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The Halloween cover show has become an increasingly popular way for bands to exercise their influences, and Saturday’s benefit for West Philly’s People’s Emergency Center at Kung Fu Necktie was a glorious resurrection. TV Casualty, fronted by Jersey’s favorite everyman (one of them, anyway) Ted Leo, brought together a rogue’s gallery of punks—Atom Goren (Atom And His Package) and Andy Nelson (Paint it Black), among them—to pay tribute to the macabre boys of October: the Misfits. A recent interview in the Philadelphia City Paper with member Brian Sokel (AM/FM) revealed that this is not a one-off Halloween event and that a Black Flag benefit with other collaborators is in the works.

From the opening chords of “She,” Leo took his designation as Glenn Danzig as serious as one can when making affectations of Glenn Danzig. With his bouffant wig and macho posturing, Leo perfectly captured his famous Garden State accent, bemoaning that “there were too many words” to remember along with several threats of vomiting. Summoning the dark one was so taxing, in fact, at one point a weary Leo relinquished the mic to the hyperactive front row for a boisterous rendition of “Braineaters.” Perching himself center stage, he glared and cooed in step for immortal sing-a-longs like “Horror Business” and “Hybrid Moments,” a song that has recently creeped its way into the Pharmacists’ repertoire with some regularity. Leo wasn’t the only one immersed in method playing; Nelson’s Doyle Wolfgang von Frankenstein impression conjured the same menacing stiffness of its lanky source.

The evening divided the Misfit’s oeuvre into two chronologically delineated sets: its early singles and its later, faster woah-oh-oh period. Though the first had the classics in its favor (“Last Caress” and “Teenagers From Mars,” just to name two), both had its respective highlights. Staying true to its Evilive incarnation, the band brought up 2009’s answer to Henry Rollins, Dan Yemin (Lifetime, Kid Dynamite, Paint it Black), to provide guest vocals on a throaty rendition of “We Are 138.” It was just as good, if not better, than it sounds.

Though the second set might have oversold the crowd’s enthusiasm for the Misfits’ late-era thrash, it concluded on a high note with a rollicking “Skulls” along with a song described as “a new direction for the band,” as drummer Chris Wilson counted off the opening to Danzig’s “Mother.” Hurling himself into the crowd as the last notes rang out, Leo and the rest of TV Casualty quickly disappeared into the night, an apparition of the now-tainted band’s former greatness.

—Matt Siblo; photo by Kurt Iobst

Originally, Jay Farrar and Ben Gibbard were only supposed to record a couple of songs for what was to be a star-studded soundtrack to the new Jack Kerouac documentary, One Fast Move Or I’m Gone, but the two hit it off so well, they decided to do the whole thing themselves. The film, which chronicles the period of Kerouac’s life while he was writing Big Sur, was issued on DVD on October 20. To coincide with the release, Gibbard and Farrar have embarked on a short tour. On Thursday night, the band played its first ever show, at one of the most intimate and magical venues in the country, Los Angeles’ Largo.

Opener John Roderick (Long Winters) warmed up the crowd nicely, telling jokes and taking requests. He also took the opportunity to debut a new song called “Not Moving To Portland,” which he stressed was “not an anti-Portland song,” and try out a cover. Roderick said, “When you play Valhalla, you have to play the songs of the gods,” and then proceeded to almost butcher Aimee Mann’s “Wise Up,” having trouble hitting some of the notes and eliciting laughter from the audience. It seemed to be in good fun, but I wondered if Roderick was aware that Mann was there, watching from the back of the theater.

After a 10-minute intermission, Farrar and Gibbard took the stage with bassist Nick Harmer (Death Cab For Cutie), multi-instrumentalist Mark Spencer (Son Volt) and drummer Jon Wurster (Superchunk, Mountain Goats, Robert Pollard). The band played the entire soundtrack, most of it in order, in addition to a few other songs: Son Volt’s “Voodoo Candle,” “Couches In Alleys” (which Gibbard wrote during a collaboration with Styrofoam) and two covers (Bob Dylan’s “Absolutely Sweet Marie” and Tom Waits’ “Old Shoes”).

The songs from the soundtrack seemed to vacillate between quoting Kerouac directly and empathizing with the writer, trying to see things from his point of view. Several of the tunes felt a bit unfinished, but that could have been a result of the lack of practice with the band or the loose structure that develops out of adapting someone else’s prose to an Americana/folk template. The endings to a few songs especially felt awkward, where the music would just trail off and end when you expected the band to go back into another short verse or chorus. That said, almost every song they played had great, beautiful moments. It’s possible I just didn’t want them to end at all.

