Today was a lot hotter and sunnier. Already I can tell its going to be a hard day. I was running late getting out to the show because as I was looking for a place to park, I realized I forgot my ticket and had to go back to the hotel. Story of my life.
As I arrived at the Gospel Tent, the morning prayer was just starting, so ultimately I was right on time. I’d already seen the Bester Sisters, who were first up, so instead I decided to drift a bit. I landed at the Acura Stage (the main one), for the Chilluns. No idea who these people were, but I gathered they are somehow related, and the “chilluns” of someone famous. Basically they were playing funky pop, but after about the third cover song I’d had enough and decided to continue wandering. I made it to the Lagniappe Stage, in the Fair Grounds grandstand, for the
Drew Landry Band, led by Drew Landry. This is exactly the kind of rock masquerading as country music so in vogue now days that I can’t stand, and which prevents me from listening to most mainstream modern country music. Pretty much anything post-George Strait is out. Singing a rock song with an affected twang isn’t country, no matter how many “hard luck story” lyrics you throw in. But it was nice sitting in a chair under a tent with a breeze, so I lingered. After a couple of songs, he brought his mother on stage to sing a song, and every woman in the place, on cue, went “awwwww….” Then he dedicated the song to his fiddle player’s wife, who is battling cancer. More and more insistent “awwwwwws.” You magnificent bastard. Well played sir. Well played. Like just writing songs and playing the guitar isn’t enough. How is this guy not already a star?
Around noon I headed to Congo Square for jama-jama, fried plantains, and chicken, then stayed a bit for something called
Ori Culture Danse Club of Benin. This was an African drumming troupe, the kind that Jazz Fest features annually. They were in their tribal outfits, dancing all round the stage. That may be, but they’re still Culture Club, and therefore to be avoided on name alone.
On the way to the Acura Stage, I saw a “Jazz Funeral,” ostensibly to memorialize
Snooks Eglin and Michael P. Smith. See the pictures on Flickr. Lots of people followed the brass band and the mourners (wearing festooned black suits), holding pictures of other loved ones they were honoring as well. A fairly large crowd rushed in to see, creating this horrific body heat effect that nearly had me giving way to it. I don’t suffer from agoraphobia, but in this instance it was just too tight. By the way, when I die, all I ask is that they slow the hearse down long enough to dump me in a ditch. Probably somewhere in Fort Bend County, top rated place in Texas to “stash the body.”
Nonetheless, with the sun fully blazing and New Orleans humidity in full flower, I headed to see
Beausoleil, perhaps the most famous Cajun band in the world. Despite the heat, many couples are dancing, which just goes to show, if Cajuns aren’t cooking or rounding up ingredients to cook, they’re dancing. Have to say, Beausoleil seemed kind of lifeless today. Not one song had much zip. Not sure if that’s their standard enthusiasm level, or just the heat, or maybe if you do something long enough your enthusiasm level will wane. No matter, I hung in for about 45 minutes then succumbed again to the heat and went to the Gospel Tent to cool down before Marcia Ball.
Thankfully, I stumbled upon yet another (for me) Jazz Fest find—
Glen David Andrews. This guy was incredibly dynamic and was a dervish from stage right to stage left and beyond, going into the crowd frequently. This house was full and it was a rockin’—don’t bother knockin’. He had help from the Dirty Dozen horn section and Trombone Shorty. One disturbing sign was at the end, when he made a big production out of putting on his white jacket matching his white pants, over his Ed Hardy shirt, and putting back on his sunglasses. This early stage of douchosity does not bode well for a gospel artist. Beware the lesson of Sam Cooke, young man.
