Just Your Average Night at Jazz Fest
Brian Ferdman
2004-05-29
I spent a nice Tuesday, April 27th afternoon partaking in the mini-Jazz Fest that occurs in New Orleans on the days between the real Fest at the Fairgrounds. Louisiana Music Factory, Virgin Records, and Tower Records all have free in-store performances, and Mo' Fest is a free little festival in Woldenberg Park on the Mississippi River. With all four "venues" within walking distance of each other in the French Quarter, the off-days of Jazz Fest become quite a scene. Mo' Fest is a quaint but nice event that I believe was initiated by the mayor. Seeing as how a New Orleans politician is involved in it, I expected to see wide scale corruption and people hiding sacks of money inside of trombones and sousaphones. The food is similar to Jazz Fest, except that it's not as good, less plentiful, and more expensive. Otherwise, it's exactly the same. The beer is also more expensive, and unlike Jazz Fest, patrons can only choose from one brand of urine-colored beer. Southern Comfort also sells Frozen Hurricanes, which taste a lot like frozen Robitussin with less yummy flavor and less alcohol. Mo' Fest also has this sort of haphazard flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants vibe, as very few people seem to know what's happening next, and no one seems to be running the show. The day before, I watched the closing act finish their set, and as I walked off in the distance, I heard the P.A. announcer exclaim: "Alright, what up Mo' Fest? Are y'all havin' mo' fun at Mo' Fest? Well, don't yo' worry no mo' cause we got lots mo' in sto' fo' yo'. Yo' want some mo'? Stick around cause we got mo' music at Mo' Fest!...What?...It's done?...Nah, yo' kiddin' me, dog...You sure?...Uh-oh...Uh...Okay, I guess that's it. No mo' music at Mo' Fest...Uh, go home...Don't hangout here cause we got no mo' fo' yo'...Come back tomorrow fo' mo' music at Mo' Fest! Damn, I need a beer!" On Tuesday evening, a classic schedule misprint caused me to miss Kermit Ruffins and the Barbecue Swingers, but I caught a little of the Stooges Brass Band, who were flip-flopped in Kermit's listed headlining slot. The Stooges were okay, although one would expect a little mo' from the headliner. Of course, it was all free, so the complaining will now cease. But make way for the endless bitching! Three days previous, I had run into Angus and Melissa, two former co-workers of mine from the time I served in the Martha Stewart Penitentiary. I didn't expect to see either of them at Jazz Fest, and I certainly didn't expect to find them in the Jazz Tent during the modern fusion of Astral Project, but life is all about the unexpected. We made plans to have dinner on Tuesday night, and when the time came, I left the Stooges to wait for Angus on Decatur. He wasn't there, so I went to call him on my cell before I realized that my phone had crashed. I was out of commission, and what if he had been trying to reach me to explain he would be late because of some horrible accident involving super glue, a live chicken, and 206 pounds of Vaucresson sausage? I frantically re-set my phone, and in the process, I stupidly wiped out the phone's memory. I now felt powerless without my palm pilot/cellphone. All weeklong I had used Vindigo to navigate the streets of New Orleans. I had tons of contact information in that phone. More importantly, Angus' contact info was in there. What the hell could I do now? I stared into the blank phone, pining for the days of my youth when people actually memorized phone numbers. Just as I was about to fall into a black hole of technobabble, Angus arrived, apparently having avoided the imagined sausage accident. We quickly drove off to the Garden District to eat dinner at La Petite Grocery, a new restaurant where a friend of mine, Dustin, was employed. Dustin, who is known amongst the social oligarchy of New Orleans as "Docta Funk," was our waiter. He made some excellent recommendations, including the Veal Flank Steak. I am a meat eater. I eat meat without pity. I like it. The process of eating meat makes me feel like some sort of Darwinist. Don't get me wrong-- I also like fruit, vegetables, fish, poultry, reptiles, amphibians, and partridges in pear trees, as well. However, I have always drawn the line at veal. Something about the process of raising the calf in that tiny little box just seems wrong. In truth, I had never eaten veal in my life, aside from these cheap, breaded frozen patties that my Mom used to re-heat for my brother and me, who would anxiously await our dinners with a classy bottle of Kraft barbecue sauce in hand. (More than likely, those cheap patties were not made of real veal. At least I have sold myself on that theory to relieve any leftover childhood guilt.) Now I stood at the precipice—do I order the savory veal dish and taste of the flesh, or do I cling to my principles and chose an inferior entrée? Principles are for wusses. A