You know how there's some people who like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then there's other people who prefer grilled panini with arugula, prosciutto, and gruyere? Or maybe next week they like free range chicken on stone ground whole wheat with butter lettuces, chipotle mayonnaise, and shaved provolone? Objectively, those other sandwiches are a lot better than PB&J. They have interesting ingredients. They're new and innovative. They contain somewhat unusual ingredients. 47 years in, though, and it turns out that I prefer just plain old PB&J. I can appreciate the butter lettuces and gruyere, but I grew up with PB&J, I know PB&J, and PB&J makes me happy.
Other people do too, which no doubt explains the enduring touring appeal of the surviving 1970s rock dinosaurs, such as the Eagles, who played to a packed house today at the Jazz Festival. Here's a secret, kids: you better pick the music you like carefully. Whatever music was popular when you grew up and learned about music likely will be what you listen to the rest of your life. You may learn to appreciate newer music and other musical styles as you grow older, but for at least a lot of people, newer music, however innovative, dynamic, and artistic can't really supplant the special status that the music you listened to as a kid holds. That music is like a comfortable sweatshirt: it may not be the best piece of clothing you own, but something about it just feels right. Put another way, no one wants to see a geezer at the Burning Man Festival (even though I guess they swarm there, like locusts, or trial lawyers).
And apparently the people of the 1970s, my people, like PB&J too, because they swarmed the Acura Stage area to watch the Eagles today. To put it bluntly, a lot of SUVs had to find parking places to put all those people in that crowd. But we'll get to that in a minute.
After making it in and out of the Blue Plate Cafe for breakfast just before the rush hit, and after getting ready for the day's festing, I discovered that one of the tires in my rented car had a screw in it. Which accounted for the low tire pressure warning that came on yesterday. I got enough air to get me to the Festival, and then called Avis. Their person was predictably useless, insisting that I understand that I would bear full responsibility for any damage, and warning me not to drive on that tire at all. I did make it to the Festival, and after making some calls arranged to swap my car for another one after the day's shows concluded, though it required me to drive all the way to the airport. Still, it cast a pall on the day.
As did the monster crowds. In all my years of attending the Festival I've never seen such thick crowds. So much for the recession. I knew it would be bad when, at 10:40, my top secret parking spot was already taken. Today's crowds were like that Star Trek episode where all the people on that one planet that hijacked Kirk have to stand side by side because there's literally not enough space for everyone because they continue to have kids but no one ever dies hardly. Or an LSU home game. In fact, today was so bad, with so many people jostling you and running over you and the like, it really made today not so great. Which is hardly fathomable. The extra crowds, combined with the brutal heat, just really made today a veritable death march. Were it not for the opportunity to cool down for a bit in the grandstand, I may not have made it.
Given the lateness of the hour, I'm going to skim a lot of stuff I'd normally drone on about at length.
I made it to the morning prayer today, and listened briefly to Gospel Soul Children at the Gospel Tent. Which was a deceptive name because none of them were children. Perhaps they were children of the Lord. From there I went to the Blues Tent, already mostly full, for Guitar Slim. He played pretty standard blues rock (Pride and Joy, Mustang Sally, etc.), but mostly I remember that he had a really sparkly silver and black jacket and tie.
The Economy Hall Tent was today's star, featuring the New Leviathon Oriental Fox Trot Orchestra and the Tuxedo Brass Band. Both bands played turn of the century (i.e. the 19th century) "jass" music. "Real hot!" Louis Armstrong, Fletcher Henderson, King Oliver, Jerome Kern, and Jelly Roll Morton. The former reminded me of a time when gentlemen would have cocktails together on the Promenade Deck (white tie only) at 5 p.m. sharp. In the latter, the band played as a very long second line highstepped throughout the tent. This was such a treasure. This music at one time was the most popular in the country. And the second line is an old, venerable New Orleans tradition, which makes it a uniquely American experience. All ages were represented in that tent. Young, old, and everywhere in between. As we become a nation of idiots who care more about the Kardashians and Jersey Shore than our neighbors and our communities, we risk forgetting our important traditions and history and regional customs simply disappear. Institutions like the Jazz Festival breathe new life into these important American customs.