The non-soundtrack numbers were noticeably stronger and more confident, with the highlights of the evening being the cover songs. Dylan and Waits have come about as close to living lives akin to Kerouac’s as any famous musicians possibly could, so the choices were certainly fitting, with their words seeming to resonate a bit more with the spirit than anyone else’s that night, but that could probably be blamed on the nerves of the performers.

This is a good band, and it’s a shame they’re only together for this little project. Farrar and Gibbard play off each other well, and their voices sound very smooth together. It would be nice to get an original and proper full-band album from this group or even hear these songs when the band is confident enough to jam with them. This was a warm-up show, and that’s just what they were doing, getting warmed up. They sounded terrific—we just wanted more.

They finish up the tour this week with dates in Chicago, D.C. and New York. The Largo setlist is after the jump.

—Edward Fairchild

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If you’ve heard of the Gaslight Anthem, you’ve probably heard of Bruce Springsteen. While it’s the most obvious comparison, it’s well warranted. Out of New Jersey, the esteemed four piece plays the kind of power punk that reminds you of being surrounded by your best friends. And at the Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver, that’s what made up the crowd: a room full of music lovers eager for a great time to share with one another.

As clouds of smoke filled the general-admission crowd before the Gaslight Anthem took the stage, it was evident the anticipation surrounding the band had risen since its last appearance in the city in March. When they launched into “Old White Lincoln,” from their latest and most lauded LP, The ‘59 Sound (Side One Dummy), the first crowd surfer emerged, though it wouldn’t be the last. The Gaslight Anthem welcomed three opening acts: Frank Turner, the Loved Ones and Murder By Death. The band harnessed the collective energy of all three artists, playing a high-energy set that many young groups could take notes from.

The Gaslight Anthem’s brand of gut-punching rock ‘n’ roll bridged a divide between pop and punk, highlighted by the title track off its latest album. Like a charging freight train, the band’s tunes were full of power and emotion. “The ’59 Sound” brought those on the sidelines of the Commodore out of their seats. Drenched in hooks, the crowd couldn’t help but keep their arms extended toward the roof. Soon, the Gaslight Anthem attempted to bridge the gap between the crowd and the stage, singing songs of blue-collar rock that would indeed make The Boss proud.

I saw many a drink topple over as the band worked through its uplifting set. Though this might be the nature of a show at the Commodore, when the Gaslight Anthem dedicated “Old White Lincoln” to a birthday girl, its hopeful, swirling punk took on a new soul. While rock ‘n’ roll like this may be limited forever to the Commodore, it is a show not to be missed. But don’t worry: If the Gaslight Anthem takes any cues from Springsteen, it will probably be playing together for a long, long time.

—Joshua Kloke

Twenty-five years, almost as many albums and an ever-changing band of misfits follow Sascha Konietzko, frontman and the only original member of KMFDM, around this year on the band’s world tour. The Philly crowd at the TLA was a mixture of ’80s metal heads who have been around since the beginning, Hot Topic goth kids and mosh-pit junkies. Not many were standing yet as opening group AngelSpit started its set, but the crowd quickly filled just before KMFDM hit the stage. Lucia Cifarelli and Konietzko (half the time with a cigarette in his mouth) were front and center pushing buttons and turning knobs, generating KMFDM’s signature “ultra heavy beats,” joined by guitarists Jules Hodgson and Steve White and drummer Andy Selway. No time was wasted on talking, and they started right into the music, which was a good combination of old and new songs plucked from their vast play list. Though they left out some favorites like “Juke Joint Jezebel,” they did play “WWIII” and “Never Say Never.” Konietzko still has it in him to put on an amazing performance, and with Cifarelli at his side, the show all comes together. Twenty-five years and still running strong with no signs of slowing down is what makes KMFDM one of the greatest heavy-hitting bands of all time.

—text and photo by Miranda Watson

MAGNET’s Matt Siblo reports from the All Tomorrow’s Parties festival in the Catskill Mountains.

