Knock 'Em Dead, Kid

Especially if he's set on continuing to try and follow opening bands as good -- and as young -- as the brilliant, beautiful and utterly confident Kentucky five-piece My Morning Jacket. They opened their Neil Young­ meets­Allmans­in­space set behind curtains, with James' soaring vocals drenched in reverb, honey and lemon. They closed their set of tasteful, unsappy ballads, longhair soul-rock and roaring unison boogie with white lights stuttering and flickering, as if lightning had blasted through the House of Blues roof and struck the stage in sheets of heavenly acclamation.

Bob, please: You're too old to try and follow that. (Jay Babcock)

JOHN SURMAN
and JACK DeJOHNETTE
at the Conga Room, June 22

"Nice to see you people out," Jack DeJohnette said into the mic matter-of-factly, moments after the two jazz giants of decades' standing (American and Brit divisions) walked onto a stage decked out with his sprawling drum kit and Surman's table of saxophones and electronic keyboard gear. Surman had never played in L.A. before, and despite my having decided back in high school that Surman belonged to a group of half-adventurous, half-mainstream British jazzmen that populated the Ogun label in the '70s, I hadn't heard him in 20 years, and the stripped-down combination of Surman on saxophones with DeJohnette's explosive volatility on drums sounded tantalizing.

As it turned out, some prejudices were confirmed that night, while others promptly flew out the window. The duo's opener, "Mysterium" -- the title track from their new CD on ECM -- started out surprisingly free, with meandering improvised lines from Surman's bass clarinet and DeJohnette's slow cymbal splashing; then -- uh-oh -- came the familiar ECM touch of frosty-cold "beauty" when Surman rolled up the volume on a synth-generated symphonic chord. But DeJohnette -- the veteran of a life playing with everyone from Coltrane and Miles to Lester Bowie and David Murray -- kicked in with a leisurely but very swinging 4/4 that moved on to choppy variations, breaking up time with around-the-world tomtom rolls and explosions of splashing cymbals that drew the first of many whoops from the crowd, while Surman followed a few minutes of the melodious, tropical-island breezy stuff with intricate, echoplexed serpentine lines and squawks on soprano saxophone, endearingly hopping on the balls of his feet all the while. It was comfort music, start to finish. (Tony Mostrom)