Jazzkaar Festival 2025

Grundström, known for his work in the Swedish folk scene, played the bass like a second guitar—melodic, fluid, and full of nuance. His playing anchored the trio, but it never dominated. Instead, he let the music breathe, with long, expressive lines reminiscent of Bill Frisell's quieter moments. His stage presence was another delight: with understated, intelligent humor, he shared anecdotes between songs, making the audience feel like part of the journey. Though the trio's debut album has yet to be released, the music stood confidently on its own.

Pärnoja's guitar work shimmered—at times echoing the spaciousness of ambient landscapes, other times bursting into rock-infused runs à la Eric Johnson. In one track, surf rock vibes gave way to more introspective passages, each transition seamless and full of character.

Abner's drumming was a masterclass in subtle power and precision. Whether holding the pulse steady or adding texture with delicate cymbal work, he elevated the entire trio without ever pulling focus.

And let us not forget the lighting—a creative, almost theatrical presence of its own. Positioned to reflect off the guitar, it added a soft halo to the performance, emphasizing the emotional tone of each piece.

Adi Oasis (Von Krahl)

When bassist and singer Adi Oasis hit the stage, it was not just a concert—it was an experience that radiated energy, joy, and love. From the first note to the encore, she captivated the crowd with her infectious groove, stunning vocals and magnetic stage presence.

Oasis is a true tour de force, seamlessly blending the soulful essence of Philly Soul with a retro r&b vibe. Part concert, part dance party, her set felt like a warm embrace—joyful, deeply musical, and full of heart. From the opening notes of "FourSixty," Adi had the room in the palm of her hand. Bass in tow, she grooved with ease and confidence, blending her slick musicianship with silky, expressive vocals. Her music echoed the golden eras of soul and funk while sounding completely fresh—at once nostalgic and entirely her own. She moved across the stage with the kind of swagger that only someone with the mystical, sexy aura of both Prince and Lenny Kravitz can possess. With every note, she effortlessly commanded the room, leaving no doubt that she was fully in control of the night.

The setlist was a carefully balanced ride, moving between fan favourites like "U Make Me Want It" and "The Water," and newer material such as "Smokey," "Pompenette," and "I Wanna Be Rich." Each track brought a different shade of her artistry, whether playful, vulnerable, or full-on celebratory. The band was tight and vibrant, perfectly tuned into Adi's energy, adding colour and depth without ever overshadowing her.

Her band was on fire, playing with tightness and intensity that matched the energy she brought to the stage. The musicianship was flawless—each note, each beat, each harmony was perfectly executed. But it was Adi herself who really stole the show. Her bass playing was slick, precise, and funky, laying the perfect foundation for her stunning, sweet voice. She was so immersed in the music that it felt like she was living her lyrics word by word, and the audience could feel it.

It was not just the sound that drew the audience in; it was the movements, too. Adi knows how to command the stage. At one point, she hit a playful, yet subtle duck walk, moving effortlessly across the stage with a rhythm that was pure funk. She embodied the music, every movement dripping with style and confidence. Her connection with the crowd was palpable, as she drew everyone in with her presence. Hands held high, we swayed together to the beat, lost in the groove.

But the true surprise came just before the end of the night when Oasis, with a twinkle in her eye, covered the iconic Crystal Waters track "Gypsy Woman (She's Homeless)." The familiar piano sequence filled the room with nostalgia, but it was Adi's playful energy and subtle performance—the smooth duck walk and quick footwork—that made it unforgettable. The room lit up with light as she played, leaving the audience in pure bliss.

It was a magnificent night, a love letter to life and to the audience. Adi Oasis poured everything she had into that performance, and we could not get enough. The crowd's screams for an encore were deafening, and they were more than deserved. When Adi returned for the encore with "Mystic Lover," it was clear that her connection with the audience was as deep as the music itself. It was the perfect closing to an unforgettable night.

Friday, April 25

Madis Muul Trio & Giridhar Udupa (Fotografiska)

In the intimate space of Fotografiska Tallinn, the Madis Muul Trio offered an evening of music that felt like a quiet conversation between worlds. The Estonian pianist and composer Madis Muul, joined by bassist Raimond Mägi and drummer Karl-Juhan Laanesaar, played a set full of fluid, impressionable textures—light piano phrases trickled like water, gradually growing into fuller, cinematic waves. The mood brought to mind the lyrical landscapes of Esbjorn Svensson, yet the sound was distinctly Muul's: cosmic, tender and deeply immersive.

Halfway through the set, Indian percussionist Giridhar Udupa joined the trio, and the energy shifted. With an assortment of shakers, clay pots and his voice, Udupa introduced the rich rhythms of South India. His konnakol—the art of vocalizing complex rhythmic syllables—was both hypnotic and electrifying. One moment he was singing intricate rhythmic patterns, the next he was in tight dialogue with the drummer, creating percussive duets that were as much about listening as they were about sound.

