Even though I was not planning on attending the Vietnamese New Year (Mung Xuan Dinh Hoi) concert in Virginia, I hopped along at the last minute after seeing Nguyen Khang and Ngoc Ha on the poster. The show hosted by Trinh Hoi and Nguyen Cao Ky Duyen with performers including Y Lan, Vu Khanh, Cardin, Manh Dinh, Bang Tam, Hong Dao, and Quang Minh, and supported by “de nhat” band Phung Quan.

Y Lan kicked off the show with Pham Duy’s “Gai Xuan” to give the audience a vibe of New Year. She then covered Trinh Cong Son’s “Nang Thuy Tinh” in a pseudo-blues style. At the break the keyboardist played the imitating saxophone keys that sounded perfect for a memorial service. It was so bad that Y Lan had to cut right back to the song to illuminate the keyboard-sax solo. In Vu Khanh’s performance of “Co Lang Gieng,” I lost count of how many times the band sped up and slowed down the tempos to catch his singing. It was also the first time I heard Trinh Cong Son’s “Nho Mua Thu Ha Noi” played in a cha-cha beat. During a bathroom break, I heard a perfect comment from a guy who said in Vietnamese that the band played one direction while Vu Khanh sang in another.

After Cardin, Manh Dinh and Bang Tam performances, Ky Duyen complimented how well done the band had played. Sure, to accompany Manh Dinh and Bang Tam, all they needed to do was playing that robotic bolero repetitively. I am not sure if Ky Duyen meant what she said or it was part of her job to say what she had to say, but it sure hurts her credibility every time she comments on something deafly like that.

At least Nguyen Khang and Ngoc Ha didn’t let me down. Nguyen Khang performed two songs. He did quite nicely with Vu Thanh An’s “Anh Den Tham Em Dem 30” with his authoritative voice. If the band could swing up his rendition of “Falling in Love with You,” it would have been refreshing to hear. When Ngoc Ha was speaking, she was shaking and nervous, but when she sang Pham Duy’s “Tinh Hoai Huong” and Pho Duc Phuong’s “Ho Tren Nui,” she was in full command. Even the band was surprisingly good when backing up her powerful vocals on “Ho Tren Nui”; therefore, they deserved her recognition for “climbing the mountain” with her.

Too bad I couldn’t stay for the second half of the show, but Nguyen Khang’s performance of “Anh Den Tham Em Dem 30” and Ngoc Ha’s presentation of “Ho Tren Nui” were worth the price of the common-class ticket.

The ever-changing Ngoc Khue is moving on without Le Minh Son. Her junior solo, Giot Suong Bay Len, marks a fresh transmogrification in her musical direction. Together with an imaginative producer Phan Cuong who weaved traditional instruments into contemporary grooves, red dragonfly Ngoc Khue casts her voodoo spells into Nguyen Vinh Tien’s avant-garde folklore compositions that are based on the form of ca tru.

What makes the album so hypnotizing is the constant metamorphosis in Ngoc Khue’s presentations, which are full of tumult. She pushes and pulls her deliveries, ebbs and flows her vocals, bends and glides her phrasings to give her performances both playful and doleful effects. On “Giac Mo Dai Dang,” she transforms her voice into a child and invites the bell to ring with her own playful vocalization while the traditional string (dan bau) plucks against the upbeat rhythm. Elsewhere she starts off the title track with a spirit-possession ritual called len dong. By the time she’s into the trance, the funereal horn improvises over the mid-tempo beat to support her spiritual ecstasy. In the dirge-like sound of “Loi Hat Vong Nuoc Xoay,” her singing is like a threnody in memory of those who lost their lives in the twisted flow of water. In contrast, she knows how to ride her youthfulness along the groovy acoustic bass lines and exotic timbre of dan bau in “Trai Lang Toi.” It’s about time there’s a dedication to the boys in the (countryside) hood. Most of the traditional songs are about the ladies.

