or How I Saw Steve Riley 5 Times in 5 Days

The music choices at the fest are overwhelming, not to mention the food choices, with food booths scattered over the infield like gators in a bayou. Ten music stages are spread around a racetrack, five or six bands per stage per day, except at the Gospel tent which has more. That's at least 50 bands a day. I'm glad I have my two bands. I don't panic when I look at the schedule. I've already circled when they're playing and highlighted what else looks good. I have tickets to all four days of the last long weekend of Jazz Fest.

On Thursday, I wait on Rampart for the city bus to the fest. Two guys lounging in a doorway tell me to go down a block or the bus'll pass by. Too full, they say. But when the bus comes, it's almost empty. The Fair Grounds aren't crowded either. The day is bright and sunny. The temperature's in the eighties. The humidity makes it feel hotter. I sit on the brown grass, gobble up a crawfish enchilada, and consult the schedule.

Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys aren't at the fest today. I saw them last night, downstairs at the Mid City Lanes Rock 'N' Bowl. The front of the stage was crowded with dancers and the sound was muddy but they transported me anyway. I love that band. Something about the smooth Cajun music with a rock and roll edge, the combination of opposites -- hard and soft, heartbreaking waltzes that for some reason make me happy. They're working on a new record Steve said, which was good news. Their last one, "Bayou Ruler," has been glued to my turntable a very long time.

I cruise from stage to stage looking for the perfect combination of sun and music. The House of Blues Stage comes close. Cephas and Wiggins are rolling out a carpet of acoustic blues, mellow and soothing.

I stroll over to hear Evening Star at the Lagniappe Stage -- country and bluegrass and a cool breeze. They're playing "Your Cheatin' Heart" when I walk in. The guitar player tells us he and his dad used to watch trains. The train's gone, his daddy's gone, nothing left but the song, he says. I sashay out to "I Saw the Light."

The festival closes at 7:00. The club scene starts around 10:00. In between there's time to shower, change and eat. Tonight is Lil' Band O' Gold at the Mermaid Lounge. I've heard about this band since last year. The club is dark, steamy and small. The place is packed. I'm hooked with the first Warren Storm vocal. He's the drummer, 63 years old but you'd never guess it. The band burns through their set without a break. They're hot and flashy. With a 3 piece horn section, accordion, pedal steel, keyboards, drums and guitars, they play anything, everything, from blues to Cajun to country to swamp pop. It's rock and roll at it's best, the way it used to be. Yet it's as immediate and in-your-face as the wet New Orleans night. We're all of us, the band and the audience, smiling and soaked with sweat.

Friday, I loll on the bleachers at the Acura Stage for David Lindley, guitar wizard. There's a breeze, lower humidity, and it's pleasant in the sun. John Hiatt's next. I rouse myself from my heat-and-music-induced trance to weave around the blankets and flags to the front of the stage. When I get there, he's playing Bonnie Raitt's hit, but it's his song, "Thing Called Love."

I suck down a mango freeze, wander over to Congo Square, and inspect the voodoo shrine under the stage. It's a giant wedding cake decorated with candles, sunflowers, gold fishes and plates of fruit. Someone tells me Gram Parsons, country rock star and grievous angel, is buried in a suburb around here. I'd like to make a pilgrimage.

LBOG is playing at the end of the day. It's crowded at the Fais Do-Do Stage. C.C. Adcock, their guitar player, is wearing a tee shirt that says "Cajun." How could I proclaim my heritage in one or two words? Mutt? White Girl? I'm jealous of his Louisiana heritage. A Cajun wannabe. I stand back on the grass and sway to the music like a mute back up singer.

Friday night Irma Thomas is at Storyville. I like her but not the room. The back room's better. Ingrid Lucia and the Flying Neutrinos are cooking up swingy jazz and people are listening instead of talking. I spot David Greeley, who plays fiddle with the Mamou Playboys and sax with LBOG, at the bar and feel like we've been stamped with the seal of approval.