medium veal flank steak was on its way. (Just as scores of hate mail will surely be on its way.) Now all animal rights activists should understand that I made this order with several ounces of Jewish guilt weighing down heavily upon my slumping shoulders. Nevertheless, I decided that the veal was already dead, and if I didn't eat it, someone else will. (Yes, I know that is a lame argument, but I was trying to make myself feel better.) Moreover, Angus ordered veal sweetbreads as an appetizer, so I convinced myself that eating both the steak and the sweetbreads was making good use of the dead animal. Surely this little calf did not die in vain. No, I was finding nutrition from the area between its ribs and hip, as well as its pancreas. I felt very much like an Eskimo or American Indian the way I was getting the most out of the animal. If only the restaurant had a gift shop, I would surely be ordering some veal skin moccasins, a veal tooth anklet, and a veal eyeball belt buckle. All restaurants that serve veal should consider offering these items. Not only would they earn additional profit, but they would also relieve the guilt in their veal-munching clientele. Well, the meal ended with a dessert of chocolate soup with fresh cream and raspberries. It was quite good, although it didn't match the entrée or appetizers. I have to be honest and admit that the sweetbreads were insanely good. Who knew that a pancreas could be so tasty, especially the pancreas of an animal that's been penned up in a tiny stall for its entire life? As the meal ended, I thanked Docta Funk for his tasty but guilt-inducing suggestions. He asked what music I was planning on catching that evening, and I told him that I had my sights set on the 2 AM Moore, Vidacovich, Benevento, Skerik show at the Dragon's Den, which looked likely to include some special guests. Being an intelligent man, Docta Funk was thinking about the same thing. I explained that the house where I was staying was hosting an enormous crawfish boil the next day, and I probably wouldn't have a chance to sleep in after a late-night gig. Therefore, I explained my intentions of going home and napping until 1:30 AM, then getting up and going to the show. I told Docta Funk to call me if he didn't see me at the show at 2:00. It was a deal. I went home with the best parts of the calf nestling snug in my stomach. When I got to my lodgings, everyone was surprised to see me home before midnight. I explained my intentions, and this house of middle-aged adults hung on my every word, living vicariously through my (relatively) youthful plans. My gracious host offered me the use of his bicycle to get to the Dragon's Den, and I was quite thankful. Before I slept, I synced my phone with my laptop, and all of the information magically reappeared on my lifeline of a cellphone. (Being able to backup your phone is one advantage of having an all-in-one palm pilot and cellphone. The disadvantage is that your phone is roughly the size of Oregon, preventing you from ever wearing those tight leather Jim Morrison-wannabe pants that you bought when you were 17.) I set my alarm on my phone, I hit the sack, and I was out cold. The thought didn't cross my mind at the time, but now I harken back to two specific moments in musical history when I relied upon a cellphone or watch alarm to awaken me from a nap. The first was before the midnight set at Big Cypress, and my watch alarm didn't help me at all. Thankfully, my brother refused to nap, and he awakened me when my watch alarm went AWOL; otherwise, I would have spent the next several years kicking myself for missing a landmark musical event. The second time I relied upon an alarm was at the first Bonnaroo. Having mistakenly consumed too much Irish whiskey in the afternoon, my girlfriend and I laid down to nap before Galactic's midnight set. My phone alarm didn't help us get up, and I awakened to distantly hear Galactic finishing what would arguably become their best performance ever. Not good. Both times alarms failed to awaken me before midnight. This time I was going to sleep at midnight, and angling to wake up an hour-and-a-half later. Would my newly vital cellphone let me down? You betcha. But thank God for the Docta. At 2:33 A.M. I was awakened from a dream about Hannibal Lecter licking his lips to the word "sweetbreads." I rolled over and grabbed my ringing cellphone. I hit the "answer" button and then quickly hit the "hang up" button to prevent the entire house from waking up from their collective slumber. (My fancy cellphone the size of Oregon doesn't have a "mute" button.) I knew it was the Docta with my much-needed wake-up call. Dustin, being the good soldier that he was, must have thought I shut off the phone because he called right back. I answered and whispered, "Dustin, it's okay. I'm coming....I'm coming...yes...yes...Oh, God, yes!...Yes, I'm coming!" Now I really didn't want anyone in the house to wake up because