What better way to celebrate Mother’s Day than going to the New Orleans Jazz Festival? Take her with you. You know what she really wants is to Cajun dance, drink beer, eat crawfish, and see Kid Rock. No? Actually, a lot of people apparently also weren’t convinced. Sunday’s crowds were thick, but noticeably smaller than Saturday, and very definitely smaller than previous last days of Jazz Festival. Mother’s Day probably accounted for that, but the absence of many national acts, other than Kid Rock, possibly also explained the lower turnout.
You know its bad news when you hand the ticket counter your ticket and she remarks at how sweaty you are. At least she didn’t ask me if I needed a doctor, or if that’s my normal face. Despite the number of clouds that had crept into New Orleans overnight, which promised to provide some heat relief, it was still a far cry from the relatively cool temperatures prevailing on Thursday. As it turned out, Sunday was the Festival’s hottest day, but we did get enough intermittent clouds to break the heat at times and make it tolerable. As long as you drank lots of water and stayed away from the Jim Beam (see below).
Like each day past, I started the morning in the Gospel Tent. There, as we awaited the Morning Prayer and the Zulu Male Ensemble’s session, two ladies who appeared to be in their late 20s were trying to befriend some much younger looking guy. He seemed to be having none of it, despite their reaching into their siren bag of tricks and throwing out everything they had. The Shreveport CPAs, wearing crazy hats and swilling beer at 11 a.m. on Mother’s Day, barged into this charming scene. That ordinarily would be “blocking,” but in this case it was likely quite welcome. The ladies looked like…hmmm...how to put it…they didn’t put a lot of emphasis on diet or hygiene. The cuter of the two had a dragon tattoo that filled most of her back and wrapped around her left side, and wore a Gumby necklace. Mind you, she was the cuter of the two. Eventually the object of their affection just kind of got up and walked away, a maneuver I recognize from years spent in the field. Boy, those chicks sure know how to celebrate Mother’s Day.
The morning prayer was kind of wide ranging, but included this phrase: “We know that there are some here who are motherless, but You promised that You would be with them.” That struck an obvious chord.
First up was the Zulu Men’s Ensemble, singing traditional gospel songs. Zulu is the main black mardi gras krewe, whose roots go back nearly 100 years. They were wearing slacks, the group’s coat and ties, and had to be sweltering as it was already quite warm in the Gospel Tent. Interestingly, they had one white guy among the bunch. And it wasn’t some Serpico-looking, undercover narc cool looking kind of white guy either. Nor was it Eminem or Vincent Vega or Steve Cropper. This guy looked like he could be the managing partner at Jones, Walker (the city’s largest law firm) or Assistant Vice President-Exploration and Development for Shell. He must do their taxes or something, cause you know he doesn’t have rhythm. This looks like that scene in Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, the Woody Allen movie, where the semen are getting ready to parachute in for a...landing, and you see one black semen looking lost and confused around all the other white semen. Except switch colors and no one in the Zulu Men's Ensemble has tails.
Next was Russell Batiste, Jr. (and Friends) at the Acura Stage. I had no idea who he was, but had heard the name, and one of the "friends" was Jason Neville. At first, they played serviceable jazzy soul, in the vein of Anita Baker or Al Jarreau. You know...make out music. By the way, one of the "friends" was the weird tambourine chick who had played for Kirk Joseph. Maybe "tambourine" is where these guys stash their girlfriends who want to be part of the group. You know, like when Paul McCartney let Linda play piano and sing on tour. Except that she was wretched. Someone should have suggested "tambourine" to John Lennon as a way of letting Yoko have input. Instead of forcing him out of the Beatles. Anyway, when Jason Neville (Aaron's kid) hit the stage, the music took a turn to funk town. Coming from a Neville, that should have been no surprise. He was joined by some Mardi Gras Indians, and the group sang some Neville Brothers' standouts like "Fiyo on the Bayou." Jason's voice sounds a lot like Joe Cocker, or even an affected Satchmo. Except Jason lacks Cocker's pre-seizure stage mannerisms. I still think John Belushi's finest moment was his Joe Cocker impression, and hardly no one even recognized it. By the way, there's yet another Neville? How many ancillary Nevilles does that make? Charmaine, Jason, and Ivan. Maybe others. Are they in some sort of weird breeding war with the Marsalis family? Besides dad Ellis, they have Wynton and Branford, then there's Delfeayo and Jason. For those scoring at home, that's Nevilles 7, Marsalises 5.
