Hey Bo,

Sad to see you go. But rest in peace, brother, knowing that your legacy beats in the hearts of all rock 'n' rollers tonight... and tomorrow night... and the night after that.

You kept it savage and primitive for years, and we, disciples of the big beat, will always look to you whenever things around us get too civilized. Man, your music always had one foot in the jungle.

OK, so Chuck Berry had the licks, and Elvis got all the chicks. Buddy Holly had the twang, and Little Richard made ‘em shake that thang. But Bo, you had the beat: the Bo Diddley beat. And those Chess sides you cut were the most. Your music was salacious -- bodacious, if you will -- speaking to the more immediate urges; the ones that either got panties in a bunch, or down around ankles.

We spoke back in 2004 and you explained the initial ruckus to me like this:

"They hollered because the beat made people feel primitive -- as we all are," you said. "They was sayin' a lot of funny shit like, ‘What the hell is this?' and ‘This is jungle music.' And that's the reason why they'd use the word ‘primitive.' People beat on tin cans and buckets and things before instruments came along and made rhythms, you understand? So everybody didn't understand what the hell I was doin' on the guitar. And then I added the drums to it and they started to call it ‘the beat.' But it's the beat and the melody all in one."

Bo, I plugged in my guitar last night, turned up the amp and blasted "I Can Tell," "I'm a Man," and "Roadrunner" in your honor. It's the closest I've come to praying in years.

Vaya con reverb,

Frank

Eddie Shaw's been around, you know. He blew his sax for Muddy Waters before jumping ship and landing in with Howlin' Wolf. After Wolf's big adios in 1976, Shaw kept it going with the Wolf Gang. And though Shaw hails from the Mississippi Delta, the man is all Windy City blues.

Shaw honked tight and bright - a little reminiscent of Big Jay - last Wednesday at the Dinosaur as I was face to face with some medium-rare black angus. He pulled out a rather fast version of Ivory Joe's "Since I met You Baby" that kinda took the melancholy out, but sounded nice all the same. His band was a little stiff, however, and the guitar player - despite being strapped to a triple-neck guitar - had a lousy tone. But again, they played Ivory Joe, so I got over it.

Friday night at Montage Live Music Hall displayed a healthy, diverse array of music fans there to hear Shelflyfe and assorted guests. Goth kids, frat boys, jocks, geeks, freaks, and girls in tight, tight jeans (hi-ho, the camel toe) piled into the joint. Openers Orchard Drive is a progressive trio that fills up an amazing amount of sonic space. The lone guitar was harmonically rich and the band's overall energy sold songs that teeter-tottered between aggressive and melodic.

And Shelflyfe? These cats have their show down. The band has slick production (fog, lights, loose choreography) and an intense delivery. The cool thing is, it's a blend; the mix of influences is still rather rough-hewn. So the merging of metal, hardcore, pop, and even some industrial components still shows the assorted shards. I like this a whole lot better than when bands stir the batter too much.

Polarus is fine bluegrass outfit from Ithaca that I caught Saturday at Chalet Leon a little past Watkins Glen. A 175-year-old mandolin, a washtub bass, and folk tunes of a subversive nature were great for stompin' around in the dirt.

Three new summer shows have been unveiled for the Constellation Brands Performing Arts Center in Canandaigua:

Bob Dylan Tuesday, August 19, CMAC, Lincoln Hill Rd, Canandaigua, 232-1900, tix on sale Saturday, June 14

Kid Rock Wednesday, August 20, CMAC, Lincoln Hill Rd, Canandaigua, 232-1900, tix on sale Saturday, June 14

Reggae Fest w/UB40, Matisyahu, Maxi Priest, Culture, Giant Panda Guerilla Dub Squad Sunday, August 24, CMAC, Lincoln Hill Rd, Canandaigua, 232-1900, tix on sale Saturday, June 14

Keep your eye on Ticketmaster for prices and more.

Dear Kid,

A friend of mine was raving about your new song, "All Summer Long," the other day. I heard it, and now, well, I'm raving too. Kid, you were singing over the top of "Werewolves Of London" and "Sweet Home Alabama" -- not the riffs, but the actual records. What is this bullshit? I understand the current climate encourages sampling, lifting, borrowing, etc. These are nice ways of saying "ripping off." But  this isn't even a rip-off, it's a fucking copy!

At best this is lazy, and you certainly have the talent to create your own music. You are now in that enviable position to play music that immediately has an audience built out of the strength of your stardom. You've had the balls to roll with both gangsta rappers and redneck honky-tonkers. You've fucked Pam Anderson and bitch-slapped Tommy Lee, and the opening to your "Bawitdaba" video is the type of pure Russ Meyer grindhouse sleaze I love.

Yeah, listeners are lazy too, and they want to hear what they know. And I'm sure you've lost track of how many times some asshole has shouted out "Free Bird" at a show. But as an artist you just enable them, when you could be bringing them something new. It's been said that talent creates, genius steals --hell, this whole "letter to..." stuff is a blatant rip-off of Henry Rollins --but leave the playing-someone-else's-record-while-you-talk-over-it-and-call-it-your-own-swindle to Kanye and the other whiz kids. If you must, rip off the blues like the rest of us.

Best,

Frank

Dead Dog creates a racket that is both threatening and atmospheric. I caught the act Wednesday night at an undisclosed location, where Eric Frate presided over a table laden with electronic devices that, though intimidating to me, he manipulated in such a way that I found myself dancing to the eerie noise. When he growled guttural vocals underneath it all, the lightless room took on the doom and gloom of another dimension. (The fog machine helped, too.)

After Dead Dog's set, the scene shifted to another room, where Autoanimal had set up. This band played extra loud, and lacking earplugs, we shamelessly stuck our fingers in our ears. It actually helped me dig the screaming noise Joel Dow was making, or rather what came from the array of noise-making boxes and things he was perched over. (Sorry guys; I'll learn eventually, but I just don't know what that stuff is yet). I got into the primitive beat of Cameron Farash's drums, and though I had to head outside to give my ears a break, it was audible (and sounded fine) from there, too.

My favorite of the evening was probably Col. Parmesan, who usually goes by Mr. Brian Blatt (or so I'm told). But last night the Colonel became a trio, accompanied by players on guitar and trombone. I swayed and grooved to this band, and heard what I'd have to say are the best sounds I've ever encountered coming from a shopping cart. I can't get the image of Blatt crouched inside the thing out of my mind.

I was excited for the chance to catch Pegacide, a band I've been meaning to see for awhile, but it wasn't meant to be: there was some talk of car-towing, then the cops came around, and my man and I decided to beat it. Next time, Pegacide.

Next up: House of Hamez open mic, and the CoMMoN (Rochester music collective) show: A Drum and an Open Window (Mass), Mike Arthur (Mass), Yer Friend (Ithaca), Mike Brown (LA), Tim Avery (Rochester), and Karrah Teague (Webster), at the Black Pearl.

Plus tons of Jazz Fest stuff, of course.

The buzz among jazz fans is that this year's model of the Rochester International Jazz Festival could have used a jazz legend --- a Herbie Hancock, an Ahmad Jamal --- to give it that truly great jazz festival vibe.

Still, there's a lot to look forward to in the coming nine days. There's one bona fide soul legend, Al Green, and a singer I've always wanted to see, Dee Dee Bridgewater.

And kicking off the festival on Friday is one of the great jazz drummers, Al Foster. He's played with Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Sonny Rollins, and others; the standards have got to be high for the quartet he's bringing to Kilbourn Hall.

Last year's Scandinavian series was full of great discoveries. Judging by his recent album, Finland's Timo Lassy, a powerhouse saxophonist, should be among the best of this year's Nordic acts.

I'm also looking forward to hearing Amina Figarova, a sensitive pianist and composer who was born in Azerbaijan, but spent her musically formative years in the Netherlands and at Berklee College in Boston.

And, whenever possible, I'll be attending the after-hours jam session at the Rochester Plaza. The Bob Sneider Trio is always excellent; the jazz fest stars who sit in make every night an unpredictable delight.

You can find City's Jazz Blog right here at citynewspaper.com; expect reviews from the previous night's concerts by 6 a.m. the next day, plus photos, video, and more. And make sure to post your thoughts on the concerts, and what you're looking forward to see.

