Jazz and Peach Cobbler

Among the mutually insane schedules everyone I know is keeping these days, some good friends congregated from their various points of origin for one night and day of some of the best Jazz being played anywhere. The Monterey Jazz Festival is an annual event of epic musical proportions; one I've heard about almost every year since I was 11 but had never been to. At Katrina's kind invitation, an auspicious surplus of grounds passes, and an agreement that I would eat as much Peach Cobbler as was sent my way, I was able to attend this years festival.

The drive down the peninsula was gorgeous, anyone who was outside in Northern California that weekend will agree that it was some of the finest weather all year. I spent Friday hanging out with my sister at her digs in Santa Cruz, which was awesome. Then after a tasty breakfast I jumped in the little red convertible and shot down the 1 to Monterey. Everyone else was just ponying up to go over when I got there and I hastily dumped my stuff and joined them.

The first act we saw was a young guy named Matthew Bourne, a Brit with a very -- interesting musical style. I wish his website had some links to some of his music because there really is no good way to verbally explain it. What he does is blend the use of a sampler and his piano, looping selected portions of film, books on tape, music from Pinocchio and others as a source for the 'sample' that he then dissects on the piano. In effect he reduces the sample to it's emotional touchstones and then riffs on that, sometimes going to the extreme mellow, sometimes to the extreme outrageous. It was a disturbing and uncomfortable performance to sit through, which we in fact did not, but it was also a glimpse at one musician's take on the true essence of what Jazz is about. I requested a copy of his demo/promo CD from the website and hopefully that'll lend itself to these scant words.

Walking out of that, Katrina and I re-joined Alex and Vanessa outside and saw some killer Blues being laid out. As one of my witty companions put it, "After listening to that even Britney Spears would sound sweet." The day held yet more pleasures. We sat in on a fascinating talk with Branford Marsalis about the condition of the Jazz world, the relationships between established musicians and the young up-and-comers, and the relationship between Jazz and the ever-present commercial consumerism. The man had some wonderful things to say, and some moving things to share, and some things that he just wasn't at all hesitant to get off his chest.

Dinner was also an affair to remember. I think we spent almost as much time trying to decide what to eat as we did taking in all the jazz. There were just too many good choices. And the cobbler, oh the cobbler. It was a heads-up comparison between two competing booths. One had great cobbler and the other had great ice cream. I was STUFFED.

Back to the music. We saw The Army Blues, Mavis Staples, the Miguel Zenon Quartet, The John Scofield Band and more. Katrina and I were able to snag two single seats in a full house for the first set with Joey Calderazzo and his trio, bassist Eric Revis and drummer Jeff 'Tain' Watts, both of whom play in Branford's quartet along with Joey. It was a moving performance. Midway through Joey called their friend and colleague, the jazz musician Michael Brecker, at his hospital room back east where he is awaiting a bone marrow procedure (info here). He had told him he wanted to play a song he wrote for him to his Voicemail and that, so he wouldn't disturb him because of the time difference, he should leave his phone off. Except that Michael answered the phone and surprised Joey. They talked for a few moments before he set the phone down on the piano and they played one of the most beautiful straight-ahead jazz compositions I've heard in awhile. It was short, simple and very, very deep.

After that Vanessa and I hustled over to the arena where we did a little arena pass switcheroo with Warren so we could catch the last twenty minutes of (drum roll please) TONY BENNETT. Holy cow. What a showman, what pipes that man has. The last of the truly great big band voices and he was fantastic. I could have gone home happy right then. Instead we accosted a couple of early departees for their arena passes (right in front of Clint Eastwood I might add), and then, since we could all go in now, watched Mavis Staples sing her lungs out with the John Scofield Band, and then we wandered home.

Back at the motel, wine was drunk, cheese and fruit consumed, and laughs were had. I woke up bright and early and had to wait until 9a for the spa to open, then I spent a very relaxing hour reading and cooking myself in the hot tub and the sauna.

Mmmmmm.