The Magic of Jazz Fest

This year will be my 34th Jazz Fest. Even during the height of the Covid Cootie Monster, when festivals were canceled, I celebrated Jazz Fest thanks to WWOZ’s “Festing-in-Place.” I blasted OZ’s broadcast of archived Jazz Festival performances from my porch and greeted folks with, “Happy Jazz Fest.”

While I credit our fabulous radio station with its colossal contribution to virtual festing, it couldn’t have occurred without our city’s attitude of “nothing’s gonna stop us now.” Festers are a rare breed of music loyalists and are keepers of the funk.

Every year on opening day as I approach the Savage Street entry gates of Jazz Fest, I hold my breath with a slight but serious concern that maybe the unique vibe of Jazz Fest will have faded—that time has diluted the magic. I fear that the new and younger audiences will sanitize the funk and remove the trust I have known for all these years—trust that I can leave my purse on my seat and dash to the restroom between sets or not emanate the friendliness and joyfulness that this fest is known for. Then, something happens, an act of courtesy or kindness, an expression of pure enthusiasm—I release my breath and inhale the enchantment of “Day One” at Jazz Fest.

Actually, a month prior to opening day, I like to stroll down Savage or Mystery Street and watch scaffolding and aluminum framing work begin for the various tents. I have been known to succumb to tears and goose bumps, kinda like a small town kid watching in awe as the circus arrives and pitches its tents. I guess you could say that everything about Jazz Fest appeals to me. I even get a kick out of buying my tickets; however, the online purchase lacks the friendliness of going to the box office and receiving that envelope. Back in my old days of procuring tickets, there was a ritual to it.

When I first moved here and for several years thereafter, I would score my tickets from “the ticket guy.” Yes—score— like I was buying a bag of weed, but this was totally legit. This guy came into town every Jazz Fest season, buy advance “early bird” specially priced tickets, and sell them for a miniscule profit—win-win for everyone. He sported a beard, long hair, tie-dyed t-shirt, and was as aromatic as a 4-day long Woodstocker. He added an edge to ticket buying and was an absolute sweetheart. When he stopped showing up every April at my favorite coffee shop, La Marquise, I was forced to join the outdoor wait-in-line brigade at the Municipal Auditorium in the Tremé.

This ritual soon became part of my Jazz Fest experience. The lines were long and you best void your bladder before. But the socializing that took place in that line was worth every minute. I met folks from all over the world who were in town for this festival and got to know many a local. Friendships were made. Before long, your turn at the window came up and the party was over—until you saw them all again at the Fair Grounds.

There are lines and then there are lines. For me any queue involving Jazz Fest is a Second Line. Any other line might as well be a visit to the DMV. The best is that first day of Jazz Fest when the row forms down Fortin Street, awaiting the Fair Grounds Sauvage Street gates to open.

Everyone is giddy with anticipation. You meet folks, strike up conversations, hug your neighbors, locals, and old Jazz Fest friends. Jazz Fest kindles friendships among fellow festers. My first friendship formed over music was with Curtis. Year after year we would find each other in the WWOZ/Zatarains’ Jazz Tent. At one point, we exchanged numbers and addresses and stayed in touch outside of festing season. Writing this reminds me I have drifted and need to call him and his wife.

Then there was Cathy. We struck up a friendship immediately. And every year, we continued sitting in the same row in the same chairs. She was my Jazz Fest “wife.” Festival friendships can easily form based on where you once randomly sat. Then one year, I had a bad feeling (no reply to my emails). I went to the regular spot where she and her friends always held court—no Cathy. Then her best friend showed up and looked at me with tears. Cathy had passed.

Jazz Fest is made up of so much more than world class music—it showcases our city’s wealth of talent. Additionally, it’s comprised of our unique cuisine, our heritage, crafts, books, photography exhibits. There are chefs offering food demonstrations, interviews, and more music than you can possibly attend. You can sit, as I do, in my beloved Jazz Tent or dance in the sunshine. You can go full gospel or shimmy to the blues. And heck, there are even air conditioned restrooms. Portalets aren’t for me; however, there is something to be said for squatting over that funky toilet and having the surround-sound of live music— like that year when encapsulated within one of those fiberglass water-closets and Tony Bennent was crooning love songs—just for me, I was certain.

Just the mere anticipation of Jazz Fest has lifted my spirits with reminders of what I love about living here.