When my son, Max, and I left last week for our visit to the 2025 New Orleans Jazzfest I did so with the long-held belief that it’s the greatest music festival in existence. I returned with an only slightly modified view: I know that it is. The fact that I haven’t even been to numerous other major ongoing festivals does not diminish my conviction. There’s nothing like this event. There can’t be.

The key is that the inimitable Jazz & Heritage Festival (do not forget the heritage part), having now just concluded its 54th edition, cannot be separated from the singular city of New Orleans – a place often fondly referred to as the only destination in the United States where you can be forgiven for feeling like you’re in another country. The California desert does not provide that kind of context for Coachella, even less so a farm in Manchester, Tennessee for Bonnaroo. Lollapalooza? Nothing against Chicago, but upon its mere mention does it make you feel anything? Someone hears “New Orleans” and vigorous, colorful, probably celebratory images are involuntarily conjured in one’s mind’s eye. I bet you’re seeing some right now.

No, the New Orleans Jazzfest cannot, and should not, be considered distinct from the one-of-a-kind cultural setting in which it takes place. And it’s in view of that broader environment that one must also be reminded that the Jazzfest is strictly a daytime event; all fourteen of the performance stages – fourteen! – shut down for good by the stroke of 7:00PM. Which means that any self-respecting attendee who doesn’t plan to be tucked into their hotel bed by eight will, by definition, still have an entire full evening dedicated to experiencing New Orleans’ unmatched cuisine, both its high-end and low-brow entertainment, and, yes, tons and tons of more music.

Here, then, are a series of the observations, highlights, and takeaways from my latest excursion to the Crescent City, starting with this one: I already can’t wait to go back.

Scale

The event is massive: single day entries have exceeded 100,000 on peak days, and attendance is generally close to 600,000 in aggregate from eight different festival dates over two weeks. And yet, I never felt crowded. Not once. The New Orleans Fairgrounds is a strategically laid out mini-city for the last weekend in April and the first one in May, with no pinch points or stressful overcrowding, and easy passage between stages and other attractions. It’s a near miracle. A couple dining on some enormous oysters next to us at a restaurant one night were anxious to compare notes on that day’s fest, and it’s like they’d experienced an entirely different day.

Planning

It may seem contradictory after the above description, but here’s the way we did Jazzfest this time, and the only way I’ll do it again in the future: Two days, non-consecutively. This is primarily dictated by how we approached the time out there, for the desired quest of maximizing music. With surgical efficiency we zigzagged our way around the expanse and caught parts of 11 bands on both visits. Give that another look: 11 acts a day. Most were judiciously highlighted weeks in advance on my schedule, but many others we just stumbled upon. Like Son Rempe Pera, a Mexican group fusing traditional marimbas with kinetic punk ferocity that threatened to combust within the smaller Pavilion Stage tent and provided us easily the most explosive moment of one festival day. You can camp out at the main Festival Stage for the entire day to see the bigger names and that’s fine, but to me that’s not why you go to Jazzfest.

Lineup

What do the following list of music artists have in common: DJ Soul Sister, Daze Between Band, Johnny Sketch & The Dirty Notes, High Steppers Brass Band, Leo Jackson & The Melody Clouds, Dragon Smoke, Damon Batiste & Nosaconn All Stars, Chubby Carrier & The Bayou Swamp Band, André Bohren, Anders Osborne, Lost Bayou Ramblers, Santana, Yellowjackets, Low Cut Connie, Terrence Blanchard & The E-Collective, Earth, Wind & Power, Joe Krown Trio, Yusa Cuban Soul, Samantha Fish, Son Rempe Pera, Southern Avenue, HaSizzle, The Headhunters, Darrel Petties & Take 2, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Pearl Jam, Ledisi, and Joe Russo’s Almost Dead.

With assorted guest appearances by Dave Matthews, George Porter, Jr., Cory Henry, Michael Mayo, and Craig Robinson (almost).

