There's no way around it: having Lionel Richie close Jazz Fest on the main stage, taking the place of Fats Domino, was an undeniably surreal experience. Not New Orleans in the least. But a friend who works for the Essence Festival swore that LR was the best show he'd seen in years. I was game for a spin. I mean, Does the man who sang "Brick House" ever stop being the man who sang "Brick House"?
Most of Richie's early material was what my cable radio classifies as "Smooth Favorites." Not really my bag, but can the eight jillion people who bought his records be wrong? The crowd was certainly feeling it. After about two thirds of his set, after dedicating "Stuck on You" to people in New Orleans ("...I'm mighty glad you stayed"), Richie announced the end of his "dignified" show. I cheered up, hoping for an all-Commodores close. Well, there was "Hello" still to be sung, and "Dancing on the Ceiling." Did I loosen up and have some fun? Well, enjoying Lionel Richie can be like riding a moped: It's a blast, as long as none of your friends see you doing it. My pleasure becaome unequivocal when he kicked up his final song, "Brick House." He nailed it, and I forgave all the smoothness. Then he played his actual final song, the synthy (and definitely not old school) slice of afro-pop "All Night Long." See what I mean? A study in contradictions.
Mention has to be made of the absence of Fats Domino, on the premises but under the weather. Best wishes for a speedy recovery, first of all. His performance was awaited by many who wanted to sieze on Fats' reappearance as a metaphor for the re-birth of New Orleans. His vacancy was an unfillable void. But there's a metaphor there too. Folks here are used to the fact that we aren't really getting the 2006 we'd really like, but have been doing our best with the world we've been given to live in. So that's how gobs of people spent the tail end of this muddy, rainy, malodorous (read funky), nonetheless glorious day: enjoying the hell out of plan B.
Okay, I have something to confess. I'm not just a blogger at this year's fest. I'm also a performer of sorts, a guest performer. My homeboys from the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars (the funkiest Jewish band in the three state area [that's Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas]) have been playing here for thirteen years or so, and I've been dancing with them all along the way. Not long, just three or so minutes, wow the crowd and split. As for the dancing, the style is called buckjumping, the bouncing double-dutch hop popular at second lines. But that isn't the main attraction. I do this flinging thing with my arms that looks like something out of Romper Room, where I look like I'm double-jointed. Dancing only in the loosest sense, but it never fails to rock a crowd. I think of my act as a reminder that the earliest dance groups in New Orleans were known as spasm bands. Not that they have an inferiority complex, but the Klezmers know where they stand in the pecking order of New Orleans music. Not Acura Stage, but not swept under the rug either. There's a certain kind of fest consumer who always fits the Klez in. Not necessarily Jewish, not necessarily old or young or white or anything. Dance music from left field. You should be so lucky that it comes to your town.
Anybody who thinks black people aren't coming back to New Orleans should have been at Congo Square for the Doug E. Fresh set. Doug, ably covering for the absent Slick Rick, played the crowd like a, well, not a violin, but maybe a Technics 1200 turntable. A medley of popular hip-hop rhythm tracks of the last twenty years, with lots of audience participation, of the "Somebody scream!!!" variety. He was so confident of the crowd's slavish devotion that they repeatedly turned down the volume, letting the audience's singing fill in the breaks. Gutsy maneuver, and disastrous if you've overestimated the crowd. But blue skies for Doug and them today. Figuratively, of course. The sun is still wearing an overcoat.
What can you say about a man who has been a professional washboard player for over thirty years? That he's adept at cheering people up with what was originally designed as a washer-woman's cleaning machine. When he uses it, it doesn't look like a chore. He doesn't even play zydeco, eschewing the spoons and bottle openers of central Louisiana for eight finger-sized thimbles. He's also tricked out his board with two coffee cans and a bicycle bell. Steve Martin used to say that the president should carry a banjo, to make whatever depressing news he had sound more joyful. Ditto the washboard. 
It seems interesting to me that of all the things I blogged about today, I neglected to mention that I bumped into a couple who had just gotten married at the fairgrounds. A testament to the carnival around us that the most important event in two people's lives would just blend in, but there you go. My friends M.C. and Kim got married here a few years ago, under a shade tree, and swore by it. "I had 40,000 people at my wedding," M.C. brags, "And Bonnie Raitt played. So did Los Lobos, Dr. John and the Neville Brothers. I had fifty caterers. And all it cost was twenty-five bucks a head." I can think of far worse venues at which to cut the cake.
