The Musical Box

jane monheit. photo by vincent soyez.

That was the year her debut recording, Never Never Land, surfaced. It was a versed sampler of standards sung with worldly confidence and backed by a support team that boasted such esteemed instrumentalists as bassist Ron Carter and pianist Kenny Barron, as well as the famed saxophone alliance of Hank Crawford and David “Fathead” Newman. The latter two were known for their groundbreaking work decades earlier with Ray Charles.

All in all, the recording was an impressive way of establishing one’s intentions as a vocalist. But then, Monheit, who was 22 at the time, was used to that. She spent her childhood plotting a singing career. She wasn’t shy in telling people about it, either.

“I pretty much knew that was going to be my vocation from the time I was tiny,” said Monheit, who makes her Kentucky debut next weekend with performances in Louisville and Richmond. “When I was a toddler, a pre-schooler, I knew I was going to be a singer. I told anyone I knew that.”

A lifelong New Yorker, Monheit absorbed the vocal inspirations of numerous pioneers in shaping the dynamic and romantic foundations of her own singing. Ella Fitzgerald was, and still is, obvious. You can sense shades of her vocal exuberance, lightness and phrasing in the giddy version of A Shine on Your Shoes that opens Monheit’s recent Home album. But an early fascination and respect for the singing of Judy Garland (“because of the way she fearlessly expressed emotion”) and a legion of Broadway-based vocalists (Barbara Cook and Bernadette Peters, among them) also made Monheit a favored draw in New York cabaret rooms.

But here is a curious addition to Monheit’s stylistic dossier: bluegrass. Her father was a banjo player instructed by Tony Trischka, one of the instrument’s foremost educators and performers. The links don’t stop there. Among the many artists that have struck up lasting alliances with Monheit is Mark O’Connor, the versatile classical and jazz composer/instrumentalist who was bred on bluegrass.

So prevalent was bluegrass in her youth that Monheit found herself at something of a crossroads early on between jazz and bluegrass/folk paths for her career.

“I grew up with a strong attachment to bluegrass,” Monheit said. “I went to more bluegrass shows than jazz shows as a kid. For awhile, I thought, ‘Man, do I want to be the next Maura O’Connell (the Irish-born folk singer who established a strong bluegrass/Americana fanbase after relocating to Nashville)?’ I mean, I was really into it.

“That’s why artists like Mark are heroes of mine. I could have died when he called me to play on In Full Swing (a 2003 O’Connor album of gypsy jazz and swing music that had Monheit singing standards like Fascinating Rhythm, As Time Goes By and Misty). Now when we play together, I’m always like ‘Can we play something folky like Love Has No Pride (a tune popularized by Bonnie Raitt and Linda Ronstadt)? What a way to work together. Mark wants to play jazz and I want him to play folk music.” 

Still, it is within jazz circles that Monheit’s vocal work has been best displayed. Among other early collaborators was trumpeter Terence Blanchard, who recruited Monheit as one of four champion vocalists (along with Diana Krall, Cassandra Wilson and Dianne Reeves) for his 2002 album of Jimmy McHugh songs, Let’s Get Lost.

The latter project – in particular, a beautifully hushed reading of Too Young to Go Steady – reflects the intimacy of her own fine recordings. While Monheit is more than at home in elegant orchestral settings, it is in small combo settings, like the one that dominates much of Home, that her singing truly glows.

As a result, it’s not surprising that she views her band – pianist Michael Kanen, bassist Neal Miner and drummer Rick Montalbano – as family. Granted, that’s a somewhat literal estimation as Monheit and Montalbano are also husband and wife. But the birth of the couple’s son Jack in 2008 also underscored the sense of kinship she feelst with Kane and Miner.

“Outside of parents and grandparents coming to the hospital, they were the first two people to hold my son when he was just a couple of days old. That says a lot about the kind of relationship we have. And I know that makes the music even more special.”

Jane Monheit performs at 8 p.m. Jan. 27 at the Clifton Center Eifler Theatre, 2117 Payne St. in Louisville ($33, $35) and at 8 p.m. Jan. 28 at the EKU Center for the Arts, 521 Lancaster Ave. in Richmond. ($25-$35)..