Marcia Ball, up next, was on at least her second appearance of the week. Her set list was essentially the same as her Wednesday show in Lafayette Square, only a little grittier and showier. She came out wearing a custom white jacket with tails, with a Jazz Festival emblem on the back. She promptly took it off after the first song, complaining of the heat. This was her usual fun, swamp R&B set, showcasing her accomplished barrelhouse piano style. Another of Jelly Roll Morton’s and Professor Longhair’s children soldiers on. Ball loves Jazz Festival and always plays at her best here, sort of like seeing the Grateful Dead in San Francisco. Towards the end she played “Louisiana 1927,” Randy Newman’s song about a 1927 flood in Plaquemines Parish. It immediately became one of the true Louisiana songs, but even more so after Katrina. Its always a really moving part of her show, especially when played in New Orleans: “Some people got lost in the flood; some people got away alright.” I visited briefly with a guy from Houston wearing an Astros shirt, who said he’d been coming to the Festival since 1976, and had brought his daughter for her first Festival. They had some mister device attached to his camelback, spraying really cooling mist. Just goes to show, Houstonians are friendly. Houston itself may have problems, but Houstonians are the best.
As the Marcia Ball crowd began to filter out, the “
Sugarland” fans began moving in, even though that band wouldn’t go on until after Bonnie Raitt (whom I missed because her shows are generally fairly lackluster). Specifically,
these two wearing t-shirts just for the occasion that they appear to have made the night before. I don’t know much about Sugarland, except they’re a country duo. But I could tell a lot about them by their army of fans. Here’s a game—signs that your band sucks. 1. Your crowds are all the same sex. 2. Your crowd consists mostly of mother-daughter pairs or a bunch of BFFs who are going to put their memories of the show in their scrapbooks the morning after. 3. Your crowd was the crowd at Oprah’s taping last Tuesday. 4. Your fans make their own t-shirts for the show, out of leftover crafts materials from their daughters’ swim team sleepover. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the Jazz Festival stage, Sugarland. Yikes. Hey, Sugar Land, Texas just called. It wants you to keep its name out of your mouth.
Next up was a brief stay at
Geno Delafose. This was a pretty robust zydeco/boogie-woogie band, in the mold of Boozoo Chavis and CJ Chenier. The crowd was rockin’ here too, and dancing was breaking out everywhere. Delafose, despite the heat, wore jeans and a buttoned up, thick dress shirt. Didn’t appear affected at all…I guess the cool never sweat.
After getting some good barbecue chicken around 3:30 or so, I went back to the Gospel Tent for
Shades of Praise, who got some attention in the Times-Picayune. There now follows a racist statement. Most white religious or praise music, pretty much is awful. I’m not exactly sure why. Something about the soul in the suburbs from which it emanates. Hard to really belt it out for Jesus with your heart and soul when you’re sandwiching it in between soccer practice and getting the kids started on their homework (or giving Mr. Buttons his weekly bath). Shades of Praise, a mixed race choir, proves the lie that white folks can’t sing praise with passion and fire. They were just as soul-stirring as anyone else on the Gospel Tent stage (except, of course, the Zion Harmonizers and Aaron Neville’s solo gospel performance, to come later this weekend).
After a few songs, I headed to the Blues Tent for the first time today to hear long-time local club favorite
Walter “Wolfman” Washington. This was more R&B than B, but still dirty. The sound in the Blues Tent leaves a lot to be desired. It was distorted, particularly at the high ends, and centered rather than spread throughout the tent. Still a fun show, and the tent was packed with enthusiastic fans.
Looking to see someone else before Tony Bennett, I headed to the Fais-do-do Stage for
Patty Griffin, who I vaguely had heard of. Big mistake. This was K-Geezer (KGSR) music for sure. Indie chick complaint ballads. Every one of these kinds of songs (Jewel, Indigo Girls, Sarah McLaughlin) sounds like complaints that their lives are ruined because their dad missed their childhood ballet recital or they didn’t get asked to the prom. Well I went to two proms and trust me, they sucked. In my case, I had to answer to my mother why my date ordered the turtle soup in addition to her entrée. What was I supposed to do? Say, “sorry honey, but Mom says you can’t have soup. We’re still on for ‘later,’ right?” No, that doesn’t work. When you take a girl on a date, you essentially are turning over the right to your financial resources to her for the evening’s activities, and she has final say over the evening’s activities. All you can do is minimize collateral damage. Where was I? Oh. Signs that your Cajun band at the Jazz Festival Fais-do-do Stage is less than par: 1. No one in your band is from Louisiana or East Texas. Boo-yah!
