Finally, a cloudless day. I started the day with the Oyster Rockefeller Bisque, which was a rich, murky green broth with six or so good sized oysters in a small styrofoam bowl. A satisfying food start.

I took a lot of notes during the Lost Bayou Ramblers’ set, which knocked me out. They may bridge South Louisiana’s roots music past with the present better than anyone else, and you could see the past and present mingling in the band’s stage presentation. To the right were bassist Alan LeFleur (with a rockabilly haircut and an armful of tattoos) and guitarist Cavan Carruth in an indie rock winter undershirt, a full, bushy beard and a worker’s cap). In the middle of the stage, Chris Courville didn’t share their genre-related wardrobe sense, but his stand-up kick-drum, snare and cymbal rig reflect the modern dancer’s love of a drum beat, and at the far left was Louis Michot, wearing a Beau Chene 4-H baseball undershirt – a wardrobe choice reflecting more ironic times. All of this stood out in contrast to Andre Michot, who sat down to play the accordion and lap steel. He didn’t jump around like Carruth and LeFleur. He didn’t stomp the stage floor like Courville or climb LeFleur’s upright bass like his brother Louis. Instead, he patiently sat there in a clean white shirt and played the music as so many of his forerunners. Later he explained that he sits down because he plays better that way, but he was surrounded by the modern world as he evoked another day.

Rotary Downs had a solid crowd in the Music Heritage/Lagniappe Stage, and as I caught myself flashing on the couplet “Every word is a curse word / every word is the worst word,” I realized what a subtle melodist James Marler is.

The Raconteurs sounded great, and it was nice to have a rock ‘n’ roll show during Jazz Fest. “You Don’t Understand Me” sounded so Badfinger-ish I almost wanted to rethink my review of Consolers of the Lonely, but I heard enough ’70s arena blues rock to make me think I got it right the first time. Late in the afternoon on a sunny day, though, I needed something more at stake onstage than whether or not the band could execute their songs live – which they obviously could, and well – so I moved on …

… and found what I needed at the New Orleans Bingo! Show, which filled the Music Heritage/Lagniappe Stage to capacity. Clint Maedgen and the Bingo! circus was as live as music gets, making music out of metal plates, bullhorns and dollar store toy chainsaws in addition to more conventional instruments including a cello, a theramin, and keyboards, guitars and bass. The show was often noisy, but never without melody and a sense of adventure. While the Noisician Coalition marched through the crowd with homemade instruments, Maedgen added to the racket by singing into a cheap CB, which turned his voice into blare. The theatrical nature of the show gave its more ‘out-there’ moments context, particularly when they sat next to the Tom Waitsian moments, the New Orleans R&B “Mid-City Baby” and the heartbreaking “I Give It All to You,” which could be a song left off of Prince’s Around the World in a Day. The show was also a reminder that context is everything; the Bingo! Show held the full house and had them still applauding well after they left the stage looking for an encore.

After that, I went to see the start of the Neville Brothers set, knowing what I’d see. They received a gushing intro from Quint Davis, then lots of love from the crowd – no nasty signs or booing as Keith Spera and Chris Rose seemed to fear. Really – who’d pay $50 to go out and try to bitch out the Nevilles? Or, with all their fans there, stand and harrass them when there was so much music going on elsewhere for the disgruntled?

The Nevilles sets collectively served to remind everyone of their place in New Orleans’ culture – Art playing classic R&B in his show, Aaron singing gospel, and the brothers bringing some of the city’s leading funk players to the stage, along with the Wild Tchoupitoulas to underscore their relationship to Mardi Gras Indians. And when the Nevilles want to make a point, they can make it with authority. As one friend said, “Who wouldn’t like this?”

I slid out to catch part of the tribute to Tuba Fats and discovered that five tubas don’t equate to five times the funkiness or five times the power. If anything, as well meant as the show was, they translated to five times the murk.

On my way out, I gave the quail and pheasant gumbo one last chance. It was my great food disappointment from week one, and this time it was the rich, twangy brick red gumbo where the game bird flavors combine with strong andouille to create a unique gumbo that is actually hurt by the addition of tobasco. A fine end to Jazz Fest.

Tomorrow – I swear, final Jazz Fest thoughts.