I was filled with the spirit of black folk. Solange's profound live offering felt like a manifestation of my grandmother’s prayers. But the procession of disruptive and beautiful black bodies kept growing, and I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop shouting as they walked past. I felt a far more distant questioning as white women around me offered puzzled looks as I fought back tears throughout the show. I used to wonder what got inside of her that could make her sit in the pew and holler out, over and over. Suddenly, I remembered how I’d watch my grandmother cry in church. Solange let out her own exclamations as she threw herself on the floor in a joyful praise break. One by one, they angelically emerged as they traveled down to the stage floor, their curls and kinks adorning their path. As horns blared, members of the band appeared from the top level. “We built this shit,” Solange uttered at the close of the show. 167 Likes, 13 Comments - Isadora Mendez (isadoraml99) on Instagram: «Hay mucho gris en cada historia, nada es tan blanco y negro». For all its splendor, it may take me some time to fully process the spiritual rapture that rocked me during that mighty finale. When Solange and her two vocalists, Isadora Mendez and Franchelle Lucas, stood and swiveled their necks and tapped their feet before the last song, “Don’t Touch My Hair,” a few black women around me smiled at their decorative portrayal of that extra spark that God created within us. With everyone dressed in all white, it felt as if all the black folk were headed to the cookout, beaming from the spring sun. Synced black bodies led regal processions down the circular slopes of the Guggenheim’s signature winding staircase. This time, over the course of an hour, Solange weaved together a much more majestic production. The tune’s suppressed fury blossomed into sustained resilience and the encore, a New Orleans strut, added further healing balm.This mission was especially clear in her spellbinding Red Bull Music Academy performance at the Guggenheim Museum on Thursday. He dedicated the second set’s opener to Wayne Shorter – same method, different sound – eulogised his wife and, just before the finale, recalled a nasty encounter with his local police. The New Orleans-raised Scott is a charismatic performer who loves to chat. The performance ended with a rocking riff straight out of Cream, but its narrative arc soon shifted gear. Herbie Hancock’s pithily themed “The Eye of the Hurricane” came next, with a walking bass pulse and then an unsentimental ballad dedicated to Scott’s wife Isadora Mendez – she sang whispy soul vocals in the second set. And Stephens was equally astute, worrying at form and building short phrases to a peak of distorted power. On this solo, the mournful beginning ended pacily with a resilient sequence of high-note trills. His phrases reach deep into the complex harmonies that are his support and gather tension step by step. He whispers on ballads, but at full force he’s rounded and bright. Scott entered with a fanfare cue, the pace eased back and his first bleak notes seemed shrouded in black. Stephens joined in with three simple strums, thickened each chord and let the rhythm ride, anchored firmly by Kris Funn’s punchy double bass. A short, sharp count brought in a riff from the bass and a seethe of Corey Fonville’s drums set the pace. This two-set gig, part of the EFG London Jazz Festival, came at the end of a string of one-nighters and the band was fired-up from the start.
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