If Friday ended with a Jesus Lizard-induced freakout, Saturday would have to begin gently with the hair of the dog provided by Sufjan Stevens. The quietly enigmatic songwriter has been laying low, only recently reemerging to formally release his ambitious BQE performance piece and a reworking of his 2001 album Enjoy Your Rabbit. With that backward-looking spirit, he performed 2004’s Seven Swans in its entirety, a brief diversion from the states-centric focused project he began in 2003. Decked out in all tie-dye, Stevens and his band launched into a surprisingly moving, but not overtly precious, rendering of the album. Subdued without seeming too bookish, haunting songs like “The Transfiguration” and “Sister” had both emotion and muscle. I believe most Christians would count the performance as attending church, so those pious attendees are all square for tomorrow. The perfect way to start the day.

But the afternoon can be a difficult time to rock. Athens, Ga.’s Circulatory System did its best to get the second stage moving, though its sonic bricolage led to the insertion of some confusing audience applause from still groggy attendees. New York’s Black Dice took Suicide’s deafening cues and amped them to 11 with a menacing, seizure-inducing set that was tough to take. And I mean that in the best way possible.

A new bell/whistle this year was the inclusion of a taping of Ian Svenonius of Nation Of Ulysses/Make-Up fame doing his post-modern Dick Cavett routine for his Vice talk show Soft Focus. Stumbling into his interview with Jon Spencer was like entering a snarky time warp, each gentleman sipping wine and talking shop in front of a plastic fireplace. While both men’s impeccable fashion sense untied them, the similarities stopped there. After 45 comically uncomfortable minutes, the irony and wine ran dry, hurling the interview to its unceremoniously conclusion.

Brandon Cox’s first set of the day (under his Atlas Sound moniker) was an opportunity for a lazy mid-day rest, as attendees sprawled out on the floor for a shoegaze-induced siesta. After continuously baiting the crowd with “Walkabout,” the duet with Panda Bear found on his new record Logos, Cox left the stage by his lonesome. The headband-inspired classic rock of Akron/Family gave the crowd the best of its two worlds: jammy Americana and obnoxious sonic squalor. Its hard charging set was satisfying regardless of preference.

And then, of course, there is Shellac, whose latest jaunt out of hibernation was enough to bemoan its otherwise self-induced non-ATP exile. Albini’s sermon on “The End Of Radio” was the highlight of its lengthy, unrelenting 70-minute set. Most compelling Q&A tidbit: Bassist Bob Weston only has sex with beautiful women, not hoes.

Atlanta’s Deerhunter followed Shellac on the main stage in a performance that Brandon Cox ominously declared as its “last for a while.” These words are said often and acted upon considerably less; it’s a shame to think the band will be sidelined in the midst of its current stride. Its set stemmed primarily from last year’s Microcastle with an inconceivably thicker layer of reverb and distortion. Let’s hope this isn’t goodbye for good.

The idea of Animal Collective (pictured) closing a festival might have sounded like a promoter’s masochistic dare five years ago, but that was then. The notoriously mercurial band’s most recent identity on this year’s Merriweather Post Pavilion is one of joyful bombast, and its celebratory set suited them. If Black Dice’s paranoid racket and dizzying lights transposed the crowd into a hallucinogenic nightmare, Animal Collective’s luminescent jellyfish lights and magical, projector orb induced an infectious state of ecstasy. By the time it closed with “Brother Sport,” there wasn’t a dry shirt on the floor.

For a certain type of fan, the migration of All Tomorrow’s Parties westward over the Atlantic has been a revelation. Unaccustomed to the small charm of a focused, boutique-style festival, American audiences have become inundated with sprawling monstrosities with 17 stages where every band that put out a record that year plays. In that sense, ATP New York is nothing if not deliberate. With the lineups cherry picked by various luminaries (this year, the Flaming Lips have the honors), the festival is outside the city limits nestled within the mountainous landscape and bygone glory of the Catskills, a vacation spot whose sheen has worn off considerably since Jackie Gleason last worked the rooms. Where else but New York could the resort hosting the festival, the charmingly decrepit Kutshers Country Club, seem chosen due to a vague sense of irony? It is with a brave face and incorruptible journalistic integrity that I will be delivering daily reports for MAGNET, acting as your eyes and ears on the ground in between what I hope to be an endless supply of bloody marys, bocce and my desperate attempts to befriend Jim Jarmusch. Also, I’m pretty sure bands are playing. I’ll be writing about them, too. 

