We made it through the last 2 days, valiantly, though we were a bit unsteady as we teetered down the jetway to our Delta chariot. An evening hangover is **not** pretty. It may also have been the large shrimp bread we inhaled while killing time at the gate. Or perhaps the spinach and artichoke casserole that was ingested on the run out of the fairgrounds. Maybe a leeetle too much dairy product.

But let’s return to Saturday. Despite our best intentions, we missed the first few acts, including Frankie Ford. Somehow we ended up at Amanda Shaw, who’s capable enough but brings to mind a Cajun Hilary Duff. Luckily, our pal Jack was hovering nearby, mainly because he had scarfing privileges at the W hospitality tent. Which meant that K and I had same privileges. We immediately became Jack’s protection for the remainder of the afternoon.

From there it was on to the Dirty Dozen, who were striking a very traditional second-line kind of chord, as opposed to the funked-up hip-hop stuff they often play. The crowd was rolling and Jack and I had some good dances out on the track. We then caught Deacon John and his jump blues. He was sounding good but there was no room anywhere in the Acura field as the Invasion of the Red-Faced, Bubble-Brained, Lacking-in-Musical-Taste Parrotheads was well underway. I mean, I’m all into pirates and stuff, and I’m glad Jimmy Buffet makes a whole lot of folks happy, but WTF?

We then caught some of La India, the salsa princess who reminded the audience more than once that she was carrying on Celia Cruz’s legacy. Allright, already! Fun to watch the salseros working it on makeshift dancefloors. Saw some of Robert Randolph, but having seen him many times before in much more intimate environments, I nudged K on to the Ohio Players, who opened with a kick-ass version of Skin Tight. Gotta love the bass player’s full-on fly attire, leopard from head to toe.

We stopped by Nathan & The Zydeco Cha-Chas, then on to Bonerama a bit, and finally to the jazz tent. As I walked in, Eddie Palmieri was just sitting down to the piano. On stage with him: Donald Harrison on alto sax, his nephew Christian Scott on trumpet and George Coleman on tenor sax. A pretty powerful horn section. Backed by Bill Summers on percussion.

I knew I’d hit it good. They threw down a latin jazz jam, followed by a more trad jazz jam, and topped by a second-line tune, joined by 2 fabulously-festooned Mardi Gras Indians — an older man and a small child. Harrison’s father was a Chieftain so second-lines are in his blood.

The crowd went nuts and rushed the stage, snapping photos.

Nice way to end the day’s music, and we followed up with some pleasant socializing, first at a friend’s place just outside the fairgrounds, where we chatted with, among others, Charley Varney, a freelance photojournalist who documented Katrina and whose pics are in Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Chris Rose’s hurricane-related essay collection, 1 Dead in the Attic.

Then it was on to another friend’s traditional 2nd weekend Jazzfest party, where we were stuffed with Abitas, BBQ shrimp, red beans and rice, grilled kielbasa, and bread pudding. Safety was definitely not first. I’m not sure it was even third — quite an admission from the Safety Third spokesmodels.

Sunday. Get up. Do it all over again. Strange day, probably due to disorientation over the idea that we were actually leaving New Orleans. We seemed to wander from the beer tent to the SoCo daquiri feeding station, back and forth, aimlessly. Then, somehow, K snookered me into emptying my wallet in the crafts area, but, admittedly, I believe I purchased one of the finest denim miniskirts I’ve ever seen or worn. And, MAJOR BONUS, we hooked up again with Philip, aka Kickassbootwearin HR guy. Howdy, pahdnah!

We wandered over to the Fais Do-Do stage, a few songs into Geno Delafose, and, just as the skies opened up and let loose like some kind of unholy golden shower. But everyone kept right on dancing.

It was so damn hot and humid that the rain was welcome relief. And, for many, dancing amidst that downfall was a release from the Katrina shackles. See, I spit in your eye, dark and rainy sky! Geno revved and revved, climaxing with a rock and roll song that I love but that for the life of me, I can’t remember the title. And I had Jack, dancer par excellence, to shimmy, twist, shack and shamble with in the mud.

Soaked and a sobered up, we headed over to some of Irma Thomas at Acura and then, to what ended up being our closing moment — in the Jazz tent with our best pals Val and Chris as the often sublime John Boutte brought the house to tears with his rendition of Louisiana 1927.