After surrendering again to the crawfish bread, and experiencing the sweet rush of cheese, bread and spicy crawfish, I headed to the Economy Hall Tent for the Treme Brass Band. For the first time I've ever known, the Tent was full. Standing room only. And the second line had grown quite long, apparently including mostly locals instead of beered up tourists. Treme is a straight ahead, traditional brass band with the hats, white uniforms, and everything. They're old school, like from 1900 when it was "jass" and guys like Kid Ory or King Oliver had never heard of it. They were tight, as befits a group with such history.
Because there was nowhere to sit, and nowhere even to stand inside the Economy Hall Tent, it was on to the Fais-Do-Do stage for the Lost Bayou Ramblers. Again, this was an act I'd never heard, but had heard of them and decided to check them out. Good move, because they were quite good. These were some crazy young guys who were all over the stage. It seemed like traditional Cajun songs, but with edge. The guitar was electric, and the drummer played a drum kit and wore an AC-DC shirt. They brought a young, rocking edge to Cajun music. It wasn't zydeco; there was no accordion. But it was amped up Cajun. They spoke french, and they're from Broussard. A definite Jazz Fest "find."
Next was Anders Osborne, New Orleans guitar virtuoso. He is to New Orleans what Ian Moore was to Austin (before he flaked out and moved to Seattle). Put another way, he's Kenny Wayne Shepherd, only, good. Osborne is a really good blues guitarist, who's been around New Orleans since before I lived there. I remember seeing him in the 1992 Jazz Festival, and being really, really impressed. Haven't seen him since then. Back then, he looked like the budding rock god-long golden hair, tall and thin. He could have starred in a surfer movie. Today, wearing grubby clothes, an unkempt beard that probably had cheetoes residue, and long greasy hair, he looked like a derelict. But he can still play. He was on his game and had some wicked cool solos.
After Osborne's set concluded, I returned to the Fais-Do-Do Stage. The Ramblers had yielded to Feufollet, a "find" from a couple of years ago. Back then, this Cajun country/folk band were the young guns. Since then, one Grammy nomination and a lot of recognition later, they're now established. They've played dates in London, for example. I'm sure next year, Trombone Shorty will guest. By the way, I gave Shorty a glowing review yesterday and don't take it back, but Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez think that guy may be a little over exposed. He guested with Jeff Beck, the Neville Brothers, Kid Rock, Bonerama, and those are the ones I know of. Dude, give someone else a chance. Anyway, Feufollet is definitely cajun and french, but the music is decidedly more country, albeit sung substantially in french. I think it represents a new phase for Acadian music, and expect Feufollet to continue to rise in fame and accomplishment. They have clearly come a long way artistically, both in their writing and performance. Another excellent show.
Next up...Cowboy Mouth. This is currently New Orleans' reigning party band. Led by their drummer, Fred LeBlanc, they spun off from Dash Rip Rock, another outstanding though harder core party band. A Cowboy Mouth show is part rock show and part pep rally, with LeBlanc as the main cheerleader. Lots of yelling things like: "I want to hear someone SCREAM!" If you're not drunk or in a fraternity, its a little overbearing. Here's a thought. Just play your songs, and let them inflame (or underwhelm) the audience. There have been several examples of that principle at this year's Jazz Fest. But the crowd still enjoyed it.