Answer: they are the entirety, in order (I think), of all the acts we saw at Jazzfest and throughout the city in this 4-night, 3-day shindig.

Community

One result, likely intended, of the daytime event is this: everyone’s drinking, but no one’s drunk. Notwithstanding New Orleans’ (often deserved) debauched reputation, this is not Bourbon Street in concert. We saw no brawls nor even any aggressive behavior – and with a very limited Security presence (at least visibly). People are there to rock, sure, but mostly to let the good times roll. It’s a giant music appreciation party, with a genuine “we’re-in-this-together” cool vibe. Sounds cheesy, but it’s real.

Our newest friend Raymond (L), who everybody loved.

Food & Drink

At the Fest, and within the city, it’s obviously reason enough to visit. Among our features in our few days were: Barbecue Shrimp at Pascal’s Manale, where we peeled our entrée and splashed peppery sauce a few tables away from Trombone Shorty; syrup-soaked Monkey Bread at Willa Mae’s, a chic, contemporary palace for brunch; quintessential beignets at Streetcar Café, negating the need to navigate the often chaotic Café Du Monde; local brew standard Abita Purple Haze at Fat Harry’s, scene of most of my best nights in college, as well as certainly my worst; a midday flight of original Pimm’s Cups then chased by Sazeracs, surrounded by classical music at historic Napoleon House (only since 1797); delectable Louisiana hot buttered crawfish bread at Luke; and classic Red Beans & Rice with smoked sausage at the Louis Armstrong International outpost of Leah’s “Dooky” Chase Kitchen. Even the airport food in New Orleans hits hard.

Karma

Max has adopted a new mantra, repeated frequently over our four days, “everything is always working out,” which, let’s say, is not exactly my typical default mindset. But by the end of our trip I had to admit there seemed to be something to the power of his positivity. My shortsightedness en route to the Fest Thursday requiring a quick return to our hotel was significantly complicated upon learning that our Uber driver knew no English. Yet in no time Max was speaking into his phone utilizing the Turkish/English translator, and skillfully redirecting our detour through construction activity on St. Charles Ave. A potentially alarming ticket snafu entering the fest Saturday was immediately rectified by gracious supervisory staff positioned perfectly nearby. And then there’s always the biggest wild card, the weather, especially given our last Jazzfest experience in 2016 when torrential rains coupled with lightning storms caused our final day to be washed out, literally, amidst knee deep waters – the only such shutdown that has ever occurred. I checked the forecast somewhat manically in the days leading up to our arrival, but the predictable upshot was a high chance of rain in town both Friday and Saturday. Instead, the reality was this: it rained for exactly one hour the entire weekend – beginning as we entered Majoria’s Commerce restaurant for Saturday’s breakfast and ending as we paid our check. We re-emerged into bright sunshine, and found but one amusingly stubborn puddle out at the Fairgrounds.

Emotions

There were two unexpected tearjerkers. First, Ivan Neville, Aaron’s son and leader of heavyweight funksters Dumpstaphunk, manning the keyboards for the Daze Between Band extravaganza, introducing a song at Tipitina’s, the granddaddy of New Orleans live music venues, as one that his uncle Art – The Meters and Neville Brothers co-founder who he referred to as Poppa Funk – had sung hundreds of times from this very spot, before launching into ‘Sitting in Limbo,’ the beautiful Jimmy Cliff original I’d heard the Nevilles perform there countless times, including on college graduation night. A jarring time warp. Then, blues shredder Kenny Wayne Shepherd mesmerizing an overflow crowd at the Blues Tent, taking a slow blues solo to ever-astounding heights as he went a ridiculous six times through, and finishing to an uproarious standing ovation as the tune continued on. Like me, the audience was surely awed by his ferocious attack and still deft feel on the strings. But at least as much, I thought it was a reflexive tribute to Shepherd’s indisputable stylistic forerunner, Stevie Ray Vaughan, cemented yet further by the presence of Chris “Whipper” Layton, Stevie Ray’s longtime bandmate in Double Trouble, accompanying on drums. For a few incredible, almost spiritual minutes, the alchemy of New Orleans seemed to bring SRV back. And I know I wasn’t alone feeling it.