The pairing of ambient keyboards with konnakol, ghatam and hand percussion could have felt contrasting, but here it worked as a seamless blend. Udupa, who has mentored Muul in the Carnatic tradition, even took a moment to explain the essence of konnakol to the audience—offering a brief masterclass that deepened the appreciation of the art.

Together, they crafted a musical space that was both meditative and playful, introspective yet globally connected. The performance did not shout for attention. It shimmered, invited and lingered. It was a meeting of traditions, not through fusion for novelty's sake, but through genuine collaboration, curiosity, and care.

Lambert (Von Krahl)

It's not often that a pianist manages to walk the line between mischief and mystery as gracefully as Lambert does, and even less often that it happens behind a Sardinian bull mask. But on this warm spring evening at Von Krahl, the German-born pianist and composer once again proved why he is in a class of his own.

Performing with his trio, Lambert opened the night with a gentle invitation—impressionistic harmonies that unfurled like fog over the harbor, only to be swept away by intricate rhythmic play and rich melodic turns. His sound, often described as cinematic or modern classical, came to life here with an unmistakably jazz-driven pulse. From subtle left-hand vamps to cascades of high-register tinkling, the dynamic range was wide and expertly executed.

His bandmates—sensitive and intuitive—matched Lambert's nuanced approach with finesse. The interplay between the trio members was tight but never rigid, allowing room for spontaneity and play. The audience, quietly leaning in, followed every twist and turn, drawn in not by spectacle but by the depth and honesty of the performance.

Lambert, in his usual understated way, offered dry humor between pieces. "Why did the Estonians invent Skype," he quipped. "And then let it quietly die." (reference to Skype app shutting down) The chuckle that followed reminded us that even behind a mask, he is not afraid to reach out with a human touch.

Lambert's playing—expressive, precise, and unpredictable—spoke not just of talent but of someone who has learned to inhabit the in-between spaces of genre and persona.

Whatever lies behind the mask, what came through the music was authentic and moving. And in the end, that is all that really matters. The concert ended with all three musicians playing a tune at the piano, which was both playful and tender—a quiet gesture of connection and camaraderie.

Anomalie (Von Krahl)

At Von Krahl, Montreal-based Anomalie brought their polished blend of electronic pop, jazz, and hip-hop to Tallinn. Led by Nicolas Dupuis, a classically trained pianist turned beatmaker, the four-piece band offered a tight, well-rehearsed performance that leaned heavily into retro synth sounds and danceable grooves.

From the start, it was clear that Anomalie had a vision. The music drew heavily from the late '70s and early '80s electro-pop era—smooth synths, rubbery basslines, and crisp beats. Dupuis' command of his gear was impressive, and his background in classical and jazz was evident in the care he took with arrangements. The band was sharp, professional, and clearly having fun.

Still, despite the craftsmanship, something felt missing. While the audience responded with enthusiasm—heads bobbing, a few breaking into dance—the set lacked surprises. Many of the tracks followed similar structures and textures, creating a sense of repetition over the course of the evening. It was undeniably slick, but not always engaging. The retro-futuristic style, while enjoyable at moments, didn't offer much new in terms of musical ideas or emotional range.

That said, it was refreshing to see a project like this featured at Jazzkaar. Anomalie represents a different side of the jazz spectrum—one rooted in technology, beat culture and genre-blending exploration. For some, it hit the right note. For others, it was more of a curiosity than a revelation.

Saturday, April 26

James Carter Organ Trio at Von Krahl Hall

A few hours before the concert at Von Krahl Hall, I sat down with James Carter for a conversation that still lingers in my memory. Articulate, humorous, and deeply insightful, he spoke as someone who has not just played jazz but absorbed its every nuance. You could sense already that the evening ahead would be more than a performance—it would be a journey. By the time the lights dimmed and Carter took the stage with his Organ Trio—Gerard Gibbs on the Hammond B3 and Alex White on drums—that anticipation had turned electric. With a warm smile and a short intro about the music's origins, Carter welcomed us into his world. And from the very first note, they made it clear: this was going to groove.

They kicked things off with "Afternoon in a Doghouse," a stomping tribute to Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis, full of grit and swagger. Carter's approach to the saxophone was physical—he did not just play the horn, he embodied it. Whether swaying to the groove or reacting with animated gestures, his playing was conversational, athletic and alive. Each piece unfolded like a short story, introduced by Carter solo—sometimes teasing a phrase, sometimes drifting into abstraction before landing on the melody. "Surgery" was another Davis tune that let them stretch out. Carter, weaving blistering lines, took the crowd on a ride from bluesy grumble to squealing altissimo. It was raw and radiant. "Body and Soul" followed—tender, breathy and almost meditative before swelling into full Lockjaw swing. "Hey Lock," another nod to Davis, kept the energy simmering. At this point, the trio's chemistry was undeniable: Gibbs anchoring with thick organ swells, White pushing and shaping the groove with buoyant rhythm and intuitive grace.

