As a Minneapolis teenager in the 1960s, Bobby Lyle was the talk of the town. At thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, this kid was burning up pianos and Hammond B3s, soon gigging in clubs that couldn't yet serve him. Now, three decades after making his mark with Sly and the Family Stone, Al Jarreau, Jimi Hendrix, and Anita Baker, sitting atop a prolific career as composer, arranger, band leader, and recording artist of fusion as well as straight-ahead, Lyle has yet another recording, Straight and Smooth (Three Keys, 2004), an overt declaration of his dual keyboard personality. Anyone expecting him to give equal time to "straight" and "smooth" during his Dakota homecoming (July 5-6) in Minneapolis was in for a surprise, at least on his second night, as Lyle and his trio provided two sets of rousing, thundering originals and standards that joyfully define straight-ahead jazz.

My ears are still vibrating. I've been at the new Dakota at least 50 times in the past 8 months and have never experienced the volume—or the crowd-- cranked to this level. With local Belvedere Vodka providing corporate sponsorship of this event, and a chance to see a hometown hero in action, this was not the usual audience of jazz aficionados, at least not at the early set. Maybe there was too much vodka during Happy Hour. Clearly there was an expectation of side chatter, to be compensated for by jacking up the Dakota's usually near-perfect sound system. Unfortunately, louder decibels from the stage only served to drive up the volume of chatter from patrons who apparently considered a ballad or bass solo synonymous with "intermission." Too bad, as this was not sonically charged wallpaper but seriously swinging musical magic. With a more serious late crowd replacing most of the yaketty-yak, the second set, though amplified even higher, was more satisfying—and less challenging-- to the listener.

Other than the aural competition, the only disappointment of the evening was the extensive overlap in playlists across the two sets, with five of eight tunes repeated despite the pianist's extensive repertoire. Still, the overlap was not directly in service to the new CD and the interpretations were significantly different the second time around, showing Lyle's amazing stylistic range as well as the extent of the compatibility among Lyle and his bandmates—bassist Brennan Nase and drummer Clyde Adams. For those listening, the trio burned and simmered through (gratefully) "unsmooth" renditions of such standards as "Wave," "Yesterdays," and (in tribute to Ray Charles) "Georgia"; Lyle's "Flight to Rio" and "Deep Six;" swinging and sultry "Sweetest Taboo;" and a very "Spankin'." Overcoming the chatter with sheer melodic force, Lyle might have renamed his first set solo "Hush Life," elegantly executed and the only ballad of the evening.

Deserving special mention among many magical moments, "New World Order" (which Lyle introduced in the context of the upcoming election) was a sheer pyrotechnic display of percussive attack combined with complex harmonies, dramatic flourishes, and left-handed lava flowing over right-handed ostinato, slipping seamlessly into comping mode as bass and drum picked up the storyline. The trio exhibited just enough restraint and surprise to avoid overkill.

Throughout the evening, Nase and Adams filled in the spaces, added to the combustion, and helped shift into overdrive as well as acquitting themselves as strong soloists. Nase was equally nimble on acoustic and 5-string electric bass, especially impressive in his deeply robust intro to "Sweetest Taboo" in the first set and his dynamic solo on "Wave" in the nightcap. Adams matched Lyle flame for flame throughout the evening; he has an uncanny sense of when to drive and when to coast, adding breaks and diversions at just the right moments to keep things interesting.

But the vortex is Bobby Lyle, who seems to have more fingers than the rest of us, which he uses with a sleight of hand that echoes the best of Art Tatum, Errol Garner, Oscar Peterson, and McCoy Tyner. Whether he is climbing with two-fisted arpeggios, massaging or plucking the keyboard (inside or out), turning the piano into a harp with stroking flourishes or a violin with a running glissando, Lyle's swinging gymnastics demand far more respect than a few rounds of vodka martini salutes. This is certainly fun; and no doubt that Lyle added some theatrical touches—like his manual tapdance on the Yamaha's innards—to please his home crowd. But this is also the highest order of musicianship, rising well above its commercial success—or excess, and while we're all toasting the icon Bobby Lyle, let's not forget that the artist has more than lived up to the rave predictions of his prodigious youth.