In one verse, John changed the lyrics about President Coolidge coming down on a railroad, to President Bush flying over in a helicopter and telling the fat man with the notepad, Good Job, Brownie! And, 6 feet of water in Evangeline became 12 feet of water in the Lower Nine.

They’re trying to wash you away, Louisiana. Let’s hope that all those Jazzfest revelers, myself and K included, tell everyone that it ain’t no poor cracker’s land, but an irreplaceable slice of America that still needs our help and hope.

The fog has temporarily lifted. Notice the use of temporarily. I expect this to be a brief moment of lucidity, for this is the second, and final weekend of Jazz Fest. Surprisingly, Friday’s crowds were light, as usually the second weekend is a bigger draw than the first.

But there were no big-time headliners on Friday, well, except for Keith Urban. JF doesn’t usually draw modern country music fans, however, so there was plenty of space at Acura for those intent on seeing Keith. There was also the threat of rain all day, and it might have scared off lots of locals and others with flexibility (say, Brass Pass holders), given the torrid downfalls on Thursday. Though I did not live through K (well, I’m living through my version of K this week), even I experienced a little post-traumatic shock as I watched the water rise on Canal St. (Luckily, the rains delayed an Eric Lindell performance at Louisiana Music Factory, so K and I were among a very small crowd who got to see him there.

Lindell just put out a CD with Alligator Records, and though it is primarily cuts from previous CDs, it is giving him well-deserved recognition. He also is introducing new material here, so maybe a new CD is around the corner? Given Eric’s past, K and I, in our capacity as Safety Third spokesmodels, presented Eric and his bandmates with S3 bumperstickers. They were much appreciative.)

JF attendance figures always seem to be some kind of state secret, at least until the Heritage Foundation determines how it wants to properly spin the numbers. So who knows how many people have come and gone so far.

Friday music: We first caught the Pine Leaf Boys, whom I’d seen in the DC area a few months ago. This young band (all in their early 20s, according to their bios) plays a mix of Cajun and zydeco, and reminds me a little of Steve Riley. Very talented musicians, and they are being packaged a little bit like Old Crow Medicine Show or some of the other old-timey bands - to appeal to 20-somethings. Pine Leaf Boys should be watched. We went on to the honky tonk sounds of local band Kim Carson & The Casualties, who were on the mostly-country-themed Acura Stage.

From there, it was on to the medical tent, where an attendant tried to convince us that a spray-on mix of Butane and lanolin would soothe our fire ant bites. No thanks. K bit, though, and then was sorry because her Chacos kept sliding off from the grease. We made a brief stop for Crawfish Monica and a plate full of Thai grilled chicken, Jama-Jama (sautéed spinach) and plaintains.

Then it was on to Congo Square for Mem Shannon, a former New Orleans taxi driver who started playing the blues 10 or 12 years ago. He was sounding good - sometimes he gets a little too soft-jazz for me - but I didn’t hear much of it this show. As he mentioned, Mem is up for 2 W.C. Handy Blues awards. Winners announced in a few weeks.

We then saw some of Marva Wright, but fled in horror as she belted out a slightly-altered version of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. We got the sentiment, but that song should only be performed in a gay karaoke bar and loudly and drunkenly to boot.

Then we saw Big Chief Monk Boudreaux & The Golden Eagles Mardi Gras Indians while we shopped for toe rings, nose rings, dashikis and incense at the Congo Square booths. And we found the day’s Safety Third winners: Lizard boy and his sidekick. They kept asking if they would get into trouble by appearing on film with the S3 sticker, as if we would ask some practically-under-age boys to do something illegal!

K informed them that they would only get into trouble if they wanted to. (The following section was deleted to protect the innocent.)

Finally, we were getting to the highlights of our day: Eric Lindell, who rocked the Fais Do-Do Stage, and then Tab Benoit (aka K’s boyfriend).

Tab was fired up. He’s always been a great performer, but compared to a few years ago, he now really seems to own the stage. And he’s using it as a bully pulpit for his Voice of the Wetlands project, which aims to educate America about Louisiana’s disappearing coastline. VOW existed well before Katrina and since Tab hails from Houma, he’s acutely aware of how the diversion of the Mississippi River through the levee system and the dredging of industrial canals by the oil companies (among other factors) has hastened the wetlands’ erosion - and thus, removed any natural storm surge barrier.

