There have been days before down here when I left the Fest grounds totally sated, when I didn’t need to hear another note to head into the evening with a full heart and serene soul. When I didn’t even need to hear the last offerings from the headliners for completion.
It happened in ’88 on my first return to JazzFest after an eight year hiatus. I ran from stage to stage like a junker at his pusherman’s place, attempting to ingest every last lyric, every piano solo. During the day and all through the night.
It was like I was obsessed. No, there was no “like” to it, I was obsessed.
The Neville Brothers Band, then at the top of their considerable game, the kings of New Orleans, ended one of the days on a big stage. As they did then, brother Aaron sang a few of his tunes mid set with only older brother Art backing him on keys.
He shredded “Arianne,” a tune with inconsequential, almost silly lyrics, but doo wop beauty that was Aaron’s forte. It cut like a laser. My body chilled, then absolute serenity.
I’d heard enough, even though their set wasn’t over.
I walked to the car, and bathed with calm — sated — waited for my pals to come when the music was over.
Such a moment happened this year on JazzFest’s first day, one that turned bright and beautiful and disarmingly elegaic.
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I would love at this spot to post a video of the Black Lillies from youtube, so taken am I with them, so did they find my sweet spot, so did they sate me yesterday that I exited the Fest, listening only to a song apiece by headliners Janelle Monae, who was righteously smokin’, and Steely Dan, who were their usually technical, haunting brilliant selves.
But as delightful as the songs I found from The Black Lillies, none convey the extent of their brilliant, maturing evolution from the group’s alt country routes.
How singer Tracy Gene Brady burrows her way into the heartbeat of the lyrics until it’s almost a growl. The shimmering, melancholic interplay of Mike Seal on guitar and Cruz Contreras on keys and Jonathon Keeney on pedal steel.
How their tunes are layered, full with texture, often precise, sometimes psychedelic but purposeful, and extend until the full sentiment is rendered.
One was written to honor a grandfather, who served on Iwo Jima.
“Which way is heaven/ Which way is hell/ Which way is heaven/ Which way is hell/ It’s so very hard to tell”
There were moments when I heard Bill Monroe, times when the guitar sounded like John Cippolina of Quicksilver Messenger Service, others when I hear the mournful shimmer of Daniel Lanois, who played the Fest on a gray, foreboding day long ago.
There was vibrato. There are so many and varied influences.
For whatever reason, and however it happens, they laid waste to me.
I was overwhelmed, which I guess you can tell by my hyperbolic description.
I was not alone. The barefoot gal with straw hat in front of me, swayed and sashayed throughout, her hand swinging the hem of her sundress, as if in a trance. Her boyfriend was ready to move on. She would have none of it.
At one point mid set, Contreras paid respect, “It’s a bit of a dream playing JazzFest. We grew up listening to the music that’s been played on these stages.”
At the end of their set, the small but smitten assembled cried out for more. (Only the headliners get encores at JazzFest because of the scheduling.)
Contreras: “We’re so lucky you found us.”
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I love the energetic Latin funk of Flow Tribe.
Leader K.C. O’Rorke has a kinetic, charismatic presence.
The band took the stage, donned in what appeared to be Nudie suits, designed by Ralph Steadman. And proceeded to kick start the day, with an artist on stage, painting a portrait of the band during their set.
“Feel like bustin’ loose.”
A little Run DMC, mixed in with their own clever hip hop
“I’m so hot/ I want to take my clothes off.”
“Hotel/ Motel/ Holiday Inn/ If your girl starts acting up/ Take her friend.”
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Every year JazzFest features the music from a country in the Caribbean or Latin America. This year it’s Belize.
Sweet Pain featured, as expected, lots of percussion, lilting guitar.
And a dancer, shaking her booty.
They call what they play, “Puta music.”
I get it, it’s very sexual.
There was a guy, sitting by himself in the new this year bleachers along the side of Congo Square, where Sweet Pain was performing.
Nodding his head in rhythm to the music, I would swear it was Evander Holyfield.
I did not ask for confirmation.
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Betty Winn & One A-Chord are from NO, and regulars every year in the Gospel Tent.
They are far from traditionalists.
One tune was reggae gospel. Singing Lisa was featured. “Shut the door/ Keep out the devil.”
Then Ms. Winn introduced a tune, saying, “We are a gospel group, but we also like to sing songs we call inspirational.”
At which juncture they lit into “Love Train.” The Gospel Tent erupted, and the ever present Tambourine Lady led a dancing love train through the aisles, with a gang of twentysomething gals from San Diego at the front end.
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The subdudes are New Orleans rock royalty.
They broke up for awhile. It’s what rock bands do, even innovative ones like this one.
But they’re back, playing with the passion of reconciled brothers.
The Blues Tent was hot, humid and pumped.
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Loved Bria Skoonberg in Economy Hall, the venue that is strictly traditional New Orleans jazz. That’s what most folks call Dixieland.
She’s an evocative chanteuse.
And an amazing trumpet player, whose phrasing is unique, often playing behind the beat.
She opened with a Satchmo tune, and nailed it. Then featured her clarinet player on Sidney Bechet’s “Egyptian Fantasy.”
Then did what she calls a “mash up,” mixing a classic Duke Ellington song, “Three Little Words,” with a Stevie Wonder horn riff.
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The Weather Gods have blessed JazzFest with their countenance.
Zero percent chance of rain, they say, something almost unheard of here.
Nary a cloud in the sky, but plenty of music (and crawfish sausage) to be savored.
— c d kaplan