Pat Connors and I left Hilliard at midnight Wednesday/Thursday, in the beginning moments of April 28th. We had conflicting names for the new, chop-top Dodge Magnum that we were piloting to the Big Easy, She called it Candy Apple and I was partial to the Red Sled. But it was the perfect size and styled vehicle for the two of us, the cooler, food, the horn and the minimal clothes that one needs for Jazzfest. 

  After fourteen and three quarter hours, three tanks (nearly thirty mpg), fourteen compact discs, plenty of food, drink and one courtesy stop by a team from the Mississippi Highway Patrol (“You’re the second car from Ohio we’ve stopped that’s heading for Jazzfest. We was just checkin’ to see if you was awake.”), we rolled into our New Orleans home, the Brent House Hotel on Jefferson Highway ($117/night). My brother, Kevin, was due in the next morning from Houston and we set our body clocks back an hour.

  We awoke from our nap at 9 pm. and dressed for the cool evening in the French Quarter. We parked at Peters and Conti Streets, a little late for dinner, so we had dessert instead at the Cafe’ du Monde, world renown for chicory coffee and beneigts. That stop gave us the strength to walk through the Quarter to Rampart Street, where my favorite entertainment/barbecue spot is called Donna’s.

  Since I had never seen anything but brass bands in Donna’s, I was surprised by a small stage and a four piece quartet, with a clarinetist out front. But I paid the ten dollar cover and then got a bigger surprise, Evan Christopher on clarinet and Tom McDermott, playing the best piano. They mixed New Orleans ragtime with blues, with obscure but scholarly tunes from Sidney Bechet and Jimmy Noone, two legendary clarinet professors. We stayed for two sets and probably, because TV star/Jazzfest fan Ed Bradley, was sitting at the bar between two gorgeous blonds, they agreed to play a third set.

  We saw thirty-one bands in three days and Evan and Tom were most enjoyable; I scored Tom’s disc of Brazilian/New Orleans ragtime, Choro do Norte. We wandered down the street to the Funky Butt Jazz Club, sat outside and heard a  tune from a jazz organ combo, before wandering deep into the den of iniquity known as Rue Bourbon. At one am. it was going full furnace, with funky, rhythm and blues on every corner, flavored by the bouquet of sour, cheap brewsky and body odor. Thousands roamed, bought, spilled, vomited, danced, tossed beads; we even saw a couple of brothers duking it out within fifteen feet of us. Way too much entertainment in one spot to enjoy it all.

  Kevin rolled into the Brent House parking garage at 8:30 am. and while he napped, after the six hour drive, Pat and I washed and polished the Dodge. Later, we paid the folks at Cabrini High School twenty-five dollars (up from ten in 2003) to watch the clean Red Sled for us.

  We got to the fairground before noon in time to park our gear under a tree and wander over witness Ivan Neville and Dumpstaphunk. I have seen Aaron Neville’s son playing along side his Uncle Art on keyboard and organ for over a decade and Dumpstaphunk carries the Neville Brother’s tradition just the way I like it; kicking second line drums, tight southern harmonies and chunkin’ guitar and organ.

 We left Kevin there in the Dumpsta and found the food; first thing we split was fried turkey po-boy, followed by a nice crawfish gumbo (Pat likes it extremely hot and flavorful). We were strong again, so we sought out the first parade of Friday Double Nine High Steppers and Original Four Social Aid and Pleasure Club with the New Orleans Nightcrawlers Band. Talk about a creole collection, this band was Black, White and Asian men in their thirties, playing traditional, yet modern parade songs. Two trumpets (three with me), three saxes, two trombones, tuba and drums. Bodies were shankin’ and smoke was rising!

  The fest added a new stage this year (a total of twelve), Jazz & Heritage Stage, that featured brass bands and Indian tribes. Next to it was a museum to celebrate the New Orleans uptown culture that has bred the bands, Indians, social and pleasure clubs. Among the bands and gangs that we ran with in two days were Kirk Joseph’s Backyard Groove, Coolbone Brass Band, The Soul Rebels, the Dirty Dozen and the Golden Arrows Mardi Gras Indians. Jockamoe fee na nay, feets don’t fail me now!

  We got in early and awaited Henry Butler in the Popeye’s Chicken Blues Tent; I wish they’d been selling chicken too. But Henry hit the stage like he was Professor Longhair and Ray Charles rolled into one mean bluesman. He rocked and rolled, but I wanted to fight the latecomers who walked trheir asses up and packed the aisles, blocking everyone’s view. The security services at the Blues Tent were weak.

  Dora and the Zydeco Bad Boyz were led by a serious, accordion pumpin’ sistah, who I have to find out more about; she was that convincing. Later we went on to the race track grandstand and saw a spoken tribute to the late Doc Cheatham, a beloved jazz trumpeter who died recently, just short of one hundred. But he left a legacy of young trumpeters that will be celebrated, similar to that of Louis Armstrong musical offspring, Nicholas Peyton being the prime carrier of Cheatham’s name.

