Jazz Festival 2013 Sunday: A Nice Day for A White Wedding

Hall and Oates

Well, another Jazz Fest, another wedding. Hasn't this been done before? Well, what can I say? "Young love." What says "romantic wedding" more than mud, porta potties, and beer lines? All in the same place?

But I'll get to that later.

D. L. Menard

This concludes my Jazz Festival posts for 2013. Savor it because I may not go back for awhile. This year has left me more inclined not to return to the Festival than I've been for some time. At least not on a four day basis. I've discussed the reasons already: crowds, heat, cost, crowds, the physical toll, aggressive staff, crowds. We'll have to see. I've become attracted to the prospect of attending the TCM Classic Movie Festival in Los Angeles next year, which takes place in late April. Air conditioning, seating, great movies, no chasing all over town, and you're treated with some modicum of human dignity (which by LA standards means you stand a good chance of not getting sold off to human traffickers or an organ harvesting ring). No mud, no porta potties, no shirtless drunk guy from Chalmette crushed up against you blowing cigarette smoke in your face and screaming "YOU RULE!!!" to whatever act happens to occupy the stage. I still wish I had gone to last year's classic movie festival, where the highlight was an interview with Kim Novak before a showing of Vertigo at Graumann's Chinese Theatre. Class.

New Orleans enjoyed another spectacular day that last Sunday, maybe even a little cooler than the preceding three, but very sunny. As I've written several times now, heat normally represents Jazz Fest's main challenge. Temperatures and humidity both usually reach the upper 80s. Standing all day like a scarecrow in the sun only aggravates it.  So I brought along clothes to deal with that kind of weather. This weekend, my main challenge was not freezing to death. Its a good problem, I suppose, but still sort of an alternative universe.

No one occupied my top secret, awesome parking space, and that proved a reliable harbinger of a good day. On entering the grounds, I could tell right away fewer people were attending. Having been out late with Ron the night before, I didn't manage to participate in the Gospel Tent morning prayer (held, I might add, earlier and earlier each day), but its ok because I did catch the incendiary New Orleans Spiritualettes. These seven ladies, clad in gold, really broke out the heavy gospel lumber. They belted out traditional gospel songs with abandon. The Gospel Tent was rockin' right from the very start today, and I remained a little longer than usual, along with an unusually thick first of the morning Gospel Tent crowd.

But I couldn't stay too long, because Jazz Fest had scheduled Louisiana and Cajun music treasure D.L. Menard in the same time slot over at the Fais Do Do stage. I've written about Mr. Menard before. This day's show was much the same. Classic, Cajun music from the bayou. Hey, if you met Hank Williams, like he did, you're the real thing. And in this world of fake, shallow, fleeting singers, Mr. Menard is the real thing. He's 80 years old if he's a day over 20, but still just as strong and positive as I remember. He's got a Cajun accent that sounds dredged right out of the Vermilion River.  He moves around stage just fine, and stood the whole performance. Just goes to show what a lifetime of dancing, crawfish, good music, and family can do for you. He called out people in the crowd by name, saying things like "I'm glad you got to see me, podner!" Like Dave Grohl, I enjoyed his stage rap just as much as the music. He explained that he no longer writes a set list before performances (most of which are at night), because he "learned to read during the day." He slipped back and forth between French and English. At one point introducing a song in French, then adding, "the way y'all understand it, it means 'the Green Oak Tree'. Understood?" Towards the end of the set, he announced that he would sing two more songs, "then we have to leave you. That's the only way we can come back." He played an absolutely spot on version of "Your Cheatin' Heart" as the last song. It wore the authenticity of thousands of miles and shows over 50 years. That's something no American Idol winner will ever have.

