Hello. I’m easy. Like Sunday morning.

So… you know how, in life, you have this image of yourself? And that image is pretty cool. Suave. Witty. Calm under fire. A man (or woman, if you are one) of the world. Ready at a moment’s notice with a snappy comeback or clever comment. Always ready. That person in your image is cool. Fonzie cool. You look around at others and sorta nod to yourself, deep in the back of your head, and say “I’m cooler than that dude.” I mean, shit. I was in a rock band for chrissakes! That’s gotta count for something.

I had a revelation last night. I am SO not cool. Not even the slightest bit. I had inklings, but didn’t believe them. Last night… last night was devastating to me and my “inner cool factor”.

So, I’m at Jazzfest (I know it’s The Bermuda Music Festival, but come on. Just like that big orange place will always be “Lines Brothers”, this will always be Jazzfest to us) last night. Looking good, too. Got my ultracool ironic tshirt on, my regulation Uncle Elvis/Buddy Holly specs (just ‘cuz I don’t shave doesn’t mean I look like Elvis Costello in them. Come ON, people. He’s a gnome for god’s sake! I’m tall and slender! [Editor's note: Slender, in this case, meaning: Skinny as a North Shore goat]) poised on my more than regulation sized shnoz, nice jacket, light grey with a pinstripe, skinny jeans and I’m WORKING the straw Porkpie, y’all. Working it HARD. I AM style.

Mrs. Elvis and I are waiting in line at the bar (which brings to mind a line from an incredibly talented comedian, Mr. Nosmo King of Bermuda, “Fast Food in Slow Motion”. Apparantly the one BEHIND the bleachers is the bomb, though!) and I look over and see a shorter, huskier, rather dark-skinned gentleman and his beautiful wife. I recognize him from his various performances over the years and turn to my bride. Now, I have to interject here. There are several different things I could have said, all of them urbane, smart and, most importantly, cool. There was only one that wouldn’t have been. Guess which one I chose…

I could have said, “Hey, there’s LeVar Burton.” or “Hey, isn’t that the gentleman who played Kunta Kinte so brilliantly in Alex Haley’s Roots?” or even “Check it out! It’s the dude from Reading Rainbow.”
Not me, though. I get giddy like a schoolgirl and go, “OMIGOD IT’S GEORDIE LAFORGE!”

Dude. I am SO not cool.

Irregardless of that (and my apologies for the first word in this sentence. There are two reasons for it. 1) I was having a conversation about it the other day and my friend dared me to use it and 2) It makes me laugh. I KNOW it’s just wrong, but, sadly, it IS a real word now.), the night was wonderful. We rolled up at about 7:20 (look at me, with my hipster lingo!) and did a wander around the grounds, noting with some dismay that the minidonut place was without electricity, but I did manage to get that most wonderful of treats, an apple-covered funnel cake! Mmmm… I think I might vomit at the very thought of it. They’re delicious, but don’t horf down a whole large one on your own. And DEFINITELY don’t eat a dozen minidonuts half an hour later… and then finish the last four from your wife’s order.

Now, to the music. That’s what we all went for.
The opening act was the Bermuda Mass Choir and I can’t rave enough about them. Me being me, I have to say that the sound mix was a little off, but with the caveat of: There isn’t enough money in the world to get me to try mixing that space! They were glorious and towards the end there was a male soloist with the voice of an angel. Just plain beautiful. I don’t do preachy preachy too well, but this choir’s sound made up for any discomfort I felt on that front. S’just me, not a commentary on religion.
Tommy Davidson, a comedian that I enjoy and have enjoyed since his days on In Living Colour and thought was BRILLIANT in Bamboozled, took a while to warm up, but when he hit, had me cracking up. Yeah, some of the material was hackneyed and unoriginal, but there’s no denying that he is a VERY funny man. His shining moment, for me, was actually when Lionel Ritchie was on! Watching Mr. Davidson dance and joke around on the side of the stage had me floored.
Chrisette Michele is going to get a few more bucks, courtesy of Uncle and Aunty Elvis. She is cute as a button and… well, someone put it best last night. “Acegirl can SANG!” Adorable voice with a charming trill reminiscent of some female old school reggae artists. I thoroughly enjoyed.

