On a memorable warm summer’s night in Vienne, Herbie Hancock found himself a spectacular venue to deliver one remarkable rendition of his famous compositions after another. Jazz’s answer to Paul McCartney, the 82-year-old remains the unparalleled titan of his genre.
There was little to see onstage after Thomas de Pourquery wrapped up an impressive (if overly long) support slot, but the roar through Vienne’s magnificent Roman ampitheatre was as if a gladiator had just landed a fatal blow. An outlier in the multitude of paper airplanes had just been chucked stageward by the crowd from the upper reaches of the stands and was miraculously floating closer and closer to the stage, eventually plonking itself in front of a giant speaker stack before being scuttled away by a busy stagehand a few seconds later. It was a moment that ignited the match-ready buzz of anticipation in the crowd minutes before the great Herbie Hancock took to the stage, a man who can now quite reasonably claim to be the great living jazz musician on the planet. I had travelled to Vienne, near Lyon, with three friends and had already enjoyed one night of the festival (an improved, well-contained Cory Wong; a somewhat tired, cheese-laden George Benson). Tonight, however, was clearly the apex of the whole holiday – a reason for Fionn and I to crack out fresh, specially-bought shirts and douse ourselves in cologne for no particular reason other than “it’s for Herbie”. Now well informed about the dangers of sitting for two hours of more on unforgiving stone steps, I made my way uphill through Vienne carrying a pillow from our Airbnb, itself dressed in a fading Rex Orange County t-shirt to avoid stains. As we got comfortable in a spot high up in the ampitheatre – hardly a detraction as the view of the sunset over Vienne was remarkable – there was already a sense that nothing could ruin this night.
The sky had turned sapphire blue by the time Hancock strolled onto stage. “This place feels like home, I’ve been here so many times,” he told us as another paper airplane rudely made its way towards Hancock’s feet. It’s a phrase that may have sound like a boast from any other artist – the sheer number of people perched on the steep, curved stone steps around him was staggering – but from the mouth of Hancock it felt natural. Why should a man with such harmonic genius and jazz history (he was a crucial component of the Miles Davis Quintet, of course) ever feel overwhelmed by the occasion? A long opening medley – a bewildering tour of Hancock’s extensive discography including a journey through Textures performed with impressive attack and physicality considering Hancock’s old age – cemented the idea that Hancock has the ample experience required to play at the very highest standard in any venue he likes.
The nightly scene at Vienne’s Théâtre Antique during the festival
It helped that Hancock had populated his band with a cast of esteemed unsung heroes of the American jazz world. Guitarist Lionel Loueke was the easy standout performer, almost stealing the show on several occasions with dazzling solo works of wizardry, switching from gritty roar to silky smooth cantabile seemingly with the flick of a plectrum. His technically dazzling introduction to a somewhat disappointingly lightfooted Chameleon early on in the set was masterful. Trumpeter Terrence Blanchard, another extraordinary musician who could quite easily produce his very own sellout show of hits, took the spotlight for his own arrangement of the popular standard Footprints. Choppier than the original yet retaining the sense of nuanced constraint and control, the rendition was one of the many exquisite highlights of the night, not least thanks to Blanchard’s trumpet solo that soared up towards the highest ramparts of the Théâtre Antique like glorious morning birdsong.
It was hard to take in the occasion as, one by one, favourite tunes that me and my friends had played time and time again in youth jazz bands throughout our childhood were checked off. Cantaloupe Island, a song about as crowd pleasing as jazz gets, was one such moment with Hancock’s unforgettable chugging blues riff providing the first reason to those around me to get off their feet and get dancing. The rapid fusion of Actual Proof felt even more piercing when positioned directly after the relatively serene Footprints. The agitated basslines of James Genus found the perfect match in Justin Tyson’s dazzlingly busy and precise drumming, although the spontaneous harmonic whirlwind flowing out of Hancock’s Fender Rhodes inevitably, and deservedly, dominated proceedings. Oftentimes Hancock’s soloing felt like the stuff of legend, deserving to be plastered across YouTube as a viral video clip with a breathless, all-caps video title extolling Hancock’s general godliness. The extended, often wildly adventurous solos seemed to come and go distressingly quickly. It wasn’t that Hancock’s set was too short, but that his live, unrepeatable pianistic feats were simply too remarkable to hear once.
Dusk falls behind Herbie Hancock and his band
Hancock did well to resist the tempation to pack the setlist with somewhat overplayed greatest hits. Sublimely soulful deep cut Come Running to Me was an inspired song choice as dusk became nighttime and an excellent excuse for Hancock to take to the vocoder, an instrument he popularised singlehandedly during his period of technological boundary-pushing in the 1970s. A detour late on saw Hancock left entirely alone with his vocoder, repeating the crushing line “I’m not happy without you” through a cloud of dense, shape-shifting cluster chords. In a night of predictable, well-worn hits, it was a moment of striking sincerity and without doubt the evening’s emotive crux. Quite what emotion Hancock was unleashing was up to interpretation; an enlightening epiphany that could pave the way to happiness, or a grief-stricken realisation of love’s darkest consequences? The beauty of it all was the effortlessness in which Hancock moved from despair to hope and back again, each carefully chosen chord moving the piece forward in unexpected ways.
The absence of a proper, funky Chameleon aside, it had been a flawless evening. Thousands of raised hands clapped and cheered below us as the band took their bows, the time fast approaching midnight. The giddy feeling of being within eyeshot of such an indisputable living legend had not left me all night and 82-year-old Hancock was still triumphant and energetic as he made a final wave to the crowd following a blistering two hour set.
The roar continued right through to the encore, only stopping as Hancock arrived at the mic to speak. “Oh, one more thing,” he told us with a grin and faux nonchalence. Cue Chameleon once more, now with keytar and that stonking, immortal bassline. Hancock’s playing was stupendous: crunchy and risky synth slaps squashed up against virtuosic runs before fading almost to nothing in preparation for one last, showstopping buildup. With the pretty orange glow of the Rhône valley in view behind the stage and twinkling constellations now clearly in view, it felt like there was surely no better place in the world to be for those five minutes. If there was any doubt that Hancock could produce a set of music to live up to his staggering career in jazz, it had been well and truly put to bed. Who could possibly ask for more?