Jazz Fest Thursday: I Triumph At Parking

They say that money can't buy love in this world
But it'll get you a half-pound of cocaine
And a nineteen-year old girl
And a great big long limousine
On a hot September night
Now that may not be love
But it is all right

Randy Newman, "Its Money That I Love"

Apologies in advance for the "and then I coughed" style of writing.

Well so far the highlight is today I got the best parking place I’ve ever had since coming to Jazz Festival. That’s not to downplay the music, but to swoon over the parking place. Like George Costanza really excited about the great spot on the front row at the hospital, I got a spot right next to the Bayou St. John pedestrian bridge in front of Cabrini High, which is the River Oaks of Jazz Fest parking places. Parking can be very tricky here. Its always tricky trying to park in New Orleans. Half the NOPD may leave town at the first sign of public distress, and they may be utterly incapable of putting a dent in the murder rate, but by God they sure have the whole towing cars from ill- or non-marked no parking zones down pat. Then, in a fit of killing the golden goose, it seems like all the residents have decided they can appropriate the street in front of their homes by putting trash cans and other barriers in front to prevent people from parking in the street, which after all is public property and a perfectly legal place to park. Now I understand it may be annoying to have someone parked in front of your house all weekend (especially since I live near Zilker Park and therefore have people parking in front of my house all the time), but honestly, tolerating this sort of anti-tourist maneuver may be ok somewhere not dependent on tourism, but New Orleans needs every dollar it can get its mildewed hands on and this kind of thing can’t help.

Getting here was fairly non-eventful, given recent airport/airline atrocities. Express Jet, which I understand is losing money jet over fist, got me here on time which makes it my new favorite company (I can probably take further advantage of reliable non-stop service b/t Austin and New Orleans). Arriving in New Orleans I was spooked a bit to learn that they had record post-Katrina crowds for the first Jazz Fest weekend, which was only heightened when one of the airport security screeners cracked out of his shell enough to tell me that a lot of people were leaving Austin to go to the Jazz Festival. Awesome. BTW-Southwest Airlines had people, and by people I mean young women in cutoffs, wearing bandanas and handing out cake and coupons to celebrate Willie Nelson’s birthday. Texas has a lot of famous people, but look at the ones that nationally spring to mind-Willie Nelson, Matthew McConaughey, Roger Clemens, W. Is there anyone normal around here?

When I arrived, I turned it around to run 5 miles on the St. Charles streetcar line. As previously advertised, the streetcars are running the entire line now, so I was dodging the cars the entire run. It was actually a cool night after a brilliant sunset, and I got a bit chilly, which was disconcerting for the last day of April in New Orleans. Seems like everytime I’m here, I’m either freezing my ass off, or feeling steamed like a Maine lobster. The run on St. Charles brought back some great memories, of the awe over the mansions I experienced the first time I ever rode down the street, of driving back to work with Lawson Wilder in his Mustang convertible at 55 mph, of Mardi Gras parades, of Becky’s old apartment, and actually riding the streetcar. On the way there, however, I passed Lafayette Square where Marcia Ball was playing a free concert, and about eight cops were arresting some hoodie punk pushing his head onto the police car hood as his 80s Madonna styled girlfriend looked on crying. In true city worker fashion, seven of them stood around while the eighth was making the arrest. But having seen Marcia Ball hundreds of times, and because she’ll be playing at the festival, I pass. Wound up the evening having an incredible dinner at Palace Café, consisting of Pontchatoula strawberry salad with goat cheese and pecans, and blackened shrimp and grits with crawfish and tasso. Afterwards the bartenders got into what I imagine passes for a philosophical debate, concerning the merits of strip clubs. The younger guy’s take was “I’ve got a fiancée so I’ll just go home if I want some of that.” Hmmm, I’d like to know how that goes once she gets the wedding ring. The other older guy told me about the best club ever, the “Lollipop Club,” apparently staffed exclusively by Korean women who “really give a lot of bang for the buck.” Amazingly I was able to finish dinner, probably by focusing on the Cleveland-Washington game. I walked off the meal by walking down Bourbon Street (and not going in anywhere). This made me remember Judge Bob Shannon, the ultimate Southern gentleman, telling me how he once walked his young teenage daughters on Bourbon Street, arm in arm, so they would know what it was. Didn’t see anything like that, but I did see appeared to be every legal secretary and aluminum siding salesman in Albany, NY.

