JazzFest ‘08 — It’s Too Late To Stop Now

It is the quietest day of the year around here, isn’t it? The first Monday after the first Saturday in May. All the hoopla, juleps, bed races, hair coifs, visit to the milliner’s shoppe, hair appointments, celebrity sightings, last minute alterations to that apparel you must wear to the Derby or Oaks or both, discarded tickets . . . all gone to bed until we arise to Thunder again in ‘09.

Well, it’s about the same in New Orleans. JazzFest, the world’s premier music festival, always ends the day after Derby, and the tired, somewhat empty feeling in the Crescent City is similar to that here in Derbyplace USA. (Okay I know that Ash Wednesday at Mardi Gras epicenter also invokes a major sigh of relief, but work with me here. I’m trying a new segue on my annual New Orleans during JazzFest update and the metaphors aren’t coming through cleanly.)

Rained here on Oaks Day. Rained there on the first weekend of JazzFest. Major precipitation. Leave your shoes in the muck precipitation. Fist-sized raindrops that actually leave bruises. Cleared up here for Derby Day. So too in New Orleans for the final Sunday and the heralded, long-awaited return of homie heroes, the Neville Brothers.

There was palpable excitement on the commuter flight into Louisville Derby morning, as it had been on incoming planes all week. Yes, it’s true, I didn’t stay until the very end of JazzFest. Enough is enough. But that was the same excitement experienced on flights to New Orleans before the music began. Not the least of which anticipation was that my krewe’s flight delay wasn’t so long that we missed lunch at Drago’s in Metarie for one of the world’s greatest food experiences: Grilled oysters, by the dozens, swimming in pools of garlic butter.

I’d love to tell you there was also some buzz on my particular flight back home due to the presence of celeb passenger: first-daughter-in-waiting Chelsea Clinton. Frankly she garnered hardly a nod. At least until people gawked at the phalanx of eight of Louisville’s finest who greeted her at the gate upon arrival, then guarded the door to the Ladies’ loo while Ms. C stopped to relieve herself.

But I digress.

I hope your annual Derby experience works for you as much as my yearly sojourns away from the racing/ chowagon tumult to the birthplace of American music. You go for the country ham biscuits, mint juleps and prime beef with Henry Bains. I go for Galatoire’s Godcheaux salad, chocolate snowballs and crawfish sausage. I’ve been doing it since ‘76, and 20 of the last 21 years.

Different vittles. Same gustatory gloriosity.

Different strokes for different . . . etc, etc.

This year’s JazzFest provided the usual delights and more than the usual dilemmas. After all, serious, drenching rain can skew even the most prepared and hearty music lovers when it bashes on consecutive days at an outdoor festival.

The usual dilemmas, of course, concern dealing with conflicting siren calls of tuneage on ten stages with music at the same time. All are within reach within the confines of the Fairgrounds racetrack, retrofitted annually for JazzFest. (It’s owned by, ahem, Churchill Downs, if you need any more connections.)

Consider midday Friday. (Oaks Day to you.) Papa Grows Funk, John “Papa” Gros’s seriously stalwart New Orleans ensemble, was on one stage. Original Meters drummer, Zigaboo Modeliste, was leading his current gang on another. And the-guy-who-should-be-a-rock-God Richard Thompson was simultaneously weaving his magic at a third stage. I shan’t mention the other options available. It’s too painful.

What I will say is that one year, I was at one stage during a closing time slot, only to realize afterward that I had totally blown off Ray Charles. Ray freakin’ Charles. It’s why you gotta keep coming back.

I heard a portion of Zig’s set, which was great. The dude can syncopate on the traps. Then slipped over in time to hear “1952 Vincent” and Richard Thompson’s song with the great line, “I thought she was saying good luck/ She was saying goodbye.”

I turned to the couple next to me, who were grooving dreamily to Thompson, and offered, “Gee, this guy would be really good if he could play the guitar.” Obviously they couldn’t comprehend irony. “Oh no,” the guy replied, “Thompson’s a really good player.” I wanted to ask him if he could spell facetious. I left it alone.

My favorite moments at this year’s festival? Geez, You mean other than my four dinners at Galatoire’s in eight days, a personal record. I thought you’d never ask.

Actually it wasn’t at JazzFest itself, but Ponderosa Stomp. That’s a little midweek event now seven years old that’s not directly related to JazzFest. At the House of Blues, it features old and mostly obscure R & B wizards, Swamp Pop icons and the occasional long lost musical wonder.

Ronnie Spector, the gal with the greatest voice in rock, knocked us clean right out of our spleen, on Wednesday night. Backed by an 11 piece band that perfectly mimicked the Wall of Sound, she sang every old chestnut you wanted. Close your eyes and it was ‘63 all over again, one more once. Except, of course, when she finished her set at 12:45 in the a.m., I was ready to go home, passing on Texas psychedelicatician Roky Erickson, and the reunion after a 25 years of hiatus by ? & the Mysterians.

Like I said, enough is enough. Especially with music starting at 11:15 that a.m. at the festival.

Other magical moments/ performances shall now be listed. I shan’t go into detail. You need to be there to understand.

Coco Robicheaux delivered his usual sensual set of primordial swamp gris gris. His back up singers, the elegantly named “Burning Bushes” growled the blues. Burning Spears set was seminal reggae. Winston Rodney is one of the founding fathers of the genre. The Mighty Chariots of Fire incendiary set lit up the Gospel Tent.

The Zydepunks meld Caribbean, klezmer, funk, second line and Cajun. Indescribable. Literally. Wayne Toups Zydecajun rocked. Terrance Simien proved yet again he has the most affecting voice in zydeco.

Bobby Lounge continued his quest to demonstrate how literate songs about trailer trash combine nicely with boogie woogie piano riffing. Shamarr Allen is heralded as New Orleans’s trumpet phenom de jour. He deserves the hype. The Carolina Chocolate Drops enchanted with their African-American Appalachian fare.

The Lee Boys are reputed to be the next break out from Florida’s sacred steel gospel tradition. They’re no Campbell Brothers or Robert Randolph. I should have gone to Randy Newman instead. Hey, it’s JazzFest, it happens. That’s why there’s next year.

And so the memories linger until next April when it starts all over again.

The music of JazzFest.

Or the thunder of Thunder.

Your choice. I know where I’ll be.

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