So its on to Economy Hall, where the tent is full but decidedly not a rockin’. Maybe that has to do with the prevalence of walkers and other mobility assistive devices catering to the nursing home that appears to have bussed its entire population to the Economy Hall tent to enjoy the fine clarinet music. Other than Preservation Hall in the French Quarter, New York, or possibly the Catskills, the Economy Hall tent at New Orleans Jazz Festival is about the only place one can consistently hear professionally-played clarinet music. But, everyone here always seems to enjoy themselves. This is the style of jazz music that people of that age would have known when they grew up—dixieland and ragtime. There’s also a dance floor, populated mainly by the cast of Cocoon and moms dancing with their little children. Weirdoes also come here with their home-decorated umbrellas and break out in impromptu dancing and second-lining across the tent, generally starting a “second line.”
A word about the weirdoes here. As you can get a glimpse of on flickr, the Weirdo-American community has sent many of its members to attend the Festival. Be it those idiots carrying around tambourines and wearing “free hugs” signs, or people wearing bizarre clothes, or dancing inappropriately in the crowd, the weirdoes seem to have been increasing in number through the years. Something has to be done about this. Its one thing to be a little off; its another thing when every time you turn around some freak is up in your face. Back away from me, and take your masks, and your noisemakers, and your short shorts, and your silly hats, and your "free hugs" signs with you.
Finally, we have arrived at the
Tony Bennett Show. The show starts with his daughter Antonia singing three songs as a warmup, then on comes the man. Backed by only four musicians (bass, drums, piano, electric guitar), all suited up, Bennett commanded the stage and crowd for more than an hour. Dressed impeccably in blue slacks, yellow blazer, crisp white dress shirt and a navy/red tie, he had no problems moving all around the stage, standing by each player during the numerous solos he generously allowed them. Bennett even danced a little throughout the show. Every introduction was positive, and every greeting was humble. But his pipes were the best part. This man is amazing. A true professional, from the era of the great performers. He still has his fastball, and uses it as his “out pitch.” Bennett hit every high note, his tone and volume was strong throughout his entire register, and his stamina didn’t fail once. At one point he joked about having been singing professionally for 60 years. Oh, yeah, did I mention that Tony Bennett is 83 years old? You would never know it. He ran onto the stage at one point, and did a soft shoe and soulful strut during “Shadow of Your Smile.” He deadpanned as he dedicated “The Good Life” to Britney Spears. Other highlights included “I Got Rhythm,” “Just the Way You Look Tonight,” "But Beautiful," “Who Cares,” “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” (opened with a verse from “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans”), and “Steppin’ Out With My Baby.” Bennett was so “on” he may as well have been performing at the Copa in 1958. Henry Hill could have been on the front row, accepting a bottle of Dom Perignon from Paulie and the other bosses. The festival crowd, nearly all of whom were half his age, loved it. I heard people marveling over the performance as we left the show. Everyone sang along to songs they knew. Loud, raucous cheering. If you think about it, Tony Bennett, along with Johnny Mathis, is just about the last man standing from the great era of the American pop singers-Sinatra, Martin, Davis, Crosby, Nat King Cole, Mel Torme, John Gary, Frankie Lane, Perry Como, Bobby Darin, Andy Williams….That’s the rewards of having a tremendous outlook. Bennett said tonight that his very best friend ever was Frank Sinatra. Anyone who can legitimately say that is a force to be reckoned with. This was truly one of the special Jazz Festival performances ever, signified by Festival CEO Quint Davis taking the stage after Bennett concluded to thank him for his performance. A perfect way to end a memorable performance.
Tomorrow—Buckwheat Zydeco, Cowboy Mouth, John Mayall, Bonerama, Zachary Richard, and Aaron Neville’s solo gospel performance.
