JAS Labor Day 2010 Day 1

Jazz Aspen Snowmass is a semi-annual music festival held in our valley the weekends of July 4th and Labor Day. While the July 4 session, held in Aspen, does have a jazz element, Labor Day, in Snowmass, usually features older rock (broadly defined) acts. Since each day includes three shows, two in the afternoon and one after dark, we often get to see some relative unknowns in addition to the headliners.

This year’s Labor Day edition was supposed to be a jolly conclave, with Cheryl joining my sister Leigh and bro-in-law Craig, and a couple of their friends. We’d bought “blind faith” tickets last December for $38 a day, before any acts had been signed. But Mongolia intervened, so I attended stag and tried to have enough fun for both of us, since I’d paid for the tickets already.

While the festival has in the past been 4 or even 5 days long, this year was just a Fri/Sat/Sun affair. The first day, according to local critics, was supposed to be the highlight night, so despite the Weatherwaxes and their friends Bill & Trudy rolling in between 1 and 2 PM (with the first show set to go at 4), we quickly marshaled our forces, and sent the three men down to claim a prime location by 3:30 PM. Carrying 5 low slung fold-up beach chairs, and back packs filled with warm clothes and snacks, we snagged a spot about 15 meters from the stage, just at the edge of the stage.

The JAS set up on the ball diamond in Snowmass Town Park is a little odd. While the audience camps out in the outfield, looking up at the stage set on the dirt diamond, there is a distinct separation of the classes. One-half of the field is set aside for the 1,000 or so who paid $400 (and up) for VIP tickets. They have tons of space, with a number of round tables set up for their catered meals, a separate tent over by first base to get shade from the harsh late afternoon mountain sun, and a small “free-range” area near the stage for the small number of plutocrats who actually show up and might want to boogie. In the middle is the A-V center, where the sound, lights, and cameras for the big screen are deployed, and a 4 foot wide patrolled DMZ no-man’s land. Then, behind second and third base, covering half of center and left fields, are the hoi polloi, up to 6,000 of us. To the acts on stage, the distinction is obvious, and they make fun of it with sing-along “contests” pitting one side against the other. In reality, it’s just another example of the “billionaires” vs the “millionaires” here in Fantasy Land.

We’re quite proud of the little spot we’ve organized, and get to enjoy “Calexico”, and eclectic amalgamation of musicians from the Southwest. Basically it’s a white bread singer-songwriter and drummer from Tucson, who’ve joined up with a mariachi crew from the borderlands. They play a tight, professional set of forgettable songs backed by jazzy infiltrations of Mexican horns and guitar. Their sound is smooth, not ironic, and not pushy, but big enough for the space.

Next up, the find of the weekend for us. DeVotchka is the brain child of 4 Denver-based multi-talented musicians who have carved a unique zone in the musical landscape. My capsule summary of the group goes like this. Imagine a Slovenian or Hungarian wedding band who get on a train bound overnight for their next gig in a neighboring state. On board, some paranormal switch is pulled, and they are caught in a timeless loop of endless evenings riding in metaphorical circles, unable to reach their final destination. Night after night, they play their tunes in the dining car for the other passengers trapped with them. At some indeterminate time, a young lady skilled in Sousaphone and stand-up bass joins them, and the drummer learns how to play the trumpet. Their act gets more and more involuted and ethereal, pulling on not only their Gypsy roots, but also the requests which pile up from the crowd who want something new every night. The lead singer, Nick Urata, while born and raised in NYC, nonetheless employs a voice which seems to come out of some other tradition, maybe Argentinian, maybe European circus, maybe American burlesque. You need to see this group if they ever come near your town; while waiting, you can check them out on the web at DeVotchKa.net, or Google them to find a lot of free podcasts, including a two hour show on NPR Music.

The evening ends with Wilco, a group we’ve never heard of, but which seems to have a big following among 40-somethings who enjoy straight-ahead southern-tinged rock played and sung with the appropriate sense of irony for Gen X listeners. For example, in the middle of a haunting ballad, at random intervals, the drummer seems to go into epileptic fits trying to hijack the song, then gives up after 20 seconds and turns the limelight back to Jeff Tweedy, the band’s front-man. Tweedy writes and sings and needs a serious session with his hairdresser. He looks suspiciously like the second coming of Lowell George (now deceased front-man for Little Feat) – a little short, stout, dark haired, deep and wide slightly eyes which carry a mischievous slightly malevolent air. His songs are very self-referential and not nearly as sophisticated rhythmically or tonally as Little Feat. But he does have a stand-out guitar hero in Nels Cline. Cline, 54, looks and plays far younger. He goes through a dozen guitars in his act, as befits his broad background in jazz, avant garde, and other genres. He has appeared on at least 150 records, the last 6 years with Wilco. He is one of the rare lead guitarists whose on-stage body language is backed up by the virtuosity of his playing. He might just be the Eric Clapton of his generation.

(To be Cont’d)