The first weekend in August is always the Newport Jazz Festival. 60 years ago at the first festival it poured rain, which put the Newport Jazz Festival and it’s diehard fans on the map. Photos of music lovers with rain hats and umbrellas made their way around the world and the annual event was born.
I have remarked all summer that weather forecasters are the only employees who get to keep their jobs when they screw up 90% of the time. They predicted temps in the 70’s. I dressed appropriately. And froze.
Not to be outdone on the 60th anniversary the weather gods decided on a repeat. Sheets of rain are tolerable if the ambient temperature is 85 degrees. Saturday’s high was 62. I have remarked all summer that weather forecasters are the only employees who get to keep their jobs when they screw up 90% of the time. They predicted temps in the 70’s. I dressed appropriately. And froze.
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They did predict the rain, though, and we tried to be at least a bit prepared for that. Umbrellas? Check. Raincoats? Check. L.L. Bean boots, thermal socks, winter coat and mittens? Nope, sorry. Perhaps a tarp? Yup, two of ‘em. So we arrived before the gates opened to get a good seat, hoping that the rain would keep the crowds away until the afternoon. Wrong. We did end up in a decent spot, at the back edge of the center field in front of the folding chairs that had been set up for reserved seating. It was a good thing, because no one sitting in a low beach chair behind us would have seen a thing. We set up the chairs in a row, tied edges of the tarp to the legs on both ends, flipped it up and over the chairs and umbrellas to keep it aloft, and stuck the umbrella spokes in the front edges of the tarp to keep it anchored. It wasn’t pretty but it worked.
Unfortunately only 4 of the 5 chairs would be covered that way, so our friend Ann had a smaller tarp to herself. It was blue (ours was clear) and once hunkered down under it you couldn’t tell she was there. We all looked over at one point and shrugged. Steve yelled, “Ann, you under there?” That time she wasn’t, but later in the afternoon a relatively drunk festival attendee used her head as a stabilizer as he walked by. He was pretty surprised when she uncovered. This is a picture of Ann, as inannimate object. Yuk, yuk.
When the music was playing the conditions were somewhat more tolerable. When it wasn’t I couldn’t help but think of what it must be like for homeless people and refugees. I knew the car was half a mile away, we could say uncle if it got too bad, and there was a hot shower waiting for me at home. Those folks have nowhere to go. I’ll be kinder and hand out more trail mix and bananas to the guys begging at the major intersections in New Bedford.
Our shelter kept us dry enough, but every time one of us got up to use a restroom or stretch our legs our pants got wet all over again, and another spell of icy skin had to be tolerated. Ann packed a picnic so we didn’t really need to move much, we took turns holding umbrellas as we ate hummus with crackers, string cheese, grapes and cherries. Steve asked where to put the pits and I told him to throw them on the ground. I doubt there will be a cherry grove next year when we return. I also realized I’m married to the only man in the known universe that can’t spit. Several attempts made me weak with laughter. I’m actually grateful he didn’t learn that skill.
We all enjoyed the majority of the music that day. The concert started out with the RIMEA All Stars, made up of the best and the brightest RI high school jazz musicians. They are the future of jazz, and they’ve got it goin’ on. Impressive bunch. We all gave thumbs down to the second group. Great musicians, but they were working on some experimental jazz with synthesizers and we weren’t impressed. Gregory Porter was up next doing straight ahead jazz vocals with a gorgeous voice and a great band behind him. Then came Wynton Marsalis and Jazz at Lincoln Center. I love that this man lets his band dress like gentlemen; suits, light blue shirts, and beautiful ties. And Wynton is in the back with the rest of the horns, no showboating here. They played Count Basie, Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie… all the greats to a very receptive crowd.
If it had been just Ron, Kate, Steve and I we probably would have taken off when Wynton’s set was over, but Ann had come specifically to see Trombone Shorty (nee Troy Andrews but playing horn since childhood, hence the moniker). She tried to see him the last time he was at Newport but it rained, and she left early, missing his set. So we stuck it out and boy, am I glad we did. That man is one tall drink of hot chocolate. And can he boogie? We all boogied! The rain let up so we could get out of our seats and dance. I highly recommend a trip to www.tromboneshorty.com if you need to get your groove on. His band is funky, tight and gettin’ it done. They ended the show with a drum solo like no other. All band members picked up the sticks and had at it. They were AWESOME!
And he’s a good guy. He supports future generations of New Orleans musicians through the Trombone Shorty Foundation, and just this weekend was in the news for replacing a horn a New Orleans youngster lost in a mugging. I like it when I can like a musician for more than just the music.
The rain held off for our trek through the Fort Adams mud bowl. Once in the car Steve blasted the heat so we could thaw and dry. I can’t think of when I’ve enjoyed a shower more…
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