Every Thursday there's a featured act at the House of Hamez's open mic night, handpicked by the organizers to perform for 20 minutes or so before the rest of the poets and musicians get up to do their thing. Last night, to mark Pure Kona's 15th year of open mics, Alex Northrup and Genevieve Legacy were the features, bringing a blend of music and spoken word to the evening. Northrup and his friend Ben played a short set of well-crafted pop songs, and Legacy followed with her poetry. Her lilting voice perfectly punctuated the poems, some of which were more song than speech. When she read the words "refrigerator humming" as if she were indeed a refrigerator humming, it left me wanting more. Her last piece satisfied the itch; Legacy sped up and slowed down during a poem she bookended with the sing-songy phrase "they love, they love, they love, they love, they love, they love"; it's still stuck in my head a day later.

After the open mic, we headed over to The Black Pearl, where the DIY group CoMMoN had organized its first show. We missed most of the bands, but were just in time for Webster's Karrah Teague, who won the crowd over with her down-to-earth appearance, acoustic guitar strumming, and sweet songs. Her lyrics were honest and simple; one song spun a tale about Michigan, where she says everyone was going hunting, but she was too afraid. Another lyric we caught compared a boy to a home. Teague's voice was mostly soft, though sometimes rose in urgency, and the crowd responded well, with hand-clapping, swaying, and smiles. My companion and I couldn't help feeling we must look a little moody compared to the happy crowd, as, dressed in black, we sat to the side and sipped our PBRs.

After Teague's set, we took off for the Bug Jar, where the live music had just ended, and the ropes were up outside for the Thursday Night Shakedown. We were encouraged when we heard some Joy Division and White Stripes songs, but then the place settled into that strange club vibe that makes me remember why I usually avoid the Jar on Thursdays. But I don't know. Maybe I'm just getting old.

Next up: Jazz Fest; A\V Music Fest at Rochester Contemporary

I don't think the early-bird jazz fans were quite ready for Denis Parker and Scott Goudie, a couple of middle-aged, white, Canadian men wailing on a pair of acoustic guitars and beating out one 12-bar blues song after another. The quick applause after the introduction turned almost immediately into chatter and empty seats when folks realized this group wasn't going to launch into a chorus of "Fly Me To The Moon" or some other jazz standard. But the duo did manage to turned the Big Tent into a makeshift front stoop -- one set deep in the imaginary South -- and played some of the twangiest slide blues Rochester's seen since Son House roamed the streets. And that ain't half bad for anyone hailing from Newfoundland.

Then it was off to hear Rachel Z play. And play is what she did, with those flurries of sustained, single notes that stretch the harmonies, jabbing out little clusters of notes to back up bassist Maeve Royce and hitting every rhythmic punch layed down by drummer Bobbie Rae. The trio worked its way through standards like "Autumn Leaves," even adding some funky swank to the famous outro from the Miles Davis version. Then there were new "standards," like "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd. But I shouldn't expect anything but cutting edge from the woman who once played an Arabian-flavored rendition of John Lennon's "Imagine" when she was last in town.

Had the distinct pleasure of introducing ex-Thelonious Monk drummer Ben Riley and his Monk Legacy Septet to kick off the 2008 Rochester International Jazz Fest. And in keeping with Monk's abstract, smart-aleck slant, there weren't no piano. Instead the punch and slug came from the brass, and the blur of enchanting dischord came from the guitar. And of course the bump, bop, and swing -- with a touch of wry sarcasm -- came from Riley himself as the band cut through the Monk catalogue, including my favorite, "Monk's Dream." It was magnificent in an evening-shade kinda way, despite the sun doing its best Chernobyl through the Harro East Ballroom's windows. I was holding out for "Ugly Beauty" but had to beat feet over to High Fidelity to announce and dig Canadian barroom blues legends the Downchild Blues Band.

This band has its groove wrenched so luxuriously loose, it reminded me of those Roomful Of Blues shows that used to blow the doors off the Red Creek way back in the 20th century. The band opened with a no-guitar, twin-harp attack. Downchild himself is a master of the tin sandwich, and the guitar as well. The band wound the kids up quick-like with keen classics, like the Elmore James/Big Joe Turner ode to fat-bottomed girls, "TV Mama."

Frank Sinatra, Jr.'s only problem is his name, frankly. Taking the Eastman Theatre stage last night in front of what was one of the best big bands I have ever heard (no shit, it was astounding), Sinatra sounded alarmingly like his father. But then again, when Harry Connick, Jr. first made the scene, folks said he sang like Ol' Blue Eyes, too. But in Harry's case, he wasn't saddled with legendary shoes that are impossible to fill.

If Frank Jr. had any other name besides Frank Sinatra, Jr., folks might have given him more of a chance. The modest crowd that did last night was treated to a wonderful set full of Nelson Riddle-esque lushness and style. Sinatra conducted and deadpanned while singing with masterful phrasing that he no doubt inherited. His rendition of "One For My Baby" was gorgeous, and if you ask me, better than his old man's. I wanted to like his show, was afraid I wouldn't, and was surprised when I did... a whole lot.

Judging by the capacity crowds at all of the Club Pass shows I went to Friday, the 2008 Rochester International Jazz Festival is off to a great start. An even better indicator is the fact that all of the musicians I saw were top notch. Unfortunately, between Norwegian accents, muffled microphones, and the tendency to speak over applause, I couldn't catch the names of too many sidemen.

The first strains of "So What" -- and I mean the exact gorgeous piano part that Bill Evans played on the "Kind of Blue" album  -- let the Kilbourn Hall audience know in no uncertain terms that Al Foster had served as drummer for Miles Davis. What began softly, as if treading water, soon turned full throttle, with a scorching tenor sax solo and endless variations on the beat from Foster.

Two songs later, on Horace Silver's "Peace," the saxophonist, who I believe was Eli Degibri, played with beautiful tone until his last note, a purposeful screech. The dissonance was picked up by Foster's pianist, who played a far more abstract solo. It was as if the band was making a statement about how easily "Peace" can be disturbed. Meanwhile, Foster, an absolute master, was exploring the language of brushes.

When he soloed, Foster often played with a demanding crossed-hand technique. His set was full of crowd-pleasers, including Herbie Hancock's "Cantaloupe Island."

Over at the Lutheran Church, saxophonist Timo Lassy led yet another wonderful group of Scandinavian jazz players, technically from Finland. (We're getting used to them by now.) Lassy had been to last year's festival as a member of the popular Five Corners Quartet, so he had an enthusiastic audience waiting.

He delivered on tenor and baritone sax with a style somewhere between Hank Mobley and King Curtis, over the irresistible grooves laid down by his band. In Lassy's hands the saxophone is a rhythm instrument played with as much syncopation as the drums. 

Lassy's band has a drummer and a percussionist who could really tear it up on the conga drum. At one point the Fins went into such an infectious Latin rhythm (are we confused yet?) that half a dozen people in the back couldn't resist dancing.

I caught the late show at Max's, where the superb pianist Amina Figarova led her first-rate group consisting mostly of musicians from the Netherlands. Figarova is a particularly evocative player. At the start of one piece I wrote down, "storybook beginning." When she spoke after finishing, she said the title was "Bedtime Story."

But can a composer really capture feelings in music?

Figarova played three pieces from "September Suite," an album dedicated to, and about, the victims of September 11. From "Rage" to "When the Lights Go Down" she conjured up many emotions that audience members could relate to.

Her excellent front line -- flute, trumpet, and sax -- could all solo beautifully with wild abandon. They were also capable of transforming into a soft, subtly blended choir.

Saturday I'm looking forward to the dynamic trio, The Bad Plus. I love Dee Dee Bridgewater's recent album, "Red Earth," recorded in Mali, so I am anxious to see her with her trio and a host of Malian musicians. In between, I'm hoping to catch the extraordinary Norwegian violinist, Ola Kvernberg.

The Jazz Fest started Friday, but my first night out was on Saturday, when I went to see Saturday Night Fish Fry. First, though, I stopped by Rochester Contemporary, where A\V Space was on the second night of a two-day music fest of its own. When we showed up, City Harvest Black was playing in a small, but packed, room. A projector showed upside-down images that were perfectly paired with the moody, mostly improvised noise. The noise set came off more as a composition, really, not unlike some of the jazz that was going on down the street. A friend told me the artist only practices the beginning and ends of the pieces, then adjusts the rest to what's happening onscreen, and according to his mood.

At one point, as an image turned right-side-up, it showed a woman struggling up a staircase, doubled over in pain. My chest actually constricted in fear as the noise built, and the woman vomited directly toward the camera. At the same time, I noticed cheery festival-goers out the window, coming to and from Christ Church.

Walked outside afterwards, and heard some band down the street play a straight cover of David Bowie's "Man who Sold the World" - I couldn't help but feel City Harvest Black was more jazz than whoever that band was..