While many Vietnamese singers make marketable albums to put food on the table, Ngoc Khue stays true to her art. She doesn’t like to fit in and although she doesn’t say it, her album suggests a fuck-you-if-you-don’t-feel-me attitude. So those antediluvian expatriates who still love Vietnamese music just like the way she was thirty years ago shouldn’t even come near this unconventional music. It would be too modern for your damn ancient taste.

TTBlue hooked me up with Paul Desmond’s Quartet Live 1975 the other day and I have been addicted since. With his incandescent style, whole-range tone, melodic improvisation, and peculiar use of sequence, Desmond blows “cool” alto vibes into his infamous “Take Five” (the replacement of Dave Brubeck’s piano vamp with a guitar isn’t so bad) as well as ballads including “My Funny Valentine” and “Nancy.” The cover of “Manha de Carnaval” is a perfect demonstration of how to personalize a standard. Instead of a straight retelling of the original composition, Desmond and his sidemen (bassist Don Thompson, drummer Jerry Fuller, and guitarist Ed Bickert) restructured the tune with their own imaginative improvisations. Even though the mellowed rhythm section is perfect for late-night relaxation, these men won’t let you sleep until they are done.

Is Tran Manh Tuan the only saxophonist in Viet Nam? How he has been recognized as an eminent figure in (Vietnamese) jazz still puzzles me. It has to be that stamp from Berklee because he has not yet sounded convincible as a soloist. In fact, he still plays like a wimp, and his Bong Thoi Gian (The Shadow of Time) is a perfect illustration. His fuzak style of covering Vietnamese ballads is best suited in a root-canal treatment. They are so smooth and so anesthetic that would eventually ease up your pain. That’s actually pretty helpful, isn’t it? I am not saying that his music is totally artless. Comparing to other Vietnamese instrumental albums, especially those produced by Thuy Nga, his jazz-lite approach ain’t so bad. And if you like Kenny G, you might find Tran Manh Tuan enjoyable. Someone has to make some insomniac-worthy music.

(No hurt feelings, my friend. You have a good sportsmanship, and this is no way a personal attack. So don’t take it to the heart, bro. You know I got respect for you despite our differences in musical taste sometimes. One thing we can’t argue for sure is that Dieu’s still the best, and we can’t deny that she knows her Martini jazz. Cheers!)

Does it take an American to do Vietnamese music justice? Good question. Although I am flattered that a foreign musician such as Lorn Leber would take Vietnamese well-known ballads and jazzed them up, he didn’t push Falling Autumn far enough for the aficionados. On the opening “Winter Night,” the smooth saxophone plays the exact written melody. It takes the guitar half way into the tune to play some departed improvisation. “Rain in Sai Gon, Rain in Ha Noi” is the only number that Leber reconstructs the original and makes it his own. While the bluesiness in “The Stranger in Me” saved the track from being a hot-tub jazz—thanks to the hypnotic bass lines and gorgeous keyboard licks—the rest have fallen into that category. Placing Leber’s rendition of “My Funny Valentine” and “Autumn Leaves” against Miles Davis’s, the difference is between the sky and the abyss.

Le Minh Son is no doubt a multi-talented musician. With solid albums like Tung Duong’s Chay Tron, Ngoc Khue’s Ben Bo Ao Nha Minh, and Thanh Lam’s Nang Len, he proved to be a skillful songwriter, imaginative producer, and inventive guitarist in his own right. Now he wants to demonstrate he could sing—not quite. With the exception of Thanh Lam’s contribution on “Sau Bao,” he uses his own grumpy old voice to express himself in Gieng Lang, his latest album. After listening to Le Minh Son, I wonder where Thanh Lam got her overemotional style. When he reaches the high octave, the bottle-breaking screech in his voice is “À Í [Ẹ]” (and I thought Trong Tan’s rendition was bad). Le Minh Son should have just done his part behind the scene, and let Tung Duong helps him get his message across, even the most personal “Ga Trong Nuoi Con,” more effectively.