His tight set included some of the musicians who played on the fund-raising VOW CD: Monk Boudreaux, Johnny Sansone, and Waylon Thibodeaux. Oh, and that woman banging the tambourine in white pants and gold lame jacket was Tab’s proud mom. Don’t ask. When the crowd clapped and begged for more - usually, there are no encores at JF - Tab came back out and launched into a down-home diatribe about the wetlands issue. A lot of folks listened, despite the fact that by this time of day, most JF-goers are completely wasted. In every sense of the word.

We finished out at Lil’ Brian & the Zydeco Travelers, who had the crowd hopping. Zydeco purists get a little miffed at Lil’ Brian, partly because the songs are awfully long to dance to, but also because they veer into hip-hop and funk, but I say Bring it On. A big shout-out to my bacon and eggs man, you know who you are.

We also saw some of Angelique Kidjo, a strikingly beautiful singer from Benin who is well known on the festival and world music scene. A very good entertainer with beautiful songs. But we had to run out of the Fest to catch our friend’s gospel choir - she was singing at a Baptist church in the Bywater.

K knew it was a gamble - I was going into another one of my hypoglycemic fits and I was dirty, in a haze from, well, whatever had come my way earlier in the day, in need of a toilet…and I did not think that sitting in church would do much for my mood. But like a recalcitrant teenager, I did my duty, and we sat outside the doors among the swarming termites. Of course it was an uplifting experience, and pretty soon the fog lifted.

We ran back uptown to get clean (in a manner of speaking) and then sat down to an immensely satisfying meal of a dozen raw oysters, jambalaya and spinach salad with grilled shrimp at Felix’s uptown branch on Prytania. And then we cruised Howlin’ Wolf (too crowded) and Les Bon Temps (too crowded) and K was ready to call it a night.

Two additions to earlier posts: First, I took K on the Katrina-disaster tour earlier in the week and as we drove by Fats Domino’s house in the Lower 9th (river side of Claiborne), I noticed that the infamous graffiti on the side of the compound that had pronounced RIP Fats - We’ll Miss You, was now scrubbed almost-clean, though there were vestiges of pink on the white aluminum. Second, we did find an elusive dyed-mustache guy. As you can see from the photo, it was not easy to capture him.

That is not only the title of a Nathan Williams tune, but it’s also the credo of southern Louisiana cooking, and the unifying theme behind Donald Link’s new restaurant, Cochon. It seems that I was dining there the same evening as fellow N.O. metroblogger Chris Martel (see earlier post). Only I suspect that we may have enjoyed the experience a bit more than Chris, as my party managed to quaff down a handful of mint juleps, at least 3 bottles of wine, along with 8 or so small plates, 5 entrees, 3 desserts, and, oh, some after-dinner bourbon as well.

Mind you, this gluttonous repast took 4 hours. Chef and co-owner Stephen Stryjewski was gracious, but I’m quite sure he and his staff were glad to see us stumble off at 12:30AM.

Stryjewski and Link (of Herbsaint) spent 3 years developing the Cochon concept, placing it in a lofty, noisy industrial space on the far edge of the warehouse district at Tchoupitoulas and Andrew Higgins. A planned opening last August thankfully did not come off, but the Katrina-imposed delay did not do a whole lot for their business plan.

There was a soft opening a few weeks before Jazz Fest. A first Sunday of the Fest story by food critic Brett Anderson in the Times-Pic about Link and his restaurants that mentioned Cochon probably helped bring hungry diners to Cochon’s doorstep.

So what about the food? As Chris mentioned, vegetarians should probably steer clear. I started with the wood-fired oyster roast ($11), about a half-dozen very large, plump oysters that had been subtly smoked open in their shells and finished with a mild garlic butter. These babies just melted in our mouths. Spoon bread with okra and tomatoes was a sweet counterpoint to the cochon rillette and spicy fried boudin, which I agree were among the standouts in the small plates. We also got talked into the head cheese ($6), which was way too rich for me, but satisfied the 2 male meat-eaters in our party. Smoked ham hocks with braised greens ($8) did not live up to the waiter’s enthusiasm, but the side of lima beans ($5) were heavenly — smoky with bits of bacon, and firm, not the mushy, watery blobs you might expect to encounter.