From there I went over to the Gentilly Stage to hear the "New Orleans Classic R&B Recording Revue." This featured four really old guys who sat in with what resembled a cruise ship band, each singing a couple of their one-hit wonder type songs. The set featured Frankie Ford ("Sea Cruise"), Al Johnson ("Carnival Time"), Robert Parker ("Barefootin'"), and Clarence "Frogman" Henry ("Ain't Got No Home"). This was both compelling and sad. These four guys are WAY past their performing years, sadly, falling into the "is he still alive?" category. Imagine how Willie would come off if he hadn't written like a million hits. But in all cases they could still sing. Al Johnson was sporting a glorious Hitler mustache. Guess he's trying to reclaim that one, huh? He and MJ. Still can't figure out what Michael was thinking there. Frankie Ford, who could barely stand unaided, much less walk across the stage, got things rolling, wearing a banana colored hipster suit, matching hat, and piano key scarf. He observed that it was Cinco De Mayo, and observed that all the Mexicans have now moved to Texas, because there's so many of them. OK then. Well, he's about 150 years old, and embodies the principle that once you've reached a certain age (or become a Democratic Vice President of the United States), you can for the most part get away with spouting whatever gibberish enters your head, and elicit only a semi-smiling, "aw, he's so cute" reaction from most people." Most people want to think of a grandfather as having more in common with the elderly Kirk Douglas than John Demuanjuk. One of these days I'd like to write about how views that once were just accepted as normal and mainstream can very quickly become "immoral" or "evil," but that its patently unfair to condemn those who've held such views for the balance of a lifetime when they don't change just as quickly. That doesn't mean the old view is or ever was "right" (signed, black slaves are 3/5ths of a person), it just means its not always fair to condemn people as evil when they don't change their views as quickly as the rapidly evolving American cultural norms.

After the S.S. Carnival Princess' night-time entertainment concluded, I wandered around the grounds, enjoying the newly expanded Native American Indian section. For many years, they got a small awning. They'd do some dances in front of said awning, and people would cluster around. This year, in a really smart move, the Festival removed some large standing paintings of jazz legends (which people mainly just used for shade as they ate lunch), and gave it over to the Indians. I will resist the temptation to make a "reservation" joke here (really, that's in bad taste), and observe that this is long overdue. Like most other places, Louisiana was peopled with any number of native tribes, whose innovations and adaptations helped build Louisiana.

But my wandering time came to a close when it was time to return to the Acura stage for New Orleans' own, the legendary Meters. Or, at least, three out of four of the Meters, billed as the "Meter Men." Leo Nocentelli, George Porter, Jr. and Zigaboo Modeliste. Funny. You know, like the meter man who reads your electric meter at home? Anyone? Honestly, I don't know what Art Neville's deal is. What else does he have going on? Did he and Christine McVie form a secret society dedicated to hating the bands that gave them careers? They should invite David Lee Roth. Except for him being such an enormous douche and all. Did Art need to plant his asparagus crop that day? What the hell? Art performed with Charles and Cyrille the first Jazz Fest weekend as "The Nevilles" i.e. without Aaron and his oh so subtle face tattoo. So he presumably was in town or nearby. But he had more important things to do, so some white dude who looked like an extra on the Central Perk set of Friends played keyboards. Turned out it was the dude who used to play keyboards for Phish. Which makes perfect sense. Take an element out of one of the most meandering, pointless, beach ball bouncing jam music and insert it into possibly the greatest funk band ever assembled. What could go wrong? As it turns out, nothing. The Meter Men were spot on, really rocking a hard, funky groove. Honestly, other than Booker T. and the MG's, can you think of anyone with a harder groove? This band played most of the same songs as the group from Wednesday night, but much more tightly, and grittier. Zigaboo laid down a brutal and nearly violent drum assault. And wore a baseball cap with his name, "Zigaboo," sewn into the crown. How Baller is that? Wearing clothes with your own name on them? Of course, how Four Year Old Child is that? With your mom writing your name in all your clothes, just in case, well, you know...accidents and stuff. Despite the fact these guys (except Whitey on keys) have all passed 70, they played all the classic Meters tunes, displaying impressive stamina. The crowd screamed "Fire on the Bayou" along with that chorus, which I always like. Quint Davis introduced them, once again signaling a de facto official designation of the Meter (Men) as an Important New Orleans Act. 

Next up was someone I'd been looking forward to seeing and who proved worth the wait. Jeffrey Osborne. You may have heard his '80s hit, the slow, silky ballad "On the Wings of Love." Imagine every crappy "smooth jazz" song you've ever heard (I guess I could have just said "smooth jazz"), liven it up and give it soul, and that's Jeffrey Osborne. No relation to Ozzy. What can I say but that dude was smooth. Everyone gets all verklempt (really, not an appropriate description) in this town over Frankie Beverly, who took the stage after Osborne to close the Congo Square Jazz Festival. But Osborne impressed me far more. First, finally, a performer who dressed the part. He came out in sweet brown slacks and shiny brown dress shoes, a coral dress shirt, and light blue jacket with coral windowpane pattern. So this guy had unsurpassed threads game. Like Tony Bennett and Allen Toussaint, other impeccable dressers I've seen at the Festival. Congo Square, by the way, was utterly packed, and as Osborne moved from side to side and hit particularly challenging notes, women in the crowd swooned. Loved it. Now, I have to describe this scene because it really stood out VERY noticeably. So here you go, without drawing any conclusions or inferences. So, the Congo Square crowd was almost entirely black. Very few white faces to be seen anywhere, except at the very front of the stage in the premium badge area for those who paid an obscene amount for the privilege. For me it felt kind of like the Dexter Lake Club scene in Animal House ("OTIS!! MY MAN!!"). Yet, just two stages over, at the Gentilly Stage where Hall and Oates were just beginning their set, it was as white as the "Osmond Family Christmas in Branson" special. What...a contrast. Like I said, I don't want to draw any conclusions. But the question kept worming through my mind (like an awful song you can't get out of your head), "how did we get to this place?"

