good morning -
It was as if I were trapped inside the coda of a song by Paul Simon.
Sitting on some block of seats trying to watch a group perform during the DC Jazz Festival, all I could hear were two over-eager security clerks patrolling the colour of patrons’ wristbands - for a free music festival.
Sporting a blue wristband and yellow wristband myself, I wondered how anyone could be okay with the inaccessibility of music during a mostly-free musical fest. I do pity the blue-wristbanders who longed to watch the Cuban troupe closer, only to be told to stand far back by the secutity guards. Because, of course, artists prefer to play in front of nobody than anybody.
Such was my frustration at the Wharf that I left after a couple of frustrating hours, after months of looking forward to this in anticipation. I came here to watch Christian McBride, one of the greatest musicians I have ever seen live.
I didn’t really get to see him, and I accept a fair bit of culpability for that. First - I didn’t pay the $90 to reserve a seat (frankly, I’m not going to pay twice as much for worse seats than at the Vanguard). Second, I went to the wrong venue at first. Apparently I was at the Wharf and not District Pier at the Wharf.
Anyways - I got to District Pier just before McBride and the Inside Straight got on. Only the crowd was deep and I could only find a place near the beverage stand. Which you need a wristband, and one of those fancy drink coupons, to indulge in. Wristband, my man.
I have to imagine a pier isn’t a great venue choice for a festival, mainly because there isn’t a way for the crowd to spread out. It wasn’t as if I had a canoe by my side to idle in the Potomac River beside the stage.
Forsaken in a just-here-for-the-vibes crowd, I endured the chit-chatter and wristband and coupon discussions to the brink of my patience.
I left District Pier. Today will not be the day I enjoy Christian McBride. Another day, I hope.
And so back to the Wharf, the smaller stage floating atop the river. I take a seat, the only one I could see. Wristband, my man, the security guards asked every single passer-by.
Somewhere, in the distance, the samba was being played. The joyful sounds it elucidated drowned by the enabled security guards at the metal gates. Music faded into nothingness long before it reached my wanting ears.
Wristband, my man, security beckoned everyone at the outdoor and free showing. You got to have a wristband.
I would not be trapped inside a coda. And so I left.
Fitzie’s track of the day: Wristband, by Paul Simon
And now for your links:
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FA investigating potential racist abuse during Yeovil match versus York