—Matt Siblo

For starters, you had to respect Joe Pernice for the degree of difficulty of the tour he is attempting. Working without the safety net of his crack Pernice Brothers cohorts was the least of it. Lots of singer/songwriters do that. But Pernice’s show at Philadelphia’s Tin Angel was advertised as part reading of his new novel and part set of the cover songs he released as a “soundtrack” to accompany the book.

It is with great relief that we report the selections from It Feels So Good When I Stop were entertaining and compelling, both in content and in Pernice’s delivery. There was none of the awkwardness that stifles some author readings or the raging egotism that spoils others. Pernice read with the same keen ear he brings to singing his gorgeous and literate pop songs. He read two sections, both funny and sharply observed. One related a drunken conversation about Hitler’s mustache, the other a fictional (ahem) interaction with Lou Barlow during a gig at Brownie’s in New York.

The best gauge of Pernice’s reading: When he said he was finished reading from the book, none of the 75 or so in attendance cheered in that let’s-get-on-with-the-music tone that would have changed the temperature of the whole performance.

The second part of Pernice’s gamble paid off, as well. You don’t generally go to see a songwriter of Pernice’s caliber to hear him sing other people’s songs, especially oddities like “Chim Cheree” from Mary Poppins or Sammy Johns’ ’70s hit “Chevy Van.” But the twist here worked. These are songs that figure in the novel, and they’re in the novel because they affected the author in some profound way during his formative years (mostly).

So it turned out that Pernice playing covers with an acoustic guitar is a wonderful idea. His passion for the songs came through, and they were transformed by his airy, ethereal voice and songwriter’s sense of dynamics. Highlights included Barlow’s “Soul And Fire” and James And Bobby Purify’s “I’m Your Puppet” and, yes, Pernice’s heartbreaking take on “Chim Cheree.”

Pernice capped the evening with a short set of his own songs, selected, he said, because they worked best without the lush pop arrangements of the recordings. “Amazing Glow,” “How Can I Compare” and “Pisshole In The Snow” felt more immediate and direct in this setting. And “Bum Leg,” from way back on the Chappaquiddick Skyline album, was a perfect downer of an encore.

There’s no way to know whether Pernice will focus on writing fiction or making records from here on out. This project takes a step in a new direction with the book while standing firmly on familiar ground with the CD. For a night, at least, Pernice made the two pieces fit perfectly.

—Phil Sheridan

As the leader of American Music Club and a solo artist, 50-year-old Mark Eitzel has toured with numerous configurations and players during the past two-plus decades, from a full band to solo with guitar. This night in Philadelphia was the penultimate stop on a small tour mostly confined to the Northeast corridor that featured a new arrangement: just Eitzel and a piano player, Marc Capelle. Billed as “Mark Eitzel Performs American Music Club,” this “kind of a Tony Bennett thing I guess,” as Eitzel wrote on his blog, gave him the freedom to concentrate solely on singing—and his hilarious stage antics. Eitzel has always been a mix of stand-up comic, self-deprecating curmudgeon who constantly apologizes for his “stupid songs” and confident showman. And with just a microphone in his hand, here Eitzel was free to fully indulge in a sad-clown lounge-act persona that fit him well.

Hopping onto the stage at Johnny Brenda’s in a trucker hat and baggy chino pants, a bearded Eitzel fidgeted around the whole set, repeatedly sitting down on a chair, then getting back up again (often during songs), all while alternately beaming to the crowd and shying away. After saying hi, he talked about getting a new career, such as cleaning toilets, but only for “people who are sanitary.” Then, on a dime,  he started singing and sent the crowd from loose laughter to arrested silence with a longing cover of “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” and his own wrenching “Mission Rock Resort.”

This pattern would happen throughout the show. Eitzel would crack jokes about his life, his age, Roberta Flack, other shows on the tour, former band members, Facebook, and then casually launch into poignant laments such as AMC tunes “Decibels And Little Pills,” “The Thorn In My Side Is Gone” and “Nightwatchman” (Eitzel got choked up at one point during this one) that just inspired awe with their bruised lyrics and Eitzel’s room-filling voice. He may have the most human voice in rock music. It is all of this at once: sad, defiant, wounded, sentimental, understanding, hopeful, resigned. Big as the biggest adjective and commanded with elegantly flawed grace, Eitzel’s voice can make your ears cry. The way he draws out syllables, the way he pulls back from the microphone to sing unamplified and then leans loudly back in. Astonishing.