The oven-roasted gulf fish — red drum that night — and louisian cochon with turnips, cabbage and cracklins ($18) were the best entrees of the night. The cochon was cut from pork shoulder — it is presented as an upscale pulled pork sandwich, minus the bread, and with the pickled turnips and cabbage substituting for coleslaw. We finished with a somewhat too oily German chocolate cake and a not-lemony-enough lemon buttermilk pie, but we were beyond sated by that point, so weren’t too disappointed.

K and I then hit a few bars on Frenchmen street, where, dare-I-say-it, more bourbon was imbibed, but I blame Mike, the keyboardist we’d met out at the Fest, a young Dr. John look-a-like who can pound the ivories pretty damn good. I can say that we decided to forego huffing a balloon full of nitrous oxide. It might have interfered with our beauty sleep.

As if Tuesday’s night’s food orgy wasn’t enough, the next day started with a crawfish etoufee omelette at Slim Goodie’s diner on Magazine, and, I hate to admit it, but I had lunch with a friend at Domelise’s a few hours later, scarfing down most of a small oyster po’boy. And I didn’t even walk the few blocks home. And even worse, then I took a nap. It’s vacation, OK?

K and I reconnoitered just in time for a free happy hour at our friend’s hotel, the Embassy Suites. We then walked over to Lafayette Square, where Marcia Ball was playing as part of a free Wednesday music series. It’s sort of an unofficial gathering spot for people who come in for Jazz Fest, and a good place to relax or dance or shop for crafts. Or stand in line to buy beer or daquiris.

Then came an hour of my life I’d rather forget. It’s traumatic just thinking about writing about it. We spent at least an hour in a hellish search for sustenance — to lay a gastromomic foundation for the evening’s assault on our livers — and came up nearly empty-handed. A typical Jazz Fest problem — being in the wrong part of town, even for a slice of pizza, when you just need a little sumting to tide you over. We considered stealing a large plastic cup to then use to appropriate some pretzels and goldfish out of the Embassy Suites Happy Hour cache, but thought better of jeapordizing our friend’s accomodations for the remainder of the festival.

I can’t even discuss where we ended up. Next subject.

On to the House of Blues for the Brass Band Blowout III. Normally, I don’t set foot in the HOB, much less during JF. But a friend called with an extra ticket and i hadn’t seen him during this visit, so I said yes. Dragged K along for the ride. Now the Fest is one white event, and the clubs are normally full of my Caucasian brethren at this time of year. But stepping into the HOB last night, I felt like I’d gone home to DC, maybe to a Chuck Brown go-go show. Whitey had pretty much left the building (and I’m sure the metal detectors at the door were not specially brought in for the event. Nope, that would be profiling).

The show opened with the Soul Rebels, who were just occasionally inspired, but the obviously local crowd was havin’ a house party, so the music was mostly a means to an end. Next up was the Hot 8, joined by Trombone Shorty on trumpet. He performed his signature, Irvin Mayfield-type long-winded, side-breathing thing, and the crowd went wild. K and I got instructions on how to properly shake our booties from a nice young man. I will admit, however, that after a few hours of bumping and grinding and being pushed, shoved, tripped over, and bumped and grinded, that we didn’t make it through the headliner, the Stooges.

Probably a mistake, but I think my feet are thanking me today.

The day’s main accomplishment had been to get to Louisiana Music Factory to see K’s boyfriend at a free in-store performance. That would be Tab Benoit.

I’d say 80% of the women there were in a swoon, and not because Tab is a gifted guitarist and showman. It’s those modeling school good looks and a melodious voice that has you convinced that he’s whispering in your ear only when he talks about those early morning wake-up calls.

In-store performances between the 2 Jazz Fest weekends at Tower Records and the Music Factory (both in the Quarter) are some of the best Fest lagniappe. It’s a fine way to introduce yourself to someone you’ve wanted to hear, without the commitment of a 10PM show or a $20 cover. And at the Music Factory, you get coupons for $2.50 Abita drafts at a bar across Decatur St.

