Ruminating on the Chicago Fest yesterday. It's a end of summer tradition and therefore sort of sad. I couldn't remember if I had gone last year until I looked in my journal last night. And sure enough I was there. D and I went in early on Thursday last year and caught Ira Sullivan at the JazzShowcase on Thursday.
But back to the present. Friday night we saw a birthday tribute to Count Basie ( it would be his 100th) in Petrillo Shell. They assembled a group of Basie Alumni for a re-creation of his small band the Kansas City 7. They came out on stage in wheel chairs and walkers and did a fine job of bringing back the Count's spirit to Grant Park. The great Clark Terry, who I remember as a young, flashy dressed trumpeter playing in concert on Guithre Green in Louisville in 1966 with an orchestra made-up of Louisville's finest including drummer John Roy and saxophonist Bobby Jones, looked very old and frail parked in a wheel chair on the far side of the stage.
Tenor saxophonist, flutist Frank Wess was also in the group plus clarinetist Buddy Defranco, who never seems to change except his black pombadour is now white instead of black.
Other members of the group included trombonist Benny Powell and bassist Sid Catlett.
And drummer Harold Jones, who I remember seeing with Basie in 1969.
Then the great saxophonist and arranger Frank Foster, who was sidelined by a stroke a few years ago, limped on-to the stage and announced a few of the numbers.
D called it geriactic jazz. I call it sad. All my old heros going down the drain.
Sunday morning I went to the Jazzmart's annual free jazz brunch. Free Chicago jazz saxophonists Fred Anderson (owner of the Velvet Lounge) blew the roof down. Free, frenetic jazz the first thing Sunday morning. Only in Chicago.
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