After waking up unreasonably early and planning the day over breakfast, I made it out to the festival in time to get the aforementioned parking space. I picked up my tickets and will call and headed in. It was a really beautiful day, so nice I didn’t know what I would do not dying of heat all day. I first went to the Gospel Tent, where they had a prayer to dedicate the day, followed by Charles Jackson and the Jackson Travelers. Pretty standard gospel duo, along with a little kid in a white suit whose sole job appeared to be to stand between the two singers and clap. Made me remember when I had to wear a suit to be the ring bearer at one of my cousin’s weddings. I was six but still knew enough to be embarrassed (oh, and get carsick just about anytime I had to drive anywhere with Mom or Dad). It didn’t help that it was a white suit with short pants. Excellent. My cousin wound up supporting the guy and paying for him to graduate from architecture school at UH, and then my dad helped him get a job at the phone company, upon which time he ran off from my cousin thus plunging her into a bitter spiral that has lasted the better part of thirty years. Good times. The crowds at the Gospel Tent are interesting. Just like today, its usually about one-third blacks most of whom are members of the local churches from which most of the performers come, and two-thirds whites. Of the whites, half appear to be locals as well, and the other half are a bunch of nimrods running around with ants in their pants like they just saw the light. Most of them of course have only been in a church for a funeral or wedding.

Shocked to find that Pepsi got the concession from Coke this year. That should solve my problem of drinking too many diet cokes at Jazz Festival.

Next I head to the Fais-Do-Do stage to see the Lafayette Rhythm Devils, a pretty good chanky chank band. The grounds are still somewhat muddy from last week’s rains, but appear to have been largely resodded. Already lots of couples are dancing and drinking beer, and its not even noon on Thursday. Lassez les bon ton rouler!

I next went to the Heritage Stage and spent a couple of minutes listening to the Red Hawk Hunters, a Mardi Gras Indian group, sing Little Liza Jane. The Heritage Stage is where some of the older local groups play, as well as Mardi Gras Indians. New Orleans has any number of Mardi Gras Indians, such as the Wild Magnolias or Wild Tchopitoulas. These groups began in the black neighborhoods during slavery and Jim Crow, as these groups wanted to celebrate Mardi Gras too, but in a secretive way. The tradition evolved into a number of groups, each named for an Indian tribe. Today they are an integral part of Mardi Gras, and while they do not parade as such, they will have processionals in which they wear elaborate costumes they may spend all year designing and making, and singing call and response-type songs. Several of the groups perform at Jazz Fest.

After passing by, I headed to the Jazz Tent for John Ellis and Double-Wide. This is something of an all-star group, with Jason Marsalis on drums. They also had a Hammond B3 organ. What’s next, Chick Corea, Keith Emerson? Did I miss out on where its still 1971? Kind of an odd configuration-organ, drums, tenor sax, and tuba. Oh, and the guy on organ looked exactly like Levon Helm in 1976. But skinnier.

A brief run to Congo Square to check out the New Orleans Rhythm Conspiracy, which were Mardi Gras Indians with a better band. Congo Square focuses exclusively on African and Carribean music. I’ve seen some great acts there (Isaac Hayes, Ohio Players), and some downright crappy ones (Michael Franti and Spearhead). The usual crowd is a mix between over-50 blacks and the usual suburban “rasta” crowd. An odd combination as well. Most of the rastas haven’t made it yet. Guess they’re still trying to figure out where they woke up so they can get back to where they’re staying to pick up their stash and head to the Festival.

Its “first lunch” time (I eat lunch in three phases at Jazz Fest-sort of like Tolkien's hobbits that were always eating), which consists of Prejean’s quail, pheasant and andouille sausage gumbo. Now, say you could take the best gumbo you’ve ever had and make it about 20 times better, and that’s close to how this stuff tastes. The Times-Picayune Jazz Festival guide gave it three stars.

I ate it on the way to the Acura Stage, the biggest of all the stages, to hear Bonerama. Four trombones, one tuba, one electric guitar and drums. These guys were fun. They came on stage as Elvis Presley’s “Wonder of You” was playing. The first song was the Star-Spangled Banner, followed by Hendrix’ Crosstown Traffic. Quite the songlist. Most of the songs were originals, but I really enjoyed Led Zeppelin’s “The Ocean” (the crowd sang all the na, na, nas toward the end). Oh, its only 1:35 and already the floating beach ball has reared its miserable head.