But back to the Indian. So, at 5PM we found ourselves in front of R. Wyche Metal Crafters and Midnight Gallery, on Tchoupitoulas. I’d always wanted to stop in to this place, a metal Quonset hut adorned with a large, probably 6-8 foot steel spider crawling down the front. No problem. K walked in and next thing I knew, we were talking New Orleans politics, blacksmithing, the pros and cons of being your own boss, and the various jobs that Rob and Becky had executed for their mostly local clientele. And it was just the most fantastic workshop, a fantasy amalgam of bugs and lacy ironwork and whimsical wine racks and furniture and decorative pieces, surrounded by huge machinery and scraps and parts.

Of course we go to storm stories, too. Scratch just under the surface with any New Orleanian and you’ll expose the swirling mix of pain, anger, doubt, depression, optimism, and black humor that’s permeated the souls of the people who stuck it out or came back after Katrina. Ron, a friend of Rob and Becky’s who was part of our afternoon gathering was a former Chalmette resident. He did not evacuate and was caught as the water rose up to his second story. For 4 days he waited, until finally he saw someone with a boat pull up to the high school which had been across the street, but was now across a lake. Ron said he shot out the window and waved a red flag to get the guy’s attention, which of course made him duck and cover, but eventually, it was clear that he just wanted to be rescued.

This was all fine until Rob mentioned that he and Becky are Native Americans, and K, being the polite southern woman that she is, decided this was the next avenue of conversation. Having been involved in several stories involving Indians, I know there are certain subjects you just plain avoid… the federal government, settlement offers, who was where first, casinos. Too late. Next thing I know we’re hearing a discourse on the forced migratory patterns of the Alabama Coushatta, and all I can think about it the 2 po’boys out in my rental car that are now getting cold while I go into hypoglycemic shock.

K is merrily discussing the Black Warrior River and the burial mounds it exposed, I think, but I don’t really know because I’m now seeing stars, having ingested nothing but a bagel, part of an orange, some yogurt and a few Abitas in the last 8 hours.

At some point we did finally tear ourselves away, I think, because I do remember eventually inhaling the now soggy po’boys before we headed out to a crawfish boil given by our friend Derek (who’s gigging plenty with his band the Iguanas this week) at a place they call the Batture, I think.

Anyway, it was on the other side of the levee in the riverbend area, and I knew we’d have some trouble finding it, but luckily, a Levee Authority policeman directed me. New Orleans really is a different world. I pulled up to the top of the levee and rolled over to the cop, asking him if he knew how to get to some houses on the river. He said, oh, are you looking for the party? Directed us there, just like that.

We got there just as the sun was setting over the Mississippi, and stuck around for a few hours, stuffing ourselves with crawfish and meeting many many nice people. At about 10:30 we headed out to the Rock and Bowl to see Snooks Eaglin, a New Orleans institution. The crowd was surprisingly light, but then again, it was a Monday night. Snooks is something to behold - an 80-something year old bald, blind black guy who brings Ray Charles to mind. Sweet and smooth singing voice, and skilled, skilled hands. He strummed and picked out R&B and rock and roll classics and blues, eagerly responding to every shouted-out request, satisfying a clearly devoted fan club.

It was a shockingly early night for us, ending about 12:30. We decided to end it on a high note - clutching roses fashioned out of Bev naps by a rather large man who was sporting a custom-made leather holster on his belt that held, no, not a knife, and not a cellphone, but a **Tabasco** bottle.

My first day at Jazz Fest started Friday at 5AM with a flight out of DC’s National Airport and ended about 22 hours later when K (no, not that bitch K who everyone here, understandably, is so upset with) and I realized that perhaps we should call it a night after we backed out of a toll booth on the Mississippi River bridge at about 2AM. In front of a po-lice ossifer. That was after a series at least 4 U-turns in which we had endeavored, quite unsuccessfully, to find the approach to the bridge, on the Algiers side of the river.

Algiers has become popular with musicians and other cheap-rent-seeking folks who fled New Orleans after Katrina. However, I don’t think the cheap rent lasted long.

K and I had been lured over the bridge by a chance to see the Campbell Brothers perform with a bunch of local musicians, including Anders Osborne (Warning - music autoplays), a Swedish transplant and slide maestro, and his sousaphone player, Kirk Joseph.

