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.
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