I'd have stayed longer at Jeffrey Osborne admiring the suit and digging the tunes, but my inner guilty pleasure 80s white guy pop side could stand it no longer. On to Hall and Oates! Would be-poster band for Stuff white people like. OK, first, they started about 15 minutes early. So I just caught the tail end of "I Can't Go For That." Oates has regrown his mustache, so all is right with the world again. He was wearing a retro "Live Aid" t-shirt too, which, while proto-douchey, merits excuse because, after all, he and Hall did actually play at Live Aid. Remember? (Wait, you people were alive during Live Aid, right? Dammit! I am getting way too old. Guess I'll share some of my Lions vs. Christians at the Colosseum stories one of these days.). They were the backing band for Mick Jagger and Tina Turner's duet. And Eddie Kendricks and David Ruffin from the original Temptations joined them for about half their set. Anyway, back to the 21st Century. So, this incarnation of Hall and Oates played all the songs, but, as was the apparent trend, in a much less slick and synthesizer heavy manner. Nope, Daryl Hall was jamming repeatedly with chunky guitar blasts. Oates too. Mid 40s chicks with dolphin ankle tattoos and braided hair looked slightly disturbed at all the feedback, interfering with their attempts to get their dance on. Don't get me wrong, its still really good White Soul, but where was all this ruckus coming from? Well, turns out Hall has been making some actual creative waves of late. He's got a show called "Live From Daryl's House" where he just brings in musicians of all sorts and they all jam on camera. Even though Hall and Oates did crank it out, and Hall strikes some pretty bad ass poses, he does come off a little bit edgy for someone with a song on The Wedding Singer soundtrack. But overall the crowd loved it. Everyone sang all the songs. The band was extra tight, and they proved a nice 80s counterpoint to the Fleetwood Mac's 70s anthems from the day before.

At this point, my Jazz Festival was largely done. Normally the Neville Brothers play the last set of Jazz Festival, but due to the aforementioned Aaron split they vacated that responsibility. Plus, they had kind of mailed it in the last few years anyway. So I basically had planned to leave a little early and run along Bayou St. John as the sun set. But instead I first went to the Grandstand and the Lagniappe Stage one last time to listen to the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars. Well, this native bunch is just a bunch of Jewish guys playing rocked up versions of Jewish music. And like other Klezmer performances, the chair dance definitely broke out. Unlike other Klezmer performances, however, this one featured a Jewish wedding. Well, of course it did. With people dancing the horah, and a huppa, and the chair dance. What the hell? Don't get me wrong. Getting married at Jazz Fest would be straight out of the Chris Reeder Wedding Guide, if such a thing existed. You avoid the cost of a church, flowers, decorations, food and drink, entertainment, tables and chairs, etc. You keep away the crazy aunts and the annoying co-workers because everyone has to pay the price of a ticket to attend. But you still get a great crowd at your wedding because there's a bunch of people there anyway. So I get the logic. But then what explained the guy who looked like Tiny Tim who spent most of the time moving about in some sort of a cross between dancing and having an epileptic fit? Or the best man, wearing a Western cut tuxedo (think of the tuxedo version of something Hank Williams would have worn on stage) with white shrimp boots? Or the super hot yet super strange looking Wiccanesque chicks milling about the entry to the stage? Guess they didn't get the message...Stevie Nicks was here YESTERDAY! I threw myself right into the throng (obvi!) and as the Klezmers played on, stranger stuff kept happening. A kind of manic energy gripped the whole scene, like there was no way of knowing what would happen next. It was such a great way to end Jazz Festival, as I headed out of the Fair Grounds, into the setting sun reflecting off the bayou. To go run. Ugh.

Later people.

NEXT-the Top 5's.