I wanted to hear Ellis Marsalis in the Jazz Tent, but that just wasn't happening. A big overflow crowd has packed the Tent, so I instead went back toward Congo Square for the Rebirth Brass Band. On the way though, I lingered unexpectedly at the Jazz and Heritage Stage for the first time this year, taken in by the TBC Brass Band. This seemed like everyone who lives on three city blocks were on stage, including a legless trumpet player. They're definitely street; an article points out that one of their saxophonists, a young man of 22, was murdered in the Quarter last year. But those guys are tight, and they play straight ahead, full throttle brass band music with funk, soul and energy. Expect to hear more from these guys in the future.
Rebirth was one of the first acts I really identified when I first moved to New Orleans in 1991. I used to see them at Tipitina's, usually opening for bigger name acts. They were really the first local brass band to inject the music of their generation into the typical brass band lineup. Funk, rap, soul...Rebirth incorporated the sounds that were all around them into this more traditional New Orleans music style. Where they were once the fresh new group, they're now the established professionals whom others are trying to knock off. But this day they were excellent. They seemed to revert back to the days when they played at Saints games on the sidelines. They also had this character dressed in a three-piece white suit, armed with an umbrella and a sash, who danced the whole time. The crowd paid nearly as much attention to this guy, who turned out to have a sash that said "Grand Marshal," as to the group. They announced that this is their 28th year. Looks like they're still coming into their own.
Next, I had to face up to checking out Kid Rock. I don't want 15,000 Kid Rock fans sending in hate comments in reaction to this, so just save them; none will ever be published. Then again, gauging from the crowd (and there was quite a crowd, believe it or not), I doubt any of them can read or write, much less operate a computer to read blogs. I really had no idea what he was famous for, other than being famous. Turns out he was a musician (or so some say). I wandered exactly how this was going to go, but he mostly played by the rules. By that I mean, no dropping his pants, no constant stream of vulgarities, no slurring his speech. In other words, he wasn't Diamond Dave. Though I was ignorant before, I now know that Kid Rock is part rapper, part douchebag, and part reincarnated Ronnie Van Zant of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Most of his "songs" are just riffs from classic rock songs with overlaid rapping or actual melodies. More than half of his lyrics are some permutation of the words "Kid Rock," kind of like a two year old kid who runs around triumphantly telling you his name every 10 seconds. "I'M MARCUS!!!" In the end, Kid Rock is just a redneck rapper. Its not necessarily country, though there's a country element to it. There's equal parts Public Enemy, Molly Hatchet, Hank Williams, Jr., and Kenny Chesney. He doesn't do much of anything beyond strutting around like some jack ass exhorting people to party and pulling off his shirt. But that's actually a brilliant concept. In this day and age where braggadocio, even when unmerited, sells (see Chad Ochocinco and the WWE), this is a winning formula. Lately, to make it big, you don't actually need to have any talent or or accomplishments or game, you just need to tell people incessantly that you, in fact, ARE big (again, see Chad Ochocinco). Its all about self promotion. Kid Rock has that mastered, and on top of that, has monopolized the country side of that. Yeah, ordinarily country fans are a little more conservative, but since he's the only one (to my knowledge), he's cornered that market. He's ridden that formula to success, with various songs charting very high. Though its interesting that his biggest song, ("All Summer Long") is about singing another actually good song ("Sweet Home Alabama") all summer long. At various times during the show, he played keyboards, drums, and drums. Although he exhorted the crowd to "party," Cowboy Mouth style, I got the feeling that somewhere deep inside, once upon a time, he was actually a real musician. Nonetheless, the crowd loved it, especially when he took his shirt off. And as he was strutting around like a peacock, I noticed a tattoo labelled "Paul" on his arm. A huge eagle tattoo with the words "American Bad Ass" completely covered his back. A pint of Jim Beam sat on the drum riser the whole show, and he swigged from it a few songs in. Dude, your real name is "Bob Richie" and you're wearing a pork pie hat. You're not really all that street, you know? He was wearing a snakeskin belt...that's all I'm sayin. Oh, and feel free to leave your shirt on. Your body? Not as great as you think. Of course, Trombone Shorty guested. Let's see if we have the Trombone Short guest appearance count--Jeff Beck (week one), the Neville Brothers, Kid Rock...anyone else? No one in the Kids' Tent? If there's a star on a stage, Trombone Shorty will be there.
