Jazz Festival 2010, Sunday: Little Darlin', It's Been a Long, Cold Lonely Winter

Sorry about the delay in getting this one out. Once I returned from New Orleans, my workload really picked up, and I took another little trip to Dallas over the weekend.

On this last day of Jazz Festival, we dealt with off and on rain throughout the day. On the one hand, rain keeps away many fans (and thereby thins the herd just a bit) and it keeps it from getting very not. On the other hand, it tends to turn the site into a big mud pit, and of course drenches you. On the former matter, this year Festival organizers wisened up and poured sand in all the usual muddy spots. Though it meant that blowing sands gave Jazz Fest something of a desert setting (its humid and the desert, how can that be?), it really reduced mud issues the last day. As to the latter, the ponchos one of the locals lining Carrollton Avenue on our way into the Festival grounds provided some relief. Fortunately, it only rained really hard when we were in the Jazz Tent enjoying the Phillip Manuel show in the 11:20 a.m. time slot.

Last year you may recall that Phillip Manuel performed an excellent Nat King Cole tribute show, so I was eager to hear him perform his own set. He didn’t disappoint, performing an authentic jazz performance, including new material (for many of which he wrote the lyrics) and classics (such as “Cheek to Cheek”) updated a bit for some modern touches. Each song afforded the players an improvisation opportunity; at one point Manuel channeled his inner Ella Fitzgerald, dropping into scat mode. His voice evokes Al Jarreau, though with a bit less expansive quality. Manuel really connected with the crowd, introducing each song and explaining his relationship with it. Here, yet again, I stayed longer than I planned because the performance held me there. Plus it was raining pretty hard outside and the strong winds were making the Tent creak a bit. Oh, and the drummer was drinking a beer at 11:30. Well as a t-shirt seen this weekend said, “You can’t say you drank all day if you don’t start in the morning.”

Sidebar: what is with all these performers exhorting the crowd to buy their CDs? Don’t they know the CD era is over? People buy songs on the internet, just like they used to buy singles when records were the prevailing technology. No one wants to buy 8 or so mediocre, bad, or uninteresting songs to get the one or two interesting songs they want to hear. The CD/album era is over. Its 1964 again, and the single reigns supreme.

After a stop for more crawfish bread (it was calling my name, and it haunted my dreams…I had no choice but to succumb to its command), we ventured to the Fais-Do-Do stage and checked out Gal Holiday and the Honky Tonk Review. Now, despite the photos of a tatted-up rocker chick who looks like she just got back from a night out with Joan Jett stomping men who gave them attitude, this Gal was all country on stage. This was old-time country swing, not Cajun or zydeco, and not rock and roll dressed up as country. We heard three songs, and two were Bob Wills songs. She was all energy, and the crowd really loved it. Who wants to two step?

But to sample as much great music as possible on this talent-rich last day, we moved on to the Gentilly Stage for Austin’s own Ruthie Foster. I didn’t enjoy this so much. Its not that Ruthie or her band lack talent or presence. The fairly thin crowd (for which the rain was probably more responsible than the musicians) really seemed to enjoy the performance, and Ruthie reached out to the crowd on every song. My problem was, I guess, just my problem, that I didn’t care too much for her musical style of a rock, blues, funk blend. It just struck me as kind of generic happy/fun/empowerment music. Tracy Chapman and Bonnie Raitt have been mining this territory for nearly 30 years. Its just not my bag, man.

What is my bag is Lafayette’s own Feufollet. For the second year in a row, these still young guns played a very well-received show at the Fais-Do-Do stage. Some of you may recall my rather glowing review from last year, and today’s performance was on par with last year’s as well. While other kids their age are trying to avoid scholastic probation or hitting their moms up for gas money, these kids have formed a really tight “nouvelle” Cajun group. Though the music strays a bit from the typical Cajun formula by working in more of a popular vein, they sing all the songs in French. Its not chanky-chank, but its in the same family. The small but enthusiastic crowd ate it up.