Made it through the throngs to the Big Tent and Saturday Night Fish Fry (whose name I couldn't say all week without craving a fish fry, damn it). The band featured four horns, guitar, bass, and drums, and the guitarist lent some rock to the otherwise straightforward jazz outfit. His cowboy hat and leather vest, along with the barking he did to accentuate the song "Watchdog," woke up the crowd, as did the chanteuse that came onstage a few songs into the set. Her dress, and the fan she casually waved at herself, created more heat than already existed that steamy night.        

I have seen the headliners at six previous Rochester International Jazz Festivals, so I do not say this lightly: Dee Dee Bridgewater's performance Saturday night at the Eastman Theatre was the best of them all. And it wasn't just her phenomenal voice. Her movement on stage -- African dance and body language -- was absolutely spellbinding.

Bridgewater's set showcased her involvement with Malian musicians over the past several years in an effort to find her African roots. Her band consisted of pianist Edsel Gomez, bassist and musical director Ira Coleman, drummer/percussionist Minino Gara, and three Malian musicians. All of them were fantastic, but Cherif Soumano was especially incredible on the kora (a precursor to the harp, Bridgewater explained) that he made himself.

She was also joined by two great African singers, Mamani Keita and Kabine Kouyate, for duets that embodied the brilliance of her exploration. Bridgewater is a jazz singer; Keita and Kouyate are native African singers. Their interplay beautifully illustrated the roots of jazz.

But it didn't stop there. Bridgewater interacted with all of her band mates through dance and call-and-response. Often she had conversations with African instruments in monosyllabic sounds. She roamed the stage with hyper-kinetic energy and a contagious glow. She was bald and beautiful.

The peak of the performance consisted of a powerful duet -- in song and dance -- with Kouyate on the title song of Bridgewater's recent album, "Red Earth," with three percussionists playing ever more complex polyrhythms and Gomez contributing a wildly percussive piano solo. It was simply magical.

Richard Bona, the superb bassist/singer from Cameroon, opened the show with his excellent band. Whether he tapped, thumped, or made his instrument sing, there was no question of his mastery of the five-string electric bass.

But Bona's show was more about his joy in playing, singing, and kidding with his band and the audience. His set of up-tempo romps and a beautiful ballad culminated in "Sing, Sing, Sing," a rousing Latin jam showcasing his band's excellent percussionist.

I began the night at Kilbourn Hall where The Bad Plus had a surprise for the audience: a female singer!!!!! She came on halfway through the show, looking like a beatnik right out of the 1950's.

Her name is Wendy Lewis, and her singing style fits the band nicely. The Bad Plus had just recorded an album with her and this was their very first performance together.

Their first tune together was nicely weird, but the second sounded like a pretty pop song, complete with vocal harmony from bassist Reid Anderson. I was beginning to think they'd lost their minds. Or found their minds. Whatever.

But then came "Blue Velvet." Yep, the Bobby Vinton song. And there they were back in their trademark territory, taking a middlebrow song that you weren't sure you ever wanted to hear again and subverting the harmony, the melody, and the chords to the point where it became really interesting.

It got better. The Bee-Gees' "How Deep Is Your Love" was next. It was really, really deep.

They did falter a bit on U2's "New Year's Day." It's already too good a song -- stick to the crap. And they did, closing with an encore on Heart's "Barracuda." (If I'm wrong about that song, it's because I have good taste.)

I caught half of Ola Kvernberg's set at the Lutheran Church. He's a wonderful violinist whose playing ran from classical, through pseudo-country (for his grandfather -- you had to be there), all the way to avant-garde.

Two guitarists whose styles are diametrically opposed will be on my Sunday night menu. Howard Alden is one of the finest traditional bop players on the scene today. John Scofield is, in the jazziest sense of the word, a rocker. And I just can't stay away from the Lutheran Church where, tomorrow night, innovative pianist Jacob Anderskov will take the stage.

It's a sturdier Big Tent this year, and I'm pretty sure the added rigidity has helped acoustically. The Blue Vipers of Brooklyn turned the whole damn thing into a swingin' Tin Pan Alley. Lots of drummers grow up beating on pots and pans before ascending a throne. The Blue Vipers' drummer apparently never graduated from the kitchen, as his whole set up was lapful of odds and ends that he binged, banged, whacked, and attacked with thimbled digits like a Dixieland foley stage.

Used my Wonder Twin powers to shrink myself to the size of a lawn jockey and still barely fit into the Montage Live Music Hall to squeeze off a coupla shots while ravishing redhead Robin McKelle warbled and cooed, putting the whole joint in the mood.

Shuffled down East to dig Stephanie McKay and what was one of the two best shows of the night. The second was McKay's second set. They have blurred into one in my head, and I'll go into them in a minute. But first lemme rave on about the outdoor stages.

If you stood on the corner of Gibbs and East you could enjoy a multi-genre mash-up of the blues -- thanks to Mr. Downchild and his boys -- and the polyrhythmic frenzy courtesy of the Buddhahood. Downchild broke out some more Big Joe and sounded amazing while The 'Hood had Gibbs Street in an absolute frenzy.

Dee Dee Bridgewater took the stage in a hot pink wig before shedding it for her hot bald head, but I'll let Ron fill you in on that one ‘cause I was jonesin' for another dose of Stephanie McKay.

Bronx beauty McKay is so genuinely sweet. Her voice was coquettishly gentle, yet still packed a wallop as she took it all over the map. She sang beautifully, and even when her songs took on a tight dub clip they maintained their melodic air. At both sold-out High Fidelity shows she was engaging and utterly believable. She took the air out of the room one minute when she announced her mother had passed away last week, and re-inflated the joint with joy the next with a dedication. Her band was tight and funky and generated all kinds of hip action. The crowd danced along, sang along told the drummer "Yo Manny, drop that beat!" and ate her up. She better come back.

"This is why we walk around the city," I reminded myself after circling the block three times today, looking for free parking. I finally gave in and coughed up all I had -- two bucks in spare change -- to park in the East End garage.

Juliet Lloyd was already playing by the time I got to High Fidelity. The room was packed with fans, Club Passes slung around most of their necks, glasses of wine in hand. It was only 7 p.m. or so, but the night was already well under way as Lloyd's honey-smooth vocals spilled out and over the audience. I ordered a water and settled into the low-key set. Lloyd's songs were all very heartfelt and sincere, and on "Lonely Streets" it was easy to picture her wandering around in the rain, lamenting the loss of a loved one.

When she wasn't singing or playing, Lloyd turned and paid attention to her band members, especially during guitar and bass solos. There seemed to be a genuine camaraderie among the bunch, though I did spot the drummer yawn a few times. But maybe I'm just projecting there.

Of all the guitarists in jazz today, no one exploits more of the language of the electric guitar than John Scofield. Sunday night at Kilbourn Hall he went from classic jazz tone, through distortion, wah-wahs and wails, to electronic loops. And that was just in his first set.

Scofield has been playing with Steve Swallow (bass) and Bill Stewart (drums) for years; the three of them can read each other's minds. Swallow and Stewart had plenty of room for excellent solos, but both were keenly attuned to Scofield's moves.

Early in the set the group played what has become something of a signature tune, Scofield's "Hammock Soliloquy." It's a great piece, full of distortion, and Scofield, lagging just behind the beat, conjures up a lumbering monster. From there he went back and forth between straight-ahead jazz and Hendrix-like fusion. The latter included a wild take on the Rolling Stones' "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction."

Scofield is clearly among the greats, but I could do without some of the most inorganic arrows in his technical quiver. Electronic loops are a bit much. I know pedals can be seductive, but, in general I think it's best to play guitar with your hands, not your feet.

While Scofield clearly strives to stay on the cutting edge, Sunday's other guitarist, Howard Alden, is a keeper of the flame. No fuzz, loops, or wah-wahs for him, just fingers that can fly over the fretboard like nobody's business.

Actually, there is one unusual aspect to his playing: he's been using a seven-string guitar since his collaboration with the original seven-stringer, George Van Eps, 16 years ago. (The extra string is a low A on top.)

Aside from being one of the greatest straight-ahead bebop guitarists playing today, Alden is an encyclopedia of the Great American Songbook, Brazilian music, Django Reinhardt and, I'm sure, a great deal more.

He played tunes by Cole Porter, Jerome Kern, Harold Arlin, Reinhardt and others; every one was dazzling. "Tango el Bongo," a Van Eps tune, was the most impressive because Alden played solo, shifting from rhythm to bass to lead.

His fingers will play a chord, then make a mad dash over the fretboard, touching on a couple-dozen notes and landing on the perfect inversion of the next chord to begin the process over again. All in a few seconds.