“It’s a tough venue for that one,” admits Randy Newman at the conclusion of It’s Money That I Love, a coarse discourse on the not-so-cheap thrills affordable to those with, as John Cleese once put it in a classic Monty Python sketch on merchant bankers, “the most startling quantities of cash.” That the comment is made from the fabulous St. Luke’s in London with the BBC Concert Orchestra on standby just makes Newman’s new CD/DVD set Live in London all the more fun. It is an exquisite concert snapshot of the famed composer in all his sensitive and sardonic glory.

Newman has always maintained two contrasting performance profiles, neither of which involved a conventional band. The first is solo, just Newman and a piano. This is the setting he has operated within most over the years, from the 1971 album Randy Newman Live (his only other concert recording) to last year’s wonderful Lexington performance at the Opera House. The other is with a full orchestra. No guitars, no rhythm sections – just the piano and the majestic arrangements that have adorned Newman’s recordings for the past four-plus decades. Live in London dabbles in both.

The BBC Orchestra ignites the historical indignation of the album-opening The Great Nations of Europe, sets up the unsettling (yet quite beautiful) Southern deflation of Louisiana 1927 and underscores the discreet sentimentality of the gorgeous Feels Like Home. Like so many of the orchestral tunes on Live in London, the collaborations seem like hopeless mismatches at first – eloquent strings with broad Americana undercurrents backing an artist who sings in a scratchy moan that sounds like he has a perpetual head cold.

But that’s the Newman charm in action. On Marie, a drunkard’s confessional on the hurt and neglect he causes, remains as heartbreaking here as when Newman first recorded it in the ‘70s. Ditto for the album-closing I Think It’s Going to Rain Today, a song of profound hurt and isolation. It is brought to lovely but unnerving life with Newman’s mumbled singing and the orchestra’s reserved pageantry playing equally key roles.

The solo segments are just as powerful. God’s Song (That Why I Love Mankind), a guaranteed-to-offend requiem of the Almighty’s disgust at man’s inability to grasp spirituality, is one severe kiss-off of a song. Ditto for I’m Dead (But I Don’t Know It), the hysterical requiem for rock stars who refuse to admit their commercial and artistic fortunes have long ago been spent. All you hear on the latter is piano, a keenly instructed audience (which serves as a bizarre Greek chorus of sorts) and Newman’s all-too-knowing vocals.

It all makes for a live retrospective of an American original that puts on brilliant display his dual means to musically celebrate and disturb.

langhorne alim.

The Americana jamboree artist born Sean Scolnick sounds likes he could have grown up down Memphis way given the generous soul slant in his songs. Or he could have hailed from rural Mississippi when you soak in all of the rustic blues references. Appalachia is another possibility, for there are country ruminations galore. Or maybe he once called the streets of New York home because his songs leapfrog from jazz whimsy to punkish thriftiness all while possessing the performance immediacy of a singer in a subway.

So where exactly did the singer they call Langhorne Slim come from? Well, near Philadelphia – the suburbs, to be exact. His home was a town on the Northern outskirts called, you guessed it, Langhorne.

If you thought a lot of Langhorne, Pennsylvania exists within the music of Langhorne Slim, your chances of  being correct would be none to, well… slim.

“I’m proud to be from there,” Slim said. “I really am. But I was always an outsider. I didn’t really fit in as I was growing up. I feel like maybe music was born into me because my mother is a great singer and I’ve got some other musicians and artists in my family. But some of the isolation I felt in Langhorne, or perhaps feeling a little disassociated from what was going on around me, might have dictated a need to create or to spend time alone to learn how to play guitar and write songs.

“It wasn’t so much of an explosion of music that was going on in Langhorne. I think it was the lack of it that drew me into what I’m doing now.”

A series of a half-dozen indie albums – the best being 2008’s When the Sun’s Gone Down – spread the word on Slim. So did tours that placed him on the road with The Avett Brothers, Drive-By Truckers and The Old 97s, among others. But it was a mixture of sound (perhaps best described as rustic country-folk with a post-grunge sensibility) and a distinctive means of displaying it in performance (in a sort of punk hootenanny manner) – that earned the ears of steadily mounting fanbase.

“Maybe I’m a born freak,” Slim said. “But I’m mostly a lover of music. I’m a lover of entertaining. I love everything from theatre to music to painting. All of that cuts into my own art, but it’s not really a conscious thing.

