Jazz Fest
Rubber boots.
They should put that on the website, print it on the tickets, that’s the one thing you need more than your appetite and your ears at Jazz Fest, RUBBER BOOTS!
Come on, you’ve seen the Woodstock movie, heard its album, with the chant of “No Rain! No Rain!” Well I’ve been living in Southern California so damn long I forgot that it precipitates elsewhere. I’m just stunned every live event isn’t indoors or in SoCal.
So I’m exiting the Widespread Panic show…
Whoa, let’s stop there. I’m standing on the side of the stage as this two plus decade old concoction of musicians pours its sound over the thousands in attendance. That’s why you do it, not for the money, not for the fame, there’s nowhere else you can get that rush.
And as I’m walking to our vehicle I’m confronted with a sea of mud, not the “Sea Of Madness” that Neil Young sang about so eloquently at 1969’s legendary rock festival, but maybe it was. You know that feeling, when the only way out is through? That’s what it was like.
But if you’re thinking getting your shoes and trousers dirty is the worst crime, you’re mistaken. You see there are snakes in that mud, that reach up and pull your shoes right off! You suddenly realize why so many are going barefoot. They crossed this sea of ooze and when they stepped up, there was a giant sucking sound, their shoes were pulled under.
That’s what I was worried about. That not only my shoes, but my whole damn body would be pulled beneath the earth and reside forevermore in New Orleans.
That’s where I am. Just a couple of blocks from Bourbon Street.
And you know what’s great about Bourbon Street? The people! They haven’t got ugly, lumpy, imperfect people in Los Angeles, they’re stopped at the border, like in “The Grapes Of Wrath.” But here in Louisiana I came in contact with the real America, one that descends to the southern tip of our country to let loose, because while those on the coast are pursuing their career dreams, those in the middle know it’s about having fun, and that’s what you do in New Orleans, party.
And the food!
Yesterday it was fried oysters and soft-shell crab.
Today it was fried alligator and pork cheek terrine. If you’re the type who needs pictures, try these:
Lunch was at Cochon. Where I saw Patti Smith enter just before we left. Before we went back to the hotel to get umbrellas to deal with the downpour.
As for Jazz Fest itself… It’s about music! What a concept!
That’s not what the press is about. The press is all about money and fame. But most of the acts at Jazz Fest have neither. So they can just wail for the fun of it.
The Gospel Tent lives up to its legend. There’s just something about a score of people singing from their hearts, exuding joy, it’s contagious.
And there’s blues, folk and jazz, and even headliners.
And I don’t know what the future of music in America is. There’s none in the schools and most of it’s whored out product made to be sold to corporations. But there’s something refreshing having the sound pour over you and knowing that that’s it, that’s all you’re gonna get, that it’s not about virality, spreading the word, but listening.
Listen To The Music (it’s a reference to the second Doobie Brothers album in case you don’t get the reference)
Bourbon Street (where I heard a band cover “You Never Give Me Your Money” almost as good as McCartney, and I saw a dude doing such a good karaoke job with “Some Kind Of Wonderful” if you closed your eyes you’d have thought it was Mark Farner)
