New Orleans heat is alive. New Orleans heat stands alone. It doesn't bake you like Arizona heat; it climbs inside your lungs and roasts you from the inside out. So I discovered on April 26, 1996.

I'd already been to New Orleans a handful of times; I even stumbled and hollered through a dank, drunken Mardi Gras four years before. But this was different. This was a yearly American hadj for the most devout of players and fans, a muddy river pilgrimage straight into the belly of soul, a pagan rite of passage into musical adulthood. This was Jazzfest.

I'll sheepishly confess that it took Phish and the Allman Brothers to get me there. Apparently, though, I wasn't alone, as I discovered the first night when my travelling companions and I spilled out of a cab onto the newly minted corner of Bourbon and Shakedown Streets.

In my experience, only one smell in the world overpowers New Orleans gutter stench -- and I think you all know what I'm talking about. While the French Quarter has long tolerated rum-fueled brawling, public urination, and bare tits, the hoards of migratory phatti microbus proved too malodorous for the local merchants, who lobbied successfully, if unfairly, to have Phish banned from subsequent festivals.

Despite what we smelled, we didn't see any of the alleged trouble. Really. We were too busy sponging up the unmistakable sounds of delta brass blowing out the window of a joint on Tchapitoulas. Hell, yes, it was good. Two thousand miles from our beds, it felt like home.

We called it an early night by NOLA standards, and woke early the next morning to stake some prime real estate at the Ray Ban Stage. For the uninitiated, this stage is the focal point for the big-ticket acts that play the fairgrounds during Jazzfest. According to lore, the stage sits atop an old Indian stomping ground where natives once danced to invoke the spirits of rain. Today, the corner is notorious for drawing strange and isolated weather phenomenon; torrential downpours have been known to pound Ray Ban even as the rest of the infield stays bone-dry. In 1997, despite unrelenting rain the entire weekend, Carlos Santana promised sunshine by the end of his set...and brought it.

On April 26, 1996, the spirits of high-end eyewear had set the sauna for scorch.

Terrance Simien came on first, as the sun burned through a layer of protective morning haze. Terrance is a hulking, happy grizzly bear who plays Zydeco accordion -- not a standby in my CD collection, but good for getting the blood going. As the sun climbed higher, the Iguanas dialed up the thermostat with sweaty Latin rhythms and stinging guitar hooks. By the end of the Iguana's blistering set, we were melting precious ice cubes on our scalps to ward off heat stroke. Med tents were already overflowing. And Phish was next.

Fifteen minutes early, the boys took the stage, with damp t-shirts matted to their pale skin. Though they were slotted for only an hour and a half, the Vermont contingent didn't take a bow until two hours and fifteen minutes later. It was Phish's first live performance since their mythic New Years Eve show at MSG, and it was a little creaky, but if anyone near me cared at all, they were too busy dancing to say so. Michael Ray ignited Page's "Cars Trucks Buses" with dizzying bleats from his trumpet, and a swirling "Stash," a hi-octane "Bowie" and a "YEM" -> "Wolfman's" combo with an a capella segue provided tent-pole jams. A workmanlike set, even inspired given the unholy conditions.

But it was the encore that baptized many a believer. As Fishman pounded out the opening to "Cavern," boiling black clouds uncorked over the infield, offering raindrops the size of fat, juicy grapes, and the ecstatic crowd met the cool drenching with beaming smiles and outstretched arms. Truly a Ray Ban moment, and a new chapter in Jazzfest lore, courtesy of Phish -- but the day wasn't over yet. Funk was waiting in the wings, Louisiana style.

To these ears, the Funky Meters embody the New Orleans sound. They're certainly the standard bearers for the Jazzfest experience, and this day, they came to wave the flag. Trey's parting advice to "take care of your shoes" was quickly forgotten as soon as Art, George and company cut their first deep groove through the fresh mud. Apart from dancing like a mental patient and spraining several muscles in my face over the next two hours, I recall only leaping through the rain to "Hey Pocky Way," wondering why I'd never heard this glorious band make music before. I've witnessed it countless times since.

A gritty, soulful, air conditioned Allman Brothers show that night at the Lakefront capped an impossibly perfect day, but the true revelations were yet to come. The next three days and nights opened my ears to the likes of Marcia Ball, Kermit Ruffins, Irma Thomas and the Batiste Brothers, and enlightened me to the endless wellspring of genuine musical tradition, talent and soul that bubbles up where the Mississippi meets the Gulf. A Sunday romp at the Gospel Tent filled me up so high I thought I might burst with the spirit. And the food? Don't even get me started.

Now it's 2000, and I'm returning to Jazzfest for the first time, but this time for somewhat different reasons. Granted, this year's festival is a no-brainer for the jam band fanatic. From the Oysterhead one-off to String Cheese Incident, Bela Fleck, the Allmans, MMW, Karl Denson's Tiny Universe, Deep Banana Blackout, Jazz Mandolin Project, King Sunny Ade, The Radiators, the Meters, and countless Galactic throwdowns, the lineup reads like a wookie's wet dream. The air is thick with rumors about guest shots and surprise appearances.

But if these acts draw you to New Orleans next month, take care not to miss the boat; a wise person once said that Jazzfest is measured by who you missed to see who you saw. As monumental as the late night jams promise to be, anyone who sacrifices the infield shows for a few hours of sleep is missing the point.

Two truths apply: Jazzfest happens during the day, and you can sleep when you're dead.