Sure, the weather was terrible on Sunday. Folks hunkered in bars, restaurants, and houses near the entrances waiting for news about whether the festival would open at all, and it was after 3 p.m. by the time I got in. By that point, many of the much-anticipated acts would have been over anyways, and cheerful lettering near the bag check informed us that “Pitbull will not appear today”. (I got a good laugh out of this, temporarily forgetting about my inexplicable enthusiasm for his song “Back in Time”.)

Delays and cancellations, though, don’t really detract from the overall experience that is Jazz Fest in New Orleans. As great as the lineup is, I’d rather see pretty much any of those bands pretty much anywhere other than a hot, crowded festival. Some I’d rather not see at all. What’s notable about this time of year—especially for people that live in New Orleans—is how the festival creates a flurry of activity and our normal routines are put on hold to accommodate the influx of people. There are night shows and between-weekend mini festivals (Chaz Fest, the United Bakery Revue, the All-Star Country Fest, etc.) There’s that strange little mini-city of barbeques, side-hustles, and various wheelings and dealings that crops up in the streets surrounding the Fairgrounds. Above all, there’s a lot of extra work.

New Orleans is a town of service industry folks, musicians, and fly-by-night hustlers (not mutually exclusive), and it survives on tourism. Events like Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras are culturally and personally meaningful to a vast many people, but they’re also the times when many of us need to make enough money to float us through the doldrums of summer. Musicians play impossible numbers of gigs in a row, bartenders work back-to-back doubles, artists frantically build up their stock to sell, small local magazines print extra issues. There’s a lot of exhaustion, but there’s also a lot of purposeful work, camaraderie, celebration, and all those post-gig (whatever your particular gig may be) moments of euphoria-slash-collective-relief.

So, even though being cooped up at a teeming Seahorse Saloon for the better part of the day sounds like being stuck at an airport with a bunch of wet drunks waiting for a layover that never arrives, it felt like a really quintessential, priceless Jazz Fest experience. Between the conversations with folks from near and far, the pervasive excitement and/or determination to get one’s work done, and the Po Boyz rocking the house for over three hours straight (“We’ll keep playing til one of us faints!”… or the delay goes on so long they have to get to their next gigs…), this was the perfect environment to soak it all in.

I’m really fond of the Seahorse at this time of year. This is pretty much solely because it imports some of the bartenders from Checkpoint Charlie’s (Heather and Angelo, specifically) and I’m unnaturally fond of Checkpoint Charlie’s and everybody associated with it. I remember when I’d been in town about a year and Claudia gave me a roll of toilet paper and told me to go change it, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside, like I was a part of something. I don’t know whether it’s comforting or worrisome to know I’m not alone in my reaction. (It’s a “love it” or “hate it” type of place.) I don’t think you’re supposed to walk into a dirty Frenchmen corner bar and get the feeling you’re supposed to have at Thanksgiving at Grandma’s, but hey. Take it where ya can get it, I guess.

What’s more, Checkpoint Charlie folks have a way of coming to the rescue with OffBeat-related business, whether it be providing barstools for booth volunteers at FQF or simply cultivating a comfortably depressing environment to draft articles at strange hours. Since the weather yesterday foiled my plans of typing the afternoon away under a tree somewhere in the Fairgrounds (instead I got caught in a torrential downpour biking up Esplanade with a laptop wrapped in trash bags in a broken backpack), the Seahorse and the familiar faces there (plus the less familiar faces of the other Seahorse bartenders, who rocked as well, for the record) seemed like the perfect place to make home base for the day.

Delays and packed bars can be tiring, so I came up with some tips and tricks you can use if you find yourself marooned at the Seahorse for a Jazz Fest weather delay.

 

Tips and Tricks for Waiting it Out at the Seahorse Saloon

+ If wet upon arrival, don’t try to enter the bar. If you have a dripping poncho, squishy footsteps, and beseeching eyes ringed in Alice Cooper mascara, there is no room for you at the inn. The Dry People inside will look at you like you’re covered in bubonic plague. You are, in a way.

+ Instead, try going back in time and distributing Jazz Fest Bibles for OffBeat in previous years. (Suggested soundtrack: “Back in Time”, Pitbull.) This will teach you other ways to sneak into the building. Make sure to have already developed a solid rapport with Angelo (maybe by lurking around Checkpoint’s open mic night) so that when you show up sheepishly at the door where they take the trash out, he won’t bat an eye. He’ll instead just offer you a safe place to stash your laptop.