From there began a fairly challenging two hour period packed with some of the strongest performers of the whole Festival. First was Trombone Shorty, at the Gentilly Stage. This guy has rapidly shot up the New Orleans musical ranks to achieve elite status. Troy “Trombone Shorty” Andrews graduated from the New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts, as did some other New Orleans musical luminaries, including Wynton and Branford Marsalis and Harry Connick, Jr. He often guests with the likes of the Neville Brothers, Irma Thomas, and yesterday, Galactic. Now fronting Orleans Avenue, Andrews is working on a hard rock/funk/R&B/hip-hop vein. Imagine later period Hendrix jamming with War. And a little Edgar Winter thrown in. Shorty means business, and the now packed Gentilly Stage crowd was eager to follow him. This band was on fire. Shorty played trombone, trumpet, even some keyboards. An excellent performance and I’m sure we’ll continue to hear a lot more from Trombone Shorty for years to come.

About mid-way through his performance though, we jumped over to the Gospel Tent to listen to one of New Orleans’ premiere gospel and musical institutions over the last 70 years, the Zion Harmonizers. Led since the early 1940s Brother Sherman Washington, the Zion Harmonizers represent the pinnacle of New Orleans gospel music. Every performance I’ve seen has been very moving, particularly last year’s performance, with Brother Sherman singing “I Want to Be At the Meeting” from his wheelchair. This year he wasn’t on stage, but the group still filled the Gospel Tent with Jesus, wandering out in the crowds to touch the people. As is true every year, it was moving, breathtaking, and amazing. The crowd was on its feet, as the Harmonizers broke in to “When We All Get To Heaven.”

Unintentionally seeing yet another group through to the end, we went from there to catch the end of the Ellis Marsalis show over at the Jazz Tent. What more can you say about the Marsalis family in New Orleans? Wynton, Branford, Delfeayo, Jason…and the scion of the family, Ellis Marsalis. At this point, he’s more institution than performer. Yet, he and his four piece band played an accomplished, technical set of straight up jazz. Youngest son Jason manned the drums, putting in an extraordinary solo toward the end of the set. Ellis pretty much sat glued to the piano bench, seldom acknowledging the crowd, letting the band members shine instead. “My Favorite Things” was a real highlight, showcasing Jason’s inner Elvin Jones.

OK, now we have to get into the Van Morrison thing. Now, I’m well aware that Van Morrison is basically a saint. I know that his pre-eminence is Not To Be Questioned. He’s pretty much the Greatest Musical Genius, since Dylan. No, strike that. Reverse it. Dylan was the precursor to Van the Man. And I get that when Van Morrison brings his hat and his scowl across the Atlantic to play your festival, that’s proof that you’ve hit the big time. And I further get that Van Morrison is the window to the soul. I realize all these things, and in no way mean to question the legitimacy of Van’s Claim to the Throne. Please don't you people sue me. But at the risk of the Van-quisition getting to me...geez I couldn't stand that show. Now, before all of you write in with your lawsuit threats and “you’re an idiot” blasts, let me explain. I’ve never exactly been clear where this "Van is God" reputation comes from. Other than using more multi-syllable words and non-guitar instruments than most, I really never got the whole Van Morrison thing. To me, Van Morrison is basically Steely Dan fronted by Oscar the Grouch. More importantly, I never got why he’s such a festival favorite. Its brooding, slow, and layered music, not exactly the sort of happy, energetic, or upbeat music more suitable for festivals. It requires careful listening. Which is hard to do with five guys from Atlanta behind you screaming in your ears and blowing smoke at you. Today, the rains broke through in earnest mid-way through the Van Morrison show, yet Van didn’t once acknowledge the crowd during our stay (I understand that he did speak to the crowd early on…we never heard it). In particular, he never as much as introduced his band, or thanked the sizable crowd from sticking around during the rain. He didn’t even take a bow or acknowledge the crowd as he left the stage. A friend writing about this show thought it was really cool that he left the stage letting the music speak for itself. Maybe, but to me it reeked of “OK my two hours are up—pay me now.” On the other hand, he did have solid gold microphone stands with the “VM” logo, like a Sedan de Ville hood ornament. And alone among all Jazz Festival performers, he arranged to have huge signs flanking either side of the stage warning fans not to use video or sound recording devices, or cameras, or any other recording devices (or presumably engage in any other fun activities like talking, raising eyebrows, making too much noise while putting on raincoats). Otherwise they risked “ejection.” It was kind of like we had been allowed to take a $45 guided tour of Morrison Manor, with strict instructions not to touch, photograph, or otherwise disturb anything. At the show’s conclusion, as the rains picked up, the crowd started leaving in droves.

