Some Jazz Fest Moments

I'm not one of those people, like the gifted Chris Rose, who can write whole essays on Jazz Fest, complete with descriptions of sights and sounds and smells, and well-thought-out reviews of music and food. For me, Jazz Fest is a shifting kaleidoscope, with rapidly changing patterns, going by so quickly I can hardly process them. I'm lucky to snatch a few moments as they speed past me. Here's a few of my personal Jazz Fest Moments I'll be savoring til next year:

•Friends and strangers alike greeting each other on the Fairgrounds and around the city with "Happy Fest!" -- as though Jazz Fest were an acknowledged holiday like Christmas or Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day. Store clerks and waiters would wish you a Happy Fest, not just those at the fairgrounds. Big Man said that nowhere else in the world would a local music festival be embraced by a entire region and turned into a holiday that folks would greet each other with.

•Quint Davis being interviewed on TV and saying that "with the return of Jazz Fest Local Thursday, Angelo Brocato's strawberry ice, and the Neville Brothers to close the fest on the last day, that Jazz Fest was formally and officially back to pre-Katrina standards. The very next day, I bought a strawberry ice and told the folks at the Brocato's booth what had been said. They were thrilled, and with strawberry ice on my tongue, so was I.

•Seeing the great Allen Toussaint walking the track like us regular folks, eschewing the shuttle that Jazz Fest officials would surely have offered him had he wanted one. His entourage -- his sons maybe? -- were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, but Allen, handsome and dapper as ever, was in a suit and tie. Coming upon him so unexpectedly, Big Man swept his hat off his and held it over his heart, as, he said later, a sign of his deep and total respect; my mouth agape, I blurted out, "Allen, I'm so GLAD to see you!" and my son, nonplussed, totally forgot to take a picture with his fancy digital camera. Allen was his usual smooth and gracious self, stopping to allow photos, speaking kindly to those who came up to him, and replying to me with a smile, "I'm glad to see YOU too." (On the Sunday that Big Man played the Fest, in the musicians' parking lot we came upon a gleaming black Cadillac with the personalized plate PIANO1 and assuming it was Allen's, we made little "we're not worthy" bows to it.)

•Big Man's first-ever Jazz Fest gig was the cause of another Jazz Fest moment, as he warmed up on trumpet on the Gospel stage before the fest opened, and a small boy wearing a volunteer T-shirt and holding a push-broom came up to the stage and hollered up, "Hey, Mister, how you do them high notes?" and Big Man replying, like the old joke about Carnegie Hall, "Practice, practice, practice!" But then he relented and leaned over the edge of the stage to show the young would-be trumpeter a few tricks of the trade. And so the music is passed on, as it should be, from one musician, one generation, to the next.

•Eating at the Fest is such a trip. For amounts ranging from $6-$13, you receive a dish worthy of the world's finest restaurants, complete with presentation details like little bows made of green onion, slivers of fresh lemon, and sprinklings of parsley, and tasting like pure heaven. Standing or sitting at the food tables, we communed with folks from Japan, Germany, Iowa, New Hampshire, Chicago, New York, Australia. We asked each other what we were eating, and total strangers offered each other tastes and pointed out favored food booths. An amazed "Where did you get that??" was frequently heard, as was fervent gasps of "Ohmygod!" Yes, eating at Jazz Fest is truly a religious experience.

•Speaking of religious experiences, I had several in the Gospel Tent. The Famous Rocks of Harmony truly did rock the tent, in their natty matching suits, and their special trick of soloists working up to a near-frenzy and then handing off the solo to the next singer. It was such an historic moment to be there for Mr. Sherman Washington's final appearance (in a wheelchair) with the mighty Zion Harmonizers bringing the crowd to their feet. And what more can be said about Aaron Neville's return to the Gospel Tent for his traditional gospel-soul set, movingly dedicated to his late wife, Joel, with brother Charles wailing on sax next to him. By the time Aaron got to "Louisiana 1929" with its heart-breaking refrain, "They're tryin' to wash us away," there could not have been a dry eye or face in the place. Some of us wept quietly, others sobbed aloud. Folks waved handkerchiefs and paper napkins and screamed his name. He was home, we were home, and we were all together. Incredible spiritual experience.

•While I was there, it rained on two different days (I arrived after the rain on the second Saturday so I can't speak to THAT downpour), and it was quite a sight both times to watch all those umbrellas blossom like flowers in stop-motion as the clouds opened up. Most folks seemed prepared, with raincoats or rainsuits or rain jackets and umbrellas and boots (and tarps and shower curtains!); those who weren't thus physically prepared seemed at least mentally and spiritually equipped, stoically or hilariously getting soaked to the skin in order to see and hear their favorites, like Billy Joel and Stevie Wonder and Dr. John. Later, after rains, you could see people practically encased in sticky fairgrounds mud, or nearly invisible swathed in vinyl and plastic. (Women came up to me, demanding to know where I got my bright-red fireman boots and were disappointed to learn that the boots were close to 20 years old!)

•We all have our favorite tunes that we hope-hope will be played by our favorites at the fest. Since my son was with me on the second Saturday, I was wishing that the subdudes would do "Sugar Pie," an especial favorite of ours that was played for the "mother-son" dance at my wedding to Big Man four years ago. (Such wonderful lyrics about what it means to a parent when their "baby-my-own" grows up.) Sure enough, they did sing it, causing us to be all overcome with gushy emotion, both of us tearing up. Later that same day, to our enormous surprise and gratification, we ran into our old friend Johnny Magnie of the subdudes at the booth that sells crawfish sacks (a big festival hit). He seemed as glad to see us as we were to see him, and asked about mutual friends by name. Johnny was astonished to learn that I was now pastoring the congregation he used to attend and was amazed to see how adult my son was (I'm sure I'd be just as amazed by Bo and Tyler's growing up). While we clumped together visiting, folks went by and took his picture as a celebrity, with us in the picture!

•Even now, days later, I can hardly write about the experience of being at the fest for the Neville Brothers return. There were tens of thousands of people, full-throated roaring their pleasure and joy. Artie saying into the mike, "We never left, y'all, not really" meaning, I suppose, that no matter where they had been physically, it was impossible for the Nevilles to truly leave New Orleans. They ran through all the songs we wanted to hear, not like showmen, but like relatives at a gathering retelling the favorite old family stories. Famous names joined them on the stage -- Carlos Santana, for one -- but the Nevilles were all we cared about. Aaron dedicated more songs to his beloved Joel, and it seemed to us that he had been afraid to come home, fearing her loss would be worse in familiar settings. (Maybe he came to realize that he might miss her LESS if he were home.) The songs that had defined our lives, that had become part of our sexuality and our spirituality rang our over the fairgrounds -- "Tell It Like It Is," "That's My Blood," "Yellow Moon," Voodoo Woman," "Hey Pocky Way" -- and we sang and danced along, the years of our lives going by in our minds. Men and women alike broke down in an ecstasy of shared grief and joy. Couples clung to each other, sobbing on each other's shoulders. Grown men stalked past us with tears streaming down their faces. Big Man wiped his face; the woman in the chair next to ours sank down, laid her head on her knees and just cried, her shoulders heaving. The set was supposed to end at 7 pm but it went on and on, with the crowd screaming and cheering and dancing and singing along, until 7:35 pm. We practically expected a representative of the mayor's office to show up with keys to the city. Quint Davis finally came on, pronounced us all Nevilles, and told us that Jazz Fest was now officially back to normal. "Stay safe, be well, love New Orleans, and see you next year!" Totally wrung out, we staggered from the fest. Until next year.