“I grew up liking punk rock music, classic rock, soul music. Then I got into bluegrass and blues and Americana. To me, it’s all music – music that hits me in my soul.”

The hows and whys of that music interest him less. Like many newer generation indie artists, Slim sees genres like pop, country and blues almost like tourist destinations. Each is to be enjoyed, inhabited, and, to a degree, appropriated. But ultimately, none of those singular inspirations match the kind of musical intensity that ignites once those sounds are combined.

“When you’re writing music, you’re simply combining everything that touches you. Again, it’s not a conscious thing of ‘I want this to be country’ or ‘I want that to be rock ‘n’ roll.’ You go with the feeling that hits you.”

Still, there have been several prime inspirations. Slim may not have heard them on the streets of Langhorne. But he soaked them up through the airwaves and stereos around him.

“The biggest ones back in the day for me were Nirvana, Otis Redding, Leadbelly and Doc Watson,” he said. “They all came from different times and from different places, but they were all like explosions in my soul.”

Along with the assimilation of influences and a gift for songcraft came a love for the stage. Slim’s recordings, including 2009’s Be Set Free and an as-yet-untitled new album, cut with help from independent fundraising on the internet, may document the first two traits. But the latter, a performance style that sounds like G. Love were he rooted more in bluegrass and Grand Ole Opry-style country than funk and hip-hop, has established Slim as a significant concert draw.

“Playing live is what you live for,” he said. “It’s the moment when you stop thinking and start feeling. That’s what is still so appealing about it. And when it’s going the best it can, you’re not intellectualizing. You’re just going on animal instincts. You’re feeling more than analyzing or overthinking.

“Look, half the time I don’t even remember what happened after a show. I can’t tell you if I did a good job or a bad job. You just do your best to open yourself up and let the music roll out. That gives me great joy. When I’m look out into a crowd and see people singing along and connecting with these songs… well, it’s just an amazing, powerful and beautiful thing.”

Langhorne Slim performs at 9 tonight at Cosmic Charlie’s, 388 Woodland Ave. with Holy Ghost Tent Revival and Good Saints opening. Tickets are $15. Call (859) 309-9499.

etta james

Some performers just know how to make an entrance. Take the great Etta James, for instance, when she took to the stage at the Kentucky Horse Park in September 1995.

Armed with a stampeding version of the blues/soul standard Feel Like Breakin’ Up Somebody’s Home, she tore into an afternoon set (part of a festival bill headlined by B.B. King) like a bulldozer. Woe be to anyone that stood in her way.

It was hardly the most graceful of showcases for the extraordinary song stylist, who died yesterday at age 73. But that wasn’t always what James was about. Forget, for the moment, the immortal 1961 breakthrough hit At Last. James in performance could be as bawdy as a sailor. She could be intimidating, shocking and crass. Her version of Come to Mama that afternoon in 1995 was, simply put, not for the timid.

But that was part of what make James so outrageous. She remained, through her glory years and the tougher, drug-rattled times that came in their wake, a fiercely confident and commanding artist. And when the right song came along – like At Last, I’d Rather Go Blind or the comparatively lesser known Damn Your Eyes (which soul diva Bettye LaVette performed in James’ honor just last weekend in Louisville) – and met her fireball vocal chops and stage persona, man, could the sparks fly.

James was seldom represented well on albums released from the ‘90s on. 1989’s Seven Year Itch was probably her last truly solid recording. But there remain so many wonderful documents of her volcanic talent. Recommended listening: 1961’s epic At Last, 1962’s regal Etta James Sings for Lovers and 1970’s far nastier Etta James Sings Funk. Or for efficiency’s sake, just pick up the fine 2007 anthology Gold which leans heavily on material from the singer’s outstanding Chess albums of the ‘60s.

All are snapshots of a blues/soul hurricane’s glorious outbursts.

branford marsalis

Some artists have a knack for song titles. Others, like the members of the Branford Marsalis Quartet, prefer taking them for test drives first and then hammering them into shape, just as they would with the actual composition.

