Jazz Hands and Birthday Pink

Sometimes you just have to cross people off your list.

So when I got offered tickets to the Richmond Jazz Fest at Maymont, I said yes so that I could cross two musicians off mine. I'd invited a friend to join me and since I was supplying the tickets, his job was to provide the picnic.

Given the changeable weather, we decided to cut our losses by arriving mid-day, hoping to miss at least some of the rain. We walked into Maymont about 3:45, just about the time the colorfully-clad Tiempo Libre took the stage.

It hadn't been that long since I'd seen them - March with the symphony- so I knew to expect high-energy Cuban music brought to us by classically trained musicians. I don't know how they did it, dancing and playing non-stop in the afternoon sun, but they even managed to make it look fun. Their set ended with a conga line and a long string of attendees snaking behind the lead singer, dancing in the grass.

During the break, we strolled over to the "bar" to get ID'd, buy tickets and finally (ta-da!) qualify to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn't an easy process, but sometimes you have to persevere for the cause.

Given the humidity, we opted for a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, taking it with us as we wandered through the craft area (lots of jewelry, something I don't wear) and the bistro area (lots of fried food with Mama Musu's and Croaker's Spot the only recognizable names) before returning to our chairs.

Not long after, Dr. John  and the Nite Trippers took the stage, thereby satisfying one of my must-see needs. The good doctor wore a hat over his trademark be-ribboned ponytail and got right down to business.

Four or five years ago, a friend had advised me that the only place to see Dr. John was in New Orleans, but I figured it was best not to wait indefinitely for that opportunity.

The man is, after all, 72 years old.

That said, he sounded exactly like he did when he first sang "Right Place, Wrong Time" in 1973.
He proved it by singing it tonight and as a guy sitting nearby observed, "If you closed your eyes, it was just like hearing it in the '70s."

The crowd today would know about the '70s, since it appeared that most of them came of age then.
In fact, at one point my friend looked at me and said that we were at the young edge of the average age, no small feat.

I would say that hearing Dr. John's distinctive gravel of a voice was a most satisfying experience as he tore up the skull-adorned piano in the muggy afternoon sun.

We decided to use the next break to eat, enjoying fried chicken and coleslaw with our Riesling while a gentle rain began to fall. No problem; along with other necessaries, I'd made sure to bring a small umbrella, if only to keep the raindrops out of my wine glass.

My planning skills are among the best.

At this point, many people began packing up to go while just as many arrived to set up camp. Depending on your taste, the main event had either just happened or was just about to.

Next up was another 72-year old, this one, Chick Corea, another musician I had to see for posterity's sake. His group, the Vigil, looked to be less than half his age and my friend noted that they might as well have been his "class."

His master class, maybe.

The man who was once part of Miles Davis' band in the '60s walked out looking easily 20 years younger than he was and proceeded to show the youngsters how it's done. With an almost constant smile, he showed his mastery, never dominating the sound, but always clearly the one driving the bus.

It's exciting to see someone of his age still so obviously enjoying what he does.

When their set ended, we decided to pack it in, both of us having already seen Michael McDonald.
You know, the great jazz artist, Michael McDonald. Yea, right.

Our original intent had been to make it to somewhere less populated after the music to watch the Perseid meteor shower, but the lingering cloud cover made that impossible. Instead we finished the evening at the late evening birthday party of a friend, drinking Rose from Provence, listening to Madonna and watching a Queen concert on a big screen.

One guest wore white pants and shirt, his glowing cell phone in his pocket beaming its light from his thigh. Another told me how much he liked my writing, citing a specific article I'd written almost six months ago.

Did I mention there was a smoke machine to set the birthday mood?

Yah mo B there, wherever the most fun can be found.

I only hope that's still the case when I'm 72.