Fire dancers, middle-aged hula hoopers and fireworks in August aren’t exactly characteristic of our capital city. But this past weekend, the 3rd Annual Ivanhoe Street Fine Music Festival ensured Baton Rouge was home to more than suburban sprawl littered with countless cathedrals of consumerism.
Tucked away from the Olive Gardens and Best Buys, the gathering quickened the pulse of a usually sleepy city. Organized by local residents and Chelsea’s management, among others, and sponsored by Abita Brewing, the festival featured local talent for two days and nights.
The range of musicians, who performed on a stage erected in a vacant, grassy lot just off East State Street, showcased the best of Baton Rouge, as well as a few out-of-state bands – everything from acoustic stylings and traditional blues to slow reggae and cutting-edge improvisation.
With more than 20 acts, the caliber of performances testified to the strength of the solid, if somewhat underground, array of musical choices that presents itself to the local listener. The lineup was a welcome change from the “Jessie’s Girl,” cover-band vibe offered nightly throughout the city.
A steady and relaxed crowd, one that peaked in the hundreds both evenings, was treated to area favorites such as Lingus, Poor Harvey, Movin’ Weight, and Souls of Blues Revival. Righteous Buddha’s straight-ahead funk closed down Saturday evening, and a brass combo led much of the crowd in a second-line from the festival to nearby Café Reggae. Local improv space-groovers, Friends of Gravity, ended the event with Sunday evening’s final perfor ance.
While music certainly dominated, a spacewalk, neighborhood garage sales and more than a few free kegs created an atmosphere that was more reminiscent of a community gathering than a crowded, impersonal rock festival.
Crowd participation was encouraged by the bands, who received relief from the sweltering heat from volunteers riding an exercise bike-powered box fan.
Sadly, most “cultural events” in Baton Rouge meet similar fates: they fail right away, lose steam quickly, or are so contrived and controlled by various sponsorships that they lack spontaneity or originality.
The Ivanhoe Festival, however, featured no admission fees or $3 hot dogs, and was organized and attended by those who simply were looking to shut down the summer in proper fashion. After three successful years, it looks as though this could become a permanent shot in the arm for a Baton Rouge cultural scene always in need of soulful additions.
My own experience on Ivanhoe Street was limited only by my subpar footwear, a pair of ancient flip-flops.
I mention this in the hope that someone out there may have seen my newer, blue, still-intact flip-flops, and someday could return them safely to me.
Early this past week, while hustling to the Union during a
sting-your-skin LSU flash flood, I was forced to negotiate a torrential current which had taken over most of Dalrymple Drive. The standing water was moving rapidly, to say the least, yet my idiotic judgment compelled me to overcome nature’s obstacle.
“Jump in, Bradley,” I believe is what it said.
After a few steps in Dalrymple Creek, my right flip-flop was savagely torn from my foot – one moment, a foamy cushion for my weary feet, the next, a quickly vanishing speck, floating down the flooded street.
Luckily, my idiotic judgment spoke up again, this time saying, “Bradley, chase your flip-flop. You can save it.” Again, I heeded the advice.
Two steps into my rescue mission, flip-flop number two was also ripped away, never to be seen again. As I stood outside the French House, dejected, wet, and shoeless, a friendly truck accelerated, veered to collide with a muddy puddle, and completed my morning with a full-body splash.
If you’ve seen either of my flip-flops (or the driver of that devil truck), please drop me a line.
See you next week.