On a few tunes, including a beautifully rendered “Last Harbor” and one from a musical Eitzel recently wrote with British playwright Simon Stephens, Capelle would start the song and Eitzel would immediately ask him to slow it down. “Slower, slower, slower,” he said at one point, walking over to the keyboard and coaching Capelle’s fingers down to a lilting crawl.

If you have seen Eitzel live, you know he sometimes can’t seem to wait to get off the stage and has a tendency to abort songs and end sets abruptly. On this night, he never seemed to want to leave. After taking a bow together following the main set, Eitzel and Capelle treated the crowd to two encores. The first featured a cheeky reading of “Me And Mrs. Jones” with the “Mrs.” changed to “Mr.” For the second, Eitzel offered a choice of either “Blue And Gray Shirt” or “No Easy Way Down.” The fans shouted competing preferences. So they played both, the piano floating just perfectly, unobtrusively, under that wondrous voice.

—Doug Sell; photo by Lea Bogdan

The weather was mostly pitch perfect for the weekend at Chicago’s Union Park, insignificant showers on Saturday, 70 degrees on Sunday. The audience, as usual, was informed, committed and up for anything, but the aptly named Fucked Up gave some of its fans more than they bargained for when they leapt from the Aluminum Stage with their guitars. Rapper Daniel Dumile (a.k.a. MF Doom) was one of few carrying the hip-hop flame this year with his stage mask, wild camouflage attire and massive dreadlocked sidekick—not to mention his relentless, articulate flow. Beirut’s Zach Condon blended Balkan brass music with French chanson, doubling on trumpet and ukulele in front of a fresh-faced seven-piece band that featured accordionist Perrin Cloutier. Although the National headlined Saturday, it was on the Balance Stage at the south end of the park where most of the action was happening. Something of a Scandinavian enclave, this stage hosted Norwegian mixmaster Hans-Peter Lindstrøm and Danish rockers Mew, but it was the manic pop duo of Matt And Kim followed by the insurgent Black Lips that set that side of the park alight. The Atlanta-based Lips hit like extras from Pirates Of The Caribbean, storming onstage with abandon. Almost immediately, Ian Saint Pé made matchwood of his guitar, and later the band urged the crowd to surge and worry security. Despite their reputation as hell-raisers, the rest of the set was strictly business, an outlaw stew of garage punk, busted well beyond the garage.

Still, it was the Flaming Lips and their wacko costumed characters that won out with an impossibly arty finale. Topping off a Sunday night that included Grizzly Bear, Vivian Girls and the Walkmen, the Lips’ Wayne Coyne made perhaps the safest crowd surf of the festival in his trademark plastic bubble, subsequently bestriding a giant gorilla head. Coyne’s between-song patter was surprisingly inane, but as night descended, the spectacle became as trippy as a close encounter, with streamers and giant balloons festooning Union Park. Coyne largely obliged Pitchfork’s “Write The Night” demand, including confused-machismo anthem “Fight Test,” “Enthusiasm For Life Defeats Existential Fear” (from the band’s Fearless Freaks film) and the wishful “Bad Days,” closing out with 1993’s “She Don’t Use Jelly.” The Lips’ psychedelic orange-clad tech crew had worked since 7.30 a.m. setting up for this big send-off, much to the amazement of Pitchfork staff, who are probably still clearing the park after the awesome rain of confetti at this otherwise recycle-conscious event, now firmly entrenched as one of the hippest in the Chicago calendar.

—photos and text by Michael Jackson

Chicago’s favorite indie-music festival, held in Union Park in the city’s South Loop, made a limp start yesterday afternoon when local heroes Tortoise took the stage at a drizzly 5 p.m. In fairness to the band, the late afternoon was a cruel slot with the weather overcast and the crowd still tepid. The band was also conforming to the “Write The Night: Set Lists By Request” demands, which required them to faithfully revisit selections from such vintage albums as Millions Now Living Will Never Die. 

In contrast to the slow-moving Tortoise, the Jesus Lizard followed, and singer David Yow (pictured) came out blazing: chugging Bud, spitting constantly and berating the audience. Yow said that everyone could get a refund for their ticket and come see the band in November at the Cabaret Metro before launching into the crowd for one of his legendary surfing sessions, which inspired countless imitations and gave security a nightmare. Yow’s behavior throughout the set was delightfully appalling, making Shane McGowan of the Pogues look like a patsy, while the rest of the Lizard kept things tight and punchy and never dropped a beat.

