The Four-Day Pass that Ate the World
5th annual Lake Chelan Wine and Jazz Fest misses major opportunity to share live jazz with the greater public
Music festivals can be a wonderful way to enjoy live music, and maybe even make some history. Just ask the cool kids going to Coachella, and before that, Woodstock.
But too many festival organizers shoot themselves, (the artists they book, and potential fans) in the foot with boneheaded administrative lapses, political, who-knows-who, behind-the-scenes moves, and general douchebaggery that often has nothing to do with the music…the whole point.
As someone who’s covered a great deal of jazz and blues festivals, I can attest to the absolute mess that occurs when those in charge put the cart before the horse. Many a promising festival has gone by the wayside, because of a lack of focus, an undue focus on money over music, letting community cliques run the show, and forgetting the audience.
Last week, the husband and I built a five-day getaway with friends out of his two-night, Darren Motamedy gig for the 5th annual Lake Chelan Wine & Jazz Festival. The festival, put on by volunteers and the Lake Chelan Chamber of Commerce, benefits music education.
All went well leading up to the first gig Friday night when everyone decided to try and get comped tickets, even though this festival only offered a four-day pass for $169. No half-day, full day, or individual band options.
Pay up, or fuck off, basically, for a good cause, of course. This means you, too, wine club members.
A bad idea all around.
Now, my husband — who plays keyboard — normally avoids comping anyone, even me, on any gig. It’s too much of a hassle. Nine times out of 10, management/organizers flat-out refuse. They don’t care if the person asking is an actual musician backing the headliner, the headliner, or his wife and two kids.
You could beg, plead, talk about your poor grandmother’s last, dying wish, and they’d still say no.
Generally, I don’t even ask. I prefer to pay for everything when I go see a show. Many places, the artist needs every single penny, so I pay for the cover, I tip generously, and I buy everything on the menu, including the high-priced drinks.
Needless to say, the ask did not go well.
Ed went to the Chamber of Chelan’s office downtown to ask about comping five tickets for his wife and four friends, who are huge supporters of the arts, as well as big-time Motamedy fans, while the rest of us waited in the car. After awhile, he walked out, and sat at a bench, face buried in his phone, not looking very happy.
Right at that moment, an elderly lady stepped out of the Chamber’s office, clearly concerned, almost terrified, staring down the street, as if a robber had just fled the premises.
I said as much, but our friends laughed off such a notion.
The request turned into a big deal.
Ed had gone in, made his case to a gentleman, when this elderly lady cut in, acting like she was in charge. He pled his case again, to her, and she wouldn’t budge, insisting that they had a finite number of comps for artists’ families (about 100) and couldn’t make an exception.
As he left, my husband yelled back that he would never play this festival again. He almost quit the gigs altogether in frustration and absolute disgust. (I would never let him do that.) He was that upset.
His reaction so unnerved the lady that the head of the festival got involved. He sought out my husband and the headliner, Motamedy, on the last day of the gig during set-up to complain about the behavior. Words were exchanged, apologies made, and once again, Ed calmly pled the case for expanding ticketing options.
This time, the head of the festival actually listened and agreed that Ed had a point. Maybe next year, you and your crew will have more of a choice. Maybe nothing will have changed, maybe there aren’t enough volunteers in-the-know to handle such a request. Maybe they have to offset costs somehow (the gigs don’t pay themselves), and besides, $169 for four days to enjoy 20 bands at 13 venues is a screaming deal, if you consider the average cover is around $50.
Who knows. It was worth a shot, right?
Many more people would’ve gone to the festival — and paid not just for the tickets, but for bottles of wine, food, and even donations to the cause — if only the festival would’ve given a bit more on admission.
More wineries would’ve participated, too, had their wine club members been allowed in during the four-day event.
Other festivals in general offer such options, it’s standard. We couldn’t understand why this one wouldn’t, and this wasn’t only coming from my husband, but his friends and — between you and me — long-suffering musicians who prefer to remain anonymous.
Turns out, our friends ended up sweet-talking the parking attendants into letting them in on the last night. They caught three bands, even offered to pay what would’ve been a reasonable cover anyway, while buying up several bottles of vino.