The post-Van plan had been to get some more food and then camp out at the Blues Tent for BB King. But even before Van Morrison concluded, the Blues Tent was overflowing with fans. Paradoxically, though the rains had kept people away, they also caused the tents to become over-crowded as people sought cover. Space on the concrete plaza outside the tent was even at a premium, an hour before the show. Whoever had the bright idea of putting the “King of the Blues” into the small Blues Tent, while the Radiators play to vast stretches of empty space against the Neville Brothers at the Gentilly Stage …well that’s just not good space utilization. Sitting on a concrete slab listening to a band play off in the distance is not a good utilization of my $45 to get in, so we gave up on BB, and instead passed the time at the Gospel Tent, catching the end of the Tye Tribbett show. I had no idea who this guy is, but let me tell you I’m coming back to see him next year. This guy is the Jackie Wilson and Otis Redding of gospel. Put together!

When Tye Tribbett concluded, we made our way to catch Richie Havens who, oddly, had been booked at the Fais-Do-Do stage. This makes the fifth performer who played Woodstock that I’ve seen live (added to Neil Young, Carlos Santana, The Who, and the Grateful Dead). Havens opened the Woodstock Festival; today he closed the New Orleans Jazz Festival. He came out in a long shirt, accompanied only with one other player on a very quiet electric guitar. His voice and acoustic guitar chops were still intact, and he played the old songs. Opening with “Maggie’s Farm,” he proceeded in to “All Along the Watchtower,” and a couple of other standards. As he introduced and began “Here Comes the Sun,” the rains ironically restarted at that very moment. It struck me how odd it was to be at a music festival listening to Richie Havens singing these songs in the rain, more than 40 years after a similar performance in the rains at the iconic Woodstock Festival. We stuck around long enough to hear “Motherless Child,” his most famous song, before leaving to catch the now obligatory end of the Neville Brothers’ show.

It proved to be a little better performance than the last few I’ve seen. The Nevilles seemed more energetic and enthused than prior years. Joined, as last year, by Big Chief Bo Dollis of the Wild Tchopitoulas, they played rousing renditions of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In,” and “Big Chief.” In the end, after Quint Davis gave his usual effusive benediction, calling the Nevilles the “First Family of New Orleans Music” (a label that the Marsalis clan might dispute), Aaron came back out to sing “Amazing Grace.” As usual, it was a moving, touching moment. Which unfortunately some douche right behind us managed to ruin by calling his buddy on his cell phone and yelling into the phone for him to listen to the song. And then loudly carrying on a conversation with him as Aaron Neville sang the greatest gospel song of all time. That’s the down side of music festivals. From there, the rest of the Family joined in on Bob Marley’s “One Love,” after which the rains resumed, the show concluded, and the remaining fans headed off into the night back to their homes.

Jazz Festival Post Will Have to Wait

Well, there won't be a post tonight summarizing the last day of Jazz Festival. Too busy packing, catching up on sleep, getting fed, etc. Will try to get something together for later this week.

Here's the one sentence version. No one canceled, it rained most of the day, some of the acts were great, some not so great, I ate my body weight in bread, rice and sauces with cheese and butter, and the highlight of the day was the little girl on the left dancing like a whirling dervish with her daddy at the Feufollet show. We never saw a mother, and it was suggested that she's in prison. Personally I think that's probably a bit unlikely.

In the meantime, feel free to check out today's photos on my Flickr site.