They were at the Old Point bar, a neighborhood joint with high ceilings, pine paneling mostly covered by cheap beer ad mirrors and that night, BBQ and beer being sold outside on the sidewalk. The place is hard by the levee. The big earthen berm made for a pleasant bleacher section, as the Old Point’s doors and windows were thrown open. It was a benefit for the New Orleans musicians clinic, organized by Mark Stone, a guitarist, DJ on WWOZ and a transplant who left New York behind in the early 90s.

By the third set, which started after midnight, the Campbells were inspiring lots of pogo-ing. I think all those white folks could feel it. One of the Campbells sprinted up from his lap-steel guitar and began dancing in front of the crowd, adding to the religious-revival feeling. Osborne was truly inspired, improvising on his slide, eyes firmly closed, transported.

It was probably the best performance I’d seen that day. But then again, I can’t say that I was in true Jazz Fest mode yet. Friday appeared to be a big local day, from the looks of the crowd and the schedule, with most of the headliners drawn from Louisiana, with the exception of Bob Dylan. The crowds were as big as I’d ever seen on the first Friday. Huge lines snaked out of the food booths and the commemorative poster concession. This year’s poster is of Fats Domino, who initially was thought to have been drowned in his Lower 9th Ward home, but was later found to be alive and well. Fats will be one of the closers on Sunday May 7. The posters - usually signed by the artist - are collected by Jazz Fest devotees.

Apparently, a rumor has been circulating that this may be the last Jazz Fest, which caused a Furby-like run on the posters.

Jazz Fest is indeed a little different this year, post-K (the Katrina “K”, not my pal K). There are fewer stages. There are lots more corporate labels, a necessary evil for the Fest’s financial health. There is still crawfish bread!!

I would say there seems to be less depth and breadth of performers. Hospitality tents have been moved closer to the stage. That made it a lot more convenient for me to sneak in and grab K and I some free beers. I felt like I was watching the action on the 18th green at Augusta. So antithetical to the sure-come-sit-on-my-blanket-and-eat-mushrooms-with-me spirit of the Fest.

(A very important aside: K and I are spokesmodels for the Safety Third campaign. We felt it necessary to spread the word at the Fest, where putting safety first would also be completely counter to the Spirit of Jazz Fest.

Oh, and **thank god**, they are finally serving hard liquor at the Fest! Those warm and fuzzy folks at Southern Comfort have so kindly set up one of those Wet Willie-type daquiri feeding stations between the mmmmm, how con-veeen-yent, the Southern Comfort (SoCo to those of you under 30) Blues stage and the Sheraton New Orleans Fais Do-Do stage. For $5, you get a Robitussin-flavored slushy. Doesn’t matter if it’s red or green, though I must say, the mix of the two is more aesthetically pleasing.

Speaking of looks, check out the duds on these folks! [[photo of boots guy]]. The one with the shit-kickin’ boots on is Philip. He’s in HR for a local school district. How come my HR guy doesn’t look like that?

Oh, and the woman in the shiny green outfit below - she was definitely not putting safety first when she got dressed this morning. She is a regular Fest attendee and a prime example of the festival-going species. See, part of the fun is dressing as outrageously as possible, whether that means shredding a mop and draping it over yourself, wearing things that would put a Vegas call girl to shame, or dying your hair in a leopard print pattern. Some men have even been known to dye their mustache, but we have not captured that animal on film yet. We are setting a trap for him later.

Now, you’re probably wondering, WTF? Isn’t the Fest about MUSIC? I’m glad you asked that question. I actually do happen to remember some of the performances. It’s a good thing I do a lot of Soduku to counteract the SoCo daquiris, Fosters, bourbon, tequila, rum, and, um other things, which I can’t remember right now, but I’m sure will come to me.

OK. Friday: Keb’ Mo’. A great musician and songwriter, but he was lost on the voluminous Acura stage. Too mellow, a repeat of last year’s Jack Johnson snoozefest. Why don’t they put these guys on one of the smaller stages? Johnny Sketch & The Dirty Notes. Fun, fun, fun, local band that veers from power metal to ska-ish, to jazz/funk/fusion. . Have to put in a plug for my homegirl’s group, Shades of Praise, a multi-racial gospel choir from New Orleans that has some powerful soloists and an infectious love-and-harmony message that will get you up and shouting.

