Rough jazz

I've never been much of a fan of jazz.  There's a line from the film The Commitments that sums it up, and is far too rude to repeat here.  But there was a big jazz festival in SF today, so in the spirit of Californian open-mindedness we decided to check it out, armed only with some augmented chords and an impossibly cool attitude.  I didn't have time to grow a goatee beard.

We've found a few times in the States that certain "attractions" are little more then excuses to get people shopping.  We once went to a mining ghost town that was actually a shopping mall made to look like a mining ghost town.  It's true!  Something similar seemed to be happening here: there were 12 blocks of shops and stalls, selling t-shirts, jewelry, the usual horrendous fair food, soy candles, etc.  Music was a little thin on the ground, and when encountered was a very liberal interpretation of jazz.  Flamenco dancers were spotted at one point.

We wandered up and down the Fillmore neighbourhood, enjoying giveaways like free ice cream and Vitamin Water.  I won some lip balm at the Samsung tent.  We did eventually locate jazz, in the form of Scary Larry and the Monster, and enjoyed a very tasty falafel wrap while we listened to the dissonance and complex harmony structures.  Did it change my view of jazz?  Maybe if we'd heard a bit more, but it's back to 90s era guitar-based Brit Pop for me.

Nice.

Bribing my way into Arbel's heart with some free ice cream.

Finally, some jazz located!  Although it turned out to be Cuban.  There was a conga solo at one point.

The people of SF certainly like their (sort of) jazz.

The President made an appearance, before flying off to rescue the UN.

One long mall.

Hannah chomps on a tasty falafel wrap.

Now this is some real jazz.  You only have to look at them to know.