Cesaria Evora at Wolf Trap 6/28/01

by Alan Greenblatt

For the second year in a row, Cesaria Evora appeared at Wolf Trap on a bill with another woman singer who was far sexier, yet had the bigger presence. She just stands there, famously barefoot, and sings. It's like a rock coming to life, cracking open to reveal the most beautiful waterfall.

She got even bigger applause last Thursday than she did last year for lighting up a cigarette on-stage. It's all part of her world weary chagrin of even performing before so many people, I guess. Smoking kills, usually in hideous ways, but cigarettes and whiskey have added character to Evora's voice. It's a rich, pure sound but there are little cracks in the long notes.

Evora hails from Cape Verde and sings "morna," a type of song I've seen compared in print to any kind of sad music, from the blues to Edith Piaf. When she sings a mournful love ballad, which is about every other song, it could be a heartbreaker but actually just sounded kind of pleasant when sitting under the stars.

The other songs are little Cuban-sounding things, nice rhythms provided by a 14-piece band. These sounded quite a bit like the Brazilian pop of Bebel Gilberto, who opened the show. Gilberto sang "So Nice" in homage to her bossa nova forebears but otherwise her material was only lightly tinted with Brazilian rhythms.

Evora last year opened for Cassandra Wilson but I guess her star has risen fast enough to get top billing. Her new CD takes the time-honored tack of having bigger stars -- Bonnie Raitt, Caetano Veloso, etc. -- as guests in hopes of building up an audience for a wonderful musician from an obscure corner of the record store. This worked with "The Healer," also featuring Raitt, by the recently deceased John Lee Hooker.

It occurs to me that record companies are putting all of "world music" in a blender to make it sound palatable to American tastes, teaching the world to sing in perfect harmony, like on the "Graceland" album. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. But I wonder if this world music category, with its recognizable human emotions and mellowing beat, isn't taking the place of old-fashioned soft rock. Where are the people who want that sort of thing to go in an age of teenyboppers and hip hoppers? It sure beats Jimmy Buffett, anyway.

p.s. In response to my recent piece on the Stanley Turrentine tribute, in which I suggested Turrentine might have been a fine player but wasn't ultimately influential, our man John Scheinman says:

I think Stanley Turrentine actually helped usher in the massively popular -and decried -- quiet storm soft jazz that rules "jazz" and "adult contemporary" charts these days. I'm not sure there is a Kenny G. without a Turrentine, although Kenny G is a Turrentine tea bag held in the hot water for just a couple seconds.

In high school, while most kids bent toward music were into the Dead and the prog rock, I also was finding my early way into jazz. I tried learning the piano from a jazz teacher, but he was drunk almost every time he came over. plus I was lousy. The CTI label was where I got my

feet wet. The teacher dismissed everything on there as crap, but it was a great way for young ears to wade in to the deeper waters. I have a Turrentine album (on Columbia) with Freddie Hubbard, Ron Carter, Jack DeJohnette, Patrice Rushen and David T. Walker that is lush, romantic mush -- despite the vaunted powers of the players -- save for the deliciously swinging "Tommy's

Tune" by Turrentine's brother, Tommy. The full-throated version of John Fogerty's "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" is not exactly what I'd call jazz.

I remember buying the Turrentine album "In the Pocket" on Fantasy when it came out when I was 15 in 1975. Believe it or not, I was already reading Downbeat at the time and I was heartbroken that that bible of jazz gave this album a mere one star. It is such a funky, laid-back, cool soul experience, especially the lead-off Billy Page penned "Have It Your Way, Sandy," and the closing Stevie Wonder/Ivy Hunter "Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever." Turrentine is blowing all over this record -- the grooves might have come right out of a Barry White wet dream, but instead of that deep, erotic, almost cartoonish moaning fat man, you've got Mr. T., hugging you with his big, warm sound.