Last night, before a full house at the Grand Theatre, Marsalis tried out a few new titles during a set made up largely of works to be featured on an upcoming quartet recording. The set-opening The Mighty Sword, a rugged bit of percussive swing that had pianist/composer Joey Calderazzo feeding off the youthful drive of drummer Jason Faulkner (and vice versa), was initially titled Twister. Marsalis said bassist Eric Revis vetoed that name.

Similarly, the title to the saxophonist’s own Whiplash didn’t seem to thrill the band, even though the music obviously did. It started as a lean, piano-less trio romp that embraced the speed and danger element of a thrill park ride before Calderazzo re-entered. Faulkner brought the tune home with a solo fortified by the tireless stamina of an Olympian.

But the kicker seemed to be a new Calderazzo ballad, which Marsalis said had been newly dubbed (as of last evening) with the Emily Dickinson-inspired title As Summer Into Autumn Slips. It was a lovely ensemble excursion set into play by Calderazzo’s plaintive introduction. But the autumn spirits eventually gave way to a tempest as the piece beautifully built to an ensemble boil with Marsalis’ soprano sax lead exhibiting Coltrane-ish intensity. The title, in this case, may just turn out to be a keeper.

Marsalis and Calderazzo served as the evening’s opening act, as well. The two kicked off the performance with a 45 minute set of duet compositions from their recent Songs of Mirth and Melancholy album. This time, the title said it all. The set featured four compositions that shifted radically from light impressionistic contemplations to joyride tunes full of daredevil rhythmic turns.

At its best, these two extremes meshed into a fascinating medley of Marsalis’ The Bard Lachrymose, which sported lovely exchanges between piano and soprano, and Calderazzo’s far more devilish Bri’s Dance. The latter was a wildly animated bop breakdown that effectively hotwired the performance’s playful pace and temperament.

keb' mo'. photo by meghan aileen schizme.

From an artistic vantage point, it is a no-win situation.

You work for years to carve out a niche, a recognizable sound, within the pop marketplace. If you maintain a steady stylistic course, you are viewed as being stagnant.  But if you shift even slightly, you upset the faithful that helped build your fanbase in the first place.

Such is the crossroads that Kevin Moore – better known to the pop mainstream as Keb’ Mo’ – has faced over the past year. The three-time Grammy winning singer, songsmith and guitarist has steadily established himself as one of the most commercially viable and visible blues artists to emerge in the past two decades. Yet on his newest album, The Reflection, Moore surrendered almost exclusively to the pop-soul sentiments that, in more meager doses on earlier recordings, established him as an assured crossover act.

Some might view the move as simply part of an inevitable artistic evolution. But audiences and critics seldom welcome stylistic change unconditionally. Luckily, Moore expected some dicey reaction to The Reflection.

“If you do the same thing all the time and kind of stay in your lane, then you’re just going to be considered as ‘reliable’ or ‘redundant’,” said Moore, who returns to Lexington for a Thursday performance at the Kentucky Theatre. “But if you do something different, you’re some kind of renegade. It’s like, ‘Hey, this isn’t the Keb’Mo’ we know.’

“No matter what you do, people are going to be mad at you. I figured some people would get this album and some would wind up being a little disappointed or perplexed. But I’m encouraged that there has been a lot less of the ‘What’s he doing?’ reaction with the new album than I thought there would be.”

In many ways, Moore’s move toward a silkier pop and soul sound shouldn’t come as a surprise. Though there are accents of traditional acoustic blues on his early recordings, including his 1994 self-titled debut for Epic Records (it contained covers of two classics by master bluesman Robert Johnson), Moore has also generously dressed his albums with mid-tempo, pop-inflected material that has helped forge his crossover appeal.

But the change on The Reflection is immediate. The album opens with a warm, worldly parable titled The Whole Enchilada. Its inviting narrative has been compared to the music of James Taylor by many critics. But Moore keeps the pop element clearly on the soul side with sleek instrumentation from veteran pop/R&B session guitarist David T. Walker (whose credits include esteemed early ‘70s recordings by Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and Herbie Hancock).

“It was magical to work with David T. Walker,” Moore said. “He is a real special guitar player. Now, I know a lot of great guitar players. But David is so stylized and so good at what he does that his playing just makes you happy.”