Bob Dylan. OK, so Bob turned it out sartorially, what with the white cowboy hat and all-white clothing, and he rocked and rolled, but I dunno, I couldn’t get into it. I said to a friend later that it looked like he was playing keyboards, and this guy snorted and said he “pretended” to play. I didn’t hear any raves for Bob, but apparently, Dr. John put on a great end-of-day show, and people said Yerba Buena (Warning - musica auto plays) as top-notch. I’m curious as to whether anyone has any comments on Ani DiFranco, who moved to N.O. last fall, pre-K, and was debuting new material.

I had to jet off to the airport to pick up K, and while the bands were wrapping up at the Fest, I was sipping a rum and tonic at a friend’s, trying to get through to Frankie & Johnny’s on the phone so we could get a damn po’boy. To no avail. Sometimes I think you’d be better off not eating at night during the Fest, what with the 2-hour-long waits at most restaurants. This year is no exception, and the ka-ching of the registers is music to Ray Nagin’s ears.

The Honorable Mayor was spied strolling the Fest grounds on Sunday, but he was NOT glad-handing. Perhaps he thinks he’s got May 20 in the bag?

Saturday. K and I started the day at 10:30AM at a Bloody Mary party at a friend’s on Bayou St. John. Our very gracious hostess, Judy, welcomed us even though we showed up a _ hour before the bar was to be shut down. We then got to the fairgrounds early enough to see some of the first acts, including Belton Richard & The Louisiana Aces, a Cajun group. One of the highlights for me Saturday was Galactic, which played the Acura stage as if they owned it. The closer was a “song about New Orleans,” in the words of the sax player.

The band then launched into a tight, pristine version of “When the Levee Breaks,” by Led Zeppelin. In one of those only-at-the-Fest ironies, a 20-something girl was standing behind me in a LZ 1977 tour t-shirt, accessorized with some of those over-sized retro 70s sunglasses.

As Galactic ended, I said, hey, you know that was a Zep song, right? Uh no, she didn’t really know their music. I’m like, dudette, I saw the 77 tour, and Jimmy Page rocked his guitar with a violin bow. A bow, man. I think she thought I was a dotty old lady.

Later in the ubiquitous Porta-Potty line I was also called “lady” by some 23-year-old guy with a Jackass hairdo, but at least he knew the Zep tune.

K and I then went to check out Herbie Hancock, but apparently, everyone else at the Fest had the same idea, and the crowds were 50-to-60 deep OUTSIDE the Jazz tent. The only upside to waiting a half-hour for the show to start while security tried to clear people from the aisles was that I ended up being plied with beer by a couple of older brothers who wanted to share their Katrina stories. (K was taking a load off her feet somewhere behind me). It was actually more interesting than Hancock, who I eventually gave up on. Then we hit CJ Chenier where I danced a few with my pal Jack, who I think is incredibly skilled on the dance floor and is a gentleman, to boot.

Next we plowed into the droves of teenagers who were camped out for Dave Matthews. I think I might have been napping on my feet. Does anyone else find his music to be dull? Then it was a hard choice: Terence Blanchard, Juvenile (Warning - music autoplays), or Etta James. We made for the blues stage and Etta James, and Holy Shit! What happened to Etta James?!?!

The woman’s a shadow of her former self. Etta apparently has joined Al Roker and whats-her-name from Wilson Philips as a walking advertisement for the miracles of modern obesity surgery. As always, her band was phenomenal. But since we were on the outer edges near the track, we couldn’t quite see ALL the prancing that Etta was doing. We missed her simulations of booty-style sex, of mission-position sex, of oral sex, of anal sex, and microphone, saxophone, and stool sex. That’s a lot of sex.

Hard to believe, but Saturday night, after dinner at the Taqueria Corona on Magazine in Uptown, I did NOT go out. K and another pal went to Morning 40 Federation at the most-excellent Les Bon Temps Roule, and typical of Jazz Fest, the club was packed in a manner that honors the Safety Third tradition.

Sunday dawned slightly cloudy after a night of tropical torrential downpours. In another shocking display of determination, K and I made it to the fairgrounds at noon. We caught a little bit of Willis Prudhomme & Zydeco Express, which afforded me a small opportunity to feed my dance addiction. Though the rains had turned the festival grounds mostly into a series of connecting bayous, the dirt in front of the Fais Do-Do stage was still dry and hardpacked - a testament to the legions who throw fears of an arthritic future to the wind by stomping and shaking day after day in front of the Cajun and zydeco bands there.