Alden's bassist, Jon Burr, and his drummer, Rob Garcia, were both excellent in solos and accompaniment. The capacity crowd at Montage gave the trio a standing ovation.

Between the two guitarists I caught Jacob Anderskov at the Lutheran Church. The Danish pianist is one of the most cerebral musicians at the festival, so it was not surprising that many in the audience did not stay for more that one or two of his lengthy compositions.

While he seemed to have established structures, there was something of a Keith Jarrett-like improvisatory style to his set.

My favorite moments occurred in his last two compositions. In both of them he hit a groove with a cluster of notes that he would keep swirling while improvising with the other hand. This sometimes led to other-worldly sounds emanating from the swirl that seemed to hover above the impressionistic melodies.

Monday night for me will be a tale of two saxophones: rising star Miguel Zenon and soul-jazz legend Lou Donaldson.

I've noticed that even with the low-dough cover charge -- free -- those that crowd the free stages are sometimes more demanding than those who have shelled out a few clams in order to catch a live show by the toe. You play the Jazz Street (Gibbs the other 51 weeks), you'd better grab their attention rapidamente or their just gonna go back to jawin' with their neighbors. You hit 'em with something that requires a slide rule to understand or enjoy and you'll soon find yourself playing to the backs of a lot of heads.

Perhaps my warning set them straight, as Neo Collage mounted the stage with its odd arsenal -- electric marimba, electric harp, violin, viola, and longhorn bass. I told these fickle fans of free that this band was here to prove that classical music ain't just for the eggheads anymore. The band jumped in funky and sweet with a sound like no other; different, but not weird for the sake of being difficult or different. All in all a very cool set from a very cool, unique outfit Rochester can call its own. Neo Collage played to faces -- happy faces for the whole set.

So I should've said from the start of my Jazz Fest blogging that this is the first year I've gone to the thing with any sort of schedule in mind. Before, I would just kind of wander about and catch whatever free shows I could, mostly on weekends. Turns out, I didn't know what I was missing in the off-street venues.

Tonight, I stepped in to the Lutheran Reformation Church on North Chestnut, where Ygdrassil played for something like the fourth time in two days. There's an immediate sense of the sacred when a band plays on an altar (definitely more so than a street stage) and I can see why Tom Kohn, who introduced the band tonight, calls this his favorite 2008 venue. Kristian Blak started the set off with a bit of explanation about the name -- Ygrdassil is the world tree; it's a term you might remember from Nordic mythology -- and the idea behind it: the tree reaches up to heaven, and at the same time, down to hell, a comment on the cyclical nature of all things, how life turns to death and it all happens over and over again. Everything's broken down, then restored.

When the band began its first composition, a piece called "Ravnating," it was immediately obvious that breaking down and building back up again is how Ygdrassil's music works, too. Blak started hunched over inside the paino, plinking at strings, as the music built, ultimately providing a narrative for the images projected on a screen off to the side of the altar. Stark black and white landscapes and pictures of the bird that inspired the piece (the ominous raven) clipped by as the music swirled on.

I didn't look at the clock, but the first piece was probably 30 minutes long; I was enthralled the entire time. The array of horn and wind instruments were manipulated in such ways so that they ommitted sounds more akin to bird calls than traditional music. The bass player's fingers were like spiders chasing each other up and down the slim upright instrument. The guitarist started off a composition of his own with a simple, minimalist progression; when it was pierced by a lone siren from outside, the beauty of it all was only punctuated.

The last few songs were based on chants that, Blak explained, could last seven years at a time. This put the image in my head of being happily lost for the next seven years, stuck, Rip Van Winkle-like, in this church, listening to this beautiful music.

Day 4 of the festival was swingin' hard, yin-yang style. First on the docket was the David Liebman Quartet. Before the first note rang out, the audience knew that Liebman was a serious player as he joked about beginning to play while the sun was still up.  He honked and squealed on the sax so hard that the Montage was transformed (figuratively speaking, of course) into a smoke-filled, after-hours nightclub for his hour-long set. Vic Juris, Liebman's guitarist and longtime band-mate, tipped the scales of hip even further when he slid bluesy clusters of notes up and down the guitar neck, building the musical tensions in the room to their breaking point, then nailing the sweet spot that gave everyone's ears a chance to kick back and bask in a euphoric glow.

But the rest of the shows on my roster were a complete bust, the kind of disappointments that make you stand motionless as you re-run hypothetical "what could have been"s for an eternity every minute. Over at Max of Eastman Place, Sachal Vasandani sang one standard after the next that pushed just about every audience member into a musical coma. Every note he sang was overdrawn, unarticulated, and bland at best -- kind of the musical equivalent of staring at a lava lamp for hours in bright sunlight.  Needless to say, it was a shock to the system after Liebman's power hour.

After the rain outside subsided, Beaucoup Blue took its place back at the stage on Gibbs Street. It was smooth. It was pleasant. It was music that filled the air nicely while people made their way to the next show. But it wasn't memorable, groovin', or really my cup of tea. The music the band played certainly wasn't jazz; it was more a mixture of folk guitar strumming and choral vocal harmonies.

Not able to end on that note, I went to my old stand-by: Lou Donaldson. I'll leave that review to Ron Netsky and end by saying that Day 4 has shown me that the masters of their crafts (Liebman and Donaldson) have earned those titles for a reason. Perhaps some of their mojo will rub off on the musicians who still seemed to be discovering their voices at the festival today.

Next up: The Yellowjackets at Harro East Ballroom

Tenor sax legend Lou Donaldson strolled out cool and casual onto the Kilbourn stage in a black suit promising nothing but straight-up jazz. "No fusion, no confusion," he said. He and his quartet then launched into a sweet take on his 1957 "Blues Walk" where he let Akiko Tsuruga, the little lady behind the B3, swell, swirl, and swing. By the time they were into the second tune -- essentially a Charlie Parker piece, even though according to Donaldson, Bird stole it -- the guitarist was playing so fast he almost fell off his stool. At 81 Donaldson still exhibits incredible tone and seemingly effortless phrasing. He comes from the hard-bop school, and with this early set he proved to be its headmaster. Pure jazz with enough hairpin turns to keep it interesting, and a few straight-aways to lure the rookies.

It rained hammers and nails as I left the hall, and it looked like the night might be in jeopardy. By the time it began raining frogs I thought I might duck inside Christ Church just in case (OK, so maybe I'm a bit of an agnostic). I climbed right into the pulpit to dig up-and-coming saxophonist Miguel Zenon, whose flurry of notes sounded good up front but got a little lost as they soared and bounced off the marble and stone-faced icons. I was tempted to give an off-the-cuff sermon titled "Turbation and How I Became its Master," but exited the pulpit before my head caught on fire.

Caught a bit of Margaret Storms at Bernunzio's as she worked her dobro/ukulele hybrid. I swear her voice is getting more and more sultry by the minute.

Cindy Blackman plays drums the way drums oughta be played. It may not have always made sense, and I'll be goddamned if I could find the downbeat most of the time. But the joyous freedom with which she molested her kit seemed to make more sense than any 4/4 she ever beat for Lenny.

NYC's Todd Londigan crooned while they swooned in the Big Tent. Londigan sings in a temperate tenor and is genuinely charming. Unlike a lot of artists I admire and/or emulate, Londigan doesn't appear to have an evil bone in his body. He and his quintet worked beautiful standards like "No Moon At All" and "Until The Real Thing Comes Along" -- am I the only one picking up on a Big Joe pattern this year? -- and a handful of originals from the same cocktails-and-romance era. Londigan even revisited his street busker roots when he broke into an impromptu tap dance on the side of the stage.

Tonight I plan on seeing Jake Shimabukuro get freaky with the uke. See ya there.

Miguel Zenon is a great saxophonist, so it was frustrating to hear his band at Christ Church, where the acoustics (for jazz anyway) are nowhere near the acoustics of the Lutheran Church. Perhaps because it is a cavernous space, there was a strong echo that turned the full band sound to mush.

When excellent pianist Luis Perdomo played a solo, things were fine; there was not enough sonic competition to muddle things. And when Zenon played backed only by bassist Hans Glawischnig, or played alone, the sound was good and his solos were wonderful. Drummer Henry Cole was also strong, but the venue was hard on drums.

Of course, the ensemble didn't make things any easier by playing a composition that was going on 45 minutes when I finally gave up on hearing a second tune.

