Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

New Orleans' jazz therapy

For all of that surrounding sadness, you are encouraged to have fun and spend money and show some love at Jazz Fest. So you do.

By SEAN DALY
Published April 29, 2006

NEW ORLEANS - The $15 shuttle from the French Quarter to the 2006 New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is an appropriately sobering sojourn.

Revelers will enjoy booze and blues and bon temps soon enough. First, a rolling reminder of how bad this city needs something to smile about.

On its way to the Fair Grounds Race Course, the shuttle rumbles through several devastated neighborhoods, including the area of Treme, where once-lovely little homes now sag with the weight of loneliness.

That dark brown waterline, a constant reminder of Hurricane Katrina, runs from house to house, block to block. The bus drives past a church where the waterline is 5 feet high; the pews inside were most certainly under water.

Ubiquitous red and black X's adorn each door. The cryptic sets of numbers that accompany each X are foreign to outsiders; they are as understandable as the ABCs to someone who managed to stay.

Every time you shake your head in disgust, someone inevitably talks about how it's so much worse in the city's Ninth Ward.

For all of that surrounding sadness, you are encouraged to have fun and spend money and show some love at Jazz Fest.

So you do.

The Gospel Tent has become my favorite place to hang out.

Especially on an overcast Saturday, the festival's second day, when huge crowds bordered on the cumbersome - good news for New Orleans; bad news for someone waiting to use a portable toilet - and a harsh wind whipped up eddies of dust and detritus.

The 11-piece Lighthouse Gospel Singers from Baton Rouge, La., uncorked a joyfully robust version of When the Saints Go Marching In, their spirit-kissed harmonies crescendoing until everyone - young and old, locals and tourists - stood and clapped and hollered out to their preferred almighty.

A police officer was summoned to the Lighthouse gig when dozens of fans poured into the aisles, feet moving, hands in the air.

One of those people fighting the law and praising the Lord was Mary Wadden, a 25-year-old free spirit from San Francisco. This is Wadden's first Jazz Fest.

"I love the Gospel Tent," the sunny brunet said with a twirl.

Just before joining the aisle dancers, Wadden puts her hands on my face and wipes away the perspiration.

"You're sweating," she says with a smile.

Amen to that.

The unofficial Jazz Fest after-party is held on that Boulevard of Broken Morals otherwise known as Bourbon Street.

On Thursday night, I managed to stagger down the middle of the French Quarter's most decadent passage without bumping into a soul. There were people on Bourbon Street; there just weren't crowds.

But that changed on Friday and Saturday, when the street was once again packed with the pretty and the pretty desperate, revelers of all ages offering up cheap plastic beads for a quick peek of naughty bits.

I find it perversely comforting that the most popular drink to make you forget about Katrina is called a hurricane. The bigger the better. Whatever gets the job done.

I also find it perversely comforting that every time you buy a beer here, every time you buy a shot, you feel as if you're giving back to the city of New Orleans.

Lap dance for $50? Hey, it's for a good cause!

A few great musical moments from Day 2:

Rabid whispers of a surprise U2 appearance pinballed through the crowd when Bono's band buddy the Edge joined the NewBirth Brass Band for a sing-along rendition of Stand By Me. There's a reason why the Edge, who helped form a charity for displaced and distraught New Orleans musicians, is a guitar player and not a crooner. Still, it was a moving gesture of artistic solidarity.

Dave Matthews might have been the biggest draw of the day, but Herbie Hancock wasn't far behind. For the jazz legend's hour-plus set, an overflow crowd of thousands stood outside of a woefully small performance tent. (Whose idea was that?) Fire marshals were called in to thin the crowds, and auxiliary speakers were set up outside, both resounding reminders that a whole lot of people still care about jazz. Despite all the hubbub, Hancock's blend of juke-joint cool and free-form improvisation was spellbinding.

At the Jazz & Heritage Stage, Chief Iron Horse & the Black Seminoles, a krewe of Mardi Gras Indians, filled up a small area with fun and funk and extravagant headdresses. There are dozens of Mardi Gras Indian clubs in town, collectives of mostly African-American men who blend American Indian homage with the soul-jazz stomp of the Crescent City. It's all about strength and survival and endurance.

At Harrah's Casino, I played roulette with a handful of native New Orleanians. As we dropped our chips on blacks and reds, the topic of the cross-table conversation had nothing to do with Lady Luck. Instead:

Where are you living now?

How much water did you have?

The mood wasn't dour, however. It was celebratory, defiant.

I've never had so much fun losing my shirt.

[Last modified April 29, 2006, 22:11:02]