The day was a mounting crescendo of fantastic music. Next was John Mooney another slide virtuouso with a hard-rocking edge who’s got a new CD to plug. Then it was on to Christian Scott, a young trumpeter making his JF debut, slick in a gray sharkskin-type suit and melodious in a Miles’ kinda way. Then we caught a little of Big Sam’s Funky Nation, who had the crowd shimmying to his funky jazz, and then a detour to the daquiri station before waltzing by N.O. blues/funk stalwart Wolfman Washington for a few minutes. In a huge departure for me, I decided to spend the effort and energy to find a good sitting/viewing area for Allen Toussaint and Elvis Costello (Warning - Music autoplays).

Fortunately, we sighted my pal Jack, who was with friends who had staked out a spot dead center in front of Acura, close enough to see all the musicians. We stocked up on beer, and K dragged in another straggler who she spotted on a Port-A-Potty run before the show - a musician friend, Paul Cebar. It was great watching the show with Paul because he had worked with Toussaint years ago and knew all his music. It’s such an odd an interesting pairing - Costello with his itchy, scratchy voice and movements, and Toussaint, always impeccable in suit and pocket square, smooth of voice and manner.

Look it up, young people: Allen Toussaint is one of the greatest songwriters/singers/producers that you’ve never heard of.

And he lost his home in the storm. And he and Elvis have collaborated on a CD due out in June, with some originals about N.O.’s past, future, and current plights, and I think some old Toussaint stuff, too. Toussaint did some medleys of his greatest hits, Costello did a few with him, and they performed some new material, like the title of the CD, The River in Reverse. OK, there was a funky moment in the show, but one that showed why Toussaint is both a mensch and a tough guy to work for. He’d invited one of his back-up singers up to do “Groove Me” in a tribute to the recently-departed King Floyd, and when the guy got horribly off-tune, Toussaint just ended the song. Like that. In front of 40,000 people. While the dude slunk to the back of the stage, Toussaint did a little Vegas-style patter about Wilson Pickett and other late-greats, and after a few minutes brought the guy back up front-and-center and started the tune again, but, as he noted, “in the key of B for you.” Whoa. That was cold, Allen. But the show went on.

Then, we sat around (another major departure!) and waited for The Boss. Now, I’ve never seen Springsteen, nor had any desire to, but I knew he was debuting his tour here, and that it would be material from his tribute to Pete Seeger CD, which was released last week. I’ll get right to the point. I’m a convert. Bruce had 17 musicians up on stage with him, including a horn section, a couple of percussionists, a few fiddlers, a banjo player, and an accordionist. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a band so tight. The sound was impeccable, with every layer of every song tingling and tantalizing the innermost recesses of my brain, like a subtly-flavored and spiced casserole that causes you to linger over every bite as if it were your last meal.

I don’t even like folk music. But I couldn’t get over how much I was LOVING this performance. Mark Stone had joined us, and he was in the same boat as me - having never seen Springsteen, no desire to, and, like me, was blown away. We were just about speechless, kept looking at each other, like “can you believe this shit?”

Somehow, we tore ourselves away, because we felt compelled to go see the Meters close out the first weekend, as they had last year. It was a mistake. The energy was not there. The groove was on, but they were not connected to the audience in the same way that Bruce was, or even as they had been last year.

We got an emergency call to fill in for someone who’d backed out of dinner reservations at Herbsaint, so we booked out of the fest, drove home, bathed, and were back downtown for our fancy meal within an hour’s time. As K said, it’s a good thing that we’re natural beauties. After our sumptuous and ridiculously expensive meal, we drove around and around the Quarter looking for parking so we could see Eric Lindell at his CD release party at One-Eyed Jacks. After parking back near where we started at Herbsaint, we made it to Lindell at about 11, paid the $10 cover and, while he sounded great, the crowd did nothing for us.

Then we drove out to Rock N Bowl, where, at midnight the cover was still $20, and only Anders was left to play on the 4-band bill, so I said hello to owner John Blancher and then turned around and went home.

End of first weekend. I feel like such a wimp. That means we have our work cut out for us this week. K and I will have to find more Safety Third opportunities, and soon.