In like a lion, out like a soggy lamb. The 2009 RIJF went damply into its good night. I was amped to do things as I had in years past; bombard my brain with as many artists, styles, and variations as I could, starting off with Joe Lovano. Hell, I could've stopped there. The man was all over the map.

Maybe it's his body language, but Lovano's phrasing makes sense to me via his bumps and gestures. His tone was breathy and warm and he strode the Kilbourn stage with immeasurable cool. And what I love about tunes that rely heavily on improv is what I like to call the bullshit litmus test. One guy can choose to blow his own path to the moon, but when two do it the same way, there's clearly something behind it. It's not that I'm a doubter, I'm just amazed when I hear it. Like when Lovano's wife, Judi Sivano, intoned her scat in and around her hubby's be-bops and forays, knowing where he was going to go. Other wives should be so lucky.

Swam over to Max to hear Columbian chanteuse Marta Gomez sing gentle and sweet. Her voice was passionate and strong, yet she seemed so delicate within her band's pop twist on a plethora of Latin rhythms.

Amidst a sea of umbrellas I caught some of Dwayne Dopsie and the Zydeco Hellraisers. This band was quite loud and a little more rock ‘n' roll than most zydeco outfits. And Dopsie's squeezebox tone sounded like a freight train. In fact, I was scouring the stage looking for the B3.

The fine Finns in Delirium came off a little less delirious than on their record. I caught the last song of the band's set as the soprano sax fluttered and soared clearing out all of Christ Church's cobwebs and the ones in me head.

Back to the Big Tent for A Manhattan Affair with Mike Catalano, but it was way too smooth, so I schlepped all the way down to the East and Alexander stage to dig the remnants of one of my favorite bands, The Fabulous Thunderbirds. Frontman Kim Wilson is the only original member left. He's kind of turning into the American John Mayall, where so many blues musicians earn their bones before moving on. The Thunderbird repertoire is awesome and Wilson is an incredible harp player --- one of the few who has mastered circular breathing --- but I long for his greasier days of Vaughn, Ferguson, and Christina.

Back downtown, it was impossible to see Buckwheat Zydeco through the forest of golf course-sized umbrellas, but his rapid-fire slither and bop sounded great. And just like that, the best nine days in Rochester music were over. I could still stand a little more. Howsabout you?