[ ROCK/JAZZ ]

Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival: Jeff Beck Thursday, June 17. Kodak Hall at Eastman Theatre, Gibbs Street. $50-$125. 800-745-3000, rochesterjazz.com.

[ LATIN/JAZZ ]

Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival: Bernie Williams Friday, June 18. Kodak Hall at Eastman Theatre, Gibbs Street. $55-$90. 800-745-3000, rochesterjazz.com.

Meanwhile, WBER has announced its Holiday Show:

[ ELECTRONIC/RAP ]

WBER Holiday Show w/MC Lars Saturday, December 5 Water Street Music Hall, 204 N Water St. 6:30 p.m. $13-$15. 800-745-3000, waterstreetmusic.com.

Just like The Cult, Boneyard draws upon the sounds and moods and ghosts of the American landscape. There’s big-sky beauty in that desolation, and Boneyard conjured it, kicked it, claimed it, and sent it back toward the sky. But this wasn’t just some rain dance. Boneyard mixes in just as much machine and accessory as it does the ethereal and inanimate. There are ghosts and demons swirling about, but they’re all on choppers. They don’t stop at red lights, and your mama’s on the bitch seat. It’s outlaw, it’s Southern rock, it’s fuckin’ beautiful. And the band was in its element on the Armory’s huge stage — plenty of room to stretch out and pound out a tremendous set. Singer J.J. Lang’s voice busted cobwebs and clouds; I tell ya, it is made for the arena. The band was well received by the crowd of about 2,000 (I’m guesstimating) and certainly won new fans with this show.

The lights went down, the crowd went wild. The lights came back up, the crowd went mild. This happened a few more times until The Cult finally mounted the stage and tore into “Nirvana.” From the first kerrang of Billy Duffy’s big White Falcon, the band sounded unbelievable. I can safely say it was the best-sounding show I’ve seen at the Armory. Yes, it was loud —LOUD — but the cat running sound had mucho knob-twiddling know-how.

Sporting a beard a la The Lizard King in his later years, singer Ian Astbury positively roared. The man still has those glorious pipes — definitely a signature voice in rock. The band front-to-backed its 1985 “Love” LP, and then immediately split. When they returned, they whipped out a couple cuts from my favorite album, “Electric”: “Electric Ocean” and “Wild Flower.” I left with my head ringing. It was an awesome show.

If I were her, I would be hard pressed to make any kind of sense of it, too. Using effects pedals and amplifiers, Money’s sound is in-your-face, which is surprising considering her instrument of choice. Her sound is dark, eerie, and loud. The soft-spoken musician lets it all come out on stage, bending slightly over her instrument, eyes closed, and seemingly entranced while she plays. The sounds of her instrument swelled around the caf

Albany’s roadhouse rockers The Lustre Kings lit up Abilene Monday as if it were gasoline. They got Chops La Conte from the Mets, and his addition to the band had them rocking tight and mean. I had the pleasure of butchering Madonna and Eddie Cochran with the trio and delighted with the rest of the crowd as La Conte climbed all over his stand-up bass as if it were stand-up monkey bars. The Lustre Kings are pure juke-joint-jumpin’ fun, even on a Monday night in Rochester.

Good jazz often hits me like a cool blast of eucalyptus: it gets the flow flowing, the go going, and the going gone. Drummer Harris Eisenstadt and Canada Day served up a slinky, sultry groove in the Bop Shop Atrium last night. It was just the right mix of exploratory impishness and accessibility. The quintet swung beat, it swung sweet, it swung alreet. Its casual cadence presented room for those who wanted to take a ride, even though the destination was everywhere, man. I dug these cats deep.

Folks in the know may recognize Eisenstadt from his work with artists like Roy Campbell, Taylor Ho Bynum, and Paul Smoker, and in The Diplomats with trombonists Steve Swell and Rob Brown. I’ll be honest, walking in to the joint last night I knew little about the group, by pied proprietor Tom Kohn lured me in earlier that afternoon with phrases like “Early ’60s Blue Note stuff.”