Up next was Dan Dunn (Which still cracks me up, as I remember OLLLLLD Dan Dunn comics from when I was a kid. Think Dick Tracy, but not, and you’re on the right track). I had checked out his website and so was prepared for what was to come, but it was wonderful to hear Priscilla say, “I know who it’s supposed to be, but I don’t see it… (then he spun the canvas and it came clear that he had been painting upside down)… OH MY GOD! THAT’S AMAZING!” I thought that would be it, but he got on the mic, sounding strangely similar to Don Knotts, and gave props to Dr. Brown (applause was there. smattering, but there. I’m not making commentary, only reporting what I saw and heard), and announced that he was going to do another piece and that “This one is for you, Bermuda.”

Now, as I said, I had been to his website and had familiarized myself with his repertoire, so I racked my brain to figger it out. My initial, admittedly evil, thought was that he was going to do Tiger Woods, which, while probably not politically correct at this time, would have made me cackle a little. A nose was blocked out, and some eyes. I started figuring out the angle he was working on and then noticed that everyone else had too, judging from the tilting heads wherever I looked. But I still couldn’t get it. A few smears here, a few strokes there… Gotta be Johnny Barnes. More painting, this one taking a little longer. Then it clicks and I smile. I lean back and just watch, enjoying the spectacle of it as, slowly but surely, a face emerges. A familiar face. Then he spins it and there is Dame Lois, bigger than life. A few splashes more, some hand wiggles for flowers in her hat, two giant smears of red paint for her ubiquitous lipstick, some white highlights and I’m smiling and a little misty.

Now, I didn’t know the Dame well, but I had met her once or twice. I didn’t believe in some of the things she believed in and disagreed on certain things, to say the least. But this got me. It really affected me and I couldn’t figure out why for a while. It finally hit. This is my first Jazzfest without her. You see, I’m fortunate enough to have a new family tradition in which we go to (oh, alright…) Music Fest, all the nights, every year. Dame Lois has been there, too, usually sitting no less than 10 seats away. Most years there was a moment where, in the midst of the crowd going crazy and dancing, both of our pokey natures would take over and we’d look around (and here, I’m guessing at her intentions) to make sure we weren’t the only ones dancing around like idiots. Almost invariably, we’d catch each other doing this and share a single conspiratorial smile, then go back to acting the fool. That was my interaction with the Dame. Regardless of any other bullshit there may have been, I’m gonna miss that little smile we shared.

Now, for the main event.

Lionel Ritchie is… well… you forget about Lionel Ritchie. Not, like, you forget he exists, but you forget who he IS. The jerry curl, the stubblebeard, the pastel suits with rolled up sleeves… the blind girl making a macaroni sculpture of him in art class (or whatever the hell that thing was)… all that sort of overshadows the fact that you know every word to Easy Like Sunday Morning and that if you sing Three Times A Lady to YOUR lady that you, just for one brief, shining moment, are the perfect man. Dude sang Brick House for chrissake!

What I’m trying to say is that he rocked. He was awesome. Yeah, he’s lost a few steps vocally, but the guy’s 58! I should sound so good at 38! He did the standards and… well, it was like hanging out with a friend. I’ll tell you what… I’ve been to pretty much all of these Music Fests and I’ve never seen that sort of sustained audience reaction. It was pretty cool.

So in closing of this rambling babblefest… I had a ball.

One last note. Parking at Devonshire Rec? Well done, folks. It was incredibly well organized and we got in and out with no problem.

And tonight? SMOKEY ROBINSON! HOW COOL IS THAT?!