It’s a refreshingly subdued experience to be out of the country – and especially out of Philly – on July 4. The only acknowledgment that it was Independence Day came from a top hat-clad, acoustic guitar-strumming busker in the most touristy stretch of Old Montreal, who wished American visitors (who probably outnumbered Canadian natives in the outdoor cafes along this cobblestoned stretch) a happy Fourth after finishing a rendition of “Dream On.”
Not exactly a musical highlight of the week, though my first show of the evening was – the first installment of Joshua Redman’s “Invitation” series, for which he was accompanied by Aaron Parks, Matt Penman and Eric Harland.
This was, essentially, Redman enlisting the group that recorded Parks’ Invisible Cinema CD, with the saxophonist subbing himself for guitarist Mike Moreno, performing much of the same material. The contrast was intriguing – Parks’ tunes and playing are marked by cool, moody shades, cerebral introspection, where Redman is more attuned to groove and exuberant expression. It’s a simplistic reduction of the two, but points to how the performance transformed the music.
Invisible Cinema is, in a sense, a jazz take on an indie rock album, full of controlled intensity. Throughout the evening, Redman tuned in to that intensity but responded on a more gut level – it was surprising to see Redman cueing Parks to vamp on “Peaceful Warrior”, inspired to wail on its Radiohead-meets-Metheny theme. The show was full of such juxtapositions of gut and head, lyrical beauty and boisterous vitality.
On the same stage a few hours later, Brian Blade led his Fellowship band through their typically moving set of spiritually-oriented material. Blade is a master at growing momentum over the course of a tune, and each piece seemed to build from a hushed meditativeness to explosive outbursts and settle back down again. The set encored with a brief tribute to Quebec’s own Daniel Lanois.
In between sets featuring Eric Harland and Brian Blade, two examples of trailblazing rhythmic invention, came a set grounded in the most fundamental of throwback swing. I caught Dave Brubeck’s set, which I would say was exactly what it was expected to be, which musically it was – but technically, it was advertised as a 50th-anniversary tribute to Brubeck’s seminal Time Out album, in which he would perform the record in its entirety. Someone apparently forgot to mention this to Brubeck, as he proceeded to play a typical set, acknowledging the album but only picking two tunes from it – one of which was, of course, the closing “Take 5.”
As I sat there, I was forced to think about the reasoning behind selecting this performance. I’ve never been a particular fan of Brubeck, but something about the fact that he was performing that album, and the fact that it fit my schedule, prompted me to nab a ticket. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen Brubeck, and there aren’t likely many years left in which to see him again. There’s something morbid in that fact, and it was poignant to see the pianist taking such obvious joy in his sidemen’s playing, while having to be aided in walking on and off stage. The usual, silver-haired quartet was augmented by Brubeck’s cellist son Matthew, who seemed to be there to take the weight off of his father, solo-wise: Brubeck played a few passages on his own – including a lovely, sentimental “Over the Rainbow” with longtime altoist Bobby Militello on flute – but for the most part he refrained from soloing much.
At the end of the evening, Brubeck was led back out by two of the festival officials and presented with a painting of Louis Armstrong by Tony Bennett, acknowledging the gift and his friendship with both in a halting, gravelly voice. He walked off to an uproarious ovation, and it was clear the evening was over. The crowd continued to cheer, he was led back on to wave one last time, but there was to be no more music. But this show, at least, wasn’t about the music – it was about seeing a legendary name in the flesh, one last time.
