UK born singer Bobby McFerrin performs during a concert Thursday, Feb. 14, 2008, at the Mexico City's Palacio de Bellas Artes. (AP Photo/Miguel Tovar)

Bobby McFerrin, Chick Corea, Jack DeJohnette
Where: Clowes Hall
When: Friday night
Bottom line: Three musical giants blend their gifts of on-the-spot artistry.

By Jay Harvey jay.harvey@indystar.com

It started with the scrape of the piano bench and ended with a kind of floating chant.

In between came 90 minutes of wonder, equally unplanned as those beginning and end points, from three seasoned musicians thoroughly at home in creative music-making. The large, enthusiastic crowd at Clowes Hall had its unrehearsed performing moments, too, trained on the spot by the graceful singer Bobby McFerrin, the center panel in an amazing musical triptych.

Flanking the one-man vocal academy were the chameleon pianist Chick Corea and the globe-spanning percussionist Jack DeJohnette.

Entering the stage as unceremoniously as if they'd strolled into a studio to rehearse, the three men took their respective positions. Corea adjusted the bench while sitting down, and the low squawk of the legs on the floor gave McFerrin's expert mimicry the only sonic cue he needed.

The bulk of musical interest rested on that pair's shoulders at first, with DeJohnette slowly but unerringly picking his spots as the singer tweaked his vocalism from drifting phrases into short, percussive statements.

The concert never failed to find new paths. If rhythmic ostinatos provided much of the continuity, the expressive palette was rich, often striding into parody -- both respectful and satirical. The former was represented by the quasi-African folk song McFerrin improvised, the latter by his impersonation of an addled barroom chanteuse, commenting banally on "her" sidemen's artistry and attempting to sing "Misty" to a melody Erroll Garner would never have recognized.

The humor broadened at another point as Corea and McFerrin left behind a wicked poke at the pointillistic serialism that once dominated modern music to engage in a vigorous conversation in some faux-middle-European language of their own devising. DeJohnette then got into the act with mock-solemn musings on the tightness of piano strings.

If this starts to sound like one of those eyes-glazing-over "you-had-to-be-there" accounts, well, yeah -- that's exactly right. The evening's humor, spirituality, decorative episodes, slapstick and funkiness were born and died in the eyes and ears of performers and audience. There is something of such ephemeral splendor in all music, no matter how carefully prepared, when it's working well. In this case, it was the whole point, and it seemed enough.

After an engaging Q&A with the audience, McFerrin rallied the band at an audience member's suggestion for a vocal-piano version of "Spain," Corea's evergreen tune. The encore was as much of the familiar as the evening needed, and even that was shot through with spontaneity.