Whipsmart Women Kick off Chicago’s 45th Jazz Festival

By Michael Jackson I Sep. 9, 2025

Esperanza Spalding closed an audacious Chicago Jazz Festival set with “Endangered Species.”
(Photo: Michael Jackson)

The 45th Chicago Jazz Festival kicked off its headline events with two erudite individuals, Esperanza Spalding and Patricia Barber. Both worldly, wordy intellectuals, they’re also groovers, sensualists, bad-asses.

Spalding’s opening gambit was a wry mockery of a certain narcissist-in-chief under the guise of the fictitious, Golden Ticket-greedy Veruca Salt, who, in her layered lace dress, thrashed poutily on the piano, adding to the prima donna conceit. Despite her ostensibly sweet demeanor, Spalding isn’t to be trifled with. Steeliness and political consciousness in her lyrics are masked by dancing harmony and rhythm, and Spalding knew how to charm with her inspirational “Thang,” which bespeaks individual originality, each of us having a “life force that collects in the basin of … openness … distilled to fill it/ Aren’t you tired of walking around afraid you’ll spill it?”

Not au fait with all Spalding’s freewheeling poesy (distracted by simultaneous acoustic/electric bass prowess), these ears heard “strive grease,” not “stride grease,” in this song from her Grammy smash 12 Little Spells — it represents the same quotient of creative dues, however, and she followed with another anthem of empowerment: “Black Gold,” from Radio Music Society (2012). The band were superbly en pointe and ingenious, guitarist Matthew Stevens edgy and virtuosic, drummer Eric Doob positively scientific. Could bespectacled saxophonist/keyboardist Morgan Guerin be mistaken for James Brandon Lewis at first glance? Perhaps, but he certainly channeled Wayne Shorter remarkably. Spalding’s deep connection/collaboration with Shorter (and Milton Nascimento by extension) makes sense given their boundary-smashing personalities. She closed an audacious set with “Endangered Species” (her lyrics), exiting with a cute apology for taking things a bit “out”: “You guys have the AACM here, so I figured that would be cool.”

Mention of the AACM was salient due to the thin presence of the organization given its 60th anniversary. Possibly, gathering the gigantic Great Black Music Ensemble proved prohibitive for space/cost/travel logistics?

Night two of the fest tasted barbs from Barber, who claimed she hadn’t been invited since 1992. (In fact, she last appeared in 2002.) Barber alleged her first appearance was heralded by a warning not to sing originals, which she summarily ignored. Originals made up the lion’s share of this rare and substantial set, which comprised six self-penned pieces, several from the ’90s (“Like JT,” “Touch Of Trash,” “Company”) and five standards, if jazz police will permit Sandy Denny’s “Who Knows Where The Time Goes?” and “Black Magic Woman.” The latter she waxed live at the Green Mill on Companion (Blue Note/Premonition 1999) with the insinuating guitar of John McLean, but that chair has long been held by the versatile Neil Alger. Alger contributed lovely acoustic accompaniment to Jobim’s “Triste” and fuzzed-out snark on “Trash,” but the 1968 Peter Green classic, with its heritage as an Otis Rush lift and feature for Santana, was pregnant with shred expectation in Millennium Park. Alger delivered with composure and insouciance (later performing with his own Here And Now, alongside incisive trumpeter Chad McCullough, at the fest’s WDCB Jazz Lounge). Barber’s drummer, Jon Deitemyer, was also additionally booked — clearly a first-call accompanist for vocalists — appearing with up-and-coming singer Isabella Isherwood and pianist Jeremy Kahn. But it was Emma Dayhuff who stood out in tandem with Barber on a stunning duo of “Wild Is The Wind,” during which she eked uncommon resonance and poignancy from her contrabass with hypersensitive arco work.

Barber, the ice queen, unapologetically grey and gay (her hair was dark 23 years ago and she insisted her closer “Devil’s Food” was a “gay song”), reminded that she remains a school of one. She hit poised long notes vocally, yet she has a line in sharp instrumentals, too (check out “Crash” from Live: A Fortnight In France, Blue Note 2004), which she sometimes neglects in favor of her skewering observations about contemporary society or folk she either adores or finds insufferable.