  We crossed the fairground to see the loud, fast music of the New Orleans Klezmer Allstars and danced wildly with hundreds. It was a hard choice, but we passed up Randy Newman, and by the time the Klezmer Allstars were finished, we were walking towards the exits to finished up the first full day of music with drummer Louis Hayes and the Cannonball Adderley Legacy Band. Cannonball’s band was my favorite and the Legacy band thrilled me when they played A Sack Of Woe.

  It was a perfect, hot but not humid or dusty, day. Pat got a “red neck” and when we got back to the hotel to shower, shave and rest, the rest got the best of us and we awoke at 7 am., after ten hours in “the land of nod.” As we slept away Friday Night, we missed Irvin Mayfield, Los Hombres Calientes and two hundred other bands playing after dark in New Orleans.

  Saturday morning shocked everyone; we awoke to lightning, thunder, a driving downpour and visions of a wash out on the biggest day of Jazzfest. We went to Dot’s for breakfast and I had a crawfish omelet that was deee-licious. During the steady drizzle we made our plans to go to the Family Dollar Store that we visited the day before for three dollar sunglasses. This trip was to get ponchos, umbrellas and disposable footwear to tromp around the Fairground, just in case the music wasn’t washed out.

  I played my horn to the lot attendants and wet crowds as we paraded with other hardy/crazed souls from parking, everyone layered in sweatshirts, jackets, ponchos, plastic bags and a smile. We got to the grounds in time to see the 1 pm. set with the Dixie Cups and buy the commemorative Jazzfest envelopes that featured their images. After the show, I got mine autographed, adding to ten, my collection of envelopes.

  As we danced to Willis Prudhomme’s Zydeco Express, the rain stopped and sun tried to peek from the overcast. We listened to the Dirty Dozen jam, but not make any real serious music. Next we looked forward to seeing Wayne Toups and the Zydecajuns, but were disappointed that my favorite cajun rock and roller has lost his edge, along with his voice. When we stopped at the Congo Stage, Toots Hibbert, the father of reggae, was parading his hits to a huge audience and he still seemed to have it.

  Ike Turner’s Kings of Rhythm had a horn section, trumpet , alto and tenor saxes, that would make anyone sound good, although Ike’s choice of moldy boogies didn’t keep us as long in the blues tent as we would have liked. Boston drummer Roy Haynes still has it, as he celebrates his eightieth birthday tour with a group of young aggressive jazz men.

  Thomas “Big Hat” Fields and his Footstompin’ Zydeco Band, my pals from German Village Oktoberfest, had it too. I blew a kiss to his bass player/pretty wife, Geneva and Thomas told the Jazzfest crowd that he was looking forward to coming to Columbus in July to tour Central Ohio. He also flirted with my woman from the stage; turn about is fair play. They were cookin’ and the jokes were funny too.

  As we saw the sunset on 2005 Jazzfest for us, we bid farewell with Nicholas Payton, fronting a quartet. We headed back to the parking lot, although, I shoulda’ stopped along the street, put out my trumpet case and hustle a few dollars to cover the Saturday evening tab.
 
  All these years, I have never been to the Midtown Lanes Rock and Bowl, where a steady flow of live rhythm and blues is heard. We parked, walked up to the door and asked about the show from folks heading to the parking lot. “They are sold out, but haven’t told the people waiting in line.”

  So Pat and I unparked the Dodge and made a farewell tour of New Orleans, past the new palm trees being installed on Canal Street, down Rampart Street and Louis Armstrong Park, Peters Street and the Riverwalk and headed into the Garden District on Magazine Street. We drove down the entire length of Magazine and saw parts of the Big Easy that we had never seen before, including some restored neighborhoods, full of vitality and off the beaten tourist traps of Downtown.

  When we hit the Riverbend and the neighborhood of Carrolton, since we hadn’t eaten in a least one hour, we stopped at O’Henry’s. If you’re you’re leery of a place whose floors are covered in peanut shells, O’Henry’s is not for you. However, I needed another crawfish fix, so damn the shells and bring on the crawfish cakes and beer. We got there just in time, for soon after entering, high schoolers on prom night arrived in a stretched Lincoln to throw peanuts at each other in tuxedos and evening gowns. They were cute.

  Early to rise, check out, gas up and highway bound. Fourteen hours, ten minutes and one unplanned stop in Nashville, to receive a summons for “eighty-five in a fifty-five.” Well, someone other than me, was behind the wheel. Thanks, Lord for safety on the interstates, in the Big Easy and a prayer for those who weren’t so lucky as we.

  A