Sell out ... Branford Marsalis. Photograph: David Sinclair
The foot-jabbing, hollering and whooping may have died away for another year, but the 2005 London Jazz Festival has seen some superlative gigs - as testified by the run on tickets, which saw no less than seven shows sell out.
One of them, saxophonist Branford Marsalis accompanied by Harry Connick Jr at the Shaw Theatre last Wednesday, managed to pack in the crowds despite signs clearly stating that Connick wouldn't actually be singing, just tickling the ivories (John L Walters, reviewing their gig today, said that the pair "sounded as if they had been playing together since childhood" - not unfairly given that Connick took piano lessons from Marsalis's father).
Folk wisdom - all right, the opinion of some full-time jazzer friends - confirmed that Branford was just as good the night before, at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, playing this time with his redoubtably chilled quartet.
I was jammy enough to squeeze into another sell-out, this time up the road at the Barbican. McCoy Tyner was, it has to be said (and another Vulturite agrees), on resplendent form - magnificent, propulsive, a grand old man who nevertheless wears his towering reputation lightly.
I and several people alongside weren't convinced that he'd actually make it up on stage - particularly given the pitch-black conditions the Barbican favours for such occasions - but, plonked down in front of a cathedral-sized Steinway, the shuffle disappeared and Tyner's mighty left hand began banging away. A decent-length set went in what seemed like moments; I looked down at my watch to find myself over an hour adrift. Welcome to Tyner time.
I could, it has to be said, have done without the first half, which featured the World Saxophone Quartet in slightly interminable tribute to Jimi Hendrix: oodles of kerpow funk, yes, but a little too much squealing for these ears. Technically impressive, but a tad frenzied for your world-weary correspondent. Not that everyone agreed: one of the great things about the LJF is its varied clientele (or maybe it's just that you can actually see who's in the crowd - drinks permitted in the Barbican auditorium, but not a cigarette in sight), and no sooner had the saxes swung into action than a quiet middle-aged man shrugged off his city jacket and, lost in the glory of it all, embarked on what looked disconcertingly like high-speed t'ai chi.
This slightly odd gig got me thinking: how about, next year, a customised LJF? None of yer squawking, just a few fine favourites - a brief spot from early Miles, a dollop of classic Coltrane (maybe with the volume turned down slightly), perhaps with Art Blakey joining via a to-the-millisecond video link-up. Hey, you're welcome to come along too, if you can work out how to reincarnate Charlie Parker. And his dealer.