The man was right and the band was righteous. It would’ve been nice to see you there…

Folks in the know may recognize Eisenstadt from his work with artists like Roy Campbell, Taylor Ho Bynum, and Paul Smoker, and in The Diplomats with trombonists Steve Swell and Rob Brown. I’ll be honest, walking in to the joint last night I knew little about the group, by pied proprietor Tom Kohn lured me in earlier that afternoon with phrases like “Early ’60s Blue Note stuff.”
The man was right and the band was righteous. It would’ve been nice to see you there…

The evening began with opener Greg Cunningham, a local singer with a gentle, Michael Stipe type of calm to his voice. The singer’s set started with a gentle acoustic vibe and random bursts of harmonica. Cunningham, a witty and down-to-earth type, kindly told the audience to “drink lots, I sound much better when you’re drunk.”
Cunningham’s best tune of the night came second in the set: Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.” The audience felt the vibe and sang along. Cunningham widened the range of his set with a ballad halfway through. The ease of his voice matched the intimate lyrics — it was a subtle and well devised performance.

When I think of genuine folk, I think of a guy like Danny Schmidt. He brings his soul to the stage with him, and he seems to leave it there when he goes. He spends most of his set eyes closed, knees swaying, with his thoughts visibly off somewhere else. His style weaves in and out of a bluegrass/folk with a subtle dash of country twang. His poetry hits you first and his music hits you last, almost as an afterthought. His songs talk to you with elegance, narrowing in on the things we do not take time out to feel.

A majority of the songs carried several verses, each extensive but ending abruptly, with a repetitious, soft melody. The tunes came more like monologues, setting a scene and taking a comprehensive approach, nearly exhausting you if you let your mind travel along. His voice was fittingly simple to match the complexity of the lyrics and instrumentation. A few of the audience members seemed caught and embedded in the big picture of his work. Schmidt managed to engage and silence the entire crowd by the close of his set.

Silversun Pickups headlined and harnessed a spectacular sonic pop wash. It’s nice to hear pioneering bands take classic tones and not fall into retro traps.

Saturday night’s 60’s spectacular at The Auditorium got better as it went on. The New Rascals pulled off a loud, cluttered, and flat set with only the power of their hits to save them. The Turtles recreated their harmonies remarkably, with Flo and Eddie doing their best Hope & Crosby corn between numbers. Peter Noone still sounds like a teenager as he thrilled the crowd of roughly 1,400 that first discovered him when most of them were teens, too. For the most part the show was weak and kind of depressing. It’s kind of the same reason I don’t go to open-casket funerals; I want to remember them as they were. RIP.

Miller strapped on a guitar and strode out in the pointiest cowboy boots I’d ever seen. You could have lanced a boil with those pig-stickers. His voice was rich and ragged as he opened with the somber “How I Got To Memphis” — a tune he penned for King Solomon Burke, who in turned recorded it on his last album in Miller’s living room. The goose bumps showed up and stayed up when Miller copped an electric guitar just slithering in slinky tremolo for “Does My Ring Burn Your Finger.” Harris’ bass player showed up for this one; his solid 2/4 on the doghouse helped put the song in gear and point it hip-ward. It was all lovely dovely and mysterious with an ominous undertone. In fact, ominous is like hot sauce; you take any song of any topic, any mood, any groove, and you splash on a little ominous…it’ll burn ya, baby.

God, she’s beautiful. Harris’ voice is almost as luxuriously silver as her tresses. She sang in a voice that sounded a fraction of her 62 years. She floated like a butterfly and stung like, well, a butterfly. It was a mid-tempo honky-tonk lullaby that hovered just beneath the clouds, but I’d already spent my awe on Miller. Harris was still mesmerizing — especially when she and Miller tag-teamed on the Nazareth classic “Love Hurts.”

Just kidding, I know it’s actually a Roy Orbison tune. Gotcha again; I know it’s Gramm Parsons. Suckers. I thought I’d fuck with the wiz kids that read this column who freak out and roast me when I get something wrong. I get it right most of the time; give a brother a break. Besides, I know you like the Nazareth version the best. I think I do, too.

