The Hollywood Bowl shimmered beneath a golden L.A. sky this past Sunday as the Blue Note Jazz Festival returned—not merely with a lineup, but with a lineage. It wasn’t just a concert; it was communion: of generations, genres, and raw, radiant joy. The day began with promise, sparked by the LAUSD Beyond the Bell All-City Jazz Band and the powerhouse harmonies of the DC6 Singers Collective. Then came the first jaw-dropper: Mohini Dey’s fierce, fluid bass lit up the stage, followed by Weedie Braimah & The Hands of Time, whose earthy, ancestral rhythms rolled like thunder through the hills.

Joe Lovano’s Paramount Quartet delivered a masterclass in restraint and richness. Lovano’s saxophone poured out like golden syrup, while Will Calhoun’s intuitive drumming created a pulse that felt both cosmic and close to the chest. It was smooth jazz elevated—intelligent, soulful, alive. The Soul Rebels shifted the gears into party mode, calling out “Let’s have a good time!”—a command the Bowl eagerly obeyed. Their brass burned bright, and when Goapele appeared in a shimmering gown, her voice lifted the crowd into pure, collective bliss.

Then, Stanley Clarke took the stage and reminded everyone what elegance sounds like. Backed by the legendary John Robinson on drums, Clarke’s set was a soul-deep meditation, a master speaking volumes with every note. But it was WILLOW who became the festival’s emotional axis. At just 24, she offered a set that was equal parts power and vulnerability. Her voice didn’t just rise—it settled in your bones. The standing ovation she received was for more than talent; it was for the rare magic of witnessing an artist stepping fully into herself.

That magic turned tender when host Arsenio Hall stepped forward afterward to introduce his son—on Father’s Day, no less. With misty warmth, he recalled watching WILLOW and his son play together as children. Now, one stood beside him in quiet pride, while the other had just shaken the Bowl. As night fell, Grace Jones descended. In sculptural hats that dared the crowd’s fedoras to keep up, she reminded us that rules, like time, bend in her presence. Her set was part concert, part performance art, part ritual. Jones doesn’t revisit the past—she reclaims it, reshapes it. The Bowl became her temple, and we, her devoted congregation, left baptized in spectacle.

The Blue Note Jazz Festival proved, once again, that jazz isn’t a genre—it’s a state of being. From Lovano’s molten tones to WILLOW’s luminous ascent and Grace’s iconic anarchy, the music didn’t sit still. It soared, shimmered, and reminded us why, under that big California sky, the Bowl remains hallowed ground.

— Rosane Grimberg

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