they would surely think I was talking to a gay phone sex line. Nevertheless, Dustin's diligence with a cellphone has earned him the title of BEST WAITER EVER! I grabbed the rattletrap bike and strapped a battery-powered reflector light through a rear belt loop of my pants. This little light was my sole line of defense against drunk drivers and gun-wielding maniacs. I had hoped to avoid them both. I started pedaling and after a few shaky seconds, I was up and moving. Once I reached the end of the block, I realized that it had been about 13 years since I had last ridden a bike. I couldn't exactly pinpoint the date of my last ride, but I knew that it was in the era before those super dorky helmets became commonplace. (Please, spare me the hate mail. I know that you are Gary Busey's cousin, and you can probably lecture me all about the necessity of helmet safety. I have nothing against helmets, aside from the fact that they look pretty dorky.) Looking down, I noticed that this bike could shift gears. I didn't have time to count, but I guessed it was a ten-speed. I had never ridden a ten-speed in my life, opting for some generic five-speed dirtbike when I was in the golden years of my adolescence. A great deal of fear now prevented me from shifting gears. How do I change gears? Aren't I supposed to hit the brakes while I change gears? Where the hell is the clutch? What happens if I screw up the shift and the chain falls off and onto the street? I'll never be able to figure out how to get that damn chain back on the gears. I'll have to walk there alongside the bike, looking like a total novice. Drunken French Quarter tourists will point and laugh. I can't take that kind of embarrassment. Why didn't my damn host own a big wheel? I decided to stay safe in first gear, and pedaled my ass off. It was hard work, but after having consumed mass quantities of fried foods over the past few days, I needed the exercise. Trying to look like a confident cyclist, I rode through a couple of shady areas with a determined scowl on my face. I could hear what the would-be attackers and gang members were thinking: "Better not mess with that dude. He's wearing a determined scowl. Looks like trouble." Of course, they voiced this concern in a slightly different fashion: "Damn! His ass is blinking! Look at that guy with the blinking ass!" I pedaled faster. At a certain point, I began to worry about the legality of this bike ride. I was several years removed from my elementary school bike safety lesson. There were certain hand signals for making turns and stopping, but I couldn't remember them to save my ass. I had to do something, so I created a unique gesture for each signal. To turn left, I did a one-handed version of The Bangles' "Walk Like and Egyptian." (I probably learned bike safety around the same time that video was released, so there was a reasonable chance that this was the correct signal.) To turn right, I made a motion similar to what Helen Keller made in place of the word "water." (My thinking was that the complicated gesture would make me look both official and knowledgeable in the eyes of a policeman.) To stop, I created this unique gesture that resembled a slightly effeminate, one-handed waiter serving canapés in reverse. (There was no clear rationale for this movement, but I had to think of something.) I also began to fret about my lack of a helmet. I remembered that helmets were now required in my home state of Pennsylvania. I was petrified of being pulled over by a cop for riding without a helmet. Then I realized that I was in New Orleans, where laws don't really exist unless you're in the act of peeing on someone's yard. As I pedaled down Rampart Street, I couldn't help but notice the scores of cops who had makeshift sobriety checkpoints setup every three feet. Would I be pulled over and arrested? I hadn't been drinking, but I had been eating veal, and I bet they would detect that on a breathalyzer. I could hear the police now: "Chico, we got a 6-27 in progress, a veal-eating cyclist with blatant disregard for traffic safety. He's a handsome devil who looks like he's in his early twenties. He's wearing a black shirt, khaki cargo pants, and damn! His ass is blinking! Look at that guy with the blinking ass! Oh man, every time he stops he looks like he's serving pigs in a blanket backwards. Probably a gay drug addict waiter, I'll bet. No mandatory dorky helmet on this guy, either. He's turning right down Esplanade. Wait a second...Never mind...I'm calling off the pursuit. This guy is legit. I haven't seen anyone execute a perfect right-hand turn signal like this since young Harry Connick, Jr. patrolled the streets years ago. This guy's better looking, too. He also just used sign language to signal that he'd like to buy me some beignets. Boys, I'll see you at Café Du Monde. Rosco is hungry!" I heard the music spilling out onto the street, so I knew I was at the right place. I parked and locked