Review: Samara Joy at Regal Theatre

Samara Joy at Regal Theatre
Thursday, October 30, 2025

In a week where Perth was spoiled for choice—from James Blunt to Metallica and entourage—the Perth International Jazz Festival more than held its own. That tired refrain about Perth being a bore? Old hat. Our audiences deserve world-class shows, and PIJF delivered in spades. Samara Joy’s debut tour in Australia, sandwiched between Gregory Porter (sold out in a blink) and renowned guitarist Bill Frisell, was no ordinary night at the Regal. Velvet seats, generations of jazz heads and music lovers, someone crunching a choc top two rows ahead, and the kind of electric anticipation that tells you everyone knows they’re about to witness something real.

Director Mace Francis kicked off the evening with an intro full of affection and ecstatic exhaustion—ten wild days of jazz across the city, from old haunts to new activations. Tonight, we were invited to sit there, be present, drink it in.

Under a gentle purple glow, the seven-piece band eased into place. Enter Samara Joy: effortless in a white gown, Afro locks flowing, smile warm and grounded. No fuss—just presence. The Regal Theatre’s plush art deco charm met its match in her understated radiance. From the first note, the room was hers.

They opened with Duke Ellington’s Come Sunday, arranged by the band’s trombonist, and if a song can double as a sermon, this was it. Piano-led, reverent, with Samara’s gospel fire simmering beneath—her “Dear Lord” was more invocation than tune. Then—bang—into bebop land, all sizzle and sass.

Betty Carter’s up-tempo bop Beware My Heart followed, a melodic stop sign wrapped in charm and warning. Samara’s delivery was conversational, playful—breathy one second, punchy the next, blasting “Dynamite!” with theatrical flair. That voice! Sliding from earthy richness to shimmering soprano, as the alto sax mirrored her energy. Lighting shifted to hot pink—casting this love tale through a more wary, trepidatious lens.

She shared the mic in more ways than one. This wasn’t just the Samara Joy Show—it was a jazz ensemble in the truest sense. A real-time act of chemistry. “We shape it together as we go,” she told us. “Everyone pours in their own musicality.”

Three Little Words bounced along with a loose joy, her voice not above but within the sound. The band cracked open into playful weirdness—trombonist muttering into his horn, saxophonist twitchy and kinetic. Drums, nearly invisible behind the horns, still hit you in the sternum. Still, you wanted to see them—this performance wasn’t just a treat for the ears. And Samara? She was in it with us, head bobbing, body pulsing with the band’s every flick and flutter. An animated chaos wrapped up in a tidy bow. Huge applause.

Now and Then, a Barry Harris composition with Joy’s own lyrics, was lounge-adjacent but never sleepy. “Will a spark like yours ever burn again?” she asked, with phrasing from a knowing storyteller. The tenor sax whispered in reply. The energy turned bittersweet—accepting, hopeful. Samara’s solo close was crystalline and profound.

Monk’s Worry Later tore the roof off. A nimble piano solo set things up, band members casting glances like kids passing notes in class. Samara barrelled in with Ella-worthy scat—light, quick, and just reckless enough. She danced at the edge, then backed off with a grin. The rhythm section spiralled into artful cacophony, conversation off-kilter and unstoppable. Monk’s Mood followed—wistful, pensive, the comedown after a youthful sugar high. She anchored it with clarity, no indulgence, just distilled intention.

Then came influential mentor Carmen McRae’s The Little Things That Mean So Much, and suddenly we were sprinting again. Drums clanking and threatening to bolt, the liveliest sax solo of the night flanked by insistent cymbals chiming in on the conversation. Together the two toying with the nonsensical and yet grounded, like a fast-paced talker that still knows exactly where they are heading, persuasive and articulate.

The set’s emotional peak though, was undoubtedly Billie Holiday’s Left Alone. Not a recording Billie ever made, but tonight it was like she had. Starting with a solemn trumpet and sombre piano, the breathless horn section swelled softly until Samara’s aching wail cut through: “There is no house I can call my home / There is no place from which I’ll never roam.” The horns rose like steam from hot New York pavement. But not to be drowned morose, the plucky bass and piano swept up the despair, elevating Samara’s voice. A certain beauty to the melancholy.

Samara and band wrapped the main set with No More Blues, samba-flecked and cheeky. A cute hometown Perth reference got a cheer. The bassist—underrated star of the night—played with winking irreverence. Samara and drummer traded scat lines, egging each other on with daring spiritedness.

After a standing ovation, she returned with Buzz Me Baby. Just bass and voice, with sass dialled up to 11. Think Aretha meets Sunday matinee. The crowd clapped in time with glee. Or Joy, perhaps.

At 25, with five GRAMMYs already under her belt, Samara Joy is a true one-of-a-kind—paying tribute to her jazz foremothers while charging forward with verve. She doesn’t just sing the classics—with her band in tow, she revives them. Perth was lucky. We didn’t just watch a star. We shared space with one.

CAT LANDRO

Photos by Kelly PB