I also had to see Lou Donaldson, one of the greats on saxophone, at Kilbourn Hall. Donaldson is old school, from the days when a jazz musician was an entertainer. So he told jokes, sang a blues tune, and kidded his Japanese band members about coming from Alabama and Mississippi. It was corny but endearing coming from him.

Those band members, Fukushi Tainaka on drums and Akiko Tsuruga on the Hammond B3 organ, were quite incredible. Tainaka played most of the set keeping a steady inauspicious beat, but when called upon to solo he became Ginger Baker on steroids. Tsuruga played the organ like Jimmy Smith. Her technique was formidable, and she knew how to wring every ounce of emotion out of the instrument.

Guitarist Eric Johnson was also excellent, playing some Wes Montgomery-style solos and, at one point, going wireless and walking through the audience and even out of the hall while continuing to play a scorching blues solo. Like I said, they put on a show.

Of course, Donaldson was the best of all. He's got his history, dating from the 1950's, and he's still got his chops. It was great to hear his simple, catchy hits like "Blues Walk" and "Alligator Boogaloo," but Donaldson also played some challenging songs like "Cherokee" and "We" with an unmistakable flair.

And he was wonderfully opinionated, introducing his encore, "Bye Bye Blackbird," by saying, "This is a tune Miles Davis did when he was playing jazz."

Tuesday night I'll be back at the Eastman Theatre for Gillespiana, a tribute to jazz great Dizzy Gillispie. I'm also going to catch trombonist extraordinaire Slide Hampton.

The Yellowjackets show at Harro East Ballroom left me with no other option but to use an oxymoron of epic proportions: smooth jazz at its absolute finest. But it was smooth in the 1970's sense of the word, from before the term was hijacked by the folks who make elevator music, and long before uttering the phrase meant you were committing jazz sacrilege. Yellowjackets saxophonist Bob Mintzer even joked with the audience, saying what many were probably thinking: "This is swinging, but I don't know why."

Marcus Baylor beat grooves out of the drums that complemented the long, intricate phrases Mintzer and keyboardist Russell Ferrante played during their respective solos. The bass lines that Jimmy Haslip laid down never quite fell into that cool walking-style strut of the straight-ahead variety; his droplets of notes fell right into the pocket and pushed the groove way up into the stratosphere. Missing were the catchy blues riffs that typically get the hoots and hollers tumbling out of the saxophone. Instead you had four guys pushing rhythmic boundaries and somehow collectively finding a way to make it all gel together seamlessly.

It was far from the toe-tapping sounds that Lou Donaldson played the night before (this required a little more full-body sway to move to the tunes). But I guess when you add it all together, smooth jazz can swing as hard as it did Tuesday.

Next up: David Murray's Black Saint Quartet (Kilbourn Hall) and DJABE (Big Tent).

Smooth jazz is like corned beef hash; for some reason, I try it once a year to remind myself why I don't like it. So I stopped by the Harro East Ballroom where the Yellowjackets were already on stage. Yup, still don't like it.

Jake Shimabukuro made his ukulele sound like everything but a uke. He managed to squeeze guitar, banjo, mandolin, and harp tones out of the little thing as he shadowboxed around the stage with it. His arrangements were intricate and his technique flawless and impressive. It was amazing to watch, and his cover of the Beatles "In My Life" and Johnny Mathis' "Misty" were sweet. Shimabukuro was charming and humble. When he arrived at the Montage for his early show, he honestly didn't know the huge line that wrapped around the building was there to see him.

The show -- and the surprise -- of the night was the rootsy supergroup of Chuck Campell, Brian Williams, and Kinloch Nelson, who played to a packed Bernunzio's. This was the trio's first outing, which added a certain rawness you could reach out and touch.

It was chilly outside but it was even cooler in the Big Tent as Dr. Lonnie Smith pumped the hell out of his B3, just rocking with guitarist Mel Henderson and drummer Ulysses Owens. It was the second time that night I heard The Beatles in a jazz situation. Smith was animated as he invented chords on the spot. Henderson tore it up hot and fast, looking slick in his stingy brim. And Owens pounded the drums like something out of Greek mythology. Maybe that's why they call him Ulysses...

Trombonist Slide Hampton seemed troubled at the late show Tuesday night at Kilbourn Hall. Before he played a note, he said he was 76 and his technique wasn't what it used to be. He said there were probably young trombonists up front who would catch his mistakes.

Still, he made his way through J.J. Johnson's "Fatback" and had good tone on "Body And Soul." He then left the stage to the pianist, bassist, and drummer, who played an excellent version of "Old Devil Moon."

At the end of a somewhat choppy rendition of Antonio Carlos Jobim's "Corcovado" ("Quiet Nights"), a song he plays beautifully on his latest album, "Slide Plays Jobim," Hampton stepped up to the microphone.

"I should tell you," he said, "I had a mini-stroke last week. The doctor said I shouldn't come up here, but I told him I already committed myself. I'm doing what I can do."

The audience gave him a standing ovation.

He seemed somewhat energized by the response and went on to play two challenging up-tempo tunes -- Duke Ellington's "Caravan" and Herbie Hancock's "Chameleon" -- very well.

Hampton's band was extremely supportive throughout the concert. The pianist was especially brilliant on every solo he took. When the concert was over (after another standing ovation) I went to find out who the members of the band were.

Terry Burrell, the bassist, told me Jae Sinnett was on drums and Alan Farnham played piano. They are all members of Sinnett's quartet, who, along with saxophonist Steve Wilson, will be playing tomorrow night at Christ Church. None of them had ever played with Hampton before, but you would never have guessed it from their wonderful performance. 

Earlier in the evening I was at the Eastman Theatre for "Gillespiana," a tribute to jazz great Dizzy Gillespie. During the first set an 18-piece big band under the baton of Jeff Tyzik tackled "Gillespiana," a five-movement piece brilliantly arranged by Gillespie's pianist, Lalo Schifrin. Featured soloists Byron Stripling (trumpet) and Gerry Niewood (saxophone) and others punctuated the arrangements with one great solo after another.

The piece was excellent, but it didn't match the excitement of the two full-band pieces associated with Gillespie that were played after the intermission. The first was "Manteca," one of the most exhilarating big-band pieces ever written. The second (at the end of the show) was Gillespie's greatest composition, "A Night In Tunisia," featuring an extended ending by Stripling, who channeled Gillespie's incredible technique and sense of humor.

Between these two showstoppers, Gillespie's daughter, Jeanie Bryson, performed three songs that Gillespie sang during his (mostly) trumpet career. The best of them, done in a duet with Stripling, was the totally nonsensical "Ooh-Shoo-Be-Doo-Be."

Wednesday night my two top priorities are Rochester Jazz At The Philharmonic, with too many great players to name (including Slide Hampton), and Robi Botos, a sensational young Gypsy pianist. But after Tuesday night, I also hope to catch some of the Jae Sinnett Quartet.

DJABE pushed the boundaries between pop and jazz a little closer together with its show at the Big Tent Wednesday. The first tune had an electrified pop vibe to it, then suddenly broke down into a chanting call-and-response using what looked like short wooden pitchforks that were tuned to mimic the more familiar sounds of hand bells. And right through it all was John Nugent, the producer of the festival, blowing the sax and shaking Indonesian instruments around on stage. Nugent split after the one tune, and the band was right back to the original improvised pop music for a crowd that seemed to be digging every move, whistling, clapping, and shouting out howls of approval for the sounds they heard. DJABE was definitely mood music -- jazz for a warm, sunny day on a Caribbean Island.

I'm a bit more of the dingy, juke-joint kind of guy, where the backbeat of the drums and the organ grinder's swing help the single malt go down smoothly. David Murray's Black Saint Quartet was just the group to turn Kilbourn Hall into that setting --  if only for 85 minutes at a time. Murray doesn't play bop on the sax; he squeals and honks notes out of the horn that sound like the reverberations of a screaming soul. And the band pushes that to the Nth degree. The keys sustained the spacey-sounding chords that served as the backdrop for the solos, while the drums pushed the intensity up with hits on the snare. It was by far the most accessible sounding I've heard Murray play before, but it still had the intensity and urgency that I've grown accustomed to getting from him.

Next up: Devon Allman's Honeytribe (Harro East Ballroom), Tim Blane (High Fidelity), and Boz Scaggs (Eastman Theatre).

I began Wednesday night at the Rochester Jazz At The Philharmonic All-Star Jam Session where, every 10 or 15 minutes, the Eastman Theatre stage would be filled by a new configuration of top jazz players.

