Jazz Fest v. Royal Street

     Returning from my Sunday walk in the French Quarter, it struck me that thousands of people were milling about at the New Orleans Race Track at an annual event called Jazz Fest. They spend lots of cash to witness luminaries like Robert Plant, Dr. John, Irma Thomas, and other geriatrics perform some end-of-career songs and eat food that would be rejected by any self-respected homeless person. On the other hand, I strolled among the young, vital, and awfully talented musicians, who merely asked for a pittance, not the mega-bucks demanded by less skilled artists.
     There was the lady clarinet player performing with her band. I wrote about her several weeks ago, and she would make Branford Marsalis leave the stage in embarrassment. Then there was this man blowing thorough an Alpine-looking instrument while beating a rhythmic tattoo on a outdoor hibachi. (photo below)

      Not only that, but he had this weirdly dressed lady dancing next to him who was funny as hell as she contorted her body in a snake-like fashion. It cost me a five dollar donation; how much better can Eric Clapton be? I know I'm not ingratiating myself to Quint Davis and his ilk, but they should have seen the next act.
     There were three male singers all dressed exactly alike in yellow jackets with black pants black shirts and like ties who sounded just like the Ink Spots. They were rapping out 50's music like it was going out of style.  Do you really think William Royce "Boz" Scaggs can out-sing those three guys? You think some act on Congo Square Stage could come close to them. Not a chance.
     But fellow travelers, I have saved the best for last. There is a Royal Street regular act I have seen many times and have never tired of listening to them. One is an Asian violinist and the other is a black guitarist and they make the finest music on the street. That Korean gal (I think that's her ethnicity) can really play that fiddle. And the other gal does a wicked strum on her guitar. Eat your heart out Jason Isbell, you wish you could play like either of these two.

   Please do not misinterpret my meaning. I'm not riling against those citizens who spend their dead presidents attending Jazz Fest, and who endure the heat, drunks, showoffs, abominable food, rain, and slop to stand fifty yards away from a stage and endure the amplified sound, mistakenly called music; what I'm pointing out is: one person's fish is another's Phish.