this year's fest so jammed, it was physically impossible to be everywhere. Last night was no exception, and I just focused on several shows. Besides once I got in front of Cowboy Mouth there was no going anywhere. Frontman drummer Fred Le Blanc worked --- or rather, taunted --- the crowd into a frenzy. This was a full bore rock 'n' roll party that had the crowd's hands in the air (like they just didn't care) and a red-headed bass player who was very, very easy on the eyes.

I had the pleasure of introducing the band as well as headliner Shooter Jennings. There ain't nothin' like shouting "Marco" to thousands of people and getting back a resounding "Polo" in return. Shooter seemed to be edging a little more country (real country) this time. I saw him last year and it was decidedly Southern rock. It still is --- the man sports a leather upholstered Gibson Firebird with the stars and bars hammered into it --- but there was a little more of that outlaw twang I love so much. Dale, Hank III, Shooter... the "o" is slowly creeping its way back into the country, by God.

Walter "Wolfman" Washington's threads were so red you could practically taste 'em. His blues were tasty too, with plenty of soul and r&b (he used to roll with Lee Dorsey, after all). I guess you could just say that Washington plays New Orleans music. I know that's pretty broad, but folks down there don't differentiate or discriminate, they wanna hear it all. These Jazz Fests keep up this way and you'll be able to say that about Rochester too someday...maybe even in my lifetime.

Ended my nine-day tour of duty with Bill Frisell at Kilbourn. He has got to have one of the best guitar tones around, but it's not always predominant when the electronic effects start to fly. It's interesting and all, but sometimes it takes away from the pretty, more melodic sounds. It's sorta like having a juicy steak and then drowning it in catsup. I'm sure some of the fans of Frisell's trips to the outer fringe consider his straight guitar stuff the catsup. And you know what? We'd both be right. That is the beauty of jazz, the beauty of music, and the beauty of the Rochester International Jazz Fest. See ya next year.

I skipped through an almost-full parking lot in the High Falls neighborhood, and to my astonishment, rounded the corner on the way to the ticket tent and ran smack into a throng of people. They were crowded into the fenced-off space that surrounds the Lamar Outdoor Stage --- and the beer --- and seemed pretty entertained by Small Stars, an amazingly fashionable band from Texas. 

The crowd was young and happy; I got the impression that some of them made the trip back down to High Falls to reacquaint themselves with the now-defunct Tiki Bob's, which acts as a venue for the festival.  And they would have, except for the fact that there was no liquor allowed in or served in any of these "once popular watering holes." Someone working the door outside the old Empire Brewing Co. told me the state had pulled a fast one. I wonder how the rest of the weekend will go once people spread the word that this Summer Fest is a dry one. 

Michelle Shocked began her second set around 10 p.m. to a good-sized audience inside a stripped-to-the-bones Empire. Beer signs swung from the ceiling and were plastered to the wall. I sipped my water, waiting to be saved. I had read that this woman was a divine mix of soul and blues and gospel, and I wasn't sure if she could flip my switch. But I saw Jesus. 

It was bizarre, almost eerie being in this recently occupied joint. But somehow it worked, and the guts of this abandoned restaurant were perfect for the haunted soul that pushed its way into the thick air. I think you could have squeezed blood out of Shocked's voice. It was sweet and raw, and with the juicy strum of her guitar, I had to lick my lips. Shocked raised every hair on my body so many times, I lost count.   

Had to bust a move over to the old McFadden's, where I caught the tail-end of Eilen Jewell's set. It was modern, Johnny Cash-type stuff that I was quickly addicted to. Twenty people sat in seats, and I wanted to tear up the floor. Her smooth twang reminded me of The Sundays, with a little bit of country. I've gotta get her album. 

Walked through the swinging doors into the cavernous Tiki Bob's to mellow out to the Leah Randazzo Group. A vixen of a front-woman challenged her bass player to a duel, and my eyes weren't leaving the stage. This young band offered a mix of funk and jazz and pop, and were so good, I almost cried when I looked to see who exactly was watching. There weren't more than 10 people in the room. Oh well, everything takes time.