the bike. As I waited to pay the cover, a guy in front of me was on the guestlist as a "+1." He didn't have a guest, so he told the doorman to charge the next two people half price. Voila! To begin, I didn't get arrested or crash on my first bike ride in 13 years. Now I was inside the concert for only five bucks. Things were going my way. It was an obvious sign that the suckiness factor of the jam session would be low this evening/morning. The Dragon's Den resembles an opium den. Granted, I have never actually been to an opium den, and I don't ever plan to visit one. In fact, I'm not sure that opium dens still exist in today's world. (A quick search of the Queens Yellow Pages has yielded nothing under "O.") However, I have seen opium dens in cheap ‘70s kung-fu flicks, and this was very much like the movies, although Stanton Moore was never playing drums in the kung-fu films. Skerik may have been there, but no Stanton. It's also important to note that there were no geisha girls onsite and no opium was actually being smoked in the Dragon's Den, which kind of kills my analogy. Okay, so the walls were red! That's where the similarities end. Stop being so critical. The room was a small rectangular shape, and in the center sat an area which, for dramatic purposes, I would like to refer to as "the inner sanctum." Wooden support beams and a four-foot wooden wall formed a square bordering the inner sanctum. The band was inside, as well as a few audience members and tapers standing crushed in between a couple of tables covered in beer bottles and empty glasses. Upon arrival, I felt the need to engage in brief activities that would make Mrs. Reagan cringe, but I needed a safe harbor to indulge in my evil behavior. The inner sanctum and its mass of humanity was my best bet. I weaseled my way into the mix of sweaty bodies. Just then, a guy behind me said, "Hey man, another guy has been standing here all night. You can't stand here." Oh, really. I was unaware that general admission shows were now issuing specific square feet of floor with each ticket. If this guy had been short, I could see his point, but he was towering above me, standing somewhere around 6'5". He was probably the kind of guy who always stands in the front row and blocks the line of vision for those of us who can only dream of playing shooting guard. Just then, the man who had apparently reserved the swatch of floor where I was standing made his return. "That's him," the shooting guard said. "Yeah, well I know him," I replied. It was true. I did know the returnee. I patted the guy on the back to demonstrate just how well we knew each other. In turn, the guy gave me a "Why the hell are you touching me?" kind of look, so I gave him a "Don't look at me that way. You're the one with the sweaty back," glance. The shooting guard gave me an "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you guys were former lovers," gaze, and in turn, I gave him an appropriate "Whatchyoutalkinbout, Willis?" stare. Someone exited the inner sanctum, so I quickly stepped to my left to escape this awkward situation. What's that you say? You've been reading for nearly twenty minutes and I've yet to talk about the music? Fine, Mr. Pushy, your wish is my command. The inner sanctum was crowded, and without a stage, the line between audience member and band member was finely blurred. Straight ahead, Skerik was standing house left, Johnny Vidacovich was on the house left drum kit, Stanton Moore manned the house right kit, Marco Benevento was covering the bassline on a keyboard just in front of me, and Ivan Neville had his back to me, playing keys in a position perpendicular to my immediate right. Technically, I was standing inside of the band. I had to be careful while dancing because an accidental hip check could have forced Ivan Neville into involuntarily modulating the tune like a cheesy high school show choir piece. When I walked in, I'm fairly certain the band was jamming on Earth, Wind, & Fire's "Everything Is Everything," a theme they would revisit in an hour or so. Suddenly, that gave way to The Temptations' "Papa Was a Rolling Stone." Without a singer in the band, the entire crowd decided to cover the vocal parts. I stuck to the bass part, and I nailed it. Everyone around me handled the monotone part with ease. Some people also added a second dissonant line, giving the Temptations an interesting John Cage-like feel. Apparently unsatisfied with our sad attempt at harmony, Skerik motioned for a young woman down front to take the mic and sing. She wasn't interested. He wasn't taking no for an answer. Finally, she grabbed the mic and went places that the tone-deaf crowd could only dream of going. Later, I would learn that this vocalist was none other than Ani DiFranco. I'm not entirely familiar with Ani's personal philosophy, but there's a good chance that she could be a militant vegetarian, so I'm glad I never chatted her up about my pre-show meal.
