Secondhand Setlists

A concert at a jazz club you always expect to be a little different than your usual modern show. These clubs aren’t often just seated affairs but full-on dining experiences, where you can listen to music while enjoying a full-course meal. Add in the intimacy of these settings, where artists seem much more emotionally close, not just physical, and the whole feeling is much more intense than the typical affair.
Despite being armed with this knowledge, my friend and I had no idea what we were about to experience at the LA Blue Note Jazz Club for a night with Estelle.

We approached the hostess stand upon arrival, where I claimed the tickets I had won in a ticket giveaway. Samantha and I were riding a high from seeing the legendary Toni Basil just minutes before at the Marciano Foundation, and we were excited for part two of our LA-for-free evening. Our hostess directed us to the bar, where a girl in glasses, vaguely dominatrix garb, and a floor-length black and red striped faux fur coat kindly offered us her place at the bar. We sat, ordered our food (Samantha the burger, myself the cavatelli), and settled ourselves as the opening act, a comedian and friend of Estelle’s, Aida Rodriguez, warmed us up for the main event.

Leading us in a declaration of “Welcome, Estelle,” Rodriguez left the stage as said Estelle glided onto it, garbed in a disco ball-esque dress with long sleeves. Immediately, she insisted upon getting the audience up and moving. Now, in a normal venue, even a seated theater, such insistence makes sense. For a venue where tables are crammed up against each other and scooting back your chair runs you the risk of backing into the person behind you, this is an ask too far. Estelle, threatening not to start the show unless people put down their wagyu steaks and eggplant milanesa, seemed oblivious to the fact that she was playing in a jazz club, much less one that she just played another show at earlier that evening. She basically spent the first three songs delivering ultimatums. A group of audience members were dragged invited up onstage for a soca segment, which again felt a bit hard to pull off in a tight venue where people were eating heavy food, but attendees seemed to be in good spirits.

“That guy onstage in the white hat, I saw him when I walked across the venue,” my friend Samantha remarked. “He’s hot…. I see the girl he was with was not invited up.”

A few songs and many sentences in, Estelle announced the first of numerous guests of the evening. Imagine our surprise when thee Teedra Moses, who collaborated with Estelle for a song, entered the stage in flowy red sleeves and a bouncy little bob. She dueted on their song “Better,” and then proceeded to sing two more songs, including the classic “Be Your Girl.” Totally unexpected, absolutely a pleasure, and slightly worrisome for Estelle, whom at this point had sang less at her show than her own guest.

“Teedra might have perfect pitch,” Samantha said, impressed. “Estelle, girl, you’re getting shown up.”

This continued on as the theme of the evening, incredible but wildly unexpected guests who completely overshadowed Estelle, whose fans perhaps wondered if they’d bought tickets for the wrong show. Only two songs after Moses’ appearance, our headliner left the stage to make room for Shae Universe. Ms. Universe sounded lovely with a rich contralto, but she wasn’t whom we’d come to see so I can’t say I recall much of her performance. As she finished and Estelle’s glittering disco figure walked back up onstage, I leaned into Samantha’s ear. But before I could voice the same thought, I heard: “No costume change?”

The evening went on as such, Estelle talking through most of her songs while bringing out a rotating cast of musicians, all very talented and not mentioned in the programming at all. The iconic Janice-Marie shredded on her bass, Estelle once again played second fiddle on duets with with Joi and Chanté Moore, Thelma Houston celebrated the 50th anniversary of her song “Don’t Leave Me This Way,” and an artist named Sherie conjured out of nowhere with a violin, creating melodious loops with her vocal pedal and singing in a whistle register like Lisa Fischer. All of these guests blew my mind, but they blew Ms. Estelle out of the water, too. Chanté Moore sounded like a dead ringer for Mr. Jackson on “Off The Wall,” and it will be a flex on other people to say I saw Janice-Marie play “Boogie Oogie Oogie.” However, I dunno if I could say that I saw an Estelle show.

At one point, Estelle sauntered into the audience to big up her fellow Apple Music DJ, who began waxing poetic about his girlfriend of four years. “He’s gonna propose,” declared Samantha with the conviction of an astrologer on a full moon; and just like that, Miss DJ’s GF became Miss DJ’s fiancée. Once again, this was more memorable than anything the headliner had sang thus far. Knowing that Estelle hosts an Apple Music program, the Estelle Show, illuminated much on how this evening was playing out, more of a variety show than a singular artist putting on a concert; had it been advertised as such, Samantha and I might not have been so puzzled, though still thoroughly entertained, by the way it unfolded.

Finally nearing the conclusion of this almost two-hour affair, we reached the part everyone wanted to hear: the part about the trip Estelle would “like to go someday.” Like so many other songs this evening, “American Boy” got interrupted by random speaking (“I know five-foot-seven isn’t tall!”), further threats of restarting the whole show, and, you guessed it, more guests, this time Robert Glasper forced into joining in on tambourine. What should have been a very cool moment, Glasper teaming up with the artist behind one of the most timeless pop songs of the century, ended up a bit of a letdown. The backing tracks, certainly a choice to use in a jazz club, overshadowed the diva of the night, and it’s not like we can enjoy the rap section anymore. This song, much like the country it takes its name from, was, also like said country, in decline.

When Estelle actually took the time to sing on “True Kinda Love” and “Thank You,” she sounded divine, and I wish she dedicated more of the evening to singing her music rather than being the MC, the maestro, the friend of everybody, the ordain-er. It landed as a show with a lot of heart and a terrific showcase for Black women singers (who all expressed much gratitude to Estelle for the chance to perform), but not a lot of planning. At one point, Estelle geared up to sing a cover; I cannot for the life of me remember what it was, but it didn’t matter because she forgot the words to it, so she just didn’t sing anything till the chorus kicked in. As Ms. Basil said to us earlier that evening about all the icons she performed with, they all valued one thing: “preproduction, preproduction, preproduction!”

For the finale she was joined once again by Teedra Moses and singer Russell Taylor, both of whom delivered on their respective parts. It was fun, but it wasn’t the grand finale I and I’m sure most others were expecting.

We had a blast watching the show, and to reiterate, it was heartwarming to see so many Black musicians get gassed up in such a renowned space. I’m simply not sure I would have billed this as solely an Estelle show, though, and I’d be curious to know if those who bought tickets might’ve expressed similar sentiments. I’d have asked the girl in the faux fur, but she spent the whole concert gabbing very loudly and ordering Bourbon sours so I couldn’t expect her observations to be astute.

After two hours of rip-roaring music, we finally stepped out into the evening, where I kept thinking of something Samantha said early on in the evening: “You ever watch a performer and realize that they’re the thing getting in their own way?” That really hit the nail on the head for the evening, one where the entertainment was all because of, as well as in spite of, the main attraction.