Another curious ally on The Reflection is country star is Vince Gill, who guests on My Baby’s Tellin’ Lies. Moore recently relocated to Nashville from Los Angeles, so perhaps the alliance isn’t that unlikely. But there was also a challenge: to utilize Gill’s gifts at singing and songwriting without having the tune slide completely into country territory. On an initial mix of the song, that’s exactly where the music wound up.

“It took me a long time to wrestle with that one,” Moore said. “I had this great demo of Vince and I singing it. Then we recorded this beautiful track for it in L.A. that was just too country. I mean, it sounded great. But I kept thinking, ‘No. I don’t want to do that – not on this cut.’ So I stripped everything down to the drums and started over. I put some mandolin on it after I urbanized the music a little bit. I really wanted Vince and I to be showcased in something other than a country setting. I thought that would be more interesting.”

But perhaps the most telling tune on The Reflection is the album-closing Something Within, a soul affirmation that is a true family affair. It sports an arrangement by his son, gospel harmonies from his younger sister, additional vocals from his cousin and even samples of recorded singing from his grandfather.

“That was actually where the record started. We had this recording of my grandfather singing, but I’m not really good at sampling. I don’t know that world. But my son laid down this chord progression, came up with the grooves and put the samples in there. When I heard that, I was like, ‘Okay.’ So we built on that.

And there it is. Change. The sound of the blues and it slides into modern soul.

“I find that it’s just the general nature of ‘us,’ of human beings, to be creatures of habit. But the thing is you always have to be willing to change. You may be met at first with resistance. That’s kind of a crazy quirk in our DNA. But over time, that changes. And with music, it eventually becomes, ‘Oh, I get it now.’”

Keb’ Mo’ performs at 7:30 p.m. Jan. 19 at the Kentucky Theatre, 214 East Main. Tickets are $50.75.Call (859) 231-7924.

joey calderazzo and branford marsalis.

In describing Songs of Mirth and Melancholy, the recent album of piano and saxophone duets he recorded with longtime bandmate Branford Marsalis, pianist Joey Calderazzo seemed almost dismissive.

Like most of the recordings he has engaged himself with – be they solo projects or the numerous works undertaken over the past 12 years with Marsalis’ extraordinary jazz quartet – Calderazzo views Mirth almost exclusively in the past tense. The jazz process for him involves immersing himself in the music, seeking something applicable from it that can benefit his playing and then moving on.

“What I will do is overdose on a project,” says Calderazzo, who performs with the Marsalis Quartet on Thursday for a performance at the Grand Theatre in Frankfort. “I listen to it as a filter. And that’s what I did with the duo record. What I’m filtering is, ‘That’s good.’ ‘I need to work on that.’ ‘That sucks.’ ‘Why did I do that?’ ‘That’s cool.’ ‘That could be a tune.’ And ‘I should play more like that behind Branford because it worked.’

“I’ll do that and then I’m away from the album and then it’s gone.”

Well, yes – but not completely. True, Calderazzo’s thoughts of late have shifted to an upcoming Marsalis Quartet recording, the first since drummer Justin Faulkner joined the group (“It’s a good one, man – probably my proudest work”) and as well a concert recording with his own trio (with bassist Orlando le Fleming and drummer Donald Edwards). But as he reflects more on Mirth, a snapshot emerges. It’s of a musical environment the pianist said remains unique to the record.

The tune in question is the album-closing Calderazzo original Bri’s Dance. To illustrate, he vocalizes the song’s stately melody – or at least the one that frames it.

“There’s a part of that song where we are playing free, but the whole song is being implied. We’re playing in a whole other time. It morphs into something really cool. We’ve played that tune a few times live and we have never, ever gotten to that place again. And it happened organically.

“It’s not my best solo or Branford’s best playing. It’s what we did as a duo together. That, to me, was the really great part of what happened there.”

Calderazzo said the process is just as unpredictable when it comes to music created by the Marsalis Quartet, which is rounded out by longtime bassist Eric Revis.

“If you could witness the process, you would be like, ‘What?’ Some of the arrangements come out of mistakes. Some of the arrangements we stumble upon. Some of the arrangements… well, very few are talked about. So we just start playing and stuff develops. Then we’ll play it for awhile and something else will change. It’s a really neat way for things to happen. But there’s not a lot of talking. There just isn’t.

