By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Upon hearing Dianne Reeves's The Calling (subtitled "A Celebration of Sarah Vaughan"), I had to relisten to Vaughan's classic 1961 bass-and-guitar album, After Hours, to remind myself that the departed Divine One could indeed be a subtle singer. It wasn't always about excessrewriting every melody line and throwing in five notes for every one that the composer wrote. But in her tribute to Vaughan, on the CD as well as in a special Valentine's Day concert at Lincoln Center, Reeves chose to commemorate the more familiar side of Sassy: the exuberant, over-the-top improviser who could sink her chops into any song and wrestle it to the ground.
Even Vaughan herself would have been taken aback by Reeves's opener, "My Funny Valentine." In her day, singers used scat and melodic variations merely to embellish a standard. Reeves, on the other hand, spins elaborate, extended webs of improvisation that only briefly detour through the familiar words and music. (I personally embrace those Reeves recordings that consist of standardsand more recent songs that aspire to standardhooddone with straight-ahead backings.) Reeves's voice is a sonic marvel, and no one ever sounded better amid Avery Fisher's often murky acoustics (which nearly defeated Dee Dee Bridgewater in 1997). Reeves puts all her influencesjazz, pop, and worldbeat (mostly Afro blue and Brazilian)at the service of a Vaughan tribute that honors the both of them; Bob Freedman's arrangements display sufficient smarts, for instance, to incorporate the countermelody to "Lullaby of Birdland" that Sass sang in her 1954 album with Clifford Brown. More power to Reeves for thatif we didn't love the excess, we wouldn't be Sarah Vaughan fans. Will Friedwald
Imagist poet, nightlife anthropologist, fearless tackler of crazed British Airways passengers, Bryan Ferry is above all a beautiful loser. So while any given incarnation of the Loser's Lounge will offer a marvelously eclectic daisy chain of downtown luminaries paying homage to past masters, choosing Roxy Music as their latest muse crystallizes the Losers' underdog fabulosity like none other. Because Ferrylover of women, instigator of dance crazesinvented what one Roxy song calls the "autoerotic plea": the lovesick unpacking of the heart, crooned into the bathroom mirror after a long night of party-time-wasting. The Losers dive through the looking glassno more singing into a hairbrush to "The Thrill of It All" or locking the door so no one else can see you do the strand.
Their recent relocation from Fez to the Westbeth having slightly diffused the smoky nightclub situation, the Losers tore through 30-odd Roxy and Roxy-related staples on February 8 (including a cover of their cover of "Jealous Guy" and ladytronic flight attendants harmonizing on "Music for Airports"). The quick-study Kustard Kings laid down their usual taut but loose-jointed sonics (but hark, no oboe?), led by Lounge king Joe McGinty on keys (adding video-game grace notes to Nick Danger's deranged reading of "Seven Deadly Finns") and guitar dynamo Kris Woolsey, bedecked with Eno seraphim wings.
Best impressionist: Ed Rogers's matter-of-fact serpentine sleekness on "Let's Stick Together." Best relocation of For Your Pleasure to a Weimar cabaret: Richard Barone's poker-faced "In Every Dream Home a Heartache," replete with plastic disposable darling and punitive whip-wielder. Best hootenanny: the shakedown of "The Thrill of It All," featuring Matthew Caws (of Nada Surf) working the wordless chorus like a dorky Dionysus. Finally, best incarnation of what Le Tigre calls the eau de bedroom dancing: Lianne Smith stomping and squawking to "Love Is the Drug," with the ecstatic abandon of a drunk and disorderly librarian. Jessica Winter
Lost and Found
I first heard the great flamenco cantaor Carmen Linares in an otherwise empty Granada restaurant last summer. The waiter had put on a CD of hers, and I was struck by the voice, marked by a throaty richness and a cascade of world-weary tones that hinted at ceaseless heartaches. This was a woman who had been consumed too often but never vanquished.
At Town Hall on February 10, she and Manolo Sanlúcar, the justly famed flamenco guitarist and composer, performed Sanlúcar's compositions, based on the lyrics of Federico García Lorca (who was inspired by the Gypsy notion of duende, the creative animus). Linares is a petite, elegant woman, while Sanlúcar has the casual air of someone who's been doing this since he was a kid (in fact, he began as a tocador at age 12). The two transformed a large venue into the intimate world of a tablao (or tavern). Sanlúcar, along with second guitarist Isidro Muñoz and two percussionists, wove fluent rhythmic lines underpinning a cantesonorous airs to Linares's fire. Unfortunately, amplification problems plagued the first half, forcing Sanlúcar to get up several times and ask the sound technician to adjust sound levels, disrupting the intimate mood.
In contrast, the second half felt as smooth as baby skin, featuring more of Sanlúcar's guitar works. His most moving number was "Oración," from his Tauromagia suiteabout a matador visiting a chapel prior to a bullfight. With its somber melodic lines, nimble phrasing, and tonally precise riffs, the work captured the tension between the meditative calm of prayer and the tumultuous feelings of a man about to face death. Linares came back on, singing her own arrangements of two traditional cantes, confident and majestic in her abandon as the evening drew too quickly to a closeleaving me bereft, though deliciously so. Luis H. Francia