Boy howdy, I thought the Ohio Players gave good interview? Turns out they're an even badder funk band. Kidding aside, the Players made short work of the primed crowd at the Congo Square stage. The mood was set, the sun having just appeared through the day's overcast clouds for good. It became clear that it really wasn't going to rain today after all, and people wanted to dance about it. All the hits: "Fire," "Skintight," "Sweet Sticky Thing," "Love Rollercoaster" (during which I witnessed an impromptu Bus Stop grid forming in the crowd), "Funky Worm." I can't speak for evryone else there, but I was left with three emotions:
It's inevitable. A common misunderstanding is that Jazz Fest is like a concert, where you find your spot and hold it as a series of great bands performs before you. But the music, food and conveniences here are broadly spaced, so that you have to be moving around a fair amount to cover all of the things you want to experience. Add the fact that all the stages and tents change artists about once an hour, and you get a better sense of the pace: the fest is a mellow carousel. As such, you pass bands that, in a longer version of your day, you'd plop down in front of for the duration. But you can't. Nonetheless, cheers to the Little Rascals' Brass Band, playing in super-sized form (two tubas!); to Astral Project, the perennial supergroup of New OIrleans' modern jazz scene; and to the Storyville Stompers, the musical force of the Krewe of St. Ann carnival parade. Thanks to them, every cranny of my day was filled with song.
It's nice to see Jeremy Lyons and his Deltabilly Boys again. They just had their first Post-Katrina New Orleans gig at the Fais-Do-Do Stage this afternoon. A parent of a school-aged child, Jeremy quickly relocated to Cambridge, MA, after Katrina. Drummer Paul Santopadre has been in New Hampshire. Bassist Greg Schatz is still here in N.O., holding it down. Their trio can be reasonably classified in half a dozen ways (swing, blues, folk, country, et cetera), and not by accident. These three honed their musical skills, together and separately, busking on the streets of New Orleans. Two out of the three were in the notorious Big Mess Blues Band, whose membership ranged from ten to seventeen on any given day, depending who showed up at the corner of Royal and St. Peter. They learned to play whatever kind of music pleases people, one handful of change at a time (and split seventeen ways?). It would be a shame if we couldn't attract their versatile chops back here full time. Great set, boys.
Tired of being stuck behind tall people or maybe those built-to-identify poles that knife theough the crowds at the Acura stage like shark fins? Craving an intimate experince with the artists? Can I recommend the Kids' Tent? You'll certainly be the tallest person there. I just saw the most bitchen puppet show. They've got finger painting, paper quilting, mimes, masks, clay beads. No one's going to push you around, and you can pretty much talk as loud as you want. And if anyone gives you a hard time, cry. Loud. Works every time. Seriously, I ... oh, you're going to Jimmy Buffett anyway? Had your tarp laid out since eleven? Oh well. Suit yourself. More puppets for me.
Maybe the musical line-up doesn't heat up for me until the later afternoon, but I seem to be doing anything but seeing bands today. Seeing them perform, that is. Just caught local rare groove DJ Soul Sister interviewing the Ohio Players, before their late afternoon gig (didn't I say it would heat up?). She covered the spread of their career, with special emphasis on their always sexy album covers, which were designed to make men stop in their tracks at the record store. For example, the album Honey, the one with the naked lady covered in honey? The lights were so hot that the honey melted and the poor model got stuck to the plexiglas. They had to pour hot water on her to get her free, then (if you're the believing type) mop up her leftover honey with pancakes, then eat the pancakes. If I could type a wink, I would.
So what if the Toussaint-Costello interview was a misprint? The traditional jazz tent has a wooden
floor off to the side, so people can dance without slipping ankle deep into muck. And what better set to catch than the
Preservation Hall Jazz Band, trad's answer to Menudo. By which I mean, the membership has all changed over the course of
the last 45 or so years, many times over. As a matter of fact, their rotation of musicians (among the city's finest and
most revered) can be as high as forty. That's how they've been able to keep the hall open while they tour the world.
They recently re-opened the hall for the first time since Katrina (several members of the band evacuated the city by
boat), and their revue of early jazz hits, with a few contemporary numbers mixed in, was a testament to one
running theme of this year's fest: consistency. 
had the fried oyster spinach salad (I know it's fried, but it's a salad!). Then I took
a big swandive and had the catfish almondine, crawfish monica (a cheesy, spicy pasta dish), and a mango freeze to
cool down. Then I had a broccoli and cheese pie from the Natchitoches meat pie booth, where I saw my friend Nan Hebert.
We talk about people who are dedicated to attending the jazz fest, but put Nan in another category. She hasn't missed a
day of fest in twenty-six years. Impressive right there, but the thing is, she's twenty-five. She attended her first
fest in utero, as her mom sold pies above her. And she's been here ever since. Katrina sent her to Brooklyn, but Nan's
back for the family business. And I'm pretty sure that as long as we have this thing, she'll be here, slinging pies.