Singer Davey Havok has changed since I saw him rock Darien Lake two years ago in his quasi-gender ambiguity. Homeboy got a haircut and some new moves. The coif was pure Elvis – skinny, pre-Army, pre-jumsuit Elvis – and his suit kind of Sha Na Na. It sort of distracted from the band’s somewhat dark leanings, which I had frankly found a little distracting previously. Havok’s on-stage demeanor was dramatic and intense and somewhat Pentecostal. He was riveting, and his voice came across strong and decipherable. And the rabid faithful hung on every prayer. The band laid down a great set.

And here’s where I come clean once again. I’m opinionated, I like what I like, and am quick to holler “Bullshit!” when I smell it. But I’m also sometimes a little too quick to judge, and I’m working on that. For instance, I couldn’t have given a good goddamn about AFI; I was there to hear the other act, Gallows. But I gave AFI a shot – myself too, I suppose – and wound up seeing a great show I otherwise might have missed. See? I feel better already.

There was no way in hell I was going to miss Gallows since I’d been bowled over by the band’s classic hardcore-infused new core at this past summer’s Warped Tour. It’s a nice mash-up of Black Flag, Minor Threat, Bad Brains-era reactionary rock with some of the younger sounds that cross into metal and hard rock, with perhaps a little more precision. Singer Frank Carter sang (howled?) one tune on stage and then dove into the middle of the crowd for the remainder of the show, where he conducted the moshing, a circle pit, and even a human pyramid while liberally throwing the finger and spitting in the air.

The rest of the band on stage spent the majority of the time airborne, as if they were in a kung-fu movie. Gallows played mostly stuff from its new “Grey Britain” record, to the obvious disappointment of a few in the crowd. Regardless, it was a great – albeit oddly paired – set.

When the Eastman School brought in Danko in 1998, his association with jazz greats like Gerry Mulligan, Chet Baker, and Konitz no doubt played a large role in his hiring. His connections have paid off over the years and Monday night was a prime example. Because of their years together on the road Konitz and Danko read each-other well. They clearly had not rehearsed for the concert, but that only added to the sense of adventure.

Danko and Konitz took turns starting pieces. They would hesitate, fumble around looking for a good entrance, and eventually catch a wave. On one tune (I believe it was “All The Things You Are”) Danko tried out some chords without actually hitting them. Meanwhile Konitz began tapping out a rhythm on the keys of his sax. Danko took advantage of the beat and jumped in. If anyone in the audience had any doubts about the “in the moment” improvisational abilities of jazz musicians, those doubts were dispelled at this concert.

Toward the end of the concert, the duo was joined by a quartet of Eastman students — Ben Bishop, guitar; Mike Van Bebber, trumpet; Kyle Vock, bass; and Kevin McDonald, drums — to play two tunes by the late George Russell. They were recorded by Konitz in 1951 and, according to Konitz, not played since then. Konitz explained that back then Miles Davis borrowed a trumpet and played the complicated melodies. Tonight, he said, he borrowed a sax (from Eastman) and he would be playing those same tricky notes. Bishop’s transcriptions were excellent; the somewhat experimental tunes by the man Konitz called a scientist sounded fresh almost six decades after they were written.

The concert was all the more remarkable considering that Konitz was to celebrate his 82nd birthday the next day. (We had cake in the upstairs lounge after the last tune.) Konitz might have experienced some shortness of breath, but the audience experienced no shortage of mastery.

Konitz is going to be in town for a few days so that he can be at the Gerry Niewood tribute in the Eastman Theatre Wednesday night. Let’s hope he’s in the mood to borrow that saxophone one more time.

Whatever his thought process, Jann Klose took the stage last night at the German House with aplomb, although he was in front of a decidedely Renaissance crowd. With just his voice and his guitar, the sound he produced was so big I swear the rafters were swaying in time. He sung with a deceptive effortlessness, as his range didn’t become apparent until you tried to sing along. It was then I realized that he was all over the scales. A few songs in and my Ren-fan friend was won over. A few more and she was picking out ones her son’s band should cover.

