Jazz Fest Week One 2026

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Infield

Or

Outfield

I saw a peanut stand, heard a rubber band, I saw a needle that winked its eye; I heard a fireside chat, I saw a baseball bat and I just laughed ‘til I thought I’d die. (Dumbo)

JAZZ FEST 2026 week one! Who would want to be anywhere else on Earth; you do have choices, you know: how about the myriads of places that sound as appealing as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick… at this point…on this planet; right? No. The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival is literally the “land of the free and the home of the brave”.

Yeppers, I ‘m Jazzed and ready to Fest! I’ve waited all year; squirreled away, in increments, my hard earned so that I can purchase tickets for each and every day. Do I want a coveted Brass Pass? No, and I’ll tell you why. This wise woman (Debbie) posited to moi that without the Brass thingy, I was virtually held ‘captive’ by the Fest and, in the case that I wanted to leave, I certainly could; BUT, I would not be able to return without the purchase of an additional ticket. So, with a single ticket I HAVE TO stay all day or leave for the day and not return without penalty, and who wants that?

Debbie, of course, as you know, goes right to her favorite seat in the WWOZ Jazz Tent and sits among her Jazz Tent regulars. I on the other hand go wandering; speaking seldom and spectator-ing everything that I can within sight and hearing. For me it’s a type of meditation that I practice; a kind of (extraterrestrial) alien amnesiac yoga-nomics.

As I wander and drift, so does my mind. Take for example: What’s up with this propensity for sites that you log into that want your User Name, Password and your email address to send you a secret code to enter before you can get to where you want to be, pay a bill or find out where that package is?  Did you know that a UPS tracking number is 18-25 letter/numbers long? I have to log into Netflix for goodness sakes; does that mean someone else might break into my house, use my computer to pay my mortgage, find out when my Best of Bread 8-track stereo cartridge is gonna arrive and then go watch The Godfather trilogy? I say, ‘let them’!

Or, why when a package says “tear here to open” it’s impossible to do so. Or opening your mail (you still get mail, doncha?) you need a sharp knife or you have to shred the blessed envelope? All this while I’m dancing through the crowd to get a Vaucresson hot sausage po’boy and trying to decide what side of the bread to put the Creole mustard on or should I go for the top and have it spill on my shirt like last year; and where should I sit to eat it or do I take it to a tent and look like an audience interloper?

It seems that it’s a wonder that I get anywhere at all; so, I don’t, and that’s the point. I’m at the FEST and I aint gotta do nuthin’ at all or I can do anything I wanna do because I’m here ‘til closing and time has just shifted into a dimension otherworldly.

Okay, I’m weird as dirt. I don’t drink alcohol at the Fest; I don’t strive to see a car exhibit; I don’t buy handcrafts (although you should), art or eat anything that I can cook at home (which is over half of what’s for sale); nor do I carry anything that weighs over a pound and a half (bottled water maybe). Don’t get me wrong, I’ll schlep a pillow for Deb and maybe a music program (like this here Where Y’at) or a towel to sit on; but, I’m a hands-free kinda guy when it comes to cruisin’. I also am inherently against a backpack unless I’m going mountain climbing and need to carry a sixpack; and I don’t need to charge a phone.

And, I don’t know how you feel about the subject; BUT (big but) I find here at the Fest there is an epidemic of diversity, equity and inclusion; from the Gospel Tent at the front door to the Blues, Jazz and stages galore, it’s like we’re all part of this big jigsaw puzzle. Pieces fitting together. The audiences seething, the food booths wafting and even the Port-O-Lets sweating, steaming; hungry mouths, moving bodies, overdosing eardrums and body function eliminations all wrapped up in music and grooves. Like one big sensual, sexual, primitive tribal gathering. And I dig it.

Speaking of digging, do all those sacks of potting soil come from a big hole somewhere? Is someone just digging up dirt and sending it in bags to Home Depot and other places? Where does that stuff come from? That must be some big ass hole somewhere.

Anyway, I realize that you have several reasons and/or excuses for not going to the Fest, and I understand, I really do. The crowds; the cost; those smelly Port-o-Lets; the weather; the mud; the cost. Heck, you can spend two weeks grocery money just over one weekend, I get it. Luckily for over a quarter of a million participants shoveling their hard earned to Quint Davis and his non-profit foundation the show goes on; last year, (55 years and counting) this year and with the grace of all the gods and goddesses, next year as well. And with that same grace, I’ll be there also.

        P.S. Don’t forget to vote those f*ckers out of office.