One of the most endearing moments came midway through the set, when Carter began a call-and-response with a young child in the audience, trading sounds and squeaks on the saxophone. The kid giggled to each sound Carter produced. It was playful, unscripted and completely heartwarming—a reminder that great music connects across all ages.

Gibbs was nothing short of volcanic on the organ. His playing was drenched in soul, full of thick chords, bubbling runs, and an intensity that bordered on ecstatic. At one point, he launched into a solo that felt straight out of a gospel service, channeling both church and funk with equal conviction. White was a revelation on drums. Whether locking into tight grooves or laying down complex, syncopated patterns, his drumming was fluid, tasteful and deeply musical. Every beat was purposeful and delivered with impeccable taste. He brought a sense of joy, swing, and funk to every tune—his solos eruptive yet always within the pocket.

"Melodie Au Crépuscule" by Django Reinhardt added a touch of European romance. Carter's tone on this was hushed, elegiac, filled with longing. There was a beautiful contrast between the smoky saxophone lines and the percussive bite of Gibbs' comping. One of the standout moments came with "On a Misty Night," Tadd Dameron's ballad turned dreamy waltz, rendered here with aching lyricism. Carter milked every note, while Gibbs added gospel-soaked chords that gave the tune a spiritual lift. Later, "How Am I to Know" felt like a playful wink, Carter quoting old standards with a mix of reverence and mischief.

But perhaps the most surprising moment came with Ary Barroso's "Bahia." It was rhythmic and sunlit—an unexpected detour that brought a breezy, Latin sway to the set. Carter danced to it, literally, while Gibbs locked into a clavé-inflected vamp and White colored the beat with brushes and bells. It was one of those musical moments that just made you smile.

And then, just like that, it was over. But what lingered wasn not just the memory of remarkable playing—it was the feeling of having been invited into something joyful, generous and deeply human. This was not just a jazz gig—it was a celebration. A communion of rhythm, melody, and spirit. It was one of those nights that reminds you why you fell in love with music in the first place.

Anna Kaneelina (Von Krahl)

As the week-long whirlwind of Jazzkaar drew to a close, Von Krahl's stage was set for something a little different. Not the classic jazz-fueled finale some may have expected, but a dark, glittering farewell from Anna Kaneelina, whose music leans more into art pop and indie-rock territory. She did not so much wrap up the festival as burn it gently to the ground—leaving smoke, shimmer and feeling in her wake.

There was something in her presence that immediately called to mind Stevie Nicks. Maybe it was the flowing outfit, the ease with which she held the crowd's gaze, or the sense that she was channeling something deeply personal and spiritual into her performance. Kaneelina does not imitate, but she certainly belongs to that lineage of magnetic frontwomen—those who blur the line between performer and conjurer.

The music pulsed with emotion and restraint. Songs unfolded slowly, drawing us in with their soft entrances before rising into a swell of sound. Her voice, earthy and unvarnished, carried both fragility and fire. At times she sang in a near whisper, like letting us in on a secret. Then suddenly, with no warning, the storm came—bold, raw, visceral.

It was a bold choice for Jazzkaar to close with Kaneelina, and a beautiful one. Her music may not sit comfortably in a genre box, but it held the audience in a way that few others could.

Closing Thoughts

Jazzkaar unfolded as more than a festival—it became a city-wide experience. Beyond the printed program of artist names and venues, the event integrated itself into the everyday rhythm of Tallinn. Music emerged from pubs, bookstores and street corners, where young musicians performed not merely to promote the festival, but as active participants in a shared musical dialogue.

A strong sense of community underscored the event. Rather than emphasizing hierarchy or prestige, the festival fostered open exchange. Established artists such as Eivind Aarset conducted workshops and masterclasses alongside formal performances, contributing knowledge and insight in an unassuming, accessible manner. International media representatives from Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, Germany, Poland and the UK gathered as part of a broader cultural dialogue rooted in shared curiosity and engagement.

Despite the scope of its programming, Jazzkaar maintained an atmosphere of intimacy. The festival created space for both grand gestures and subtle moments—for spontaneous applause and quiet reflection. Its strength lay not in spectacle but in authenticity, warmth and the understated depth of connection between artists, audiences and the environment.

Rather than leaving behind only programs and recordings, the memory of Jazzkaar endures in conversations, sound impressions, and fleeting urban scenes shaped by music. It was a festival grounded in place and spirit, offering a lasting sense of something meaningful and quietly transformative.

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