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Rating: Despite fortunately (?) arriving on location with a substantial hour of ferry delay, I noticed, with a certain selfish glee, not only that the scheduled performance on the summit of the not exactly steep hill, hadn't started at all (nor was any live-act serving as a forerunner) but that there was no (happy) news of the predominantly brass and highly anticipated ensemble; a large audience was generally annoyed if not decidedly tense going nervous-andante: not the most pleasant (for those waiting) of situations; some fleeting and circumstantial crowd-breaking antics made the nearby surroundings less hostile (at least).
The seven charming lads (so to speak) finally arrive with a soft step and vague air, as if they were coming to these archaeological parts purely by chance (we note some whistles from the rowdiest ones): in the ancestral, widely known, nauseating ignorance-breaking, the first element that concretely caught the eyes of the nebulous-narrator was the fact that the Saxophone Quartet on stage appeared anything but numerically as its denominating title suggests, rather with an expanded formation consisting of a full seven (and formidable) members.
Not even the time to pick up their inanimate instruments (not a gesture/word addressed to the audience) when the apparently satiated, if not Cannonau-befuddled group, hurls upon the astonished crowd such an amount of overwhelming and unusual histrionic trumpeting and talented, whistling and sibylline saxophonisms (theoretically "Hey Joe"), along with the ultra-telluric percussive substratum masterfully set up by the agile yet ever-present multi-rhythmic section, that the audience first falls silent and, at the end of the track-performance, bursts into generous and thunderous yet appropriate applause: of the exasperating delay, there is no longer even a remote recollection.
The current incarnation/metamorphosis* of the "W.S.Q.", an acronym active for a good thirty years, in this performance-context is completely centered on (theoretical)reinterpretations of certain historical and damnably surprising jazz-friendly gems from the Hendrixian repertoire: in fact, it is a heartfelt yet stellar homage but absolutely free-form pentagrammatic raid: the well-known "Foxy Lady", "Little Wing", are literally (respectfully) subjected to a sort of musical Bastille Day: shaken, stuffed, expanded, scrambled: a "free" performance filled with stellar solos galore, instrumental ensemble adventures in abundance and above all free from constraints of any sort or with absolute flourishes if not unforeseen perfection.
If some decades ago someone had suggested to me that one day (when grown up.. haha) I would in such a manner exalt over a performance of (not all) elders, fine, quirky jazz knocking-about musicians grappling with the umpteenth batch of sandpapered Jimi-songs, I presume I would have extracted a cordial but firm De-Curtisian: "But do-me-a-favor, really". Conversely, the pleasure today was really all, but truly all, exclusively and unexpectedly (also) mine. Blimey.
* featuring the notable presence of the original inspired figures of David Murray (Tenor sax, bass clarinet) and Hamiet Bluiett (baritone sax), Oliver Lake (alto sax), accompanied by Bruce Williams (curved soprano & alto sax), an histrionic and sincerely imperious Jamaaladeen Tacuma (electric bass), the elegant/white-clad and engaging Craig Harris (Trombone), and lastly the effective Lee Pearson (drums)
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