JazzFest ’13: Saturday, Sunday, Sayonara

Posted: May 6th, 2013 | Filed under: Community, Culture, Music | No Comments »

I am a traditionalist. A Beast of Habit, a man who plans a rhythm to his life. And sticks to it. Friends and family have called it OCD.

Even at an obsession as harum scarum as JazzFest can be.

Whether it’s the route I take to the Fairgrounds, or time of arrival. Canal to Jeff Davis then along Bayou St. John to the backside. Early for the opening acts. Or, parking. With my man Joe, along DeSaix. Or, first libation of the day. Frozen Cafe au Lait. Even last Friday, when it was chilly. Or, favorite hydration. AJ’s chocolate sno ball. (The ladies behind the counter have seen me enough they call out my order before I get to the window.)

Or, act I never miss no matter who else is playing. Allen Toussaint.

One of the odder little affectations of mine is that, as much as I love the festival — more than anything besides the Film Babe and Louisville basketball (we’re national champs, you know) — I never go on the last Sunday.

I understand. It makes no sense, really. But, it’s just what I do. Actually, don’t so. Thus, I shall be only able to comment peripherally on yesterday’s action. I trust it was mucho crowded, and that the muck had dried up some, but was still aplenty and that the Klezmers would have rocked my boat at Lagniappe.

* * * * *

But, I did watch a smidge of AXS-TV’s coverage yesterday afternoon, after returning to my home in Derbytown. (Where the out of towners who came to Louisville for the Derby, looked just as bedraggled at SDF heading home, as the crowd at MSY, leaving New Orleans.)

I thought it was neat that a network, aimed at the young and hip, showed Irma Thomas’s set. Though she seemed somewhat disengaged, perhaps in ill health.

Between her and Trombone Shorty’s set, they played a tape of Widespread Panic’s set from earlier in the weekend. It was a legit selection, I suppose. The band has a big following, though, for the life of me, I don’t get it. Their music is boring, and drones on without much purpose.

What bothered me the most about the coverage was the inane commentary of the two hosts. Neither seemed much immersed in the heart and soul of JazzFest. Neither had done their homework about the music. They prattled on like a couple of morning show talking heads in Dubuque.

So I turned it off and watched the NBA game. The Film Babe stayed with it and says Shorty played a great version of “St. James Infirmary.”

It would have been nice if the network had really worked the fest, going to smaller stages, interviewing attendees to get a feel as to why people return year after year. (Actually they might have, but I didn’t see it, given my short window of watching.)

* * * * *

I love the sound of a B-3 in the morning. (A line I use to honor the similar, famous one in “Apocalypse Now.”)

The Revivalists, while not featuring the organ, did have one in their zesty mix of legit Crescent City rock and roll. David Shaw is truly charismatic lead singer, and I loved how he just showed up in a white t-shirt. Seriously cool, dude. The drummer obviously has learned at the feet of N O masters, given his propensity for syncopation. (Which I was later able to explain to The Film Babe, while listening to Russell Batiste Jr.)

I simply was enchanted by this group’s playing and energy. The songwriting also seemed a cut above. I’d love to see them become a national thang.

* * * * *

I love the sound of a B-3 in the afternoon.

Now, for the set that grabbed me more than any other during my six days there this year. 1st in Fest, if you will. For me, anyway, I’m sure everybody has their own.

Joe Krown on B-3, Walter Washington on guitar and Russell Batiste behind the kit at Lagniappe.

Wowie Zowie, were they smokin’ hot, or what?

By the end of the set, the whole paddock area was up and dancing.  Everybody. Even the folks waiting to get oysters over in the corner. Joining the crowd that had been doing it in front of the stage the whole time. Which group included Allen Toussaint.

While I’m sure it’s happened before, I cannot remember when any group, other than the day’s closers, played an encore. The Trio came back and, spiced it even further with Tabasco and Zatarin’s, doing “You Can Stay, But The Noise Got To Go.”

* * * * *

Since it was our last day at the fest, we spent a good deal of time shopping for gifts for those back home.

But heard some of the hip hop set at Congo Square. Which I liked, even though I’m not totally immersed in the genre. One of the MCs actually merged rap and Mardi Gras Indian chants, which I thought was cool.

Roddie Romero & the Hub City All-Stars sang of the rock & roll soul of Zyedeco Radio, then he donned the squeeze box for “Walkin’ to New Orleans.”

Goldman Thibodeaux & the Lawtell Playboys play that sweet cajun dance music without artifice. I was reminded of the first such group I heard decades ago, who brought a bucket of crawfish on stage, and danced around it, paying their respects.

Mariachi Jalisco was a pleasant change of pace with soothing, sweet harmonies and the requisite yips and whistles for punctuation.

From a distance, I heard JD & the Straight Shot do “Hey Bobba Reeba,” a silly but swinging tune from my parents’ era.

Los Lobos, as usual, proved itself to be one of the more interesting, cerebral rock & roll bands ever. Their cover selections are always fascinating, whether it’s the Dead, the Beatles, Traffic or some other significant group.

* * * * *

Thus we bid a sad adieu to THE GREATEST ANNUAL MUSIC EVENT ANYWHERE.

Despite the rain and muck and crowds and dicey sound on occasion and missed tuneage and BNAs that have nothing to do with New Orelans at all, I love it as much now as when I heard Longhair close it down in ’76.

God willin’ and the Mississippi don’t overflow, my krewe and I will be back in ’14.

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