It was a long easy haul down from Chicago through Illinois to Cairo. Six hours of straight highway, first through the tall grass prairie, all flat farms now, and then through the rolling river dells of South Illinois to the Mighty Water itself, the great continental crease that we would track to its silted end. We crossed the Mississippi on 57 south of St. Louis, saluted the muddy waters, and turned left through the lush farmland of the river bottom in Missouri. Paused for lunch at a rest stop and ate sandwiches from the cold meat, cheese, and fresh bread we'd picked up on the way out from Conte Di Savoia and Superior Italian Bakery on Western Ave. It began to sprinkle rain. A couple in a Ford pickup wearing some kind of ole time religious getup, Mennonites maybe, except the woman wore high socks, and they had Chihuahua license plates so maybe it was some kinda rude Mormons with the seven wife thing going on, they took in our travel style on the way to the public restrooms. The clouds had gathered thickly in the blue sky and fat drops of rain fell on the bread as we ate.

 

Down through Arkansas to Memphis, which we passed at around 4:15, and pulled off the freeway to go to Graceland. We paid for parking and then walked in to find that the tix were $25 a pop, way too much for us to pay our homage to the King. I mean what kind of expenses does he have anymore? So we got our money back and it was a strange bathroom break. On South into Mississippi and the sun getting lower in the sky, the clouds gathered thick dark and ominous. We pulled over at Enid Dam, to see what the Army Corps of Engineers calls a lake. A mosquito trap gouged into the red clay. A couple hours north of Jackson and the storm hit, thick heavy Gulf rain, filling up the road, beating against the windshield in thick sheets of fat splats. We pressed on at 70 or so, like everyone else, praying like hell when the eighteen-wheelers plowed through burying us underwater.

 

As I passed on off-ramp, I saw that a car had run off a thirty foot bank into the trees, its lights flashing to the rhythm of domestic tragedy. I called 911 on the cell and they had already heard about it but they patched me through again. We're on our way over there, sir. Well hurry up because that looked bad.

 

We stopped for the night in Jackson, the air cooler for the rain having passed. Up the next morning and hit the causeway on I-10 about 11am and then on to New Orleans, the noonday sun glistening on the surface of Lake Pontchartrain. We met Bruce, our host, and got into our little slave quarter apartment on Bourbon and St. Anne. We ate at Coops, fried chicken, green beans, jambayala. Then walked around Frenchmen St. The shows were a little too expensive, big four show bills that would go til three, and we didn't have the energy so we came home early.

Up at 10 this morning. Bought coffee, made phone calls, rented bikes, bought rum for spiking drinks, bought tix to the Fest, and then cruised out there on our bikes, a mellow roll down Esplanade through Mid-Town, taking in the trumpet vines, hibiscus plants, brokedown colonial palaces and tasty evacuated bungalows. In crisis, opportunity. In Diversity, Unity.

We walked to the Congo Square stage first, to catch the last song and a half from the Gangbe Brass Band, a West African bad from Benin. We weren't there long enough to hear much but it was really good, candy sweet West African horns with a cool rhythm section. Then we moved down to the Fais Do Do stage to hear Bryan Jack and the Zydeco Gamblers, a zydeco outfit from Houston, TX. Zydeco is black French cowboy music. Go figure. It's cool as hell, related to Caribbean music, Mexican music, Cajun music. The band features the accordion player, who is the band leader, and a scratch board, which is a metal marching band washboard. Those two carry the sound, but behind them is your standard urban backup band that you'd see in any Black neighborhood. The players were young and real good. A keyboard, drummer, bass, rhythm guitar. Bryan Jack is the accordion player and singer. Zydeco is synchopated, pulsing, two-step music that pauses for solo break downs on each of the instruments, but most regularly on the scratch board so that people can stomp a little bit. Jack is a great player, cool as a cucumber with an entertainer's smile, does a trick where he throws the accordion out with one hand and whips it back, making a long honk honk and catching it closed right on time. It was a great way to start the Fest. Real fun happy Louisiana music.