Lots of guys are smoking cigars around here. Looks like the crowd isn’t as heavy as I remember from last year, but this is Thursday which usually is the lightest day.

Next its time for my second lunch, which is crawfish bread. Totally off my normal cancer patient diet, but well worth the French bread with cheese, crawfish, and green peppers that I dream of in weak moments.

Now here’s a riddle. How do you know that your band sucks? First, your song lyrics are just a string of cajun references (like “red beans and rice” or “pirogues”) rather than actual lyrics. Second, you purport to be from Louisiana but no one is dancing to your songs. Third, your name is Kenny Bill Stinson and the ARK-LA-Mystics. This guy should go back to West Monroe, open a hardware store and settle down with some nice, over 30 former Folklife Festival Queen (preferably one not on parole, or pregnant).

Happily, to rid the stench of that hideous event from my memory, Phillip Manuel’s tribute to Nat King Cole followed at the Jazz Tent. I’ve been a huge NKC fan most of my life, and Manuel had the same inflection (albeit a much sharper vocal quality). He and his trio had a great set list in their 50 minutes (Mona Lisa [sung while standing in the crowd], Sweet Lorraine, Smile, Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, Red Sails in the Sunset, Nature boy, Unforgettable, Straighten Up and Fly Right, L-O-V-E, Answer Me, and Route 66). First class.

Randy Newman followed. I’ve seen him at Jazz Festival several times, and have always wondered why he couldn’t part with some of his millions from scoring movies to hire a band. Instead he plays solo at the piano, which really doesn’t go over that well in a festival setting. He also has an irritating style of not ever looking at the crowd when talking between songs. The performance was pretty typical, with all the old favorites (Political Science, I Love LA, Short People, You Can Leave Your Hat On, Kingfish), and a couple of new ones (Potholes in Memory Lane). He closed with Louisiana 1927.

My third lunch followed-“jama jama,” which is sautéed spinach and spices. Need some fiber you know.

Sadly, the last music spot had multiple groups I wanted to see, forcing me to split time between Widespread Panic, Tower of Power, CJ Chenier, and Deacon John. First I went to Widespread Panic. This is one of the “jam bands” that have popped up in recent years, starting in the 90s when the Grateful Dead was racking up record tour gate receipts. Lets put it this way, I’ve heard the Dead’s songs, I’ve seen the Dead, the Dead meant a lot to me. Widespread Panic, you’re no Grateful Dead. And your lame, idiotic fans aren’t Dead fans either. Deadheads could get from one side of the country to the other with a book of matches, a box of band aids, three quarters, and 18 tapes of Dead recordings from last year’s tour. Panic fans are just soft. Sonny Barger would stomp them just on principle alone. Carrot Top thinks they're ridiculous. The music—ponderous, loud, and irritating. Like a first date.

On to Oakland’s own Tower of Power in Congo Square. This is a first class old school funky horn band. Its like 1970 again, and the lead singer was wearing absolutely the greatest red shirt/bullfighter cape of all time.

Next to the Fais-Do-Do stage for CJ Chenier. CJ’s father Clifton was the first really successful zydeco musician. CJ carries on in that tradition. Unlike a group noted above, half the people there were dancing, and his songs have actual French words in them. CJ sure rocked out.

Closing the day was Deacon John, whom I’d never heard of but who got a good review in the Times-Picayune. Turns out it was close to the Blues Brothers. At first it seemed like ‘40s standards, but then turned into loud, nasty blues standards, like Shake Your Moneymaker, ending with the Jimmy Cliff song Many Rivers to Cross, and Stagger Lee. This guy was over 60 but broke out a vicious blues guitar, complete with an authentic Chuck Berry duckwalk you just know he’s been using for the last 50 years. Unfortunately it was a sparse crowd, but those who were there really had a treat. Every year it seems like I “discover” someone new, and this year its Deacon John.

I closed the day by coming back to the hotel, blowing off running, and going to the Dickie Brennan Steakhouse for an overpriced filet. Man I need to not have any dependents so that I can keep financing my rock and roll lifestyle.

Tomorrow-Stevie Wonder, John Hammond, Art Neville, John Boutte and Terence Blanchard.