OK, that's enough about Kid Rock. I think you get the picture.
Two more good t-shirt slogans seen today: "Drunkstrong" (with same lettering as "Livestrong") and "The Godbarber" in the style of The Godfather logo.
Next was Maze featuring Frankie Beverly. Here's another act I'd long heard of but didn't know. They've been around since the mid-1970s. Everyone was clad in white outfits of various types. Frankie Beverly, the leader, was wearing some sort of all white Zsa Zsa Gabor track suit and a white Bill Tilden tennis hat. A woman started chatting with me before the show, and was shocked that I "ain't never seen Frankie Beverly!" This was just before she said she was his husband. Later she was bellowing out to him through the show. Something tells me this woman would get in her car and drive to Florida while wearing a diaper to knock any broad upside the head that stood between her and Frankie Beverly. The music was a mix of 1970s style intense soul-Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White, Al Green, Isaac Hayes. The mix was terrible and though I was center stage at the front, couldn't hear any of the vocals. The crowd was almost 100% black, and let's just say lots of the women were getting their groove back. Everyone seemed to know all the words to all the songs. Except me.
Later I shifted over to the Gentilly Stage for the Radiators' farewell concert. This is where whitey was hiding out, in an interesting kind of self-segregation. This evoked a couple of years ago, when rapper Ludacris was playing Congo Square at the same time Norah Jones was playing her soft and intricate ballads at the Gentilly Stage (with Ludacris' pounding bass beat plainly audible in the background). The Radiators were on their game, clearly enjoying the increased Jazz Fest crowds. Normally they're up against the Neville Brothers, who consistently outdraw them. This year, their last, would be different. Several guests appeared, including Warren Haynes (of Government Mule and Allman Brothers fame), the Bonerama trombone section, Michael Doucet of Beausoleil, and some others I didn't recognize.
I almost decided to close out the Festival with the Radiators, but decided with about half an hour to go to try to see Sonny Rollins. I had expected it would be too crowded and I wouldn't be able to get in, but chanced it. Thank God I did. Though 80, this guy was still the Real Deal. He came of age and was prominent during the bop era, and was in the same circles as Theloneous Monk, Art Tatum, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Bud Powell, and Max Roach. He can still blow a horn. I got there at about 20 minutes to 7. Rollins was finishing a tune, with really amazing solos. After thanking the crowd, he launched into his last song, a calypso-type tune that the crowd seemed immediately to recognize. That song lasted 25 minutes, with Rollins blazing solos all over it. Even when playing, he would occasionally shake his fist in triumph and exhuberance. It was one of the most amazing moments I'd ever seen at Jazz Fest. He just wouldn't stop playing. At the end, the crowd, which had completely jammed the Tent, gave one of the longest and loudest ovations I've ever heard. This was totally and completely justified, in recognizing a true master, demonstrating the glory and freedom of America's only truly unique art form-Jazz. Rollins played a brief encore, taking the concert nearly 15 minutes past its scheduled end. Jazz Festival had ended, on notes of complete and utter joy.
That concludes Jazz Festival 2011.
I've never done a "wrap up" posting before. Writing five posts back to back really takes it out of me, and does the world really need a sixth post from me on the same subject? But I'm considering it, because I had some strong reactions to the way the Festival was run this year, as well as of the talent. So you never know what you'll see here.
Next-either Jazz Fest Wrapup or getting back to telling you how to live your life.
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