NEW ORLEANS – Before this weekend, I was a Jazz Fest virgin. That’s right. I’ve lived in Louisiana for 18 of my 21 years on this earth, and I’d never had the chance to experience all that Jazz.
Never had I heard of alligator pie or tasted a crawfish sausage poboy.
I could’ve sworn there was no difference between a snow cone and a snow ball.
And never had I experienced the visual pleasure of seeing a plethora of hairy, middle-aged men squeezed into a pair of their daughters’ jean cut-offs, best described as “Daisy Dukes.”
Throughout my two days at Jazz Fest, I have to admit, I was having mixed feelings about it all.
Upon walking in the gates, the first performance I saw was local folk artist Theresa Anderson. I was wary how the rest of the weekend would play out when Anderson put on a neon pink net and swayed around on stage like she was Ace Ventura being birthed out a hippo.
Intoxicated couples grinding and making out so close to me that I could actually hear them smacking was a tad nauseating, especially since I acted as if I was in a food-eating contest, scarfing down as much food at as many kiosks as possible.
But I got to hear Robert Plant and Alison Krause, and Sheryl Crow back-to-back for free, so that canceled out my above grievances.
Friday’s eccentric events did not prepare me for what I would face Saturday.
My fellow entertainment writer and I, being the intelligent, but obviously illiterate women we are, misread the tickets and were denied admission on the second day.
Luckily, after 30 minutes of panicking and profusely sweating while attempting to muster up sympathy from practically the entire festival crew, we stumbled upon a local couple, our fairy godparents, who were more than willing to help us out of our little bind by buying us Saturday tickets in exchange for our Sunday tickets.
Southern hospitality is no longer a myth to me.
Even the rest of the setbacks we encountered could not put a damper on our weekend.
I had to watch the most delicious – and most overpriced – food I have ever tasted in my life get soggy from the torrential rains.
I had to stare at the back of a smiley-face umbrella bouncing up and down blocking my view of Billy Joel. I had to contort my body to even get a glimpse of him on the massive screen.
But once I saw him, I became bitter because he was up there tickling the ivories all giddy and dry while I sunk in the mud, getting soaked by hot beer and cold rain, praying that my cell phone, digital camera and notes were not getting ruined.
But then I looked at this drunk and drenched 20-something-year-old girl in front of us who just realized her Blackberry was waterlogged beyond repair, and she was smiling, dancing and singing in the rain as if replacing her $400 phone was no big deal.
And then I realized, what the hell am I pouting about?
I’m listening to Billy freaking Joel.
I just ate the best batch of fried green tomatoes I’ve ever had in my life in my life.
And Blake and I got to interview the mayor of Beverly Hills and his wife, which I have to admit is pretty damn cool.
So despite the overload of Tevas, Crocs and fanny packs, and the fact that I splashed through 5-inch-deep water, mud and most likely some unsanitary substances while being jabbed by umbrellas and brushed by man boobs in claustrophobic crowds, I still had an amazing time.
Where else could you smell the aromas of crawfish bread, jambalaya and marijuana all combined into one?
Where else could you hear local musical treasures such as zydeco, jazz and gospel artists as well as national chart-toppers like Sheryl Crow and music legends like Robert Plant and Billy Joel?
And where else could you encounter a couple willing to buy tickets for two frazzled college newspaper reporters in exchange for another day’s tickets for full price and offer pulled pork and basically any type of barbecued meat known to man for free?
Absolutely nowhere.
I may have left Jazz Fest 10 pounds heavier, $68 poorer, soaked, blistered and exhausted, but I also walked away with a more cultured food and music palette and a newfound respect for mankind.
And now I can also proudly say I am no longer a Jazz Fest virgin.
—- Contact Drew Belle Zerby at [email protected]