Jazz Festival 2010, Saturday: Uncle Drew Needs to Lose Weight

Well Pearl Jam didn’t cancel, so right off the bat today was a plus.

Today was a carbon copy of yesterday, weather wise. Cloudy, muggy, with the sun peeking through the clouds only rarely, and windy.

I was pretty beat after a great meal at the Pelican Club with Ron and Carly, getting back late, and trying to write yesterday’s boring post when I returned. Sidebar: Yesterday I left out that some stoned chick from Crystal Beach (she screamed that at the top of her lungs at one point) crashed into me a couple of times trying to dance. It was like the Will Ferrell-Chris Kattan SNL sketch of the club-going brothers who would grind on unsuspecting women on the dance floor. That’s what you call “Island Style.” Brandon Backe thinks that was a little crude. Anyway. Rather than trying to run before going out to the site (to consume my body weight in carbohydrates and fat disguised as something called “seafood mirliton”), I instead slept in and finished the post, before getting out to the site just a bit later than the Gospel Tent’s opening prayer. But its ok, I know they were praying for all of us to enjoy a great Festival.

So instead of a little gospel to get the day started, we opted instead for some local jazz, courtesy of Roderick Paulin and the Big Easy Groovers, featuring Nicole Slack-Jones Tribute to Julian “Cannonball” Adderly (this easily wins the title of Longest Jazz Fest Act Name of all time). Basically it was eight players with really strong arrangements on some New Orleans motifed favorites. They’re like a cross between a New Orleans straight jazz band and the old Doc Severinsen Tonight Show orchestra. The crowd in the rapidly filling tent really enjoyed the show. Unlike Astral Project from yesterday, these guys interacted with each other, having a musical conversation. The players were dynamic and involved not only with others, but the crowd as well. We stayed til the end, a lot longer than expected.

Let me explain a phrase I’ve used many times now, “sounds like New Orleans.” Saying that something has the “New Orleans style” at some level makes no sense. New Orleans gave birth to or incubated several distinct musical styles—blues, jazz, rockabilly, R&B, rock and roll, funk, even country. So it’s hard to call one distinct musical style “New Orleans music.” When I use that phrase, I mean a collection of musical signatures that transcend various distinct styles. The “Iko Iko” beat. The Jelly Roll Morton/Professor Longhair barrel roll piano at the beginning or bridge of an uptempo song. The call and response of the Mardi Gras Indians’ songs. The refrains in “Big Chief,” “Go to the Mardi Gras,” “Mardi Gras Mambo,” “Hey Pocky Way,” “I’m Walkin’” “Fiyo on the Bayou,” which are all very similar and have that original brass band-style two measure signature. These melodies find their way into all kinds of latter day New Orleans music of all kinds, and that’s what I mean by saying a song has a New Orleans style or flavor.

From there we went to the Dirty Dozen Brass Band in Congo Square. Thirty or so years ago, these guys brought the brass band back from the dead, coming out of the Treme to play brass band arrangements of funk, R&B and rock songs. Single handedly they inspired a resurgence of the New Orleans brass band tradition. But that was then. Now, most of the founders have left. In fact, the Dirty Dozen reunion at last year’s festival outdrew the current incarnation’s performance. The “Dozen” now consist of about nine players, which is just deceptive advertising. They have a drum kit, electric guitarist and keyboard player, unlike real brass bands. They’ve morphed from being a cutting-edge brass band to a harder, less brooding and surly version of the Neville Brothers, with more horns and a bit less introspection.

I intended at this point to talk about “Festival Guy,” but simply am too tired at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.

After we left the Dirty Dozen, we snagged some seafood mirliton and catfish meuniere. Seafood mirliton is one of those incredible Cajun dishes you don’t exactly know what’s in it. This basically was like stuffing, but moister and filled with crawfish, crab and oyster. Its another of the dishes designed to add 10 pounds. In one serving. I’d never had it but it was really excellent. The catfish was non-descript, but it did have some really good menieure sauce.

