Between the Notes: Carlos Santana brings the family and the nostalgia

Carlos Santana gave us more of that Sept. 13 at the Santa Barbara Bowl. I'd come trying to figure out how to review a musician whose songs open into long conversations between players. Somewhere past the first few songs, I stopped taking notes. I wanted to be in it.

The show opened with live percussion and African rhythms before the full band came in, eight players deep. The keyboards stood out early, and so did the way the group listened to each other: Carlos led, the band answered, and the audience rode along.

By the second song, Carlos had taken a seat. I was concerned. At 79, he is someone many of us have been listening to for most of our lives, and you want him to be all right. Then I remembered that I sit through my own entire show. Who was I to question him?

He stood briefly, sat again and kept playing beautifully. Sitting or standing, he is still one of the best guitarists alive, and to my ears, nothing was out of place all night.

Much of the pleasure came from watching where he directed his attention. At times Carlos turned his back on the crowd to face his wife, drummer Cindy Blackman Santana, while the big screen let the rest of us watch him watch her. He was listening to what was happening behind him, and there was plenty worth hearing.

Cindy kicked ass. There's a more delicate way to put it, but that would undersell the force of her playing. Her extended solo, arriving late in the show, combined raw power with a rhythmic sense that never let up. She kept going, and then kept going some more.

The guitar exchanges matched that intensity. Carlos's PRS against guitarist Tommy Anthony's Les Paul made for a thrilling pairing. "No One to Depend On" turned edgy and sexy, and when Carlos added a slide, you could hear the grit come in. Elsewhere he slid into blues that B.B. King would have admired, and the lead line on "Black Magic Woman" showed just how much feeling he can pack into a single note.

Familiar music kept finding its way into the set. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" picked up a Latin rhythm and Carlos' unmistakable character. "Moon River" arrived without a break in the flow. Those melodies were something to hold on to while the band moved through passages I couldn't immediately name.

"She's Not There" was another oldie made new. I've heard Zombies songs turn up at shows all year, and in Santana's hands this one belonged entirely to the evening.

Carlos also gave his singers room to take center stage. "Make Somebody Happy" brought vocalists Andy Vargas and Ray Greene forward, supported by piano and guitar. "The Game of Love" supplied another familiar chorus, while "Yaleo" pushed the evening onward. Greene doubled on trombone, adding yet another sound to a band already full of them, alongside percussionists Karl Perazzo and Paoli Mejias and bassist Benny Rietveld holding the bottom end down all night.

The keyboards deserved attention of their own, and there were two stories to tell. David K. Mathews anchored the main rig and, in one especially beautiful passage, led a phrase that Carlos harmonized around on guitar. Off to the side sat a second piano, and when its player leaned into the mic, I recognized the voice before I placed the face: Salvador Santana, Carlos and Cindy's son, out from behind his father's shadow and singing on his own terms. Watching him trade lines with his dad was the kind of moment no set list can promise.

During "Put Your Lights On," the crowd raised their phones into the air, and the words turned into an invitation people could answer. On another number, sung in Spanish, I rocked along without understanding a word of it, and it didn't matter. My wife's dancing had already made that point. You could feel your way into this music.

"Oye Como Va" brought more recognition, and the screens showed Carlos in Europe in 1976. Fifty years separated those images from the man playing in front of us, his son now sharing the stage he once watched from the wings. Watching both, it was hard not to think about how much life sits inside a song you've carried that long.

Carlos spoke briefly and movingly about the Woodstock generation. "We were making love in the rain," he recalled, then offered a blunt dismissal of those who had shaken their fingers at them. He also reminded us that we are precious and urged us to value and cherish ourselves.

Hearing music from your younger years can put you back in touch with who you used to be. His words made room for who we are now, too. Older, carrying whatever life had handed us, still capable of getting up and dancing.

I did have a couple of distractions. The gum chewing throughout the performance bothered me. He is Carlos Santana, and he can do what he wants, but I noticed it. And the vintage-radio effect on the microphone during "Smooth" seemed unnecessary. I would have preferred the singer's natural voice.

Those were minor complaints next to everything else the evening gave us. During "Maria Maria," Carlos switched between his PRS and a guitar mounted at center stage before returning to his seat. By the time "Smooth" closed the show, everyone around me was standing. So was I.

Carlos Santana spent much of the evening seated. His wife drove the rhythm, his son played piano a few feet away, and he still brought the whole Bowl to its feet.