The great pianist Eric Reed would replace the great pianist Cedar Walton. Saxophonist Eric Alexander would move over for saxophonist Vince Herring. Sometimes trumpeters Nicholas Payton and Jeremy Pelt would share the stage. And the rhythm sections boasted drummers Louis Hayes and Kenny Washington and bassist Peter Washington.

I haven't even mentioned all the great people who occupied that stage, so why did it feel so sterile and contrived? Was it the corny slide show flashing designs above the bands? Or was it just that real jam sessions have a more organic flow to them?

The solos were fantastic, but there was something missing. Sometimes things take a while to heat up, and this show could very well have ignited after I left to catch the Jae Sinnett Quartet at Christ Church. I had seen three of the band members Tuesday with Slide Hampton and I knew that the forth, alto saxophonist Steve Wilson, was excellent from a previous festival appearance. The quartet features Terry Burrell on bass and Alan Farnham on piano.

These guys were smokin'. And the sound in the church, which I thought was hopeless Monday night, was much better. The band is led by the drummer, but there was hardly a drum solo. It was much more about Sinnett, a veteran of many great bands, putting his vision to work. His compositions were unfailingly compelling, not only because of their complex rhythms, but also because of their inventive harmonies.

And, of course, the members of the band were well chosen. Farnham is a brilliant pianist; Wilson is always at or near the top in the alto and soprano sax categories in jazz polls, and Burrell is as steady and fluid a bassist as any in jazz. The group sound was dynamic and every solo was a gem.

At the late show over at Max's, Robi Botos, a young Gypsy pianist, seemed to have absorbed the entire jazz piano canon in a very short time. He could jump from one style to the next in the blink of an eye. No phrase was wasted; every note had meaning. And Botos used the whole piano -- several times he reached into it to dull a note or strum a chord.

When I arrived at the Rochester Plaza, Bob Sneider was joined by Pelt, Alexander, (Kenny) Washington, and Peter Bernstein (guitar) They played a couple of tunes with soaring solos all around. Then RIJF Artistic Director John Nugent took the stage with his tenor sax and dueled for a while with Sneider. The too-small room was packed, and a lot of people were talking. But most were listening, and there were cheers after every great solo. Now that's what I call a jam session!

The other highlight of the after-hours show was an appearance by ukulele wunderkind Jake Shimabukuro. He joined Sneider for a beautiful rendition of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow," and an up-tempo romp that brought out a wonderfully frantic side of Sneider's playing that I hadn't seen before. Shimabukuro dazzled yet another crowd and guaranteed himself a place (in a bigger venue) at festivals to come.

Thursday night I'll be catching up on the latest musical adventures of home-grown vibraphonist Joe Locke. And Blake Tartare is an intriguing Canadian group that I'm curious about. 

The Wild Magnolias (a group of Mardi Gras Indians) had a chance to wow us with their colorful New Orleans spectacle -- and they blew it. I was excited to see them, as was a relatively full Harro East Ballroom crowd.

But it was like a scene out of "The Blues Brothers," but without Cab Calloway to bullshit and buy some time. Starting 15 minutes late, the backing band came up, tried feebly to hype us, and began to play some rather average funk. After about 10 minutes of this stall tactic, people began to get up and leave. I was pissed.

I got in my car and proceeded the wrong way down a one-way street. The cop who pulled me over asked, "Didn't you see the arrows?" "Arrows?" I said. "Hell, i didn't even see the Indians."

I used to hear hip musicians perform and wonder if it was something in the water that got their musical mojo working. But after seeing Devon Allman's Honeytribe play a set at Harro East Ballroom, I'm convinced it's in the genes (he's the son of the legendary Gregg Allman). The band played a set of classic rock that teetered on the edge of jazz, straight shuffles, and jam-band/fusion at times. But what really got me was his version of Bob Marley's "No Woman No Cry." Allman used the wah pedal with such wizardry that he practically talked through it when he played.

It was at the Tim Blane show at High Fidelity that I caught a double dose of two of my biggest pet peeves back to back. Here's a lesson for any young musician: when you let the announcer know you're ready to take the stage, please don't make him look like a fool by disappearing for five minutes to grab another Jack and Coke. And when you do decide to play, it's a bit tacky to let a sideman -- the keyboardist in this case -- text message throughout the gig. Other than that, though, the band did nothing that I couldn't hear from any number of local singer-songwriters kicking about in coffee shops around town.

Over at the Eastman Theatre I saw Boz Scaggs, a guy that just exuded cool from head to toe before he even sang his first note. Before the show started, he demanded the sponsor's signs be removed from the stage. The reason? "[He doesn't] work for M&T [Bank]." Once he marked the stage as his territory (thanks for understanding, M&T Bank), Scaggs sang some of the smoothest R&B tracks around, and laid down guitar riffs that were simple, and just seemed to fit where they needed to. Nothing was too flashy, but everything was drenched in soul and topped with a familiarity that a packed house seemed to find some solace in. It was toward the end of the set that Scaggs and one of the backup singers started trading lyrical lines back and forth to a standing ovation response from the audience. He was never shown up, but rather so comfortable on stage that he let all the sidemen have a turn at the spotlight during the night by taking a chorus or two to solo, and even let the backup singers step up to sing an entire song.

Next up: Soul Rebels Brass Band (High Fidelity) and Soulive (East Ave./Chestnut St. Stage).

Squeaks and skwonks can make an audience a little nervous, but in this case it was Blake Tartare putting it all together slowly for the Montage growd. See, Michael Blake and his band like to bask in the Sun Ra and mingle with the Mingus. Midway during the quartet's first song the group flirted with straight rhythms -- almost an alley-cat slink -- before dissolving into an almost lyrical abstraction. Had they done this loudly, it might have been grating. But their expert handling and curiosity made for some sweet colors and tones.

Tierney Sutton sat with her legs crossed as if it were story hour at Max of Eastman Place. And I guess it was in a way, with Irving Berlin standing in for the Brothers Grimm. Sutton is all placement and phrasing, and she makes it all sound so beautifully. She warbled and soared and scatted skyward while her band sparkled softly. I was particularly taken by the drummer's keen brush work.

With the Jazz Fest commandeering a lot of joints downtown, I've found myself in a lot more churches than I'd prefer. I honestly believe, however, that the music being played this week in these supposed houses of God is divine. Take Beate S. Lech, vocalist for Norway's Beady Belle. She's essentially a pop singer, but more in the vein of Kate Bush right around the time she started hanging out with Peter Gabriel. She sang with a sensuous slip of phrase at The Lutheran Church of the Reformation. It got me a little unglued. The guitarist was of the multi-tonal utility man variety, a la Sonny Landreth or Kevin Breit. And though Lech certainly isn't a nun, her dress was certainly habit forming. Amen.

It was clear from the start that Thursday night was a special one for vibraphonist Joe Locke. Before unleashing his Force of Four, Locke talked about growing up and hearing a lot of great music in Kilbourn Hall. But, he said, this was the first time he would play on its stage. He was genuinely thrilled to be there. Later he caught his hometown crowd up on what's new in his career.

"What better place to brag?," he said, and proceeded to talk about the many recording and touring projects he's involved in, and the fact that he was asked to join the faculty of the Royal Academy of Music in London. He was also excited about his new band and heaped praise on all of its members: Robert Rodriguez, piano; Ricardo Rodriguez (no relation), bass; and Jonathan Blake, drums.

And they were worthy of the praise. Pianist Rodriguez was another astounding keyboard artist in a festival that has been rich with them. The other Rodriguez is a superb bassist. Both contributed excellent tunes to the performance.

Blake is one of the finest drummers I've ever seen. He never played the obvious beat; instead he got inside the rhythm and played intricate patterns that drove every composition with an intensity and power reminiscent of Elvin Jones.

Locke is a great technical player, but, more importantly, he's a great emotional player. He gets so deeply into every solo that he seems to be under a spell. His dramatic moves are not just attempts to traverse the vibraphone; the flourishes are more about what the music means to him.

About halfway through the set, Locke, who talked a lot (and no one minded), provided some insight into his compositional process. He spoke of one song as a mini novella about a woman walking into a clothing store, and walking up to the counter with a sweater in her hand asking, "Is this available in blue?" "Somehow, asking that question, opens her up and she tells her story," said Locke.

The resulting song, "Available In Blue," was a psychological voyage that began quietly, grew quite turbulent and confused, and ended tranquilly. Locke's concert ended with a standing ovation.

The name Blake Tartare might have scared off the faint of heart, but they needn't have been worried. It's true, New York saxophonist Michael Blake could screech like Archie Shepp. And the Danish musicians in his band could get pretty wild too, with Soren Kjaergaard sweeping his hands maniacally over the keys of his piano and Wurlitzer organ, and Kresten Osgood playing drums with his elbow. (Bassist Jonas Westergaard looked so menacing, he didn't have to do anything weird.)

