Great jazz festival on Jara Island

A short while before the concert began on the island on Friday night, the heavens opened up; the rain started pouring out of the sky, and it never let up. Those of us who stayed for all four acts on the opening night of the 4th annual Jarasum International Jazz Festival stood there and got drenched for five hours. A few hundred fans in white, blue, and pink parkas, shivering, hardly able to move. Just inundated. Late-monsoon season, and colder and colder as we got soaked through, down to the bone, and no one will tell you it wasn`t worth it. The music was that fine.

Jara -- meaning turtle in Korean -- island is a pretty place in Gapyoeng on the North Han River, about 65 kilometers northeast of Seoul. First to take the stage was Korea`s Air Force Band. They tore the joint up, and it seemed like anyone coming after them might have a hard time matching the electricity they generated. At their best, which was most of the time, they sounded like an amped-up big band version of Earth, Wind, and Fire. The two guitarists, bass player, and drummer alone were enough to set things ablaze, and then out comes this singer whose heart is black American -- all soul and passion, like some alchemist took good measures of Chaka Khan, Aretha Franklin, James Brown, and George Clinton, shook them all together, and produced this danged butt-kickin` Korean guy in his mid-20`s. If anyone could`ve stopped the rain, it was him and the band behind him. But all he and his bandmates could do was make the deluge something of a cheery affair.

At one point, he was replaced up front by a major cheeseball retinue of singers doing a version of "When the Saints Come Marching In" that was so tacky -- so loser-Las-Vegas, with all the leg-kicking, hat-tipping, and fake-smiling, not to mention ... well, yes, to mention, the off-key singing -- that the Rain God got mighty angry, and started making the sky water come down in a merciless sort of way. The Dixieland wannabes got the message, and left soon.

This band representing Korea`s defense in the air has one other fine lead singer, a short stocky guy with the beautiful voice of a woman from an earlier time, maybe the 60`s ballads era. His birdsong is out of a world before anyone could imagine hip-hop, cell phones and MP3 players worn as jewelry, and monkey-see, monkey-do pop pablum. Which is to say: there are no gimmicks to what he was doing. It`s all about the voice, the sweet, dreamy, operatic tunes he sings. And then out comes the fireball again, who rips off his Air Force jacket, throws it on the stage, and struts around testifying, making all of us laugh at the rain again.

The stage had a fancy-looking arch over it, presumably to keep the players dry, in case of rain. The thing soon became useless. The wind was blowing the unending precipitation every which way, like sheets. Festival crew worked tirelessly, admirably, sweeping the water off stage front. To no avail.

What a heck of a challenge to the Giovanni Mirabassi trio, from Italy. By the time they were ready to play, the stage lights were a-goner, and only two bright emergency lamps illuminated their instruments for them, and them for us. Something had to be done about the rain. The organizers hadn`t planned for this. Giovanni is a marvelous pianist, and his base player and drummer were swell, too, but the percussion seemed to have a bit of a soggy sound. As an afterthought, but with impressive determination, the staff went to fetch two large tents from the place where folks had been indulging in barbecue and booze, and set one up over the piano man and the string-thumper; the other protected the guy on the drum kit.

Twenty minutes into their set, the stage lights came back on. Everyone did their best. The fans cheered on each solo by making sounds you hear on a roller-coaster. In America, we clap for the solos, and, if they`re really good, some people do a "Wooooooo!!!" Here in Korea, it`s a joy ride. Quite charming. Everybody is saturated, cold, secretly wishing to be in a much more comfortable place, but living it up as if here is the best place to be. It is.

As the sun went down, the mountains in the distance way behind the stage became a sublime imitation of an old Korean landscape painting. Near us, drifting from across the Bukhan River and the hills in back of it, the clouds got lower and closer. And then it was time for a fireworks show before the big-name acts came out for the second half. It was thrilling, as in: Go, humans! Give it all you`ve got!! Light up the sky, and scare the bejeezus out of that force that won`t let up on us!! Stop the rain!!

The rain didn`t pause for even a moment. And then out came the singer, Kurt Elling`s quartet, from Chicago to this rural place somewhere out in Gyeonggi province, with his four-octave range, his remarkably inventive voice, and his great piano player, Laurence Hobgood -- Dave Brubeck called him one of the most "ingenious" pianists he`s ever seen -- and they did versions of "Bye Bye Blackbird," "Watermelon Man," and "Stardust" that embodied the improvisational genius and soulfulness of jazz. When he performed "Goin` to Chicago," he slid from gut-bucket blues to modern jazz in a few seconds, from one line of the lyric to the next. This was brilliance from a guy who`s laid-back like a pro golfer. And, on top of that, he was a sweetheart, cheering on the monsoon people, the happy ghosts in their cute thin-plastic covers who kept loving the music. He told us he`d never seen any audience like us, and he meant it.

Finally, it is time for the headliner, the Legend: Tenor sax man, Charles Lloyd, who is 69, and is at the peak of his abilities. This man from Memphis, this musician who has played with B.B. King, Howlin` Wolf, Billy Higgins -- his soulmate, the jazz drum master, with whom he made the classic two-CD work, Which Way is East -- and others like Ornette Coleman, Eric Dolphy, Gerald Wilson, and the Beach Boys. This artist has come to Korea for the first time; he tours only rarely, but is always making music. He is a very spiritual person, an idealist about what music means, what it can do: "I want to change the world and make a better world, so we don`t have to be loners like me."

You hear him play, you listen to that great plaintive wail, the longing and the hurt and beauty in it, the perfect tone, and you think of John Coltrane. Not an imitation, but a man on the same road of a sadness and transcendence that there may be no words for. The music can capture it sometimes.

Charles Lloyd stands under the Korean movable food-hut canopy, the canvas with its bright and happy banner colors, and he starts playing before the stage lights come on. He and his drummer seem to be warming up, maybe jamming, maybe this is the first tune, and he doesn`t care if there are lights on him or not. This is what they call post-bop, and it`s dark and the rain is relentless like this jazz he plays now. Not easy or smooth or for the faint-hearted. He can play the loveliest ballads, and he will for us. Later.

He plays his horn, and his body swings like a swing. He is arcing toward the divine with his solos. He soars sky-ward, then back to the ground. In interviews, he speaks of the Creator. In person, he greets guests with the gentle gesture of Thai and Cambodian people, hands flat against each other, as in prayer, before his face. After each song, he says nothing to the audience, but uses his saxophone in a bowing gesture.

You watch him, listen to him, and, if jazz is there in the center for you, you go with him, on the wings of his melodies, out beyond, and in here, always moving, melancholy, never surrendering. Reverential.

By Keith Fitzgerald

(jukjuk@heraldm.com)