Yowza, yowza, yowza... Whatta mob, whatta crowd, whatta scene, whatta show. I popped some Benzedrine in the Ovaltine and was feelin' live for Day No. 5. Took a deep breath and shifted my ADD into low gear 'cause there were three artists I simply had to see, and that meant a little more staying put than I'm used to.

I was particularly excited about hearing Holly Cole at the Harro East Ballroom. I'd been a fan for years and we got along well when I interviewed her. Incidentally, that interview that ran in last week's City was whittled down from an hour-long phone conversation.

I couldn't have asked for a better set. Cole strolled out with maximum moxie in a sharp, sharp suit and tie after kicking off Tom Waits' "Invitation To The Blues" from the wings. In fact, she pulled a pile of stuff from her "Temptation" bag. Stylistically this chick is amazing. With an underlying impish glee, and what could possibly be a troublesome streak, Cole worked her way around the music with mucho flex and sex appeal. No matter what the tune, it had bedroom eyes and dubious intentions. Cole's band was hipster hot and cool, especially when broken down to just a box lid with brushes and the doghouse. The whole damn show was nocturnal sophistication in spite of the afternoon sun screaming through the windows. Cool ain't the word, Jack.

Last year's Jazz Fest darling Jake Shimabukuro is genuinely humble and gracious. The cat could stand to brag a little as he turned his ukulele inside out at the Eastman Theatre last night. His tales of Shirley Temples and unleaded gasoline were charming and funny. You couldn't help but love the guy. But for a nice guy he attacks his instrument viciously and voraciously, emitting thunderous bumps and percussive chops from its poor little body. I swear I saw smoke. Outside the perceived novelty of the uke --- he pointed out that he enjoyed the fact that people had such low expectations when they first see the instrument ---his compositions were breathtaking. He touched upon metal and bluegrass and ended with the song that put him on the YouTube map, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."

Last year, Carolyn Wonderland's guitar didn't do anything gently. She played the outdoor stage and kicked everybody's ass. Her tone was raw and loud and she sang her face off. This time around Wonderland seemed a little subdued. Perhaps it was the Eastman Theatre setting --- people sitting down as opposed to standing up, nursing ice-cold longnecks. She still played amazingly with zeal and the kind of American gutbucket tone you can only get from tweed and tubes.