But the band was fantastic. They were loose and free, winning over the audience with their over-the-top style. They were also highly intelligent, superb musicians. Sure, there were the occasional avant-garde passages when all four band members seemed to be going in different directions, oblivious to each other, but these sections beautifully set off the more traditional passages. The set was full of head-nodding rhythms, and intriguing melodies and harmonies. Arrangements and solos were refreshingly imaginative and the band's performance drew cheers from a delirious Montage audience.

Friday night there is no question of competing acts for me; my top priority is the great Al Green. I'll also try to catch Music Music Music.

I stood outside the Montage with some fellow stragglers tonight, waiting for people to leave so that we could replace their body space with our own. Patience paid off, as we slowly worked our way into the bar area. Then there were ropes blocking off the main room. I could hear Carolyn Wonderland, but couldn't see her. I did catch tiny glimpses of red hair, and every once in awhile fingers sliding up and down a guitar (this through a sliver of space created by a red curtain and a balding man's head). A kind, tall stranger invited me to stand in front of him, to see a bit better; soon, we made it in, within actual eyesight of the stage.

And man, am I glad we did. This girl packs a punch like I couldn't believe. She embodies her songs fully. She throws her long hair around and belts out each word like it was her last. She was inside her song "Walk On" so completely, that when she traded instruments (namely, guitar for horn and back again) it came off as effortless. The crowd was pulled right in with her, stamping and clapping its appreciation.

Every time she thanked the audience -- and this happened a lot -- Wonderland's dimples showed, her grin almost sheepish as she said, "Thanks for taking a chance on us." It's the other way around, Ms. Wonderland. Thank god you play again Saturday, because this audience had a hard time letting go.

The Soul Rebels Brass Band opened its show at High Fidelity with a round robin of solos, where each of the players strutted his Big Easy vibe around the stage. The bass drum thumped out the low end with the help of the tuba (yes, a tuba) that played more like a lead instrument at times than a bass. Tight horn lines and smooth harmonies mixed nicely into the overall feel, which was loose enough to give the players plenty of wiggle room to reach and stretch for sounds during the improv parts. All of it boogied with the kind of soul you get from eating crawfish and gumbo every afternoon.

Soulive, which played later Friday night, really was exactly what a jam-band should be. The band members traded long melodic solos that packed a punch full of funk and groove, and they knew how to build a song by playing with the dynamics, tempo shifts, and including plenty of hooks. The audience that filled East Avenue to see the band perform dug what it heard, and the band fed off that energy and gave the listeners (and plenty of dancers) a large dose of back beat to shake their hips to. It was impressive to see that in the roughly eight years since tunes like "Steppin'" have been released, they've become something like new standards that people know instantly. Soulive started the night with that song, and the audience reacted much how I'd expect a 1950's jazz crowd would have to Miles Davis playing "Bye Bye Blackbird."  Simply put, the fans hung on every note -- even through the rain.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't truck with covers or cover bands. But the blues and jazz are different. There are writers in the blues and jazz realm whose songs' solid frameworks are the monkey bars from which musicians can swing. There is so much room to go nuts on tunes from the great American songbook, that an artist can discover and develop his or her own voice on the skeleton that is one of these classics. The problem is everybody's done it, and done it, and is still doing it. The pages of that songbook are getting tattered. It's time to give George & Ira, Jerry & Mike, Irving, Jerome, and Johnny a little break. It's time for some new royalty to be introduced and acknowledged. My nomination is Tom Waits.

As I said in the Jazz Fest program and in CITY's Jazz Fest special, tackling anything by Tom Waits is like wrestling an alligator: do it well and you've got a new pair of shoes; screw up and you're dead. It's a dangerous trip to a place so unique only one man lives there.

A few artists have tried it successfully, like Canadian chanteuse Holly Cole, and John Hammond. Some have tried for God-only-knows-what reason. Scarlet honey, you're beautiful baby, but lay off the Waits.

Which brings me to St. Petersburg, Russia's Billy's Band, the hand's down best act of the whole goddamned festival. I saw both sets and wish there had been a third

Looking like dirty little brothers that Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Zeppo left behind, or perhaps derelict vaudevillians, Billy's Band expertly covered Waits and performed its own stuff in that Tin Pan Alley, drunk-in-the-pulpit, Beat noir calamity Waits works in. Bassist and singer Billy Novik is clearly influenced by Waits, but honestly it was more than a mere pastiche. It was a brilliant interpretation -- bass, guitar, accordion, saxophone, and assorted shit that got beat on -- of the newest member in the great American songbook (if I have my way). Novik's between-song banter full of fractured English and wry with was charming as hell.        

With Sam Cooke and Philippe Wynne gone, Al Green is my favorite living male singer. And when he sang at his Eastman Theatre show Friday night he was wonderful. The problem was, he didn't sing enough.

He spent a lot of time pandering -- "Rochester!!! Rochester!!!" -- a lot of time giving out roses, and a lot of time preaching. When he did sing, he liked to leave whole, precious lines to the audience. People seemed to love it, but I came to hear him sing.

Highlights included "Let's Stay Together," "Here I Am (Come And Take Me)" and "Love And Happiness." But, if he had to preach, couldn't he at least have sung "Take Me To The River"?

In one nice little section of the show, Green performed brief versions of songs he said he loved. It was great to hear that amazing voice sing even a few lines of "My Girl," "Can't Help Myself," "Dock Of The Bay," "Bring It On Home To Me," and "Wonderful World."

His band, which included his daughter as a back-up singer and announcer of sorts, was as tight as they get. And Green's voice seemed as strong as ever. But a lot of people I spoke to afterward felt like they didn't get enough.

 By the time the Al Green show had ended, Frank De Blase had advised me not to miss the band playing at Max's. I had not planned to see them, but as John Nugent likes to say, "It's not who you know, it's who you don't know." So, why not?

A cross between the Marx Brothers and the Brothers Karamazov, Billy's Band is theater of the absurd with music. The four musicians strutted around the stage at Max's in thrift-store raincoats torn in many places. If they noticed people out the window, they turned around and played for them.

Vadim "Billy" Novik has a way with English in a droll, this-Russian-is-saying-things-he-doesn't-understand manner. But he is fully in control, playing bass and singing with a voice that, by turns, channels Louis Armstrong and Tom Waits.

Guitarist Andrey Ryzhik is the Harpo Marx of the group, seemingly in a purple haze that he can't shake. He can, however, shake the animal growing on the top of his head like crazy. (Don't worry, it's his hair.) Anton Matezius is an accordion wizard who also filled in on percussion and occasionally sang. And Mikhail Zhydkikh wailed beautifully on sax.

A typical song would start with Novik delivering a deadpan monologue while the others huddled behind him noodling around on their instruments. Before you knew it the song had started and the whole band was illustrating it with just the right coloration.

The entire set made me feel as if a band of wondrous vagabond musicians from the early 20th century had time-traveled to Max's. We all sat there and watched them in awe until they disappeared.

On the festival's final night, I'll be checking out the Barbara Dennerlein Duo and The Sliding Hammers.

I could hear the drums all the way down the street, but until we neared the East Ave/Chestnut stage, I couldn't have known they were being played by a raccoon-capped, gray-haired guy with sideburns the length of a normal person's (long) hair. They tell me his name is Fred, and Fred made the Kentucky Headhunters show for me. The band's Southern rock vibe came across real authentic anyway, and each song swung on its own accord, although I could've done without the power ballad rendition of "House of the Rising Sun." (Damn it, though; now that I'm thinking about it, I have to admit it did kind of rock.)

Also worthy of note: the abundance of love handles on stage, and all the gray hair blowing in the breeze. Though it was the last day of the Jazz Fest, the crowds were thick, and as we made our way through ‘em, Fred's drums echoed in our heads.

Maybe I'll dream about those sideburns tonight. See ‘em once, and I swear it's hard to get ‘em out of your mind.

What a long, strange trip it's been on this nine-day jazz binge. Anyone with a Club Pass has probably hit the wall of exhaustion, caught their second, third, and fourth winds, and seen some impressive acts at some of the most unexpected moments. What really sticks out for me (aside from the obvious -- seeing the legends like Boz Scaggs, David Liebman, Al Green, etc.) was the Craig Snyder Fusion Group, which played an early-bird special at the Reformation Lutheran Church on Day 7 (aka Thursday). It was odd-metered blues that never left the pocket. And seeing a guitar player with as much chops as Snyder is never a bad way to start a night of music. There was Wildbirds and Peacedrums on Day 5 -- a quirky duo that made the Reformation Lutheran Church tremble with an all-out flurry of powerful drum grooves. Add that to the revival-meeting vocals and it's enough to make me want the band's sermon every Sunday. And if any of you caught those four Ruskies of Billy's Band on Day 8, then I'm sure you understand my why I'm still speechless about it.

