Friday was a great night for female vocalists at the XRIJF. The longest lines may have been for Jane Monheit at Kilbourn Hall, but I heard two other great singers. Gwyneth Herbert is an anomaly at the festival, a pop singer/songwriter who kind of harkens back to the 1960's. I mean that in the best possible way, because she seemed to me to be a cross between Petula Clark and Sandy Denny. She had the big voice of both, the pop sensibility of Clark and the timeless lyrics of Denny.

Her voice was quite an instrument. It could be incredibly subtle or soar to the rafters. Her accompaniment was nicely spare, consisting of a guitarist and a bassist. She apologized for not having the advertised quartet with her, but she needn't have; these guys were just right. And in Christ Church less is definitely more.

If singing was a strength, so was her songwriting. Sure, she wrote about contemporary subjects, women taking advantage of men, men taking advantage of women. But some of the most intriguing songs were based on historic events. One of the finest told the (possibly apocryphal) story of Welsh women who cleverly fooled invading troops during the Napoleonic Wars using undergarments (you have to hear it).

One of the recurring ideas that comes up now and then among European acts playing the festival is the image of America from afar. Some of the jazz acts have vividly pictured a jazz world of smoky clubs and slinky characters that hasn't really existed for decades. Herbert's America (in one of her songs, at least) is a vision of the road, formed by Jack Kerouac, movies like "Easy Rider," etc. Her guitarist conjured it up nicely with slide guitar and her singing suddenly leaned more toward Tracy Nelson.

When the set was over the crowd applauded enthusiastically but about half the people left while the group huddled a bit on stage. Those who stayed were treated to the best experience of the night. The three musicians came out into the audience. And while the two men stayed and played where they were, Herbert walked slowly through the audience, engaging each person she passed, and sang one of the most beautiful, ethereal songs I have ever heard.

The good news is you haven't missed her. Herbert plays two sets Saturday night at Max at Eastman Place.

The second singer I heard Friday was Joyce at Max at Eastman Place. She had one of the strangest-looking guitars I've ever seen: a thin black bar in the shape of a guitar and a piece of wood for a neck that ran down the middle. But the tuning pegs were on the wrong end. Maybe they do everything opposite on the bottom half of the world.

Anyway, after decades of being in love with Astrud Gilberto, it was great to hear a real Brazilian singer with deep roots in that wonderful world. We are used to hearing songs by the great Antonio Carlos Jobim and Joyce sang a couple of them. But she went deeper, singing songs by other great Brazilian songwriters and some fine originals. Her band was perfectly understated most of the time, but when they let loose during, say, a piano solo, they really took off.

Saturday I'll be checking out two great saxophonists, Scott Hamilton and Harry Allen at Kilbourn Hall. Then I'll head over to Christ Church to hear Dennis Rollins Velocity Trio.