+ If you’re taking notes on a Checkpoint Charlie’s guest check book that you received the last time you were there (because you were trying to draft an article on bar napkins, and it was getting soggy), don’t stand too close to the menu at the Seahorse. They’ll keep trying to order food, and they simply won’t believe you when you tell them you don’t work there.

+ If you order a drink, tip your bartenders!!!! You might be stuck with them in a hot, crowded room for four more hours than you intended (and we’re about to find out that Pitbull isn’t even appearing tonight), so let’s try to keep everybody happy. But seriously, keep in mind that this is the busy season. We rely on it!

+ Wait, but you’re from a country where tipping is not a common practice! Hmmm. I feel like I’ve heard that one before… all the time… for decades. I don’t buy it! Most people from your country, wherever it may be, do the appropriate thing when they travel: they look up the tipping practices. It’s not hard to do a little basic research about the culture you are visiting. If I visit your country, I promise you I will remember not to tip you. Please show me the same kind of courtesy!

+ Bring a catheter.

+ Buy a Po Boyz CD! Buy both Poy Boyz CDs! Tip the Po Boyz! These guys killed it. They played for over three hours with no breaks, they left for other gigs, and they came back and played again at 6 p.m. That’s New Orleans, baby. And what a great sound—fiery, funky party music that inflected with everything from country to Latin to gospel. They also did some fantastic covers. On “Billie Jean”, Kose Yamaguchi sounded like he was actually saying “Billie Jean is not my lover”, in real English words, through his saxophone. But I might have been delirious by that point. The group also featured Keith Hollis on organ, Thomas Meunier on guitar, and guest Simon Lott on drums. Their energy was contagious, and the crowd boogied down.

+ In New Orleans at Jazz Fest (and when you travel elsewhere), help the world go round when you can. Buy CDs, buy local art, tip, buy overpriced water from that guy with the cooler, buy stupid knick knacks. I don’t know about buying candy from the children. That one might be questionable.

+ If you’re stuck inside waiting, revel in it. Sure, we missed certain bands and we’re still eating Igor’s hamburgers instead of Crawfish Monica, but we’re in New Orleans, we’re all getting day-drunk together, we can’t understand each other’s accents over the din but we’re trying, we’re all hitting balloons around like a bunch of dopes with Lorde blaring on the speakers, Igor’s hamburgers are actually pretty good—this is great.

(We did eventually get into Jazz Fest.)

The first stop was the Acura Stage and Dr. John. That green suit… that hat… that long dread ponytail… He looked and and sounded much stronger than he had when I saw him at Jazz Fest a couple years back. Cool, understated, and totally captivating, with that unmistakable growly voice. The crowd was full of grinning faces when he started into “Right Place, Wrong Time”.

Next, we caught the first few songs from the Mavericks. The band was started 25 years ago as a Miami alternative group but got signed in Nashville and went on (unexpectedly) to make a big name for themselves in the country scene. I hadn’t heard of them before but can’t wait to dig into their catalogue now. A musician friend had voiced the opinion that Raul Malo’s voice was better than maybe anyone else’s at the entire fest, and just.. wow. I might not have noticed without the hint (what with my still-learning music ears and the fact that Malo isn’t one of those showy powerhouse vocalists), but his pitch sense and the way he moved between notes was stunningly precise. Every note was crystal clear.

At some point I realized I hadn’t eaten all day and got the first, cheapest thing I saw. It turned out to be piece of breaded meat with bones in it between two pieces of wonder-esque bread. I didn’t understand the concept at first and nearly broke my teeth, but it really hit the spot.

Last on the docket was Tom Petty. They started 20 minutes late with the sound a little off at first, but eventually they found their groove and put on a solid, really enjoyable show. It was obvious that they love playing together. (The “new guy” in the band is drummer Steve Ferrone; he’s been with them for 24 years.)

It wasn’t the kind of show where people were dancing and shouting, it was the kind where you’re standing in the mud puddle in your boots, feeling pleasantly worn out, with little kids on one side and three goofy older men that have clearly been friends since way before you were born on the other. The temperature was perfect, people were singing along and smiling, the Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club plane turned lazy loops in the sky overhead. By the end of the show, I had half a mind to go to Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club. I guess that’s how advertising works. At one point, my friend made the delightful realization that Tom Petty was playing a guitar signed by Tom Petty. He played some songs off of Wildflowers and crowd favorites like “Free Fallin’” and “Last Dance with Mary Jane”, and I snuck out ahead of the crowds with an increased appreciation for Tom Petty, as well as an increased—if possible—appreciation for local bars and bartenders, and an incredible sense of good fortune to live in a city so permeated with music.