Day 9 was nothing short of a great street party happening along East Avenue. Joe Bonamassa bent the hell out of his six strings as he ripped apart one blues tune after the next. The smell of cheap beer on the pavement, the sound of the gritty blues, and a few thousand Rochesterians crammed into every inch of street space is exactly what a festival should be.

And it only got bigger when Medeski Martin & Wood took to the stage an hour later. The band played spacier harmonies than many of its jam-band counterparts, and no one minded. The band brought the groove to the breaking point, then stretched it out a little more just for fun. The whole show was packed with drumbeats to make you move, and trippy organ chords that sparked quite a bit of self-medication amongst the fans. The band stunned me (and gained even more respect from the audience) when it had Chuck Campbell sit in on the pedal steel guitar. The rendition of Hendrix's "Hey Joe" cast a spell over the concert-goers. It was a non-stop jam that had the sea of people making hip-shaking waves for nearly two hours.

Next up: Plenty of rest and a trip to the Bop Shop to see how the albums stack up against the live shows.

As I stumbled to the car in the Harro East parking lot, I could hear The Kentucky Headhunters' loud version of "Come And Get Your Love." It was a nice cap to a long week of jazz. I love jazz, don't get me wrong, but for the next month or so it's gonna be nothing but Motorhead, The Ramones, The Veins, and maybe even some Jesus Lizard.

So as promised, my Jazz Fest Beat blog. I know it ain't no haiku, but well, here it is. I hope you like it.

Last night of the dance

last call, last chance

it was curtains

for certain

on this nine-day jazz romance

I won't mention 'em all

My attention's too small

But here's the best

Better than the rest

Man, did I have a ball

Little Frank was swank

Take that to the bank

He sang the blues

Righteously filled daddy's shoes

And sang better than ol' blue-eyed Frank

Ben Riley beat

A piano-less treat

Blessed by Thelonious

Or t'would've been felonious

We flat-out bopped in our seats

The soul in her voice

Had no choice

McKay had such feeling

Left the joint reeling

Rocking, and raving "rejoice"

Downchild

Brought it down, child

A twin harp attack

Listen up, Jack

Them Canucks drove the kids wild

Classic full stop

Lou Donaldson's bop

It swung

And it rung

81 and still got chops

Jake

For Christ's sake

Montage went juke

By man and his uke

A blur of digits on the make

Billy's Band won the race

Set next year's pace

Won place and show, man

Tom Waits for no man

God, they just rocked the place

It was Wonderland for me

Played "Still Alive and Well," you see

Got a thing for redheads

Not for deadheads

So this was the place to be

Thank you, goodnight. Elvis has left the bathroom.

The end of the Jazz Festival is not easy. Nine days is a long enough time for a routine to begin to set in. I know I will have to stop myself from thinking about when I should leave for downtown several times tomorrow.

Saturday night was about savoring what was left of the festival. I began at Max's with the Barbara Dennerlein Duo. Dennerlein was the second superb female Hammond B3 organist at this year's RIJF (the first was Lou Donaldson's organist, Akiko Tsuruga.) There's no reason there shouldn't be as many women as men on the instrument, but there are few, so it was great to hear these two.

Scott Neumann was a strong match for Dennerlein on drums, following her every move, in terms of dynamics. And there are few instruments as dynamic as the Hammond B3. When she played an evocative piece like "A Summer Day," Dennerlein was able to conjure up the atmosphere of the season, including, it seemed, a storm.

Early in her set she did something decidedly different: a bass solo with her feet. Dennerlein was showing off an unusual aspect of her organ, bass pedals programmed with samples from an actual contrabass. The tone was beautiful, if a bit strange coming from an organ.

The Lutheran Church was my next stop; I had to get a dose of The Sliding Hammers. The two trombone-playing sisters are both excellent soloists, but I liked them best when they were playing off each other.

My favorite of their tunes was Karin Hammer's energetic "High Altitude Delivery," but the group also played some wonderful covers. I've heard The Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby" done as a jazz instrumental before, but I was impressed by Mimmi Hammer's ability to sing it as a jazz tune.

The Hammers' veteran drummer Ronnie Gardiner appeared at first to be laid back. But when he finally played a solo, he had more dexterity and power than many of the festival's drummers half his age.

I stopped into Christ Church to catch a bit of The Union Trio. After a couple of jazz tunes revealing yet another formidable pianist, John Escreet (I can't believe how many great ones I've seen this year), the trio threw the audience a curve, playing a theme from the Adagio of Mahler's Ninth Symphony. It was lovely, but then it was back to the break-neck pace of jazz.

I ended the evening at Kilbourn Hall, where I spoke to a very happy John Nugent before hearing Catherine Russell.

To say Russell has style would be a great understatement; she exudes personality. Russell is one of those singers who acts her songs through facial expressions, body language, and vocal inflection. So when she performed "I'm Lazy, That's All" she got the kind of laughs a strong actress would on Broadway. She even found a way to make the blues funny with "My Man's An Undertaker."

Even though this year's headliners may not have compared to those of past years (for me), it was a great festival. I came away exhilarated every night, from Al Foster, Joe Locke, Dee Dee Bridgewater, Billy's Band, Timo Lassy, and so many more. Jazz legends and newcomers, Americans, Scandinavians, Russians, Japanese; who could ask for more?

Miss out on the Jazz Fest action? Click here to check out City's 2008 RIJF video.

It's kind of hard to say Meddlesome three times fast. It's easy, however, to get into the music this local band makes. The Meddlesome Meddlesome Meddlesome Bells refers to their sound as "apocalyptic folk-metal," and though I'll be damned if I could've come up with that term, it proves to be a pretty good descriptor.

Mouths open wide, the three members were singing together when we walked in to check them out last night at the Bug Jar. Some tiny mishaps (some feedback from the vicinity of the bass drum; an out-of-tune guitar; a rocky start to one song) only made me like the Meddlesome Bells more: they took it all in stride. When the guitarist's strap came undone, Brian Blatt hopped up from his seat on the floor and helpfully re-attached it.

Though the attitude on stage was mostly focused, it was also fun. Kerrin Pantelakis's arms-flailing, drumming style made me think of her as a bird working out her aggression in an attempt to take flight, and when she gave her spot at the drums over to the bass player, and grabbed a washboard to accompany her singing, the whole folk-metal thing was fully realized.

Ian Downey is Famous is a trio I cannot believe I haven't seen before. Up till now, I've known Downey mostly as record-store-guy and for his antics with The Bloody Noes. But he impressed the hell out of me last night, both with his emphatic singing (sometimes with eyes closed) and with his unexpected (almost odd, in a good way) guitar solos.

I was in need of a good drum fix, though, and last night, between the Bell's Kerrin, and Ian Downey's Darren DeWispelare (rhyming drummer names!), I was in bliss 'round midnight.

Chris Beard played his first show in Rochester in nearly three years Thursday at the Riverside Festival Site (corner of Court Street and Exchange Boulevard) as part of the city's Party in the Park concert series. His homecoming (of sorts) was welcomed warmly, and Beard appeared humbled as he shuffled through an hour of solidly performed blues for a crowd that swelled in size throughout the night.

Toward the end of his set, Beard credited his father, blues guitarist Joe Beard, by saying, "he taught me everything I know, but not everything he knows." And it was evident that the younger Bear still has a few tricks of the trade to master. He didn't nail every note he stretched for, but he did stretch for notes, which let him create some remarkable musical moments. He also worked the dynamics all night by bringing the solos down to a whisper, then screaming a bent note or two as the drums snapped back into solid time.

When Chris Duarte started his set to cap off the night, he shook and rattled his way around the stage both literally and figuratively. With plenty of animated facial expressions to go alongside his frantic lead lines on the guitar, Duarte bent traditional blues solos and went on small tangents where he danced around altered notes while the band maintained the blues foundation. It was in the same vein as a performance Stevie Ray Vaughn might have given. Duarte shook every ounce of soul out of his guitar and sang a night of raspy lyrics about big-legged women and other blues staples.

Next Party in the Park concert: Thursday, July 3, The Joe Beard Blues Explosion, John Cole Blues Band, and Steve Grills.