Speaking of Springsteen again, did you see him at the Jazz Fest? I had a pass which lets you in the area down in front so I could see him well. But, more importantly, I was about ten feet away from Susu Lane, and could see her even better. It’s nice to run into people like that every once in a while who don’t have any idea who you are, because they remind you of something without the attendant feelings of inferiority, insecurity, rejection, regret, embarrassment, guilt, humiliation and shame. Which, for example, on that note, reminds me of when I dragged Laurie Conway to see Pete Seeger at the Jazz Fest. “You actually like this?” she said. (Probably would have liked it better if it were Bruce Springsteen playing his songs instead.) Interestingly, Laurie and Claude are apparently big Jay Batt fans, who is running against Shelly Stevenson, who Milton had a crush on either just before, at the same time, or just after we all had crushes on Susu Lane. So it all comes full circle. (And, further, Jay Batt was sweating so much when he was on tv after the primaries that he reminded me of Albert Brooks on Broadcast News which of course is reminiscent of just about everything.) Further completing the circle, I saw Vaughn Carriere when I was running in the park the other day, who was with Laurie the last time I saw her at the Ogden Museum when Karen and I also saw Ellie Lane who Karen and I also saw in the VIP section at Dave Matthews the second day of Jazz Fest, and who I once dragged to a concert which I thought for a second was Bruce Springsteen but I think it was Sting on the Dream of the Blue Turtles tour. Hopefully, she at least liked the music despite the company. Remember when I hit that bird on the way to UNO? I thought of that when that Seinfeld came out with George hitting the squirrel. “They broke the deal.” I realized at the Jazz Fest in Economy Hall a few years ago that I don’t think I ever actually enjoyed going to a “concert”. In the case of Sting, of course, it was probably the insecurity, inferiority, rejection, regret, guilt, embarrassment, and shame. But you are so isolated; disconnected; can’t hear that well; bad acoustics; too loud; poorly mixed; sometimes they play a neat version of something; but more times than not, the song you are listening to is better at home or in your car or running on the i-pod or on cd. Jazz, on the other hand, particularly traditional jazz, is generally much better live. You listen to it on the radio and you can just hear that mono tone going into and coming out of one of those big cones on the old phonographs with some Virginia Woolf looking lady in a hat doing the Charleston in black and white. But in person, it really comes to life. Particularly in a place like Economy Hall, where the sound is good, and people are dancing and doing the second line. Unless Dave Matthews or Bruce Springsteen is playing, that’s pretty much the only place I go when I'm there. I remember when the Rodney King verdict came out and there was rioting in LA and I went to Economy Hall and there they were, all my friends, the old fogies, some young tourists, clapping to Down By the Riverside, and dancing together, black and white. That, for me, was a moment like Springsteen playing City in Ruins the other day. You expect audience participation from the first few rows. But there wasn’t, to the back of the track, a fist that wasn’t raised to the sky or a dry eye in the place. Bruce’s When the Saints Go Marching In, for me, wasn’t as moving as Preservation Hall, which, as always, had everyone on their feet. But it was something. I was kind of worried I wouldn’t see every one back. Thought a few of them might have died, or moved away. But they were all there. Eddie, who is kind of the leader in the tent, had four and a half feet; he and his wife are living with their son in Baton Rouge; drove in for the Fest every day. The old German guy with the pipe was in Lakewood South; completely flooded out; living in an apartment in old Metairie around the corner from where he lived when he first got married. The bald guy from Gentilly who spent three days at the Convention Center and thinks Nagin should be in jail. The old guy with the white beard and the umbrella and no rhythm and the young guy with the black beard and the umbrella and no rhythm. The tall guy, Richard, who I saw at Dick and Jenny’s a few weeks ago. My old neighbor, Dan Armstrong. The two couples from River Ridge, who offered me some Margaritas. The guy with the hat who always dances with his mother, (I think it’s his mother), who looks like she is about 100, and loves to shake her butt, holding a tiny umbrella. The really nice bald guy who always dances with the kooky lady with the red glasses and all of the shoes. The lady, I think her name is Carol, who second lines the best, was wearing an “I love Boston” shirt. (Must be where she evacuated.) And, of course, there were a lot of “Make Levees Not War” t-shirts and “New Orleans is Where I Belong” etc, as well as my personal favorite: “FEMA Evacuation Plan: Run Mother Fucker Run!” Speaking of shame, I am now a little bit ashamed that I ever doubted them. When I first heard Michael White play Chant of Bechet in Economy Hall, it was something I will never forget. A hush came over the crowd and you could feel it in your bones. But it was all music. Sometimes, like the day of the Rodney King riots, or when the Preservation Hall Band is playing The Saints, or someone is singing What A Wonderful World, or Blueberry Hill, the music is great; but it’s really about something else. I know I’m a loser. A sap. A ted. But you can believe, for a moment, that people are good and that good people will win in the end. When Bruce Springsteen played O Mary Don’t You Weep No More, and Eyes on the Prize, and John Henry, that was good music. When he played City in Ruins, it wasn’t Jungleland or Thunder Road, but it was something else.