“For this new quartet record (tentatively scheduled for release in March), we basically had three tunes written going into the session. Eric brought in two and I wrote one at the session. Branford was like, ‘We’re going to need that ballad, man, so finish writing it.’ So I took an hour break and I wrote it. We did one take and that’s what’s on the record.”

A New York native now living (as is Marsalis) in North Carolina, Calderazzo was introduced to international jazz audiences in the late ‘80s by another saxophone titan, the late Michael Brecker. Curiously, Calderazzo replaced Kenny Kirkland in Brecker’s band, the pianist he also succeeded in the Marsalis Quartet (Kirkland died in 1998).

“Mike and I kind of grew up together,” Calderazzo said. “I was in his first band. Kenny did the record (1987’s Michael Brecker), but really didn’t do much touring. So I was right there from the get go. And that was Mike’s first real time as a bandleader. I wasn’t the MD (musical director), but I was the MD. So Mike would be like, ‘Well, what are we playing?’ I’d say, ‘Let’s play this.’ And he’d be like, ‘OK, cool.’ Anything I wrote, he would play.

“There was a period from ’99 to ’05 where I was playing with Mike and Branford both. I was behind the scenes, but I was on the road 240 days a year. I was doing three weeks with one and then running to Asia with another and then running back. Those were good times.

“I miss Mike every day. In the 20 years we were together, I don’t think three days went by that I didn’t speak to him. We talked all the time. He mentored me personally more than anything else. You get a bandleader to do something like that, then that’s a special guy.”

The Branford Marsalis Quartet performs at 7:30 p.m. Jan. 19 at the Grand Theatre, 308 St. Clair St. in Frankfort. Tickets are $55-$80. Call (502) 352-7469 or go towww.grandtheatrefrankfort.org

Two agendas come into play on the splendid new all-star jazz releases Further Explorations and Come Sunday. One is exact and purposeful. The other could not have been more unplanned.

Both albums come to us as tributes. Further Explorations honors the music of jazz piano giant Bill Evans. But since these New York performances recorded at the famed Blue Note, one of the recording’s three participants has left us. Come Sunday is a quieter but even more reverential nod to traditional hymns and spirituals. Similarly, one of its two co-leaders departed between the album’s completion in 2010 and its release last week.

Further Explorations is the sublime concert brainchild of pianist and jazz journeyman Chick Corea. In assembling an Evans tribute for the Blue Note engagement, Corea recruited bassist Eddie Gomez and drummer Paul Motian. Both served celebrated tenures with Evans, but not at the same time.

Wisely, the trio shies away from overt imitation of Evans’ gifted lyricism. Instead, it embraces a melodic playfulness all its own, starting with the mischievous shuffle Motian employs to ignite the album-opening Peri’s Scope.

The magic, though, is exerted in the pure warmth of tone Corea summons on piano that mirrors Evans’ instrumental delicacy (and complexity) without blatantly appropriating it. Cases in point: side-by-side readings on Further Explorations’ second disc of Corea’s giddy Another Tango and the beautiful Evans classic Turn Out the Stars. The former struts to a quirky march, the latter is positively elegiac with Corea playing off Gomez’s bowed, chamber-style bass.

Though Evans is the intended honoree (Further Explorations follows his Explorations album by exactly 50 years), the recording also serves as a memorial to Motian, who died at age 80 in November. For a crash course in Motion’s compositional cunning, give an ear to Mode VI (which precedes Another Tango). It now stands as a tribute to the industrious drummer/bandleader as much as it does to Evans.

Come Sunday is the second duet album of spirituals from bassist Charlie Haden and pianist Hank Jones. The first, Steal Away, dates back 17 years.

Like its predecessors, Come Sunday’s spiritual speak is gloriously subdued. Jones is a master at conjuring light, spacious piano phrases (a quality Evans also possessed). Such a style is put on lovely display during an immensely emotive (and almost haunting) Going Home.

Throughout the album, Haden largely stays in the passenger seat, adding ultra tasteful support and unfussy solos to stately versions of The Old Rugged Cross and Were You There When They Crucified My Lord. As a result, the subsequent duets are churchy, inviting and, above all, contemplative.

Jones died in 2010 at age 91. It’s hard to imagine a more graceful footote to his extraordinary career than the elegant spiritual solace of Come Sunday.

