By Michael Katz
It’s a pretty good bet that when your opening act is Poncho Sanchez, you are in for some excitement. That was certainly the case Wednesday evening at the Hollywood Bowl, which kicked off its 2009 jazz series with a Latin program featuring Sanchez, Eddie Palmieri and Sergio Mendes. The program attracted a near-capacity crowd, building volume and glitter with each act, though from a musical standpoint you could make the argument that it peaked at the beginning.
Poncho Sanchez
Poncho Sanchez has become such a familiar figure in theSouthland that he might not be expected to anchor a program at such a large venue as the Bowl. His more familiar large ensemble was slimmed down for this performance to an octet. It produced a comfy, laid back feeling that was more than compensated for by the crisp, virtuosity of the performances. The front line featured reed man Javiar Vergara, trumpeter Ron Blake and trombonist Francisco Torres. Vergara took the lead on the opener, Herbie Hancock’s “Cantaloupe Island” with some fine soloing on the tenor sax. Keyboardist and musical director David Torres contributed a smoking organ riff, with Poncho laying back, providing a lilting patter on the congas.
Horace Silver’s “Silver Serenade,” arranged by David Torres, featured more fine work by Vergara , with Torres switching to piano (or the electronic equivalent thereof). As expected with any Sanchez ensemble, the rhythm section was pulsating, with George Ortiz on timbales and Joey De Leon on bongos, cowbells and assorted gourds, and Tony Banda on bass. For the ensuing Willie Bobo medley, De Leon and Sanchez switched places, with Poncho taking the lead vocals.
All of the tunes came from the forthcoming Psychedelic Blues CD, including the title piece, which featured some rousing timbales work by Ortiz. The set’s finale, a salsa number entitled “Agua De Belen” featured the clear, crisp tones of trumpeter Blake and trombonist Torres; it concluded with Poncho exhorting the audience to “raise your hands,” while he and De Leon led the set to a stirring conclusion
Eddie Palmieri
The Bowl’s rotating stage served up Eddie Palmieri’s septet next, the instrumentation identical save for the absence of trombone, but the volume amped considerably higher. Palmieri had some powerful help on the front line, with trumpeter Brian Lynch and New Orleans stalwart Donald Harrison on the tenor sax. They launched immediately into Thelonius Monk’s “In Walked Bud,” with Lynch’s searing trumpet alternating with Harrison’s tenor, while Palmieri was content to lead the fine rhythm section, which included Jose “Papo” Rodriguez on bongos.
The rest of the program was unannounced, the second number featuring Luques Curtis on piccolo bass, Little Johnny Rivero on congas and Jose Claussell on timbales. Palmieri took the spotlight next with a bluesy electric piano solo before giving way to Donald Harrison. By this time it was evident that there were microphone problems with Harrison’s horn. Either his levels were too low or those around him too high; his efforts were drowned out by the rest of the band. This left it, albeit unintentionally, to trumpeter Lynch to carry the septet and he certainly gave it his best with a series of high octane solos. It was overall an exciting performance, but not quite up to the clarity and crispness of Sanchez’s opening set.
Sergio Mendes
For those of us coming of age musically in the 60s, ergio Mendes’ Brazil 66 was one of the gateways to the Bossa Nova, literally the New Sound. We had heard Stan Getz’s cool renderings of “Desfinado” and “Girl From Ipanema,” but Mendes’ arrangements, with the lush voicings of Lani Hall, evoked the spirit of Carnaval and the romance of Jobim’s music in a larger ensemble. Forty years later, Mendes has tried to keep the act contemporary, turning up the volume, spicing up the arrangements, even adding a rapper to the ensemble. The result is mixed – it’s a Brazilian revue, hitting the highlights of his repertoire, while careening towards something between a night at Carnaval and the Folies Bergere.
At the heart of the ensemble were the vocalists, anchored by Mendes’ wife, Gracinha Leporace, and two talented young singers, Dawn Bishop and Katie Hampton. At the risk of being old-fashioned, the ensemble still seemed to work best when the trio was allowed to carry the arrangements of old favorites like “Pretty World,” Dorival Caymmi’s “Like A Lover” and “Look Of Love”. A hip hop version of “Waters of March” doesn’t cut it for anyone who appreciates the stream-of-consciousness delivery of Jobim, or the more dramatic interpretation of Mark Murphy. Mendes, not abandoning his faithful, followed with a lilting vamp/medley of “Samba Da Bencão,” “Milagre” and “Samba Da Minha Terra”.
Rapper H2O joined the ensemble for several numbers, starting with “Agua De Beber.” Perhaps understanding that most of us would-be Cariocas have no use for a rapper anywhere in this music, H2O was relatively harmless, serving more as an extra percussive presence to a group that didn’t much need it, what with Michael Shapiro on drums. Hussain Jiffry on bass and Kleber Jorge (who was left with surprisingly little to do on guitar). Percussionist Gibi performed an acrobatic dance, a nod to the late Michael Jackson, before retreating to his workshop and giving a creative solo that featured the dual cowbell-like agogô and the Brazilian tambourine, the pandeiro. From there the concert drove toward a spectacular finish, hitting Mendes standards “Mas Que Nada” and “Tristeza” before bringing back H2O to rap along with Jobim’s “Surfboard.
By now the show was turning to a Vegas-like spectacle, the ladies returning in new costumes. When H2O stood between Katie Hampton in her brilliant pink dress and Dawn Bishop bedecked in a flowered sarong over lipstick-red pants, he looked less the menacing rapper than a gleeful kid in a candy store.
That’s sort of how the rest of us felt a few moments later when eight “Extravadancers” entered the stage, in full feathered bloom, promenading through the box seats and dancing on top of the Pool Circle back benches. Now, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, situated as we were in the Pool Circle boxes. I can, after all, sit in my living room any time and listen to old Brazil 66 albums. Watching eight beautiful women in G strings and exotic feathers shaking their bootys to the pulsating rhythms of “Pais Tropical” is another story.
I don’t get that at home.
Not having been to Rio, I’m willing to accept that this was a facsimile of a night at Carnaval, rather than the floor show at the Tropicana, rapper and all. Whatever it was, no one was asking for their money back.