What we had here at the Dragon's Den was pure, unadulterated jamming. The band had no setlists, no rehearsal, and in many cases, no introduction to or knowledge of the many players who would be sitting in. It didn't take any sort of credibility to walk onstage. All you needed was a jew's harp and you could have been a star for the evening. Frankly, I love this kind of musical event, and this show provided some of, if not the best music I've ever heard in a live setting. There is something about these Johnny Vidacovich-led jam sessions that just puts magic in the air. The musicians fly without a net. Sometimes they crash, but usually they soar to lofty heights. After hearing so much of the drivel that passes for jambands, it's nice to hear a band that truly jams. Can I say enough about Johnny Vidacovich? The dude is a monster. He's sort of like a cross between a mad scientist and a Hells Angels gang leader. On one hand, he seems like the nicest guy in the world, and on the other, you feel as though he might suddenly throw his drumstick through your jugular vein just for fun. When Johnny V. is in the groove, this frenzied intensity rips across his face, and he can get kind of frightening. I am always drawn to those intense eyes, and being up front, I felt as if I was telepathically communicating with him. I stared right into his soul, and I tried to impart a profound thought: "Johnny, you the man!" Although, he never said anything, he offered an appreciative telepathic response: "Fuck you, veal eater. How's about I stab my drum stick through your eye socket and I munch on YOUR bloody pancreas?" I then moved behind a power forward and a center, deciding that my telepathic powers would be best saved for any potential (and harmless) tambourine players. The next two-and-a-half hours featured a slew of guests and continuous music that only stopped twice. Leon Brown manned the trumpet and offered some freestylin' vocals, a well-dressed Irvin Mayfield made an unexpected visit on trumpet, Eric Krasno came in to play both sets of keys and guitar, Steven Walker offered some trombone, and Devon Phillips added some tenor. Eventually, New York drum hero Joe Russo took over Stanton's kit, briefly playing alongside Vidacovich before going solo and then duetting with Stanton. Sam Kininger's drummer, Nikki Glaspie took over one kit and proceeded to pound the shit out of the drums. It was impressive, and then Vidacovich assumed the reigns to his kit, engaging in a nice little battle. By the end of the night, the aforementioned Kininger threw in some tasty alto sax, as well. With each musician moving into the inner sanctum, the breathing space became more and more crowded. The musicians were outnumbering fans, and soon we found ourselves doing creative dances that allowed us to dodge the incoming danger of Walker's flailing trombone slide. Everyone was so crushed inside it felt as if we were being boxed in, penned up, and treated like livestock. It felt like...Oh, God...it felt like...I was getting ready to become veal! Thankfully, the gig ended at 5:15 before anyone could start gnawing on my leg. Fearful of Vidacovich's craving for my pancreas, I made a beeline for the door. All of that musical chaos left me a little hungry, so I walked with friends Rama and Shea to nearby Café Du Monde. I left the bike at the Dragon's Den, and as we walked, I wondered how safe it would be to leave it there. As thoughts of bicycular robbery danced in my head, we actually passed a guy who offered to sell us an obviously stolen bike. That really put my stomach at ease. With my digestive track suffering from guilt and fear, I wanted to eat anything that didn't involve cows, so I got my plate of beignets and an orange juice. (I couldn't bring myself to order a glass of milk.) It was good capper to a great morning. During breakfast, I was consumed with learning the names of every musician who sat in during the show, and I only had one guy left on my list. Who was that damn tenor sax player? Lo and behold, I found him fighting with his girlfriend at 6:00 A.M. on Decatur Street. During the show, I had noticed his girlfriend had been trying to get him to leave, and he was doing the "Hang on, baby, just two more hours" dance. Now they were in the midst of a knock-down, drag-out, tear-soaked feud. Naturally, I felt it was appropriate for me to interrupt. "Excuse me. Did you just play some tenor at the Dragon's Den? "Yeah." "Well, what's your name?" "Devon Phillips." "Man, you were great. I'm gonna be on the lookout for Devon Phillips in the future." Truthfully, I'm not gonna become some kind of Phillipshead. However, having been in Devon's shoes on the receiving end of bitter fights with many an angry girlfriend, I had to help out a brother in need. Not only did Devon need a break from the accusations, but his woman needed to know that her man's work was much appreciated by his fans. Naively feeling as though I saved Devon's relationship, I sauntered back to the Dragon's Den. The bike was still locked up, and I envisioned would-be thieves passing by and thinking, "Nah. It's not even worth my time."
As I was about to ride away, I noticed that a young lady was making Joe Russo try on her high heels. Russo did so, and he seemed to enjoy learning to walk in women's shoes. Before his drag lessons went over the edge, I decided leave—QUICKLY. I rode home and yelled a jubilant hello to several local residents who were out jogging at 6:45 A.M. I could hear them muttering under their breath: "Damn, that Yankee needs a helmet, but I reckon he sure does signal some pretty right-hand turns!" I made it home unscathed, and I jumped in bed. Within a few hours, I would be helping to cook and eat 700 pounds of crawfish. Ah, seafood. It would be so nice. Even better, I'd never have to think about veal again.
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