Sights

With the stately Steamboat Natchez and a hulking oil tanker in the background, a spindly white egret stepped tentatively along the shoreline of the mighty Mississippi River; most passers-by failed to even notice its presence. Adjacent to storied St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, home to voodoo queen Marie Laveau and other 18th and 19th century notables, a brass band in full uniform walked casually down the street on their way to a gig; like a scene out of David Simon’s masterpiece HBO series “Treme” (which I can’t recommend highly enough). And a sighting of the ever-present Lucky Dog cart – hat tip to Ignatius Reilly from “A Confederacy of Dunces,” the cult New Orleans novel and funniest book I’ve ever read. If you know, you know.

IYKYK

Art

It is, of course, throughout the city – on Royal and Magazine Streets, surrounding Jackson Square, and even within the intricate wrought iron balconies of the French Quarter. And there are entire art villages on the grounds at Jazzfest; my favorite stop was meeting Patrick Henry, a young local artist that I’ve followed for years, whose signature are pieces where the action extends beyond the frame. You’ve got to see it.

People

Locals’ accents often sound more like The Bronx than The South, and their stories could emanate from nowhere else. We met Vincent, an oil rig engineer turned cabbie, with whom I traded verses of ‘Rapper’s Delight’ after lamenting the current debased state of Hip Hop; Samantha, at the front desk checking us into our hotel, totally had me going in relating that they’d only been able to place us in a dingy basement room, then cracking up at my obvious distress; Our hour-long walk from the French Quarter to Mid-City venue jewel Chickie Wah Wah was dotted with campaign signs showing the smiling but heretofore unknown-to-us face of 2025 mayoral candidate Helena Moreno. Then, as we settled into place and glanced around for what was to become an absolutely astounding show, there was Moreno herself smiling back at us from a table away. The possible future mayor of New Orleans knows her music.

Peak

A total of 28 acts over roughly 74 hours. So many amazing showcases, and really, none that were even remotely down notes. Choosing a single pinnacle seemed a near-impossible task. And yet, when Max and I forced ourselves to pick only one we both came back with the same answer: Earth, Wind & Power at The Republic. We’d just attended the aforementioned tour de force at Chickie Wah Wah, where generational jazz lion Terrence Blanchard had fronted a quartet of jaw-dropping virtuosity. It was truly one of the more memorable shows I’ve seen. When it ended, I checked the time and realized we could conceivably still make the late-starting show far across town in the happening Warehouse District, where local powerhouse The Nth Power put on an annual tribute to one of my 10 favorite bands ever, Earth, Wind & Fire. We couldn’t have reasonably anticipated it topping our incredible earlier concert, but it definitely did. Funkified basslines, frenetic horns, knee-buckling ballads, all the hits, plenty of deep cuts, a gigantic but still tight arrangement heaving with layered, hyperactive sound, and overall, more fun than someone would have any right to expect. Nikki Glaspie, the now-legendary groove machine and pulverizer of the pocket, punished the drums mere feet in front of us. At one time she’d spent five years as Beyonce’s world-touring drummer. But on our last Jazzfest visit nine years prior to this show, Max and I had run into Nikki and enjoyed a brief chat with her in a slightly less glamorous set-up – stuck in traffic on hectic Frenchmen Street while late for a gig Uptown. So I’d like to think we really did make fleeting eye contact within the packed house, and she did throw me a knowing glance when I somewhat overzealously belted out the chorus to ‘Mighty Mighty,’ my highpoint EWF song moment of this epic double-bill night. Wishful thinking? Probably. Or maybe everything is just always working out.

Until the next time, Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler.