The reality is this. Some days at JazzFest simply aren’t as magical as most.
Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the weather or something like that.
Or both.
Like today.
The Film Babe made it to town last night. We had fun today. But neither of us was especially inspired by most of the groups we happened upon.
The muck isn’t that bad in and of itself. We’re vets. Duck shoes & rubber boots ‘r’ Us.
But sitting in sideways rain, listening to Widespread Panic, is not exactly my — our — idea of kickin’ out the jams.
* * * * *
Buuuuuut, there are always a few special musical moments.
The Mercy Brothers were mighty fine.
From Lafayette, these Cajuns kick some buttocks for Jesus. They rock some slide guitar for Jesus. Who is, their main may-yan.
My personal favorite was “People Who Die,” Not sure exactly how this song fits in the gospel genre, but it sure is fun and raises the roof. (Except there was no roof to raise, they were on the Gentilly Stage.)
They rocked about the Holy Ghost. They rocked about Groovin’ On The Power. They had people swayin’ with the old chestnut, “Down by the Riverside.”
The rain hadn’t started up. We found some dry terra firma. I saw Festngator and his lady.
It was woikin’.
But the clouds, they was a rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ in.
* * * * *
So we grabbed some vittles, and headed for Lagniappe, where I had The Honeypots circled on my cubes.
We found a nice dry, tented spot and savored these ladies’ tales of empowerment, spiced by a zesty cello, mostly plucked.
After awhile though, pleasant as it was, it got a little old.
Besides, it was time to head across the track to Economy Hall for Aurora Nealand.
Who is a sultry chanteuse, a stylish gal who can play the reeds. A Bessie Smith tune. One from Jellyroll. A couple of Sidney Bechet classics.
Problem was, both Nealand’s vocal mic and axe mic were mixed too low.
(It is at this point that two things come to mind. 1) There have been more sound issues each passing year for the last few. And, 2) Given how very little things were working for me on this Thursday, the problem may have been a cranky me, not what was being offered.)
Trying to find something that would stir our souls, we trundled through the muck under a dripping sky (liquid sunshine). Caught the last few bars of Johnny Sketch.
Pura Fe were pretty interesting in the Blues Tent, but as usual, the sound was murky, preventing us from savoring the singer’s lovely voice.
(Insert Rant: Fix the sound in the Blues Tent.)
Dirty Dozen didn’t do it for us.
The sound mix at Theresa Anderson prevented us from sensing whether she was on today or not?
Pokey LaFarge was, well, pokey.
In the Gospel Tent, the Bolton Brothers — whom I had marked on my cubes — simply tried too hard. Before they took the stage, my sweetie asked if one was going to be Michael Bolton? Uh, not quite, but, frankly, not that far off.
Barechested Shamarr Allen was talking too much from the stage, hitting on women in the crowd. (But he didn’t talk as much as The Bishop, yet another Gospel Tent MC with Mr. Microphone Syndrome.)
Still waiting for Patti Smith, the Film Babe said, “Maybe we just need some Widespread Panic?”
Which, if you get what I’m saying, reveals what a misbegotten day it became as the rain continued and the mud deepened.
Sitting in sideways rain, listening to Widespread drone is not my idea of a swell time. But then I’ve said that already, haven’t I?
Sometime you hold ‘em. Sometime you fold ‘em.
Bidding the Fairgrounds a fond adieu, we called it a day.
* * * * *
All that naysaying negativitude notwithstanding, we had a great day.
I was at JazzFest with my gal, the Film Babe, to whom I became engaged under the big tree at Gentilly. Besides, I turned to her when we got back to the hotel, and said, “You know what I love about JazzFest. We get to do it again tomorrow.” (Which is now today, when the weather forecast is for negligible inclemency.)
Spencer Bohren, we’ll see you when you plug in.
* * * * *
My favorite visage of the day was the fellow, obviously a working man, a fellow who doesn’t shy from hard labor. He was wearing jeans, boots, a gray t-shirt. And a big straw hat adorned with silk flowers.
Only, and I do mean only, at JazzFest.
* * * * *
Two interesting observations — at least I think so — from this evening after my better half and I downed some grilled oysters and crabmeat salad at Drago’s.
1) That’s a statue of Winston Churchill in the turnaround in front of the Hilton by the Riverwalk entrance.
Winston Churchill?
2) We strolled down to Cafe du Monde for the requisite beignets.
We observed a party of three walk in, examine the menu on the column by the entrance for a minute or so, look at each other and walk out.
I mean, really, what were they looking for? Po boys? Burgers? Jelly donuts? Trout Meuneire?
If our order hadn’t just arrived, I seriously would have run after them to inquire.
It’s Cafe du Monde. Are you people from Pluto?
Mo’ later.