Monday, January 30, 2006; C05

Randy Weston

There was magic in the method used by jazz pianist Randy Weston's African Rhythms to open its performance at the Kennedy Center Terrace Theater on Saturday night.

At first there was just kora player and special guest Abdou Mboup onstage, performing a Senegalese folk tune -- a simple, circular, dancing melody that shone through a shower of overtones. Then, one by one, the members of the core quintet appeared, each adding to the increasingly textured performance, each contributing to its hypnotic charm.

Similar transitions, from elemental devices to expansive orchestral choruses, developed as the quintet moved through multifaceted arrangements of "African Cookware," "Hi Fly" and "African Sunrise" -- the last a wonderfully evocative tribute to "Cu-bop" innovators Dizzy Gillespie and Machito.

As always, Weston's fingers never gravitated far from the blues or the influence of Thelonious Monk's curious harmonic designs. There were also vivid reminders of Weston's admiration for both Art Tatum and Duke Ellington, particularly when a passage demanded a strong left hand or an elegantly articulated chromatic run. Clearly, Weston was in a mood to improvise. "Hi Fly," which clocked in at 12 minutes, comprised an ingenious collection of keyboard variations.

Yet the spotlight often fell elsewhere, illuminating the striking contrasts and counterpoint created by alto saxophonist TK Blue and trombonist Benny Powell, the often galvanizing bass work of Alex Blake, and the ease with which percussionist Neil Clarke's integrated cross-cultural rhythms. Alas, though the arrangements were long, the concert wasn't. At just 75 minutes, it seemed too short by half.

-- Mike Joyce

The Decemberists' music is so lushly orchestrated and theatrical that it is difficult to imagine how it could be performed by one musician. But on Saturday night at the Birchmere, Decemberists frontman Colin Meloy stripped down his band's music to just his voice and a guitar, without losing the essence of his songs. Meloy did allude to his bandmates' absence, humming a missing instrument in "Red Right Ankle" and pointing out where a guitar solo will appear in a new song about the Shankill Butchers, a 1970s Northern Ireland group.

Despite such omissions, Meloy's solo adaptations never seemed thin: Even the melancholy "We Both Go Down Together" and the subdued guitar chords on the lengthy "California One" carried as much punch as their full-band versions. In fact, being alone onstage allowed him to connect more easily with the audience, as he paid homage to folk singer Shirley Collins by covering her "Barbara Allen" and led the crowd in a stretching exercise mid-show. He even humbly apologized for succumbing to the urge to write a song about his impending fatherhood. ("I thought that I could fight it, but I couldn't!")

Most impressive was Meloy's tremendous ability to command the silence and attention of the sellout crowd as a solo performer. Even during his quietest numbers, not a sound was uttered by the audience, a refreshing change from the chatter that usually accompanies acoustic performances.

-- Catherine Lewis

Indie rock that traffics in overwhelming amateurism -- real or willful -- is generally the sort of music that makes a critic question his profession and count the seconds he'll never get back in his life. The man known as Le Ton Mite, one of the opening acts Saturday at the Black Cat for San Francisco's art-rock quartet Deerhoof, owes me about 35 minutes. Looking like a mixture of young Allen Ginsberg and really old Allen Ginsberg, Le Ton Mite warbled atonal, faux-naive tunes that he described as "the songs you wish you heard as a child." I'm glad my childhood was spent with Kiss and Donna Summer.

But Deerhoof uses insouciance like a red herring: While singer-bassist-guitarist Satomi Matsuzaki may whisper-squeak off-key of ducks and bunnies, the boys in her band play their instruments with unbridled energy and, yes, skill. The group's 2005 CD "The Runners Four" is one of the most strangely beautiful, deranged but accessible indie-rock records to come out in some time. Like the band's 70-minute, 15-song Black Cat set, the CD isn't always pretty or successful, but it is suspenseful.

Deerhoof's sound is like a live mash-up: It can engage in the Who's primal power and Cream-y jamming only to be cut off by a tight surf-guitar riff stolen from the Fall or a tense drone straight from Can's Krautrock playbook. Drummer Greg Saunier hits his kit as hard as Keith Moon, and guitarists Chris Cohen and John Dieterich can launch into spindly interplay that sounds like punk-jazz. Nothing seems to last longer than four or eight bars, and the music is a collective spasm of sounds and riffs culled from multiple genres. When it works, as on the Stereolab-ish "Running Thoughts," there's undeniable freshness; when it's merely a car wreck, as on some of the longer instrumental pieces, you can forgive Deerhoof for at least giving it the old college try. Le Ton Mite? Not so much.

-- Christopher Porter

Saturday night's performance by Devi Dance Theater at Dance Place invited the audience on an intimate tour of Indian myth and ritual. Director and choreographer Nilimma Devi's work originates in the traditional dance style known as Kuchipudi, a form noted as both a solo and dramatic dance style.

"Gossamer of the Soul," danced by Devi's daughter, Anila Kumari, was a feast for the eyes. With intricate hand movements, she wove a fantasy fabric of invisible threads across the stage. The jangle of her ankle bells amplified the music with staccato beats, and her filmy gold sari reflected the lights like a faceted jewel.

Devi's solo, "Markendaya Leela," an ode to Shiva, was a dramatic piece, enhanced by nuanced facial expressions and full body gestures. Her clarity of movement and attention to detail was a combination of both mime and ethnic dance.

"Rhythm Squared" was a collage of four dancers, positioned facing opposite directions, each doing a solo work. Changing places to allow each one to face the audience, the ensemble was visually held together by the whirl of blue and gold costumes as well as the unison beating of the ankle bells.

The premiere of the evening, "From the Diary of Sita," was disappointing -- showing the limits of Devi's choreography in ensemble work. The myth of Rama and Sita -- a traditional story of love and loss -- is told through the voice of the woman. In this feminist version, Sita questions why her husband values chastity over love and proving his virility over her freedom. The strong individual solos were overshadowed by uninventive and cliched group dances that lacked the soloists' clarity of movement and exquisiteness of costume. The unfortunate choice of stage set -- several long banners that resembled bedsheets -- was amateurish in stark juxtaposition to the beautiful gilt-adorned gauzy attire worn by the soloists.

-- Barbara Allen