Clinton St. Quarterly 45 came a little closer to reality Above: The Oregon All Stars Below: Betty Carter with Curtis Lundy before the curtain was fully open, and didn't stop for 45 minutes. The highlight of his set for me was a surprising version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’’ that he launched in a sudden, on-the-beat, almost off-balance style that reminded me — as do many of his spare, seemingly effortless and asymmetrical licks — of Thelonious Monk, one of his earliest mentors. In that tradition, Sonny Rollins delivered one of the most unique sounds in jazz with an intensity that left no doubt about why he is a major influence on a host of contemporaries. to lighten. She delivered her tribute to Billie Holiday, “Don’t Weep for the Lady,” with the strength and passion that held the audience rapt until she lowered her arms and bowed her head on the final note and the hush was followed by thunderous applause. We cheered with relief and pleasure, for this was the legendary Betty Carter we had come to see. She stepped back, took a deep breath, turned to her band, and laughed. It was going to be all right. n ackstage late Saturday afternoon, Betty Carter was seated •in a folding chair placed by itself in a small patch of shade. Beside her stood a tall, conservatively dressed man with an attache case open at his feet. He stooped to hand her a contract while a semi-circle of admirers and photographers clustered ten respectful feet away. She was dressed for her show in a slinky black pantsuit; looking cool and glamorous, she “You go on and do whatever you have to do about the rain out there,” she said to the audience. “We’re just going on ahead for you up here.” And she followed with a stunning recitation of some of her best-known material, including a classic “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most,” and “Open the Door,” a beckoning, Latin- flavored love song presented with characteristically insouciant irony. The oppressive humidity broken, Betty Carter put a fitting end to her set with bows and wide-open arms throwing kisses. We had expected her to be great, and she was, provoking T he Oregon All-Stars — with Ron Steen, Mel Brown, Peter Boe, George Mitchell, Thara Memory, Jim Pribbenow, Phil Baker and Chris Botti — knew who they were opening for on Saturday night, and they came out kicking, for in the wings stood Sonny Rollins. As he climbed the stairs to the stage, dressed in a floppy green hat and purple jacket, local photographers were even snapping shots of his back. He began blowing crossed her legs and smiled at the cameras. The humidity built through the evening, and by the time her set started, lightning was flashing and a few reluctant drops of rain came squeezing out of the heavy sky. Betty had been ready and waiting to go on for hours, and the pressure of the heat and the expectations of the large crowd made her opening a little tense, although she came on with a will, rocking back and forth swinging her arms in great expressive beats that seemed to propel her beautiful, horn-like voice. The lightning flashed mockingly at her “What a Little Moonlight Can Do,” and she asked the crowd not to clap with the beat, “because that echo bouncing around back there makes it hard, and with the clapping we just can’t do it.” As the welcome drops grew momentarily heavier and the temperature eased, Betty’s tension appeared ■was walking beside the musicians’ dressing rooms Friday night when a tall man with glasses stooped before a small window to peer out. I stopped and stared: it was Dexter Gordon. He smiled and languidly waved with that famous, hipster wrist, then turned back to warming up. Dexter’s wave was like a blessing, and when he appeared on stage looking appropriately regal to recite the lyrics to his first tune, “It’s You or No One,” the crowd roared its delight. His presence and sound project dignity and command, and after the first number a group of women, cheering and laughing out loud, raised fists in the air and screamed, “Dexter! Dexter!” He delivered what we had expected, yet it sounded so wonderful that we realized we’d forgotten how good it is, and cheered and laughed because the big sound coming from that real human presence gave such substance and credibility to his legend. Dexter’s tone easily filled the whole stadium, and he presented favorites like “Backstage,” “High Fly,” and “Easy Living” with such grace, intensity and perfect timing that the moon rising over the festival seemed to consecrate his music. fter the Saturday afternoon j^F^kconcert, which included a set by Richie Cole and Alto Madness, I was lying on the grass outside the stadium near a couple in their fifties who were drinking chilled wine and eating fried chicken out of an Igloo cooler. The woman commented, “I didn’t like that ‘Alto Sadness’ very much.” Just a few days before, Sonny Stitt, one of the masters of the bright bebop alto sound to which Richie adheres, had died. At the age of 34, Richie himself is still a fairly young jazz player, but the loss of a master like Sonny Stitt adds that much more weight to Richie’s shoulders. Then again, maybe the heat and humidity took a little bit off the Madness, because Richie Cole’s characteristic antics and spontaneous humor (“It gets so spontaneous that sometimes it gets crazy .. . ” ) seemed to wilt a little in the sun-baked emptiness of three-quarters of the on-field seats. Still, 1500 people is a pretty large group, and when he paused to introduce his band after the first number, Richie discovered the echo that bounced back to the stage from the roofed concrete bleachers across the field, and the audience laughed and cheered when he began to have fun, playing off some of his own bounding riffs and jokingly introducing each musician with echo-plexed fanfares. Richie worked hard in the sun. His big, bright tone filled the stadium and spilled over into the milky afternoon sky. By the end of his set the crowd was on its feet demanding an encore, and Richie returned with “Save Your Love For Me,” a swinging, sexy tune that fit the increasing sultriness of the weather. But the crowd still demanded more. “Don’t worry,” Richie said, thanking them as he retreated, “There’s still plenty of great, pure jazz coming up for you.”
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