Saturday, The Mamou Playboys are at the Acura Stage. Steve tells us that last year it was called the Ray Ban Stage and they gave away sunglasses. This year, he jokes, they get a car. "Gonna take you for a ride," he says. He has a big, attentive crowd even if they are camped out to see Lenny Kravitz. I have a good spot in front. People are dancing on blankets. Steve and David trade off on vocals and instruments. Steve puts down his accordion and picks up a fiddle. David switches his fiddle for a guitar. They do familiar songs and new ones. The set's being filmed for the huge screen above me. I alternate between looking at the real thing and the blown up images. Altogether a more satisfying Steve Riley experience than the Rock 'N' Bowl.

When they're done it's off to the Gospel Tent for some cooling and revitalizing. I sit under a photograph of a man who has a body like Jimi Hendrix and an expression like Jesus Christ. On stage, The Mighty Chariots wear elegant dark suits. The singers in front wail in harmony. The guitar player steps out from the background and peels off a solo. People surge to the stage with raised arms. Is it God we're worshiping or the electric guitar?

I scarf down some red beans and rice and walk around the racetrack to hear Jimmy Cliff. After "Many Rivers to Cross," I go out a different exit and can't find the bus stop. "Go down there a few blocks," a woman says. She's wrong.

Back in town I buy a book on the cemeteries. Gram Parsons is in Metairie at the Garden of Memories. I don't have time to visit him today.

Record shopping's the next thing on my agenda. I'm hunting for vintage swamp pop and swamp blues -- the wellspring of the music I love; Warren Storm, Slim Harpo, Van Broussard, Bobby Charles, and Tommy McLain, all of which I find at Louisiana Music Factory except Bobby Charles which I can't find anywhere. It seems like every old rock and roll song I've ever loved is a swamp pop song, even Paul McCartney's "Oh! Darling." I drool over a vinyl "Long Tall Sally" on Parlephone but I'm not here to buy Beatles stuff.

Over café au lait, I fantasize about living here. I'd write and hang out with the locals. Learn the wild places beyond the city. After the festival it's Gram Parsons or a swamp. Not enough time for both.

The first thing on my schedule at the fest on Sunday is Bernard Allison at the House of Blues Stage. I'm here to pay homage to his daddy, Luther, blues guitar god. Bernard's fingers slide up the neck of his guitar. The volume increases like an airplane taking off, forcing me from my spot. It's too loud even for me.

The crowds are getting to me too. On the way to hear Ani DiFranco at the Fox Stage, I get stuck behind a Mardi Gras Indian parade. All of us on the path become unwilling participants. We shuffle along, packed close and stifling. I make an abrupt about face. Back in the quarter, I saunter over to Bourbon Street, buy a tropical drink from a doorway bar and sip it in my courtyard.

Sunday night the club is Howlin' Wolf and the band is LBOG one last time. This band can rock. No question about it. But it's the slow ones that seep into my soul. "Maybe we should just do ballads tonight," C.C. says. I nod in agreement. At the break I spot Warren Storm by the side of the stage. He signs my cd. LBOG closes with my favorite song on their new record, one of the two originals, "In Another Time."

Monday, the fest is over. It feels strange not to get up and look at the schedule. At least there's still live music around like Anders Osborne doing an in-store performance at Tower Records. He sits in a chair with his acoustic. I sit on the floor at his feet. The music crosses the border from funk to blues and back. I buy his record "Living Room" and tell him it was like having a concert in my living room. The perfect way to end the week, I say. He looks pleased.

I wander through St. Louis Cemetery #1. I'm cocky. Been here before and think I know my way around but for a few minutes I'm lost and terrified. So much for Metairie. Gram, you'll have to wait until I know exactly where to find you.

Tuesday, I take a ride to the swamp. Out on the bayou, the guide cuts the engine. The boat drifts past the alligators and swamp willows. A heron fishes on the bank. I migrated down here just like that bird. And like him, I have to go back. On the way home we fly through storms. I turn the volume up on my headphones. The plane bounces but it seems to me like it's dancing.

We sway home to a slow Cajun waltz.