Po
Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
Jazz
Fest Week One
Or
Into
the Belly of the Beast
Okay,
Cats and Hats off we go like a herd of turtles to The New Orleans Jazz and
Heritage Festival, hereafter referred to as simply ‘Jazz Fest’. I personally welcome
you to the first weekend of Jazz Fest,
our roads have been paved and sidewalks straightened like you’re off to see the
wizard on the Yellow Brick Road; yes, you’re headed straight into the virtually
fabled city of music, food and gaiety. We’ve sprayed the trees so that those
nasty caterpillars that sting like acid don’t drop from the trees like armed
commandos and whelp your delicate epidermis (also knocking off butterflies,
bees, and the occasional humming bird). All quiet on the western front
anticipating the arrival of the festivity famished friendly festival family of multiple
thousands (and den some).
Understand
that your safety is paramount to us and we want you to feel as safe as Tite
Poulet in Madame John’s bathrobe; we’ve charged a sizeable ransom from your
hard earned for tickets (certainly not couch cushion coin) in order to keep the
riff raff away. We’ve also upped the price of alcohol to where if you’re gonna
get in your cups, you’ll have just enough cheddar for the Uber chariot that
you’re relying on to take you safely back to your AIRBNB where your bedmates
(and buddies) await like bears in a den, insulated from the elements and
weighted down with beers iced like sticks of firewood in their cooler uterus
while their emptied brethren sit discarded like fallen soldiers having given
their lives in the service of their inebriation Czar.
Being Spring and all, I find myself congested with a case
of similes, you might say that my analogies are acting up. Personally, after
all of my jingles are jingled all the way (Christmas music) and my Hey pockeys
are all pockeed away (Carnival music), the lull since Easter has expended my
musical capital to the point of Rock an Droll; needing a shot of rhythm for the
Jazz Fest fever blues. I’m as ready for my dose as a hippie on a high mountain
seeking the guru sounds of musical nirvana awaiting my arrival. Mama, I’m home.
Be
that as it may, might I point out for you newbies that at first it can be a
little overwhelming, all the sounds and sights might sound like noise, the
attendees might look like crowds; it can cloud your imagination, flummox your judgment,
boggle your mind; you might get as nervous as a virgin at a prison rodeo. First,
rein in your hearing ability to about sixty feet in front of you; that will
have the other locomotion commotions sound less like cosmic debris,
cacophonically speaking. Stop, breathe, find your inner Conan, you can do this; go with the flow,
make believe that you (and everybody else) is high on something and that
everything is a show put on for just you, because it is (and they probably are).
Preparation is good, as good as a compass in a dust storm.
The weather is gonna be sunny, overcast, dusty, rainy, muddy and above all
erratic; try as you may, you will not be prepared for all of its
idiosyncrasies. Wear a hat, scarf,
sunglasses, sandals, boots, overalls and shorts, long and short sleeve shirts;
or screw it and just put on something comfortable and figure it will get ruined
and you will get wind, dust and sun burned. You can’t bar the doors if the
walls are gonna cave in. Take cash and maybe one credit card and leave all
other paper and plastic at home; electronic devices and extraneous jewelry are
like Jazz Fest masturbation, nobody needs to know where you are and those
selfies just make you look like an escapee from a batty bin. Basically, if
you’re playing with yourself, you’re not playing with us. You’re at the Jazz
Fest to have a good time not to make a friggin documentary. Relax, it’s just
music, food and fun; and if you don’t like the fun you’re having where you’re
standing… go make some of your own six feet, ten feet or even a hundred feet
away.
Allen Toussaint recommends that you “eat everything” at
the Jazz Fest; Debbie Lindsey reminds us to tip like someone’s watching you
(they are), I do both. I trapes the Fest dervishly, both new words for my
personal dictionary, kinda like tripping the lights fantastic only it’s
something that I do out of doors and performed with alacrity and a certain
amount of youthful subjective objectivity. In other words, I’m in love with the whole scene. I even dig
waiting in lines.
I look over people’s shoulder to see what they’re eating
and not shy about asking them how they like it and where they purchased it.
I’ve been attending for decades and I still cannot find my way from one end to
the other without getting lost at least twice, and I love that too! I’ve
purchased my tickets well in advance and never buy from someone out on the
street after my friend got burned with bogus tickets from a seemingly honest
pedestrian; literally scalped she was.
Generally I can tell the newer members of the audience
because they haven’t yet learned that rude and crude don’t work here, they don’t
use the litter barrels much less the recycle bins, they act like the Fest is a
meat market and also tap into their negative energies by mocking the afflicted:
silly dancers, weird dressers, flag wavers and other people that happen to be
ignoring how similar to a rube the mocker happens to be. Hopefully they’ll
learn before the second day.
Some don’ts: do not unfurl a towel, blanket, whatever and
expect that it will hold your place in the middle of an audience; don’t unnecessarily
save a seat in a tent for more than a portion of a performance and deprive
another of a place to comfortably sit; don’t block aisles or other walkways;
and don’t you ever pass up the festivities outside of the race track!
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