We stayed for the whole set and for the encore and clapped out loud. Then we walked over to the food tent and got a Cochon Du Lait Po Boy, roast suckling pig pulled with slaw and Cajun mustard. Very tasty. Then two homemade lemonades. We drank half and spiked the rest with Bacardi Gold and walked on over to the Economy tent to hear the Treme Brass Band, one of the ole timey Nawlins brass band acts. The tent was full of the older crowd, mostly seated, and the grass around it was pretty boggy from the rain. They sounded great and a second line of folks from some of the more affluent krewes formed and wound its way around the tent. We couldn't get into a good enough spot to listen and saw one woman lose her whole sandal in a mud sinkhole, so we passed on over to the Congo Square tent to catch Stephen Marley, joined by his lil bro Damian Junior Gong Marley.

Stephen is Rita's son, and Damian from Cindy Brakespeare I tink. They look like two totally different halves of Bob. Damian like the father, the Colonel, a long nose and a long jaw and drawn cheeks. Close brown eyes. And then Stephen, flat black nose and happy wide face like Rita. Stephen plays a lot of his dad's music, almost note for note and sound for sound. Could You Be Loved. Slave Driver. Pimper's Paradise. No Woman No Cry. Buffalo Soulja. His own stuff is funkier, and sung the same, conscious messages for a conscious party. Damian is a dance hall MC. He came into the set and his mike wasn't working and it took them a whole song to work that all out, but he got the people clapping and moving when he came on. Some of the backup musicians are original generation old Rasta men who play really slow and mean. The drummer ripped and they showed him on the big screen. Damian turned the party out enough so that I wanted to hear his lyrics in earphones, see what he was saying, and him and Stephen are cool together sending brother love out to the people in the name of the I and I.

The show closed with a rap cameo from a Somali dude named Canaan (K9) playing an African drum and spitting rhymes in a faintly Arab cadence. It was really nice. I'd like to check all three of the albums out. Stephen for steady funky happy and some Bob nostalgia. Damien for the flow. And K9 to hear how deep his act can go. I have big love for the Marley Family, love the way they push consciousness with earnestness and get paid making music all the while. Love that Damien wants to play for his brother Stephen.

We'd decided to stake out that show because we knew John Legend was on next. He was competing with John Mayer and the Allman Bros. Band-no contest for us. After the Marleys left the stage we walked forward, to forty feet from the stage, and prepared to wait the forty minutes between shows. We were tired and sunbaked after ten, so we left our precious spots, went to the bathroom. I got two Miller Lites and a water and then we went back up to the front and regained our spots.

John Legend came on a ten minutes late after an absurd introduction by two local radio DJ's, two Tide corporate reps who Legend had helped to wash 20,000 loads of laundry belonging to the needy of New Orleans, and then a short say-so from Lt. Gov. Mitch Landrieu, who put on his Creole accent and said, Let's get lifted with John Legend. Which I though was pretty hip for a Lt. Gov. Just when we were all getting really restless, Legend's band came on to the stage and started in on a number, so that we thought they were covering for him. The crowd was interesting, by far the most integrated and mixed up crowd I have ever been a part of. The black spectrum ran from church people to college students, to thugs, to grey-haired patrons. The white crowd went from Jimmy Buffet, to Southern Hippie, to the Abercrombie kids, to regular folks like me. John Legend is a hero to the teenagers now and particularly women everywhere who listen to his sweet and down low love ballads. I like his stuff because my girlfriend turned me onto him. It's the one musician we totally agree on. His stuff seems syrupy to me at times, but I always end up feeling it.

A concert can make or break your relationship to a recording artist. I most clearly remember seeing Spoon play live and never liking them again. John Legend came on stage wearing a black blazer, walked to the front of the stage, and delivered a series of bows and salutations that would have put Haile Selassie to shame. His stage presence is theatrical, extremely confident, and when he starts to sing you understand why. His voice is natural, comfortable, and beautiful. His singing seems effortless and he plays piano like a songwriter, like he's thinking about something with his left hand.

