On The Willows...

I spent much of Saturday afternoon in the little northern California town of Cotati where they were honoring New Orleans with a “Jazz Fest” of their own. Like the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival this little event on the square in downtown Cotati was more eclectic than just a jazz festival, but unlike the one in New Orleans the eclecticism was served at the expense of the jazz. The afternoon started with a poorly put together wanna be Traditional Jazz band that played with heart and good intentions, but that’s about it. They ended their set with a “second line” down the middle of the street in downtown Cotati, something that has probably never happened in Cotati before, and frankly you could tell. Between the band’s weak performance and the plodding “marching” (no dancing, no craziness, little joy) it was just sad, and it reminded me of the line in Apocalypse Now when they have a barbecue on the beach in VietNam. "The more they tried to make it just like home, the more they made everybody miss it.”

The second line was followed, throughout the afternoon with groups of increasing ability and diminishing interest in anything that can be remotely termed jazz. There were other players, and somewhat better bands, playing in many of the little bars and restaurants that dot the downtown area, one in particular was a Latino style jazz band called Tumbao. Finding them was one of those delightfully surprising experiences that come along at things like this. I was tired of the half-realized, semi-intentional music on the square and was headed for home when I heard an irrepressible latin beat emanating from Spancky’s Bar and Grill. I popped in just in time to catch them leaving for a break but what I had heard made me order up a margarita and hang out for the second set. It was worth the wait as the performance really did hold its own and made me feel much better. After Tumbao I even ventured around to the other small venues in town, catching a little bit here and a little bit there. The afternoon wound up feeling like a pretty decent Sunday evening on Frenchman’s Street (not quite the quality or abundance of music, but a reasonable facsimile thereof) and I found myself less homesick and more appreciative of the way it's possible (if we try) to make home wherever we are.