Touched by blue, blue sad laughter at Voodoo 2009

Music Notes

NEW ORLEANS | At Voodoo Fest on Friday, October 30th, 2009, I officially reached middle age. In the fading dusk of a rainy Friday I found myself standing with a collection of high school sophomores watching a twenty-something “mega” band. I feel like the oldest person on the planet. The band is Silversun Pickups and the music sounds overly produced and slick.

Sheets of rain fall from the sky in a downpour. I squint to find a smiling face. The audience around me is too callow, too lost, too full of disinterest. The driving rain covers our clothes with a smell of wet skin and sweat. Our individual stinks mix together and hang in the turgid air.

It is year 11 for the Voodoo Music Experience, and this is the biggest festival to date. The entrance is pricy ($75 dollar per day, $180 for the weekend). Not cheap for an American economy in recession. Yet, the recession has tended to keep travelers regionalized. This year, instead of a cross country trip to Burning Man many Gulf Coast residents will opt for the Voodoo Fest experience.

An impenetrable fence dividing the VIP from the common class splits the audience. I am a have-not. I look over the VIPs. Their extra money and contacts don’t make them any drier. Everyone looks sullen and miserable, as sad as the sad precise music coming from Silversun Pickups.

A banner above the Voodoo Stage implores the audience to “Worship the Music.” This is Obama's America looking for idols in the 21st century pop world.

I must leave all of this. I push through grassy fields of ankle deep mud to the mall area. Past the beer and the over priced sandwiches, everything takes on a Carnival nightmare blend of costumes and rain.

Then I hear it, the first chords of the blues.

My eyebrows raise. In the distance I see the Preservation Hall tent. It is lit with golden incandescent bulbs and pushed back in the trees.

People are spilling out of the tent. Interested, I make my way closer, almost tripping on my own legs as I enter the warm atmosphere.

Inside, everything is dry. The beat of the music – courtesy of Little Freddie King and his band – swells over us with authority. King’s septuagenarian hands blur up and down the guitar. It is blues man! Blues!

A thump, thump, thump of life itself drives the band and we’re speechless. The tent has provided us heat and a communal place. No one is looking sullen. Childish smiles cover middle aged faces. We’re like kids again. We’ve come home.

If there is a thing which makes America great it is our music. American roots music washes out over the audience and we can’t help but clap our hands and stamp our feet.

We dance. We smile. We’re happy to be alive. We’ve all come together to share a holy moment outside of time; touched by this blue, blue sad laughter.

Comments (1)

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written by susan, November 04, 2009

that is beautiful, well said, - and so, so true.

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