Legend had on a white stretch top and some white cotton pants under his blazer. It was hot as hell and it wasn't long before the jacket came off and he'd sweated through his whites. He was dripping wet by the time he asked for a volunteer from the crowd to dance with to Take It Slow. He picked Princess, a not so delicate women who was showing good enthusiasm in the front. They tried to get her up onstage by way of the step up stand the sign language translator was using but it wasn't gonna happen. Princess would have needed a crane to go up that way, so the security guys escorted her around the side. Maybe she caught a bus. As the song wore on, we weren't sure she was gonna make it. Neither was Legend, who went on with the song and shrugged his shoulders, but a moment later she came running out from the back waving at the crowd. She took one look at the sea of heads, looked Legend up and down hungrily, gave a shy shrug, and got down on that man's sweaty chest. The crowd went wild cheering her on and Legend danced close with her, working her around. It was a sweet, spontaneous moment.

By that time in the show I loved him. He had my girl dancing with her eyes closed and hugging me. He had us all moving. He's just a great entertainer and knows it the way the Rat Pack guys knew it. He plays and grooves and croons and struts and you just love it, love it, love it.

On a late transition him and his band threw a bone to the psychedelic crowd by sliding into the Beatles White Album breakdown from I Want You. It was great. Nobody knew what to do but the band loved it and all the high people in the crowd loved it. It was just weird enough that it made me laugh because the rest of the show is just crowd candy. Legend came out to the people, walking down the center aisle, climbing up on people's shoulders, touching hands with adoring women. Musicians love to play New Orleans. Especially if they are really talented.

After the show we all piled out. The sun was low. The whole remainder of the Fest crowd had come to see Legend because apparently John Mayer was sucking and the Allman Bros.... well we all know what they were doing. We walked back to our bikes with the mass flow, stepping over a million plastic beer cups and rode back into town, the air cooler as we moved back down the Esplanade to the Quarter.

We had planned to take a nap, eat some food, and then go to the Cajun River Queen, a riverboat, to hear the Hot 8 Brass Band play with the North Mississippi All Stars, a funk outfit that plays big down here. But Lee didn't call until the boat was about to leave, and he told us that they might come over to Frenchmen St. later to hear the Soul Rebels Brass Band. That was good enough for me, so we showered up and went down to Coops to eat food. I had a bowl of gumbo and C had red beans n rice with sausage. Coops was packed, but a little calmer than the night before when they had run out of rice.

After food we headed down to Frenchman St. to Café Brazil to see the Soul Rebels. I was excited for the show, because Bennie Pete from Hot 8 had said that Tannen Williams from Soul Rebels was the best young trumpet player in New Orleans. We caught the last half of a set by a young brass band called The Truth Brass Band. One of their friend's fathers had died and they ended the set with a tribute to him, played I'll Fly Away. A second line formed and snaked around the dance floor, a group of local women weaving their own spirit pattern on the hardwood. The band was good, but not tight like an older band and the personalities of the players were tentative. They hadn't assumed their brass identities completely.

We ran into two friends from college, Jason and Matt, and hung out with them waiting for the Soul Rebels to start. Bennie Pete told me he liked them a lot. He liked a lot of things about them. That they don't play funerals anymore because they don't like the pay and they won't be pressured. They defy the major rules of the local brass band industry and it works. Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds...

Tannen Williams is incredible. He plays the horn loud and bright. Their band members take turns stepping in and speaking to the crowd, singins a chorus, taking a solo and they are just seamlessly tight and can go forever. We stayed for two forty minute sets and were so leg tired we couldn't dance anymore. They had another set to go and it was already 3am. Bless those who stayed. We walked home a little sunburnt and very happy.

It was over twelve hours of music. I missed the Kentucky Derby and the Mayweather/DeLaHoya fight, a good load on any other Saturday, and I realized that music makes me feel really good. Note to self: see more music. Play it. Sing it. Stamp it out.