A jazz living legend is outshone by his own band

Roy Ayers, the singer, composer and virtuoso vibraphone player, has now been a “living legend” for so long that it’s hard to remember a time when he was anything else. Certainly, not many in the surprisingly young audience at the Union Chapel could have known him in the Sixties, when he began his career as a straightahead, post-bop vibes player; or in his prime in the Seventies, when he was a leading light in the jazz-funk movement; or even later in that Eighties fusion of disco, funk and jazz known as “acid jazz” that was scorned by purists but loved by many. Since then, Ayers has enjoyed the special fame that comes from having more hits sampled by hip-hoppers than any other musician alive.

The trouble with being a living legend is that you hardly have to do anything except appear for the crowd to go wild. Such was the case on Saturday night when the 78-yearold Ayers limped on stage, looking very much as if an arthritic hip was giving him trouble, surrounded by his quartet. It’s interesting that nowhere in the publicity were these players named, which seemed ungenerous, as it was mostly their huge efforts that made the show what it was.

Mark Adams (I think it was) zipped from one electronic keyboard to another, teasing away at the same high “blue note” figure before plunging down the instrument, the left hand twitching at the pitch-bend control to give it that extra itch of horniness. The bass player’s sound was overwhelming – the sound mix as a whole left a lot to be desired – but his solos were terrific. Even more impressive was the drummer, whose solo was astonishing – the one genuine moment of frenzy.

To see all this overtly testosteronefuelled energy felt strangely nostalgic, a feeling sharpened by the support band, a quartet centred around Bryony Jarman-pinto. This too had a certain old-fashioned funkiness, but it felt squeaky-clean and sweetly sentimental compared with the unabashed horniness of the main act.

As for the man at the centre of the evening, he’s now more roguish uncle than the love god of yore, eyeing the front row appreciatively, and taking playful swipes at the drummers’ cymbals. When Ayers suddenly leapt up and started flailing at the vibes, he seemed to have all the subtlety of a man tenderising a side of beef. And yet as one listened it became clear that a vast well of experience lay behind the apparent casualness.

Ayers knows just how to drop a phrase into a silence for maximum effect, and how to keep a riff going long after another player would have run out of steam. It’s apt that his bestknown song, which he performed here to rapturous applause, is Don’t Stop the Feeling.