Barber warmed the Steinway for another pianist with a fine touch, Monty Alexander. Just as she queried the unnecessary concern about Chicago, vis-à-vis the White House’s eagerness to call in the National Guard, so Alexander’s set contained coded reference to the times, including Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?” and a highly ironic send-up of “The Battle Hymn Of The Republic.” Dismissed out-of-hand by some pundits as indicative of the mainstream bent of this year’s programming, the indefatigable Alexander, 81, is never to be underestimated. Sporting his Order of Jamaica medal, he made no apology for doubling down on his homegrown schtick. (Eking emotion out of Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” from the ivories is no mean feat, and his evocations of Burning Spear’s “Marcus Garvey” and Augustus Pablo on melodica hit de spot.) Dr No was filmed in Jamaica, hence Alexander exhumed the 007 theme with passing respects to “Milestones,” fiendishly modulating and egging the tempo, vividly in the moment, in the urgent manner of Ahmad Jamal.

Another boss-lady presided at the Pritzker Pavilion Sunday afternoon: saxophonist Natalie Scharf, who led a crack group from the Green Mill, including fretmeister Joel Paterson and pianist/vocalist Paul Asaro. Scharf’s bulbous tone and lines on tenor and alto, despite her youth, predate bebop. The vintage set included Lil Hardin Armstrong’s “Struttin’ With Some Barbecue,” Count Basie guitarist Freddie Green’s “Corner Pocket” and “Jitterbug Waltz” — enhanced onstage by Lindy Hopping regulars from the Mill’s swing dance scene.

Other delights included Ernest Dawkins and his New Horizons Redux with a rousing “Blues For The Black Cowboy.” Dawkins is Chicago’s answer to Art Blakey in terms of his hard knocks mentorship of young musicians, which in this instance included guitarist Senya Rogers Kaufman (a recent export to New York) and omnipresent tenorist Kevin King (who was Bobby Watson’s favorite ringer at Jazz Showcase after-sessions).

Veteran saxman Gary Bartz segued from Willy Wonka’s “Pure Imagination” to a gutbucket blues worthy of Eddie Cleanhead Vinson — no surprise to those who recall The Blues Chronicles (Atlantic, 1996), which also debuted his compulsory leitmotif “The Song Of Loving/Kindness.”

A standout during the weekend at the Von Freeman Pavilion was a superbly Chicago-centric throwdown from the sextet of vibist Thaddeus Tukes (another who appeared seemingly everywhere, including with Henry Johnson and at Showcase jams). Bathed in sweat, Tukes corralled a heavy lineup through funky originals celebrating his favorite city — “Stony Island,” “South Shore Drive,” “Southside Brown” (for Ari Brown) and “Back Alley Blues” — then injected salsa in the mix with the lively “Encantado.”

Music from NOLA and Latin tinges are routinely interlaced into proceedings at the CJF. Trumpeter Kermit Ruffins and his BBQ Swingers represented the former. For sure a touristic turn, Ruffins essayed the sustained notes on Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day” and surprised with a tribute to the late Chuck Mangione. Daughter Neshia took a turn, and the stirring voice of James “Sleeping Giant” Winfield gave us Chuck Berry’s “You Never Can Tell.” “Get your CDs now,” quipped Ruffins as the allegedly 99-year-old Winfield sauntered offstage, “He might not be hot tomorrow.”

Another notable voice was the falsetto wonder of G. Thomas Allen, whose quintet with outstanding alto saxophonist Brent Griffin Jr. and unflappable pianist Dennis Luxion set the stage for Ari Brown. Brown recently parted company with his saxophone after a concert (the search is still on), and so was playing Isaiah Collier’s tenor, presumably without his regular mouthpiece, too. He didn’t seem quite settled with this equipment but nevertheless launched into “Surrender,” heralded by the hiss of Avreeayl Ra’s cymbals. “People need to cool off and relax,” counseled Brown, despite recent stress, his longtime no-need-to-impress quintet purveying healing properties to that end. As usual with Ari, youthfully attired and under a white cap, several compositions had honorees, notably the late guitarist George Freeman (“Georgie Porgie”), the late pianist Ken Chaney (“One for Ken”), his late wife (“Veda’s Dance”) and his new wife, Cherlyn.

The timeless quality of Brown’s vamps led nicely into the final set of the fest with Eliades Ochoa’s six-piece, which was lit up with nimble fretwork from the Cuban troubadour’s custom eight-string guitar/tres combo (the secret of his lilting sound), and searing trumpet volleys from Orlando de Jesus Fraga Perez. With all the xenophobia currently rife, this was a heartwarming finale. Amid earworms from the Buena Vista Social Club’s heyday, it was hip to get a translation for “El Carretero” from an audience member, singing along: a horseback ride into the mountains, to collect the fruit of your sweat and save enough to get married. Simple tales of honest work, transmitted with unrushed panache that nevertheless urge you to dance. DB