Capping the evening, which also included some great guitar antics from Yo La Tengo on the Aluminum Stage, was Built To Spill, whose triple-guitar assault behind frontman Doug Martsch’s thin-yet-effecting voice sent a strong message through the cool night air. All in all, a solid, rousing beginning to the three-day affair.

—photo and text by Michael Jackson

It’s the 30th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

Sobered by the bad news of Montreal jazz historian Len Dobbin’s sudden passing, I attended a press conference where the festival’s founder, Alain Simard, presented Ornette Coleman with its annual Miles Davis Award. Being the 50th anniversary of Coleman’s album The Shape Of Jazz To Come as well as his group’s famous breakthrough gigs at the Five Spot in New York City, the award was certainly appropriate. At 79, Coleman still gets around pretty well, but he was quite tired from lack of sleep and almost cancelled the press conference.

Still, Coleman arrived looking sharp in his tailor-made suit and graciously accepted the award with a philosophical commentary about the quality of existence, life, death and the need to improve ourselves. The Montreal press corps tried to ask him a few questions, but Coleman merely listened politely and resumed his existential discourse. He did include his familiar anecdote about wanting a saxophone when he was small and his mother encouraging him to work for it and surprising him a year later with a saxophone under his bed. He thought it was a toy, but he learned about sound, and here we are. When asked if he ever wanted to do any more work playing on movie soundtracks like he’d done for David Lynch’s Naked Lunch, Coleman said, “What I would like, is for everyone on Earth to be happy—and to never die.” Boom.

Coleman’s quartet concert on Thursday night was amazing. Flanked tightly by stand-up bassist Tony Falanga, electric bassist Al McDowell and son Denardo on drums, Coleman came out slamming with a discordant flurry of sound. Playing alto, trumpet and violin, he led the band through a series of dramatic passages, drawing vintage compositions and stray melodies from all points of his idiosyncratic career. Besides the man himself, Coleman’s two bassists were especially impressive, and the crazy counterpoint included Falanga bowing his upright and McDowell playing his five-string electric bass like a guitar. Coleman played with an emotional power and directness that is still unique and exceptional, and his expressiveness on ballads such as “Lonely Woman” was beyond compare.  At one point, the band definitely played a segment of “Dancing In Your Head,” but beyond that I’d be guessing at song titles. Let it just be said that Coleman’s concert was another classic exhibition of sonic intensity and musicianship. And of human feeling.

The only other show I caught on Thursday night was Vieux Farka Touré, the Malian guitarist/singer whose late father was famous African bluesman Ali Farka Touré. All I can tell you is that Vieux is a chip off the old block, and he burned up the Club Soda stage with his red-hot rhythms and blazing guitar. Playing pentatonic blues scales with a percussive, ringing style as his band churned out its bouncing African boogie, Touré is something of a rocker, but he’s tied to infectious tribal beats and deep blues roots. This was a joyous affair, and almost everyone in the club was up and dancing. Touré has simply got to break into the jam-band circuit here in the U.S. Somebody tell Derek Trucks about this guy right away.

—photo by Michael Jackson

It’s the 30th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

So I took a day off from all that jazz and went to see new documentary Rocksteady: The Roots Of Reggae in anticipation of the evening’s free, outdoor concert extravaganza featuring a most solid crew of rocksteady all-stars. Filmmaker Stascha Bader may not have had the same kind of resources that Wim Wenders had when he filmed The Buena Vista Social Club, but he still manages to document this blessed reunion of elder Jamaican musicians and give us a good history lesson, too. Spanning the short few glory years between ska’s reign and the advent of reggae, the rocksteady vibe was a slow and easy groove with deep soulful vocals.

Much like the films Standing In The Shadows Of Motown and West Coast equivalent The Wrecking Crew, Rocksteady focuses on lesser-known backing musicians and old entertainers who still have an important story to tell. Building to a rousing reunion concert in Jamaica, we hear from veteran ’60s crooners like Leroy Sibbles (of Heptones fame), Ken Boothe and Derrick Morgan as well Marcia Griffiths, Judy Mowatt and Rita Marley (once known collectively as the I-Threes). Bader mixes vintage films and old photos between candid interviews, plaintive home visits and new recording sessions as we learn about the roots of reggae from the people who were there. Of course, the music is what seals the deal, and hearing singer Dawn Penn discuss and reprise her magical soul single from 1967, “You Don’t Love Me (No, No, No),” is a highlight, as was watching Morgan rise one more time to sing “Tougher Than Tough” in rudeboy style. Accomplished and versatile musicians like the great Ernest Ranglin populate the veteran backing band, and these old-school Jamaicans can still play as sweet and soulful as the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section or as in-the-pocket lowdown as the Funk Brothers.