Some weekend listening inspired by the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday:

+ Sly and the Family Stone: There’s a Riot Goin’ On (1971) – Sly Stone’s summery funk began to splinter, along with the Family Stone’s lineup, by the time Riot was issued 40 years this winter. The result was a darker, more urbanized and altogether wintry variation on the Stone groove. Curiously, the murkiest song on the album, Family Affair, was the hit. An often brilliant snapshot of pop-soul America from the early, turbulent ‘70s.

+ Elvin Jones: On the Mountain (1975) – A fusion-flavored obscurity from the great jazz drummer’s ‘70s catalog, Mountain teams Jones with keyboardist Jan Hammer and alumni bassist Gene Perla. The electric keys may deter purists, but Jones rides steady with plenty of discreet playing in between blasts of volcanic fury. Still out of print, Mountain sells online for as much as $50. Found a pristine used copy at CD Central last week for 6 bucks.

+ Sun Ra and his Intergalactic Myth Science Solar Arkestra: Sleeping Beauty (1979) – Described by one critic as “the great late night Sun Ra chillout album you never knew about,” Sleeping Beauty is the most accessible in a series of 1979 recordings reissued overseas in 2008. Outer space jazzman Ra eases off the avant garde anarachy for brassy gospel/soul/funk grooves fueled by electric keyboards and a 28-member strong Arkestra.

+ Bettye LaVette: The Scene of the Crime (2007) – The title of this second in a series of comeback albums by the great R&B matriarch refers to Muscle Shoals, Ala. and the Southern fried soul LaVette cut for a 1972 solo debut album that was infamously shelved. Her guides this time were Drive-By Truckers, direct descendents of the Muscle Shoals sound who help fortify the regal soul sass in tunes by Eddie Hinton and John Hiatt.

+ Randy Weston: The Storyteller (2010) – An underappreciated jazz elder, Weston has long favored music with worldly, roots-conscious accents. Shades of African and Afro-Cuban rhythms orchestrate this live recording from a 2009 Lincoln Center date, as does Weston’s beautifully beefy playing. The Storyteller also serves as a memorial to Benny Powell, Weston’s longtime trombonist, who died shortly before the recording’s release.

bettye lavette

The words bellowed in clarion call fashion from Bettye LaVette before the veteran soul singer hit the stage last night at Louisville’s ultra-intimate Clifton Center. Even from the wings, the masterful LaVette knew how to start a party.

And “say it” she did. The greeting triggered a show-opening reading of The Word that transformed the Beatles classic into a gritty blast of Sly Stone-style rock and funk. For the 90 minutes that followed, LaVette dressed everything from alt-country classics (Lucinda Williams’ Joy) to British pop (Ringo Starr’s It Don’t Come Easy) to vintage country (the George Jones hit Choices) with a studied, soul-savvy makeover.

Throughout, LaVette presented herself as a regal soul music matriarch. She commanded the evening not just through the regal tone of her singing, but in her remarkable sense of taste and confidence as a performer.

As an entertainer, LaVette was beyond cool. Early into the program she reminded the crowd of her brief ‘80s stint as a Louisvillian, a year-long status that netted her “not one damn gig.”

“But now I’m probably the only person in New Jersey that knows how to pronounce the name of your city.”

LaVette also regularly displayed a seemingly intuitive knack for dispensing the proper dosage of emotive performance angst for her tunes. For example, Joe Simon’s Your Time to Cry was delivered with a sense of torchy retribution that was truly chilling. Equally arresting were the near-operatic intensity of Damn Your Eyes (which was dedicated to ailing R&B contemporary Etta James) and a sagely soulful (and serenely desperate) take on The Who’s Love Reign O’er Me.

The concert never dissolved into the sort of theatrical shriekfest that smothers some soul/R&B/gospel outings. There was not a hint of vocal grandstanding. In fact, its most moving moment came when LaVette purposely cooled the proceedings.

On the show-closing encore of Sinead O’Connor’s I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got, LaVette sang sans her four-member band but with generous conversational sass. Once finished, she placed her microphone on the stage floor and was draped with an overcoat in James Brown-like fashion before being whisked offstage.

You sensed the woman was still “saying it” as she exited.