Nowadays young singers love to cover old tunes, yet they do more damage than good to the beloved ballads. To my surprise, Thy Dung who was unknown to me is not one of them. Her album, Xua, featured a dozen of refreshing reinterpretations including Nguyen Trung Cang’s “Da Khuc,” Le Uyen Phuong’s “Tinh Khuc Cho Em” (a delicious duet with Hien Thuc), Viet Anh’s “Khong Con Mua Thu,” and Trinh Cong Son’s “O Tro.” Switching between up-tempo jams and soul-soothing grooves, Thy Dung exhales a new plume of smoke into the standards with her weed-puffing timbre and slight-intoxicating flow. On the medley “Toi Yeu Cuoc Doi,” she comes out swinging and enjoying every single moment as if life only lasts sixty years. Life sure is short, but she seems to make the most out of it on this album.

Thuy Duong is apparently very sleepy and lazy according to most listeners, and the latest criticisms of her returning to Asia’s Bon Mua is no exception. While most singers drown their soul into their performances, Thuy Duong sounds and seems like she’s rather doing anything else but singing and pleasing the audience. Like many listeners, I had snored on her albums a couple of times. Yet, it is the power of ease, which I have learned to fall in love with, that gives her a style of her own.

Thuy Duong is beyond relaxed. She has not yet sung an up-tempo tune. She never pushes her voice. She never uses vibrato, nor does she wants to. What she has accomplished, however, no one dares to come near. She is capable of creating an opposite attraction instantaneously between her voice and her flow. While her languorous delivery appears soothing, her sharp, needling timbre cuts deep into the emotional core. In other words, she can put her cold hand on your heart and still shock you like water touches electricity.

If I have to pick one song to describe her, Truc Ho’s “Trai Tim Mua Dong” would be it. Although Don Ho had swept our hearts with his warm, soulful rendition, it was his gentleness and kindness that won our pity. Thuy Duong’s version, which had been overlooked, has nothing to do with sympathy. She sings in such a cold-hearted condition that people couldn’t find their way into the sentimental state underneath. In the opening line, “Ta gap nhau trong muon mang,” Don Ho might refer to a woman who’s leaving him to walk down the isle with another man, but the woman in Thuy Duong’s version is about to leave this world. In the closing line, “Nen danh om tron mot moi tinh cam,” he might holds that painful part forever in his heart, but she holds it forever in her dead.

Thuy Duong’s style is so cold that you have to be damn near frozen to get in. If you want to be broken in, seclude yourself to her Khuc Thuy Du released by Asia Entertainment. The title track alone would give you a startling chill. When she sings, “Hay noi ve cuoc doi / Khi toi khong con nua / Se lay duoc nhung gi / Ve ben kia the gioi / Ngoai trong vang ma thoi,” the frostiness in her voice suggests that dying is as painless as breathing.

Thuy Duong’s technical skill is quite interesting. To the average ears, she displays none because she hardly takes on high notes. When she does, she would stop abruptly at a certain level and let the air fills up the meter instead of letting her voice vanishes into a diminuendo. Most of the time, she stays in the middle register and leaves plenty of empty space in between the bars. In a way, her voice reminds me of Miles Davis’s Harmon mute. They trimmed away the unnecessary details and developed a stack, hesitant style. Their gruff and chilling sounds are best suiting for an intimate setting. Just imagine her voice accompanied by his closed trumpet in a small café with the weather plunged below zero outside.

Many musicians had recorded “Body and Soul,” but Coleman Hawkin’s version remains one of the most renowned saxophone solos in jazz. The tone is simply gorgeous. Hawkins assumed that listeners were aware of the familiar tune; therefore, he set the melody aside and just dropped his soulful improvisation over the 32-bar rhythm section.

Based on the harmonies of George Gershwin’s “I Got Rhythm,” Duke Ellington composed his colorful “Cotton Tail” in a 32-bar form. Within six brief choruses, Duke and his Orchestra pumps out tremendous energy from Ben Webster’s vigorous solos on the tenor, to imaginative sax soli, to the call-and-response patterns between the brass and reeds section. What grabs my attention, though, is Ellington’s little stride solo (at 1:57) in the fourth chorus. Duke’s the man.