And that’s how it was on Tuesday night in Montreal, as the skies cleared after a rainy afternoon and more than 100,000 folks gathered in front of the General Motors stage to see the show. The event was much more of a reggae revue then a strict rocksteady affair, but when you’re entertaining a crowd this size, you have to give the people what they want—that is, a fair amount of tribute being paid to Bob Marley. The stage lighting was bright and festive, and it was a long parade of stars as Hopeton Lewis, Stranger Cole (pictured), Sibbles, Boothe, Mowatt,Griffiths and the Tamlins took their turns in front of a huge grooving band of rocksteady players. The Tamlins sang “Stop That Train” and Boothe did “Shanty Town.” Griffiths and Mowatt were beautiful, and they really gave the show their all. Griffiths sang “The Tide Is High” (originally recorded by John Holt and the Paragons back in 1967) and Penn’s “You Don’t Love Me (No, No, No),” while Mowatt delivered a loving version “No Woman, No Cry.” All in all, another sweet night of good music and good times at the Montreal Jazz Festival.

It’s the 30th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

Watching saxophonist Joshua Redman on the second night of his three-gig excursion at the Montreal Jazz Festival, I was struck at how different his demeanor was from the previous evening. At the first show, Redman was quiet and guarded, barely speaking to the audience and running his band through the tunes with tough authority. On Sunday night, however, the talented Redman was upbeat and effusive, thanking the festival for the opportunity to partake in its celebrated Invitation Series, where each night the featured artist gets to play with a different dream team of his choosing. Perhaps that had something to do with Redman’s improved mood, as he’d certainly picked some great musicians to work with, particularly fellow saxophone star Joe Lovano. The two have collaborated many times over the years, and Lovano is something of a father figure to Redman. The Sunday gig was a blazing, saxophone affair with Redman and Lovano trading phrases, playing in unison and generally pushing each other to great heights. Supported by the fantastic Greg Hutchinson on drums, pianist Sam Yahel and bassist Rueben Rogers, Redman and Lovano gave the sold-out crowd some truly exciting jazz. For the encore, they played “Blues Up And Down,” a lowdown tenor battle made famous by saxophonists Sonny Stitt and Gene Ammons.

The Lionel Loueke Trio also performed on Sunday night, and the Benin guitarist showcased his unique style of African jazz. Loueke (pictured) is an up-and-comer who’s played with everyone from Herbie Hancock to Cassandra Wilson to Santana. He’s a charismatic, distinctive young player, and he had the African fans in the Montreal audience howling in appreciation of his indigenous world/jazz fusion. Loueke’s voice compliments his muted, fleet-fingered guitar style, and although the trio format was a little skimpy for me, it certainly allowed Loueke to stretch out and entertain his fans. He has made a few records as a leader, the most recent being last year’s Karibu.

At the same time as Loueke’s gig in the spanking new L’Astral club, Patrick Watson (the band) was playing just outside on the General Motors Stage to well more than 100,000 people. As predicted, the Canadian band approximated Radiohead/Coldplay proportions with this dramatic exhibition of its theatrical rock cabaret. Frontman Patrick Watson ruled the roost with huge video screens and numerous special effects, including shadow puppets and space-age lighting projected onto the buildings surrounding the site. The core band was accentuated with horns and a string section, backup singers from some Nordic country and special guest vocalists. I have to admit, it really was quite a sight, and the music wasn’t bad either.

It’s the 30th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

As Montreal’s massive jazz festival lumbered into its first weekend, I was blessed with the opportunity to see two living legends on Friday. First and foremost, the Wayne Shorter Quartet returned to Montreal, playing at the large and elegant Théâtre Maisonneuve to an appreciative audience. Indeed, Shorter (pictured) is probably one of the best-loved jazz musicians on the planet, and his legendary status as veteran of the Miles Davis Quintet, Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers and fusion kingpins Weather Report only begins to explain this grand degree of affection. A true eccentric and marvelous composer as well as a remarkably imaginative saxophonist, Shorter seems to charm everyone with his playful, Zen-like attitude as well as his sterling musicianship.

