Wayne shorts out

But Nat, Ray, and the second stage light it up

by Jon Garelick

Natalie Cole

"This might not be jazz, but it sure is fun,î said Natalie Cole from the mainstage of the JVC Jazz FestivalñNewport last Sunday, the ?nal day of the weekend-long event. Usually the sun and sailboats on Narragansett Bay and the span of the Newport Bridge in the distance all work with the music at Fort Adams State Park, and anyone who cherishes the sea will tell you that fog and drizzle donít hurt. Sunday was damp and foggy, with on-and-off showers. But itís the festival itself that seemed determined to do real damage to the ambiance ó selling a four-car Mercedes-Benz tent that cut off one angle to the ocean and something called ìThe Classic Guest Houseî that blocked another. No matter, the event, with 8100 tickets sold, was only a few hundred short of a sellout. For the hardcore, there was jazz as well as fun to be had, the big event being the regional debut of venerated saxophonist Wayne Shorterís new supergroup. For the crossover pop crowd, Cole and Ray Charles were the big draws, with the comeback of í70s pop-jazz superstar Chuck Mangione as a lagniappe. I counted myself with the hardcore jazzheads, skipping Mangione and much of the sets by Cole and Ray so I could stick close by the second stage, hoping to get my fun from New Orleans gumbo jazz band Los Hombres Calientes, the Uri Caine Trio, guitarist James Blood Ulmer, and David S.nchezís Melaza Sextet. And taking a detour from jam guys the Slip to go back to the main stage for Wayne.

Whatís with Shorter? A couple of years ago he was sublime at Newport in his touring duo with old Miles Davis bandmate Herbie Hancock. But heís always been an elusive cat. His reticence in his own band, Weather Report (which he leads with Joe Zawinul), led drummer Jack DeJohnette to write a tune about it: ìWhere or Wayne?î And his albums appear infrequently. Iíd read reports from the current tour that the new line-up was intriguing but that Wayne was laying out a lot. I brushed it off ó how bad could it be? But that was until I didnít hear Wayne with my own ears on Sunday.

With all the heavy shit being at the second stage (the ìMercedes Pavilionî), that left Wayne to hold the Fort, to make the case for ìreal jazzî at the adult table. He came out and blasted a couple of hard, loud notes on his tenor, as if to test the sound. Then he repeated them. Bassist John Patitucci picked up the interval, and soon everyone was in gear, cycling through loose tempos and melodic fragments sputtered out by Shorter and echoed by pianist Danilo PÈrez. Gradually, Shorterís old Davis band tune ìSanctuaryî emerged, followed by another Shorter chestnut, ìGo.î But most of the tunes in the set never came together. PÈrez and the rhythm section (with drummer Brian Blade) limned the pieces, but there was no center. Except for a few robust seconds here and there, Shorterís tenor sounded thin. When he actually worked up a head of steam on soprano, he roused some cheers from the audience. A photographer whoíd been in the pit told me later that heíd found the set intense, Blade especially. But whatever was happening up there on stage wasnít enough to project to my center seats 30 yards out. And this from a man whoís been playing in star ensembles in front of festival audiences for more than 30 years. Where or Wayne indeed.

The Mercedes Pavilion around the corner, close by the Fort wall, was a different story. The tent roof covered 200 chairs, with plenty of standing room for a few hundred more. Los Hombres Calientes had no trouble commanding the space; they deserve a shot at the big stage. The New Orleansñbased crew boasted music of ì?ve countriesî: Brazil, the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, Cuba . . . and New Orleans.

Fine by me ó Iíve always considered New Orleans another country. But the important thing is that the Hombres projected ó better than they do on record. Co-leader/percussionist Bill Summers is a veteran of Herbie Hancockís Headhunters band, so he knows a thing or two about pleasing big crossover jazz crowds. And trumpeter Irvin May?eld is a young pyro-wizard in the Wynton mold. When I arrived, he was getting the crowd to roar at his comic antics (big slurs and moans) but also at his musicality ó tastefully deployed speedy runs, high notes, leaps through the registers. And the bandís taste for Afro-Latin rhythms holds a crowd that might not otherwise go for jazz.

Pianist Uri Caine is best known these days as an eclectic specialist ó playing with Don Byronís various bands and fronting his own unclassi?able chamber-jazz projects covering the likes of Wagner, Mahler, Schumann, and Bach. So it was different to see him in a straightforward piano trio (with bassist Drew Gress and drummer Ben Porowsky). He began with an improvised blues that segued into ì íRound Midnight,î an original called ìLoose Tradeî (an uptempo spiky line with drum breaks followed by an ostinato groove and big chordal melody), ìAll the Way,î Monkís ìWe See,î and a couple more originals. Caineís music was intense and insular, but his bandís simp.tico moves and sure swing passages drew the crowd in for a strong ovation.

Electric-guitarist Blood Ulmer came out with Ornette Colemanís band in the late í70s, was a brief cause cÈlËbre, all but disappeared for a while, and then made his slow comeback fronting blues trios and singing. At Newport, he wore a long ?owing tie-dyed coat of green, turquoise, pink, and white over a white T-shirt and black pants. He also wore glasses, a beard, and long dreds. Having heard his free-jazz incarnation more than two decades ago, I found the new trio tame. His bassist played capable, standard funk, and his drummer played tight backbeats. But they did take off once in a while, and occasionally Blood sat down and really played, ripping out his jagged, broken chords in completely unpredictable cadences with their big silver ring in the upper register.

Still, I wanted more. And when I emerged from the Fort to catch a snack and Natalie Cole, there it was: the sort-of star singing ìUnforgettableî (still!) with her embalmed-on-tape dad. But once that maudlin bit was over, Cole belted out hits: ìMr. Melody,î ìThis Will Be,î and an encore of ìPink Cadillac.î She wore a tight white top and tight black pants, hit all the high notes, and shook her booty while her 32-piece band roared. Ah, show biz!

Meanwhile, back at the second stage, tenor-saxophonist S.nchez was having serious fun with his band Melaza. S.nchez works pearly Coltrane-like arpeggios up and down his shiny nickel-plated horn, but he mixes it up in counterline passages with the alto-saxophonist Miguel ZenÛn, in time-shifting, multi-part compositions, and with a crackling rhythm section. S.nchez wore a backwards baseball cap, black T-shirt and baggy black pants, and an open lime-rickey short-sleeve shirt. In the ?nal number, the band nearly got turned around on a driving jam. Acknowledging the applause, S.nchez laughed, broke into a huge, grin and told the crowd, ìMan, we got lost. Iím not going to lie to you. Sometimes you get lost, you know?î We knew and were grateful.

That left only a few minutes for Ray Charles, whose sense of pitch on Sunday made for real adventure, sometimes bending up into one of those uncanny, crying notes that hit the octave dead-on, other times sailing way wide of the mark. But when he sang, ìThere were birds in the sky/And I never heard them winging,î it went right to the heart ó and it didnít matter whether it was pop or jazz.