Po Boy Views


By

Phil LaMancusa

Jazz Fest Redux

Or

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

Mea Culpa Maama Jamma. Wow, did I step in it or what? Last week (you didn’t read it, did you?), I wrote about ‘characters’ of the Fest and someone compared me to those older Brits that used to profile kids as either Mods or Rockers. “Not so” I retorted: “Listen, I get less than a thousand words to wax onward and I didn’t have room to pay tribute to all the other Festivalians you may see grazing at the Crawfish Monica zip code, let alone the workers!” Needless to say I, having been successfully admonished, have corrected my oversight.

First things first: from the voice of Larry McKinley (in the box) at the gate telling you “Welcome to the 43rd ….”

“ Remember, for your fun as well as safety the following are strictly prohibited…”

leading you to the gamut of bag friskers and ticket takers and outward (or inward), the Fest is staffed with an army of workers and volunteers from ushers, trash gatherers and them darn people in yellow shirts that blow their vehicle crossing whistles to stage crews, beer slingers, gospel singers, swingers, good news bringers and bell ringers. There’s a lost and found, Post office, ATM, General Store and posters galore. Also a first aid station and wandering security folks among the Mardi Gras Indians, brass bands and fans of every food and music genre.

Boys that fear no noise crowd the stages eager for some Honkey tonk badonkadonk; hometown heroes with angel backup singers and stars playing on ‘lectric guitars. Old bats herd brats while Cats in hats with rug rats have spats. Frats and Y’ats. Teens with hormones ragin’, Cajuns, Asians, and two stepping amazin’s at the stage they call Fais Do Do. Craft sellers, California swellers, gals with their fellers and strollers and men in buffed bowlers gently jostling with writers, liars, tea swillers and mango freeze spillers; oyster shuckers and down on their luckers. Stage hands, brass bands, Gospel Tent prayers, old school harmony slayers, Hip Hop ‘Players’, second line partner-searchants eyein’ wares of Congo Square merchants. Restless Electric Slide dancers, hip twitchin’ prancers and ebony romancers eager for some Frankie and Maze. The Dixie Cups are onstage singing “The Chapel of Love” while a guy in tight jeans is schmoozing a young blushing dove. Without embarrassments, Impromptu assessments of body inkments in tents and on pavements; a cold one up to my smile and sunglasses, freshly baptized in Old Sol’s shine.

Outdoor shepherds with cane fishing pole signposts flying pigs and flags and waving their charges toward safe haven outposts in crowds thick with smoke, sweat and beer; girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes and “peanuts!, get your peanuts here!”

Gospel tent rockin’ with spirit so thick you can taste it and robed choirs sway for the Lord like seaweed moving in a sea of harmony, joy and salvation. The Lord is holding down this corner of the track and throw your hands in the air, get up on your feet and raise your voices in praise of His Name until holy exhaustion overtakes you like the ebb of a wave in the sea of Galilee. Hosanna, Amen, “I know that’s right!” and a joyful noise up to heaven powerful enough to convert both hustler and hussy.

The Jazz Tent regulars jockey for prime seats to languish in notes created on premise from old salts to young lions grabbing solos saluting past masters from Monk to Dizzy and Duke dished up by Mayfield, Blanchard and Harrison. The ghost of Coltrane floating beside Charlie Bering smiling at what they had wrought upon the audience devoted to going no further into the fray; for once again, in their element, home at last. Sighing and nodding, toes keeping a time subjective in a love supreme to a crescendo of applause and standing ovations. Only to give way to the younger generations that amaze, astonish and astound with fresh found fugues repeated and varied with accompanying contrapuntal lines. Take a deep breath and close your eyes.

Past the kids area with games, story tellers and Mac-n-cheese. Tykes in rapt wonder while the likes of, The Wiggles, Imagination Movers or Choo Choo Soul spin smiles, songs, stories and young ideas to thirsty minds in small bodies while older, yet not any more mature, children crowd Economy Hall to see Chris Owens, The Goddess of all things New Orleans; Dixieland at its finest and handkerchief waving gravy trains around the tent.

Mardi Gras Indians chanting from the Heritage Stage speak to our innermost senses with rhythms of Shallow Water, Indian Red and Big Chief with a Golden Crown followed by brass bands that get us dancing down and dirty. While indigenous Americans remind us through song and crafts who the original citizens really are.

Lagniappe Stage, by the oyster bar with surprises a bit shy of big-time but no less admired, more prized, localized, idolized, less simonized but soon to be proselytized semi-marginalized musical masterminds. Surprised?

Food, food, acres of food. Red beans, white beans and BBQ ribs; there’s a place to get PB&J for the kids. Crawfish bread, bisque and boiled and beignets; PoBoys: gator, duck, soft shell. Cochon de Lait. Jambalaya, quail gumbo, cous cous and Jama Jama; catfish pecan, almandine or trout Baquet for your mama; boudin balls, fried chicken and fried green tomatoes; spinach and artichokes and poned sweet potatoes.

And for those of us that sport a sweet tooth, we’ll find Brocado’s gelato by the next booth; or cobbler, cheesecake, turnovers or tarts; or strawberry shortcake to share with sweethearts. But the best thing of all, to top off this list, is when we get kissed in a tent filled with mist. It’s damn near poetry.