Did I mention it was a Renaissance crowd? The rock-opera band got a standing O after its very first song. The crowd damn near gushed after every tune. My friend was ecstatic, even ordering me not to talk during certain songs. It’s not my cup of tea, but I can certainly appreciate the talent. I found it interesting that with the big productions like Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and even Celtic Women, that Renaissance could pull off just as much evocative magic without all the flash and smoke.

The fans were definitely pleased, many waiting quite a bit of time after the concert to have their Ren-stash signed. I received updates until the wee hours of the morning from my friend, who was rifling through boxes to find her CDs and tapes. I’ve even been invited over for a future wine and listen. I’ll take the wine.

The set began an hour late, and as it turns out Baby Shiver’s was widdled down to band member Ian Egling after he split with the band prior to this performance. Egling began the evening with a testament to his missing musicians, throwing in a quick “I wish they were here” as he began to play.

But Egling did the one-man-band thing with ease and delivered some memorable melodies on the keys and vocals. Equipped with vocal playback and sampled drums, the soft-spoken musician played three to four songs in his set, all hushed and quirky with some seriously catchy key riffs. His set, although brief, was charming.

Next up was a surprise guest not on the bill — Viking Moses, also known as Brendon Massei, who played a short set and later coupled his talents with Golden Ghost. Massei’s set was carried by a conventional and rooted vocal. The set seemed unrehearsed, the vocal became chaotic at times, but it always reached its mark.

And then, there was Golden Ghost. I had been hearing about this chick all week, and since Massei ended his set calling Ghost’s new album “The best thing I’ve ever heard,” I was edge-of-my-seat type of waiting before her set. Golden Ghost’s tunes all felt like conversations, the kind of conversations you drive home picking apart and distilling down for some kind of meaning. The sound had a soul within a soul to it — layers of heart with a mirror.

The set began an hour late, and as it turns out Baby Shiver’s was widdled down to band member Ian Egling after he split with the band prior to this performance. Egling began the evening with a testament to his missing musicians, throwing in a quick “I wish they were here” as he began to play.

But Egling did the one-man-band thing with ease and delivered some memorable melodies on the keys and vocals. Equipped with vocal playback and sampled drums, the soft-spoken musician played three to four songs in his set, all hushed and quirky with some seriously catchy key riffs. His set, although brief, was charming.

Next up was a surprise guest not on the bill — Viking Moses, also known as Brendon Massei, who played a short set and later coupled his talents with Golden Ghost. Massei’s set was carried by a conventional and rooted vocal. The set seemed unrehearsed, the vocal became chaotic at times, but it always reached its mark.

And then, there was Golden Ghost. I had been hearing about this chick all week, and since Massei ended his set calling Ghost’s new album “The best thing I’ve ever heard,” I was edge-of-my-seat type of waiting before her set. Golden Ghost’s tunes all felt like conversations, the kind of conversations you drive home picking apart and distilling down for some kind of meaning. The sound had a soul within a soul to it — layers of heart with a mirror.

In just 91 days our grandest local performance venue was made even more grand, with new lobby space and seating areas, improvements to the heating and cooling system, replacement of all of the seats in the orchestra level (the new ones are firm, but comfortable), and most noticeably, the addition of box seats to the orchestra and mezzanine levels. The design and construction teams did an amazing job matching the boxes to the original architecture, and in my opinion they really do add to the aesthetics of the venue, rather than detract. In other words, I want one.

After opening remarks by RPO president Charlie Owens and UR’s Joel Seligman, the music started with the national anthem, led off by a drum roll performed on a snare that was played during the original opening of the Eastman Theatre in 1922. That was a classy touch. After that the RPO launched into the world premiere of a new work commissioned specifically for the event, “Geo,” composed by Eastman School of Music Dean Douglas Lowry. The piece was meant to pay homage to, and represent the life of, the man ultimately responsible for everything the audience saw that night: George Eastman.