I saw gospel pianist and singer Cynthia Girtley during the ensuing lull, and boy if you wanted someone to put on the front lines for Jesus, she's the one. Not such a great voice, but its powerful, rich, and commanding. Two minutes around her and you'd be willing to follow God all the way up the hill, over it and back down again. Next up was Roland Guerin, a jazz artist who plays a six string bass guitar. His band played methodical, introspective songs with numerous repeating phrases, which reminded me of Miles Davis' In A Silent Way. Certainly nothing over the top or ferocious. Then I went to the Grandstand to cool down. The heat had become really brutal by that point. Some bongo player was being interviewed at the Alison Miner Music Heritage Stage, talking about the tribes back in Africa. The Grandstand view was amazing-you can see the entire Jazz Fest field. Today it looked like a refugee camp. I had ambitions of seeing Steve Earle, until the stage where he was playing looked like Atlanta under siege in Gone With the Wind. That caused me to rethink that decision quickly.
Instead, I headed to the Gentilly Stage to watch a new local band, MyNameIsJohnMichael. The frontman, a shortish guitar strangler, played guitar for some other group earlier in the Festival whose name escapes me. The music and enforced good time reminded me a bit of another local favorite, Cowboy Mouth, also renowned for being as much cheerleaders as musicians. Then I saw Anders Osborne, another local, who came to New Orleans the same year as I did (1991). While an extraordinary guitarist and writer, he's had some problems, chronicled in a recent song he played about the "junkie life." Boy that explains it. I remember when he first came here from Sweden, he was the Golden Boy. He could do no wrong, and looked like a Swedish Brad Pitt. Now he looks like the Dude, with way more tattoos (including a huge "SARAH" up his left forearm). Quite the comedown in life. Osborne played some really crunchy music (think Neil Young and Crazy Horse at their hardest), interspersed with some intricate ballads. At one point he brought on two violinists and a cellist. I then went to the Irma Thomas show. Thomas, known as the Soul Queen of New Orleans, did not disappoint. Though she moves more slowly now, she got the crowd shaking their "backfield" and waving their handkerchiefs in the air.
Finally it was time for the Eagles. I had aspirations of also checking out Herbie Hancock, famed former pianist for the great Miles Davis Quintet. When I did, there was one guy, and one guy only, on stage playing bass and singing in some sort of African clicking language. Not my cup of tea. I also had thoughts of hearing My Morning Jacket, but they had been featured in an American Dad episode, so I figured how great can they be? Plus they were on the totally other side of the field, and I was pretty tired.
So it was back to the Eagles, who to my knowledge, have never been in a cartoon. What can you say about the Eagles, except they're peanut butter and jelly? I know and grew up with all the songs. Many were and are exceptionally well written, even if none of those guys are stellar players. Though that doesn't really matter because they essentially have hired their own backing band to handle most of the parts. To say that the crowd was largely over 40 and white would be a vast understatement. Lynryd Skynrd and NASCAR think there were a lot of white people out there today. Don Henley and Glenn Frey aren't looking so great. Henley, who in my mind's eye looks like the quintessential cool California guy (even though he's a Texan) now looks like that cranky old guy on American Choppers, or Burl Ives. Not a good look. Glenn Frey apparently has shrunk about a foot and now looks like my old law school professor Lino Graglia. Also not a good look. Joe Walsh and Timothy B. Schmidt, on the other hand, both looked great. That actually kind of disappointed me. After all his run-ins with the law and hotel owners, I was kind of hoping Joe would look like a saddle. Not so. Who'd have thunk it? Not only that, Walsh still has his fastball, skill-wise. He played some really mean solos. I wondered about the Eagles' staying power. How could they possibly stand playing those same songs, year after year after year? Though I'm sure the mounds of cash they get from touring probably take away a bit of the boredom. And they seemed to play about as many of their solo songs as actual Eagles songs. I enjoyed that because I finally got to hear Rocky Mountain Way, Walk Away, Life's Been Good, and In the City (which technically was an Eagles song). For me these were the set's highlights. Can't wait for the James Gang reunion tour. They opened with the dull Seven Bridges Road, and closed with the strong Desperado. The Eagles became way more famous than they arguably deserved after Hotel California. But looking back, that probably obscured the strength of their earlier work, songs like Witchy Woman, Lyin Eyes, or Peaceful Easy Feeling. Those guys may have been totally coked up in the Hollywood Hills, but they could write some country rock for sure. They picked up the torch that the Byrds and Gram Parsons dropped after the Sweethearts of the Rodeo album, and made a career out of it. Oh, no word on where the hell Randy Meisner is. Guess he's somewhere in LA counting his royalty checks. Which is such a fine sight to see.
Tomorrow's the final day of the Festival, and generally I spend much of the night packing. Don't be surprised if the post covering the final day of the Festival doesn't come out until next week.
Oh, yeah, that kid above is at the Economy Hall Tent watching New Leviathon. She's not in jail. Not yet at least.
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