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Jazz Fest Diary, Days Eight & Nine

Day Eight

• Jacob Anderskov Trio
• Bob Sneider Trio Jam Session

I missed the early shows because I had to pick Kari up from the airport, and by the time I got downtown at around 9PM, there was no parking to be found. This was bewildering to me as it was raining cats and dogs, but it was definitely a good sign for the jazz festival. I was told later that the Eastman Theater was packed for the Madeleine Peyroux/Chris Botti show.

After trudging through the rain from my half-mile-away parking space, I met up with Seth and we headed over to Montage to get a seat and eat some wings before the Jacob Anderskov Trio came onstage. Maybe the rain had soured my mood, or maybe my attention was starting to flag after a week full of jazz, but I couldn't stick with Anderskov through a full set. This is not meant as a pejorative, but his music was just too "experimental" to me. There was nothing I could latch on to in the free-ranging improvisations and continuously shifting rhythm.

So we took off, which was fine by me, since it gave me a chance to get to the Crowne Plaza in time to get a seat at the bar for the nightly jam session. As an aside, I can't emphasize enough the importance of actually getting a seat in any of the venues. Almost every show I attended was standing-room-only and the nightly jam session was no exception. The place was regularly packed with those waiting to see which of the day's performers will show up to sit in with the band. Meanwhile, this anticipation is fed by the regular stream of hopeful musicians lurking about with their instruments hoping to get a chance to play.

Day Nine

• John Scofield Band
• Lumiere
• Dave Pietro & Banda Brazil
• Derek Trucks Band
• Bob Sneider Trio Jam Session

Even though I got in line almost forty minutes early, I was forced to sit in the very back row of Kilbourn Hall. No matter. John Scofield rocked the house with tunes old and new. With just bass and drums backing him up, Scofield was best when he got just a touch funky, although his rendition of Ray Charles' "You Don't Know Me" was truly beautiful. Although he played a fairly short set, I didn't really mind; the seats in the otherwise lavishly furnished Kilbourn Hall were apparently designed for a Depression-era public. I had to seat myself one cheek at a time as the armrests didn't provide enough clearance for my not-really-all-that-ample hips. An aisle seat is really only a minor improvement.

I stretched my legs by heading over to the outdoor stage on Gibbs St., where the French-bistro ambiance provided by Lumière was betrayed by the pulled pork BBQ sandwich I consumed (only one sloppy drip landed on my linen trousers, a clear indication that I did not apply enough BBQ sauce). After admiring the bass, gypsy guitar, and accordion (a well-played accordion is beautiful, a poorly-played accordion is obnoxious) of the locally-based group, I sauntered over to the festival tent trying to beat the crowd to the 8:30 show.

On occasion a front man is overshadowed by his backup band. At first, I thought that this was the case with Dave Pietro and Banda Brazil. I felt that the band was stifled by Pietro's somewhat stiff playing, only displaying some fine prowess during the solos. But then in the middle of one of his solos, Pietro seemed to loosen up, finally settling into the backup band's groove. Just as things started swinging, I took off to continue my final night's whirlwind tour over on the second free outdoor stage.

Bypassing the crowd lingering around Lumière's stage, I cut down Chesnut and landed smack in the middle of the crowd gathering for Derek Trucks. And this was one of the most interesting sights of the festival. All week, I had taken note of the jazz fan uniform. Yes, there was the occasional Primus t-shirt or bowling shirt among the crowd, but for the most part, jazz concert-goers prefer an ensemble of polo shirt or floral Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes with occasional addition of a baseball cap, panama hat, straw porkpie, or backwards-facing "beret" (more accurately known as a touring or driver's cap).

Other regular festival-goers easily identified by attire (and the ubiquitous jazz pass badge dangling from their necks) were spread around the edges of the crowd, the core of which consisted mainly of typically funky (in terms of dress and odor), ragtag, and relaxed jam band fans. Trucks' other gig is playing slide guitar for the Allman Brothers and his more regular fans turned out in force for the free weekend show. So I dove deep into the crowd, tropical shirt and all, and had a blast bouncing to the band's bluesy rhythm. At one point, Trucks tipped his hat to the jazz fans with a smoking rendition of "My Favorite Things," then it was right back to the funky, pulsing, blues.

As much fun as Trucks was, I figured that I should finish the week at the jam session, so I split early hoping to get a good seat at the Crowne Plaza. It must be becoming clear that the Jazz Fest is really just a search for good seats from venue to venue, but alas, I was too late. I arrived while the band was in their first song, and there were no seats to be had. But I made do, finding a good place to stand and soaking up the last few notes of the festival.

The highlight of the session occurred before any other guests had been called up on stage. Playing one of his favorite Kenny Dorham tunes, "Asiatic Rays," the band offered a tribute to their friend and local jazz musician Bob Stata, who passed away last Tuesday.

I can't think of a more touching way to end the week.