Prior to the concert I wondered how someone could capture George Eastman’s story musically. Lowry obviously had the answer; “Geo” is a fantastic piece that really does encapsulate Eastman and his world perfectly. It sounds unmistakably American, of the 20th century, and most important, cinematic – appropriate for the guy who gave the world film. The piece also clearly reflected the storyline Lowry included in the program, with a clarion call awakening Eastman’s spirit, inviting him to take a look at the improvements to his beloved theater, followed by a waltz with the spirit of his mother, and then a sonic exploration of music evoking the majesty of film. The work featured moments of triumph and sadness, both fitting for Eastman’s life, and I felt as though the dynamic ending was almost a call to action to the audience, as if to say, “Look around you at what one man did for this city. It’s amazing, but lots of work remains to be done.”

Following intermission, the RPO concluded the program with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, also featuring the Oratorio Society and soloists Barbara Shirvis, Jami Tyzik, Charles Reid, and Kevin Deas. There’s really not much more anyone can write about the Ninth Symphony, and of course the RPO played it brilliantly. But I will say that, compared to the vigor with which the orchestra attacked “Geo,” it almost felt as though the Beethoven piece lacked some energy. At least, until the final movement, when the orchestra, the chorus, and the soloists all belted it out.

The big question about the new Eastman – excuse me, Kodak Hall (that’s going to take some getting used to) – was the acoustics. Depending on who you talked to, opinions on the acoustics in the original Eastman were somewhere between good and complicated. Now, following the renovations, the shape of the theater has changed, which has had an impact on how sound travels through it.

My seat last night was on the right-most row in the front-center orchestra section, and things sounded crystal clear. The horns in particular enveloped me, and it sounded as though the bass was sitting right next to my ear. However, I did find myself straining at times to hear the upper-register strings during “Geo,” so I did a little experiment, and switched seats with a friend during intermission. Sitting in the left orchestra section during the Beethoven, I found the reverse situation to be true: the strings dominated, while the horns took on a secondary role.

Part of this is unavoidable: you’re obviously going to hear more of what you’re sitting in front of. And from both of my seats I had no problem appreciating the orchestra as a whole – it’s not like you couldn’t hear certain sections at all. The only time that was true was when the Oratorio Society joined in toward the end of the Ninth Symphony. When the entire orchestra was on blast, I could not hear a note the ROS was singing; it was as if dozens of mouths were opening wide but nothing was coming out.

Shirtless and in Charlie’s Angels-era ball-hugger shorts, the hirsute band literally attacked the audience, with singer Levi Yomtov immediately sailing over the top of everybody’s head before careening headlong onto the sound booth. The music was extremely heavy, sweaty, and intense, making Black Flag and Black Sabbath seem gray at best. The band set up on the floor, and the crowd teetered on the brink of chaos as it engulfed the drummer. Things started to get broken. And that was just the first song.

Perched on a drum throne and help aloft atop the audience’s shoulders, Yomtov drummed on the various appliances on the Bug Jar’s bizzaro world apartment. It was a complete rock ‘n’ roll frenzy.

Buffalo long-hairs Chylde delivered a heavy 70’s-tinged set before The Monotonix mania. I’ve been known to exaggerate, like, a million times a day, but this show is easily in my Top 10 – no, my Top 5, right up there with the night I got my first blowjob in the Wendy’s parking lot after seeing The Ramones. Gabba gabba oy!

Swati followed with her effects-augmented acoustic beatitude. She sings and plays pretty, and her use of electronic elements gives an added texture to the sound and story. Her tune about a hooker in Atlantic City was bittersweet and powerful.

Nevergreen mixed casual reggae with a casual groove the right way. Often the mixing of more than one casual equals a lazy. Not with these cats. The groove was righteous, and singer Sara Passamonte’s voice is sexy smooth.

Despite all the hard work and talent, attendance was rather dismal. What this festival lacked was bigger names to anchor each night. How about Ray Davies or Paul Westerberg, or Ben Folds next year? Just a thought.