Everyone had a blast, dancing under the stars and the crescent moon to Darren Motamedy’s sweet, soul music at Succession Wines in Manson.
Oh, and btw, nobody at Motamedy’s Friday gig was observed asking for passes anyway, according to my husband’s observations.
My other pet peeve has to do with the caliber of talent in any festival line-up, ye olde New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival syndrome, where Top 40 rock, pop, and rap headliners take over, diluting the purity of the jazz movement.
This year’s Lake Chelan Wine & Jazz Festival featured a number of questionable bands that didn’t quite fit under the jazz billing. The people responsible for the 24-page flyer took some liberties with the definition of jazz, sweeping R&B and funk under the same carpet — all as a part of the “wide range of jazz genres.”
I don’t know about jazz genres, but I know jazz styles: gypsy jazz (which is now offensive…aka Django Reinhardt jazz), Latin jazz, big band jazz, vocalese, smooth, contemporary jazz, classical-jazz, rap-jazz, acid jazz… But funk and R&B? Never heard of it.
Let’s just say not everyone on the bill deserved to be there, and call it a night.
But that happens. Festivals need big, fancy, anchor names to draw crowds, then filter everyone gently, seamlessly into the gateway drugs of true, pure, unadulterated jazz, and on into the harder, more esoteric stuff.
This festival did boast a decent cross-section, a compromise of entry-level lyrical, melodic, musical jazz (Dmitri Matheny, Stephanie Porter, Jake Bergevin, Motamedy) appealing to everyone in the clan, from your grandparents to your surly teenager, all the way to the departures, the strange and intense, the gritty and challenging (Greta Matassa, Scott Lindenmuth Band, Mark Lewis Quartet).
Aaaand, the usual amateur hour that seems to taint every fucking jazz festival around for some unknown reason.
A lot of venues hire simply awful singers and two-piece bands that have no business calling themselves jazz, blues, or much of anything remotely close to music. You should’ve heard the keyboard singer at a winery after the festival ended. He sounded like bad karaoke, or a man getting his wanger whacked off.
If you’re inclined to enjoy browsing quaint cities and towns, Jazz-Walk style, with your shopping, wining, and dining getaway, always, always, always stick around on the last day when all the bands come out to play.
(The next, really well-done Jazz Walk’s coming up in downtown Edmonds, WA, the 2nd annual Edmonds Jazz Walk, June 3, 6 p.m.-midnight, brilliantly run by the master of them in North Bend — pianist/music educator/community leader Danny Kolke — with big band maestro/Edmonds-Woodway H.S. big band director Jake Bergevin. Piano composer Nelda Swiggett is reason alone to attend.)
At the recently wrapped Lake Chelan Wine & Jazz Fest, two local big bands did just that, with well-attended, picturesque outdoor performances at Riverwalk Pavilion. People stopped and dropped, and lay under the cooling sun to some fabulous jazz standards, vocals, instrumentals, solos, and orchestral horns…the highlight of our getaway.
Don't remember if I ever told you this. My father, who was in and out of our lives, introduced me to jazz during a brief period when we all lived together. Most Saturday nights we'd turn on the radio and listen to "The Harley Show," sponsored by a Baltimore sandwich shop chain. The program played a lot of bop, with a bit of earlier big band stuff. I remember my nine or ten year old self being fascinated by McCoy Tyner's piano on Coltrane's "Greensleeves." Harley was also the only show in town that played the uncensored LP version of McCann-Harris' "Compared to What" (Lord knows how they got away with that in an early evening time slot in 1969-70).
Every now and then we'd visit Mr. Scotty, a friend of my father. That guy literally had records all over his house: jazz, blues & R&B, some of it on 78s. I'd park myself in front of his hi-fi and listen to whatever stack he put on. I aspired to have a massive collection like his. Dad's own collection was small but potent. He favored organists like the Jimmys (McGriff and Smith) and Groove Holmes, sax players like Cannonball Adderley and Eddie Harris, and pianists Erroll Garner, Ahmad Jamal and Les McCann. The only vocal stuff he had was some VERY early Ray Charles, "Ella in Berlin" and one or two Gloria Lynne albums.