Shorter’s acclaimed quartet has gone through some changes of late, and this concert marked the appearance of Geoffrey Keezer substituting for pianist Danilo Pérez (who ruptured his Achilles tendon but is on the mend). Shorter has long been accepted into the jazz mainstream and his status as an elder statesman guarantees a degree of indulgence from his fans, but Shorter’s group played an unorthodox set filled with flowing, avant-garde improvisation that challenged his Montreal audience from beginning to end. Compensating for the absence of his longtime keyboard foil, Shorter took the lead on tenor saxophone and drove his group into uncharted territory, trading musical phrases with Keezer, bassist John Pattitucci and drummer Brian Blade and soloing more aggressively than I have heard him do in ages. Playing tenor and jamming nonstop for the first hour of the show, Shorter allowed plenty of space for Keezer, Pattitucci and Blade to showcase their skills. Blade was particularly explosive, dropping bombs to offset Shorter’s arcane saxophone ruminations. Things got bogged down when Shorter finally shifted over to his soprano sax, but the degree of musicianship was so high that the group adjusted to his stop-and-start soprano style. Whether they adjust to Keezer or welcome back Pérez, the Wayne Shorter Quartet will surely be one of the best working groups in jazz. Shorter has had this group for almost a decade and is 75 years old, so catch him now if you can.

I couldn’t stay for the end of Shorter’s concert, because I was once again running back to the Gesù for the theater’s late-night gig, this time showcasing alto saxophonist Lee Konitz. Konitz is even older than Shorter and arguably just as accomplished, but his Montreal appearance didn’t receive a fraction of the attention that Shorter’s show did. Perhaps it’s just as well, as Konitz does not have the resources to keep his own band on the road and played here with international jazz trio Minsarah. While these young players supported Konitz on 2008’s Deep Lee, the band seemed under-rehearsed and was not in the same league as its fearless leader. While there were plenty of solid musical moments, Konitz could not save this gig from drifting into the realm of merely average. This is unfortunate, as he is still one of the best alto players of his generation, a pioneer of cool jazz and an inventive soloist with an amazing amount of creativity. Seriously, the guy played on Birth Of The Cool with Miles Davis in 1949. Maybe next time the Montreal folks can find a better showcase for the many talents of Konitz.

It’s the 30th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

The Montreal International Jazz Festival is a large, amazing beast spanning 13 nights and showcasing talented artists from all parts of the globe. With loads of world music, soul, funk and rock ‘n’ roll as well as top-notch jazz, the festival is impressive for the huge number of free outdoor events that are geared to satisfy the Canadian public while hardcore jazzbos scurry from one indoor gig to another. I missed the opening night’s concert with Stevie Wonder, but well more than 200,000 people braved the rain to see Wonder’s show, which was chock full of jazz charts, old Motown favorites, a Beatles tune and a loving tribute to Michael Jackson. Rumor has it that Wonder got paid a half-million dollars for the gig—not bad for a night’s work.

Easing into the cosmopolitan scene, I went to Club Soda and caught a set of duets by Brazilian vocalist Luciana Souza (pictured) and acoustic guitarist Romero Lubambo. The intimacy between Souza and Lubambo was impressive and should lead many to Souza’s wonderful duet CDs. Singing in Portuguese and English, Souza embraced the songbook of Antonio Carlos Jobim, Pablo Neruda’s poetry and a couple of jazz standards. Lubambo, who lives in the United States, is probably the most in-demand Brazilian guitarist working today—his jazzy arpeggios were delicate and sometimes reminiscent of guitarist Joe Pass, but his sound is still distinctly Brazilian and uniformly excellent. Souza and Lubambo played in perfect tandem, mirroring each other with romantic grace.

I also enjoyed a late-night set at the wonderful Gesù Theatre, featuring French pianist Baptiste Trotignon with an American band that included sensational saxophonist Mark Turner, trumpeter Jeremy Pelt, bassist Matt Penman and drummer Greg Hutchinson. While Trotignon’s style is a little too passive for my tastes, the improvisational strength of his group elevated the ensemble performance to a serious art form. Turner, who’s still recovering from a very serious injury to one of his hands, played remarkably, as did Pelt. This group of young all-stars is going to be around, individually if not collectively, so keep your eyes on them and watch the future of jazz unfold.

Much more from Montreal in the days to come—au revoir!