That took us about as far as the Economy Hall tent for the remainder of the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra? Huh? Those of you who know me know I saw them last year, and they’re from a different world. Specifically, from 1910, where they’re the hottest thing around. Maybe in today’s world, Nehru jackets thinks this group is out of style, but in Economy Hall they’re rock stars (well, not rock stars, because those rock musicians are unkempt and ill-mannered…these folks are more like Rudy Vallee’s backup orchestra). Attired in Captain Stubing-wear, they look like they should be playing the First Class Lounge of the Lusitania. But they’re quite good musicians, well rehearsed, and carry on a great show. The Orchestra’s music was featured in Woody Allen’s Bullets over Broadway. Few Pearl Jam fans were in evidence here. As it often does, Economy Hall resembled Dance Night at the Old Folks’ Home. The Really Old Folks home. Or Georgetown, Texas. But the dance floor was crowded with young and old, and more old, and mothers with their little kids. As Louis Armstrong might have said “dig that Jass, man!”

OK, now here comes one of those Jazz Fest weird moments. While standing around near the food booths, minding my own business (which is not code for looking at girls), a woman came up to me with her young daughter (already a danger sign) and asked to take my picture. Visions of winding up answering to America’s Most Wanted, or being forced to take a paternity test, or finding myself in some Homeland Security detention facility had my natural flight reflex fully engaged. Just as I was ready to risk sudden cardiac death and tear off running for my life, she explained that (at least in sunglasses) I look exactly like her brother, Drew from Kentucky, and as if to seal the deal, the little girl chimes in and agrees that I look just like Uncle Drew. Only I’m a lot thinner. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. I posed for the picture and they thanked me profusely. For all I know my photo is now being used on the internet for some crazy Thailand sex kidnapping ring advertisements. Or a “before” photo for Cialis. Who knows? But if its legit, I just hope that toad Drew can get his act together and drop a few pounds. As Mandy Pepperidge would say, “Don’t you have any respect for yourself?”

After that stalking incident concluded, I downed some excellent seafood mirliton (sort of like a moister seafood stuffing, like crabcake casserole with crawfish and shrimp) and grilled catfish menieure, it was on to my highlight of the day, the Rebirth Brass Band. These guys got started in the Dirty Dozen’s wake, back in 1986. They’re even more funky and adept at bringing traditional brass band phrasing to some great R&B, funk and soul, and now rap tunes. But I even heard some Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington influences. Rebirth stayed closer to the streets, and is artistically more relevant. Rebirth also stayed in New Orleans, mostly, not going on world tours like the Dirty Dozen, so they’ve stayed close to home. Hence, HBO features Rebirth music in its new Treme series. These guys are a real brass band; the stage was awash in horns, and not a drum kit or keyboard was in sight. From the word go, the party was on. That wasn’t a concert, it was a house party. The absolutely packed Congo Square crowd may all as well have been at their standing Tuesday night gig at the Maple Leaf, but Rebirth had an energy I haven’t seen in their club performances. They obviously were swinging for the fences today, and they totally cleared them. We enjoyed the four little girls dancing on stage, obviously the kids of band members. We also enjoyed the suited, sashed second line leader on stage, breaking out some sweet dance moves on the crowd the whole show. Check out the great photos of this on Flickr. Even the security people were dancing. “Ain’t no party like a Rebirth party cause a Rebirth party don’t stop!”

Further sidebar: note to readers. If you decide to start a gospel group, do not name it “The Johnson Extension.” That is an unfortunate choice.

Now that today’s sixth grade boy humor is out of the way, let’s move on to talk about Beausoleil. This group is primarily the creative outlet of Michael Doucet, who with a handful of others has helped spread the Cajun music gospel to the world. Despite their fame and renown, I’ve not often enjoyed Beausoleil concerts. Lately they’ve seem to have had a touch of Zachary Richard about them, and the music has been very studious and introspective (i.e. tedious). Today was a different story. Relegated to the Fais-Do-Do stage after years of headlining, they seemed to rebound. Today was fun. The house was packed and there was actual dancing Let’s hope for more good times from Beasoleil to come.