I’m not going to punish the pioneering music fans who were there; we know who we are. And I believe this festival is a good idea, and still has a good chance in the future.

For the eager pseudo-hipsters who did come out to hear the start of Indie Fest, the set played out well. The evening began acoustic. The sound of Netsky’s set was lonely, hollowed out, with an existential-like vocal. Each verse sounded as if it had an abandoned soul looming in it. A self-proclaimed indie/folk/psychedelic musician, Netsky wades around a bit in each sub-genre, nearly handing out his heartbeat in a few of his lyrics: “In photographs and films I could not tell us apart/There were epitaphs and strings on the brinks of our hearts.”

His sound starts off as carefully executed pop, but Netsky doesn’t just leave it there. It takes a dive at times through the grain of folk, and through the cultured offbeat lens of indie-rock. He speaks to you in dream-like minor chords. On a rainy fall evening in the bottom of the darkened downstairs venue, a collection of minor chords felt just about right.

After three gentle ballads, the set realigned. The rest of Netsky’s entourage joined him on the stage, equipped with drums, electric guitar (played overhand), keys, and bass. The group successfully experimented with a youthful take on some dusty, age-old vintage-style rock. The mesh of sound was clean and focused. Despite the meager crowd, the guys held a diminishing but captive audience together.

The three acts that performed Thursday night were put to the test. It’s easy to love what you do when the throng is screaming your name. It’s a different story when the number of people on stage outnumbers those in the audience, as it did with The Atomic Swindlers’ set. This is one of the best bands I know anywhere; sonic masters of a soundscape bigger than the sum of the players’ parts. The band played as if it was in an arena in outer space. Too bad there weren’t more there to hear the scream.

Hotel Reverie has tightened, darkened, and matured since I saw the group last, and played a hypnotic set of dark and stark with splashes of melodic splendor.

New York’s Lee Nestor played an enthusiastic set in white Docs. Nestor has a great presence and pretty voice, but I’d leave the Janis to Janis next time.

Look, I’m not going to punish the pioneering music fans who were there; we know who we are. And I believe this festival is a good idea and still has a good chance in the future — and even in the next two days. We’ve still got this weekend’s line-up to get Rochester warmed up and her panties down. C’mon baby, you know you wanna…

Jill McCracken was on when I arrived and worked her guitar percussively as her pretty voice teetered a little out of control in the upper registers. But it was within those moments that I admired her most, as it felt the most genuine. I believed her. Oh, and she wasn’t wearing shoes either. These kids.

New York City’s Hollands opened the show and played what they call Dutch pop. It was a richly dynamic set a la Wilco, but with more pizzazz. It’s a delicate balance for drummers; the good ones often go unnoticed and the ones that aren’t tend to trample. Not since David King – that maniac that drums for the Bad Plus – have I been so enamored of a drummer. This guy was so tight and understated one moment and thunderocious the next, he drove the band into even further dynamic intrigue and excitement.

Jill McCracken was on when I first arrived and was percussively working at her guitar as her pretty voice teetered a little out of control in the upper registers. But it was within those moments that I admired her most, as it felt the most genuine. I believed her. Oh, and she wasn’t wearing shoes either. These kids…

You can thank cats like Aqua Island and Subsoil for helping to undo all the damage P-shitty and Jay Zzzz have done. And you can thank bands like Ithaca’s Revison for resurrecting the jam without resurrecting the Dead, or without immediatley beating it to death again. Revison is a trio in the spirit of Medeski Martin & Wood, with a good deal of its solo, rhythm, and bass duties handled by the keys. And the guitar can be a little schizo as well; chopping one minute, soaring the next. Friday night at Lovin’ Cup proved that.

First let me say the sound in Lovin’ Cup was absolutley perfect. It amplified the band’s sharp dynamics and edgy soul. Revison is a much crisper-sounding band than a lot of its contemporaries. Some jam bands tend to boil; the music is hot and steamy but often a bit mushy. Revision fries its stuff, baby, and the packed crowd got it hot, crispy, greasy, and in their face.