Last week S-L and I were finishing dinner in Greenwich Village and decided to the Blue Note to see Arturo Sandoval. Here’s how they describe him:
A protégé of the legendary jazz master Dizzy Gillespie, Sandoval was born in Artemisa, a small town in the outskirts of Havana, Cuba, on November 6, 1949, just two years after Gillespie became the first musician to bring Latin influences into American Jazz. Sandoval began studying classical trumpet at the age of twelve, but it didn’t take him long to catch the excitement of the jazz world. He has since evolved into one of the world’s most acknowledged guardians of jazz trumpet and flugelhorn, as well as a renowned classical artist, pianist and composer.
He is one of the most dynamic and vivacious live performers of our time, and has been seen by millions at the Oscars, at the Grammy Awards, and the Billboard Awards.
Also: he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from Barack Obama:
And we were able to just walk in on him. I love you, America, keep going. Here’s some notes from the performance, in pastiche:
- We arrived late, and the place was full. With some fanfare, they found us two seats, jazz-style, in the very back, at a table for six that only had four. The band was playing Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. It’s December in Manhattan and this is a great start
- Next was a song I do not know but which had a fast tremendous racket, the way I like it I just want to remember how fast the congo. To film it on cellphone would be a petty crime because the trails his fists make are too much for silicon
- During in-between song banter, he disparages drugs and alcohol (“boring”) and lauds the glory of food. He says when he gets hungry he looks in the mirror and wants to fight himself
- Sandoval’s the type of genius who micromanages the sound engineer w/o coming off like a jagoff, like his medal is visible. He demands that they “make it wet”, with index finger compress-motion, before he sings “When I Fall in Love”, and it’s like, “of course/ no problem/ make the mic wet, dammit”
- At the end of that song the percussionist dings about a half-dozen doo-dads arranged on a folk art device
- Sandoval speaks of a love/hate relationship with the trumpet (85% hate). Then he sits down at the piano and plays with a singular joy. I love it in a jazz performance when other band members bolt the stage when they’re not playing a box. His crescendo keys transcend
- He leads us in a sing-along to “Bye Bye Birdie”, cajoling us to get it right, and challenging the knowledge of the crowd. We do the third verse wrong, so he rehearses us
- This is all kind of camp, but then he riffs on some of the most sophisticated trumpet of the night. He’s toying. He can do anything he wants
- Then the sax goes off like it’s last call everywhere, with the self-composed desperation of a pastor watching his flock on Friday night late
- For the last piece, it’s El Manisero in a deep-funk version. We spill into the night like nothing happened, but it did
Here’s him introducing the band. All hail.