From there it was on to Galactic, the latest New Orleans supergroup. I think I’m late to the Galactic party; they seem to have amassed quite a following, as evidenced by the packed to the gills attendance. Part of this had to have been people trying to secure good spots for Pearl Jam, but some had to have been to check out this hard-driving funk and soul group. Galactic was energetic, serious, and really delivered. They were joined, as on their latest CD, by New Orleans music royalty Trombone Shorty and Irma Thomas. Cyrille Neville’s presence ensured a Meters vibe as well. Because the crowd was just too thick and we were literally getting stepped on, it was time to bail.

First was an encounter with the fried oyster spinach salad. Though it featured fried oysters and the most caloric remoulade sauce of all time, the spinach was fresh and the oysters good. Not quite Acme Oyster House oysters, of course, but well worth it (at least for the spinach too).

Then it was back to the extremely far away from the stage, at the farthest possible distance away location, to see Pearl Jam (on the remote video screens, of course). Maybe it’s a generational thing, but I never really got Pearl Jam. Pearl Jam for me represented the sullen, moody, angry side of grunge, the musical equivalent of a fogged in and clammy Seattle day. Nirvana represented the frenetic, ready to burst out side. Nirvana defined the problems, while Pearl Jam just sulked about them. But that’s not to say I couldn’t appreciate them. Just not enough to hang in the refugee camp that the Acura Stage had turned into. If I want to watch a video of Pearl Jam in concert while inhaling passive cigarette and other smoke, I can do that at home. We stayed for about 20 minutes, and the band seemed sharper and altogether more interested in the affair than when I saw them several years ago in San Antonio. That show was like watching people that had just woken up. Today, however, they seemed on. The Times-Picayune gave them a good review.

But you can’t see everything, and for nearly 30 years I’ve waited to see the elusive Jeff Beck, former star of the Yardbirds and the Jeff Beck Group (which helped launch the careers of Ronnie Wood and Rod Stewart). I followed Jeff Beck in college, really admiring his later 70s instrumental work, which bordered on “rock fusion.” But had never seen him perform, and had never heard that he toured. Until today. Though opposite Pearl Jam, he still drew an incredibly large crowd to the Gentilly Stage. This crowd was much older than the Pearl Jam crowd. The smoke in the air was more cigar than pot or cigarette, a sure harbinger that middle age is in the house. Quint Davis introduced him, heaping effusive praise on him (like saying he’s the finest guitarist to go into and then come out of rock and roll…what does that mean exactly? Like he’s rock and roll bird seed?). Beck came out wearing some sort of futuristic sleeveless suit, looking like a cross between Ziggy Stardust and M.C. Hammer. Silver pirate cuffs on both arms didn’t help either, but I must say for someone who was in the thick of 1960s rock, he looks remarkable physically. Which is to say he doesn’t look like Keith Richards. Amazing what not using heroin for 30 years can do for your looks. Beck’s concert ran the gamut—delicate instrumentals evoking opera, to very hard rock. Towards the end of the set he played a chunky “Want to Take You Higher,” the old Sly and the Family Stone song, and “A Day in the Life,” which came nearly one year to the day after I saw Neil Young play the same song here at Jazz Festival. Interestingly, he neither sang a note, nor said a word to the crowd until the very end of the show. Only then did he introduce the band and thank the audience. I guess sometimes you have to let the music do the talking.

Tomorrow—the Festival concludes.

Jazz Festival 2010, Friday: Aretha Shows Us No Respect, But Its Still A Boogie Wonderland

Let’s just plunge right in to the day’s headline: Aretha Franklin’s last minute cancellation and subsequent replacement by Earth, Wind and Fire. I woke up this morning, checked Facebook and saw the announcement. Predictably, no reason was given. Commenters, predictably, lit her up. A couple of people noted a story in the Detroit News that the state of Michigan had filed an $11,000 tax lien against her and that she acknowledged its legitimacy but blamed inattention caused from being on the road. These commenters suggested she skipped the Jazz Fest gig to go clear up the tax lien, pointing to quotes indicating she would clear the matter up when she returned from her concert schedule. If that’s so, it makes no sense. The Jazz Fest job would have paid far more than $11,000, and certainly would have paid far more than whatever interest would accrue in the one day she’d be in New Orleans. Commenters also pointed out she had withdrawn from playing Jazz Fest last year, citing fatigue after playing the Presidential inaugural. But last year it wasn’t last minute, like this year. Who knows the real reason? But Jazz Festival, and New Orleans as well, must feel like Charlie Brown seeing Lucy pull the football out from under him yet again. Some commenters expressed frustration at having paid high ticket prices to see her in other shows, only to feel like she put on a far too short performance lacking any energy or enthusiasm. I have to say, I heard similar complaints about her 1993 Jazz Festival performance, which I attended. I enjoyed that show, but many friends who attended thought she mailed it in. Frankly, I had suspicions coming into this weekend that Aretha’s performance wouldn’t necessarily live up to my expectations. Yet, unless there was something extremely profound preventing her from playing, this decision shows no respect for fans, and certainly shows no respect for the Jazz Festival organization that had patiently worked with her towards her appearance.
As you’ll see later, Earth, Wind & Fire, who replaced her, really killed it so in the end it was no big deal.

Today was cloudy and cooler than yesterday, so there’d be no dying covered in sweat or sunburn issues. In a calculated gamble that the rains would hold up, we eschewed panchos and boots. Happily, the weather cooperated with us and we were spared the ordeal of living in a mud slide, which is far better than I can say about being here last year when the skies opened up on Friday, turning the whole Festival site into a big mud pit. Hoping to avoid what World War I soldiers called “trench foot” I brought boots this year. Which I chose not to wear today because I was so sure the rain would go away. Good call me!

We arrived at the Gospel Tent just as the morning prayer ended and took in the first act of the day, Gloria Bell and the Revelation Gospel Singers. I’m reluctant to just slam any gospel acts, certainly not amateurs or local acts. I’ll just say this group was a bit beyond its “sell by” date. They were a good opening act for 11:10 a.m.

On the Times-Picayune’s recommendation, we quickly beat it to the Blues Tent for J. Monique D’ Blues Band. This guy was a professional so no such courtesies for him. This guy represents a curious mentality among a certain type of New Orleans professional musician, thinking that New Orleans is the sun and the world revolves around it. This band plays the kind of McGeneric loud, clunking, imaginationless noise played in certain “blues clubs,” like one might hear on Bourbon Street. Tourist music. Oh, and as I photographed later, dude was wearing authentic alligator dress shoes. How banking industry lobbyist of you. Yet for some reason, this guy, like some other New Orleans musicians has this idea that they occupy the center of the universe. This self-aggrandizing smugness breeds an insufferability that’s difficult to take. I mean after all, you live in Gentilly (or some such local neighborhood), just how important can you really be? Yet, depite his diatribe about all those who have fallen for the cause in the last year, I was shocked to learn of Marva Wright’s passing. Turns out she had a couple of strokes last summer, and died in March of complications. Marva was an old hand when I first moved here. She was tremendously big in every way, and I still remember seeing her at Tipitina’s one night back when I lived here. She belted out blues lyrics as big as her own frame, which was considerable. She sang a song that night about a roach crawling to work, only to be topped by statements like she was “built for comfort and not for speed.” Her death at 62 is a real shame.

From there it was back to the Gospel Tent after a quick stop for some spicy white beans and rice, for a real find this Jazz Festival, the Rocks of Harmony. These guys brought it. All were fairly senior, and dressed in sharp brown pinstripe, three-piece suits straight out of American Gangster. Everyone had a powerful voice, and members went into the crowd at times. Songs like “Jesus Paid the Rent” really showcased them, and brought the crowd to its feet. The Gospel Tent was a’ rockin.

After their show, we headed over to the Acura Stage (the largest one) for Buckwheat Zydeco. Stanley “Buckwheat” Dural has been playing and shredding modern zydeco for over 20 years now. I’ve seen many performances both at Jazz Fest and elsewhere and you can usually count on them for a rockin’ performance. Today, however, was a little different. The songs were Pfish-like in length and tended to drag. In about a half hour span they played two songs. This wasn’t the Buckwheat Zydeco shows of the past. While occasionally the band got reenergized, it wasn’t often. Hopefully they haven’t caught the Zachary Richard disease. Still, it must be hard in New Orleans to open for the Dixie Cups and Allen Toussaint.

Noticeably the crowd is much thicker today than yesterday, though its still manageable. Neither Aretha’s cancellation nor the gloomy skies have kept many people away. After Buckwheat Zydeco finished we got the combo oyster pattie, crawfish beignets and crawfish sack. Basically, yumminess on a plate. Also a massive stroke on a plate. Highly recommended.

We took it over to the Jazz Tent for Astral Project, a New Orleans-based modern jazz group. The tent was totally full, as the band is a local favorite. While this may sound odd, the group was so precise and so technically complete, and the playing so pitch perfect that it sounded like listening to a CD rather than a live performance. That’s a strange and counter-intuitive thing to fault musicians for, but in many ways, the rough edges that come from a one-time performance are what make live shows special. Crowd interaction, spontaneity, passion…all seemed lacking. So, yes, I didn’t enjoy them as much because they played too well.

From there we went back to the Acura Stage for the Dixie Cups. This trio goes all the way back to the late 1950s/early 1960s New Orleans R&B era, but hit it big as a girl group with “Chapel of Love.” The set wasn’t widely attended, but they sang lots of great early 60s songs like “Twistin the Night Away” and “Sea Cruise,” and passed out hankies for “Chapel of Love.” Other stages may have been more crowded, but no one was having as much fun as we were at the Dixie Cups. “Bend over and let me see you shake your tail feather!”

After the last strains of “Iko Iko” had faded, we walked over to the Fais-Do-Do stage for the first time today for Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys. This is another act that’s been around for over 20 years, working out of Mamou (also home of Fred’s Lounge). They’re more French than the typical Cajun group, not just the usual chanky-chank music. For a few songs they were joined by the Bonerama horns. Bonerama is a local New Orleans favorite, fronted by three trombone gunslingers and playing rock influenced brass music. Here again, the music was a little more subdued than usual, with the group working a softer vein. Not a lot of dancing.

Before he ended we jumped on over to Jose Feliciano. You may remember him for the theme song from Chico and the Man, or for his Light My Fire cover of the old Doors song. I didn’t expect much, but I’d seen Allen Toussaint, who was playing at the same time at the Acura Stage, last year, so thought Jose was worth checking out. Turns out, I was right. He had a large band and played a really diverse set, covering songs as mellow as “Billie Jean” or “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” to a shocking yet rocking cover of “Purple Haze,” complete with a little Hendrix-style “Star Spangled Banner” thrown in, followed up by the old Elvis tune “I’ve Got a Woman.” Who knew that Jose Feliciano could shred it with the boys? The show was so good and the crowd reaction so positive that we held over longer than planned to catch the entire show. Towards the end he took a turn on timpani and bongos, and for the encore played the old Fats Domino song “I’m Walkin.” After introducing the band, he did something I’ve never heard: he thanked the crew. Just an altogether great performance, one of those Jazz Fest finds that makes coming here worthwhile.

After that show concluded, we got a little jama jama and fried plantains and settled in at the Acura Stage for the Earth, Wind and Fire show. Starting with Quint Davis' introduction (a real sign of Jazz Fest elite status), they launched into "Boogie Wonderland," that show was rocking all the way through, except when they played their smooth songs. Like the best 1960s and 70s R&B groups, much of their movements were choreographed. They played all their great songs: "After the Love has Gone," "Shining Star," "Got to Get You Into My Life," "September," "Sing a Song," and "Heart's Afire." They went past 7 (another sign of status), after giving us about an hour and half of a rollicking dance party. Someone in the crowd held a sign that said "Thanks Aretha." Thanks indeed. Thanks.

Tomorrow-the rockers return!