I had the honor of having breakfast with the great 93-year-old blues pianist Pinetop Perkins and his wonderful manager, Pat Morgan, today at the Barksdale.

You can read more about it in next week’s Playbook, but a few of my favorite moments include: 1. When Pinetop, while waiting for a table, sat himself on a pile of Best Times newspapers in the doorway. 2. When the lifelong smoker stepped out to have one of this three daily puffs. 3. His insistence on pointing to a head-shaven server and calling him Cleanhead, in reference to his friend, the late blues guitar player Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson.

For the record, Perkins’ set in the blues tent Saturday night was one of the highlights of the weekend. Morgan says it was because someone slipped him a caffeinated cola before going on, but his playing was sure and fast and his creative endurance, exemplified by a 10-minute plus version of the classic “Mojo Workin’” written by his old boss Muddy Waters, would have tested players half his age.

Internet, I’ve discovered why I don’t care so much for jam bands. I was watching Umphreys McGee just a bit ago, and I was really enjoying all the pasty white folks doing their swaying pasty white folk dance (you know the one), when it occurred to me that I had been listening to the same song for at least ten minutes. Except that it sounded nothing like the song that I had begun listening to and in fact could have become three or four different songs but was still the same godforsaken song that it was ten minutes before. And then I began to wonder if the song was ever going to end, or if UM just plays one incredibly long song per show. And then I started to get stressed out. Because don’t they need to take breaks so they can reach up and wipe the sweat from their brows? What if a bee landed on the drummer’s nose? What if they picked a song to play for their one-song set and no one liked it? What if people left before the end of the one and only song? How would they ever know how it ended? WHAT ABOUT CLOSURE?!?

This is why people drink at these festivals: KILL THE BRAIN CELLS, KILL THE STUPID THOUGHTS.

First you get an expert like Tony Thomas who has done it half a dozen times before for Jerry Lee Lewis. Here he reveals a few other tricks to keep on rockin’.

Calvin Cooke of Detroit, has been called the “B.B. King of gospel steel guitar.” Well, make up your own label, he is one awesome practitioner of the steel guitar and here’s a sampling from his stint Sunday at the Tennessee Lottery Blues Tent.

Tom Lee Park is a fragmented mess of smelly mud and trampled grass today. I’ve seen lone flip-flops left behind, stuck in the mud — annual sacrifices to the outdoor festival gods. Where do all the abandoned flip-flops go? I’m sure they just chuck ‘em with the rest of the random crap people leave behind, but I’m thinking there’s a higher calling for them. (A good flip-flop is a terrible thing to waste.) Something akin to One Cold Hand. We’ll call it One Muddy Foot. And all the abandoned flip-flops from the previous MusicFest will be on display the following year in a tent next to George Hunt’s art. Are you listening, MIM organizer people? Call me. I’m full of horrible ideas. And I’ll give most of them to you for free.

I’m sitting here in the air conditioned media trailer beside videoblogging genius Jon Sparks, who’s chowing down on some BBQ, beans, and coleslaw and crafting his next piece. He will probably kill me for telling you that (I plan to run away before he finds out), but sometimes I like to hold the curtain back so the people know what really happens behind the scenes at these things. I mean, besides all the boozin’ and torrid backstage love affairs between twentysomething journalists bloggers and the rock stars they blog about.

I’m sad that I missed the action yesterday; I was at my cousin’s wedding (live long and prosper, Keri and Randy!). So I didn’t get to see my girl Cat Power and my girls Tegan and Sara. But today I’m psyched to see my girl Aretha. Actually, I have to remark that this year’s festival has been a good one for female acts. Of course, I’ll be lining up to see Fergie so that I can mark the exact moment that she sets the movement back.

Oh, I kid because I love.

George Hunt has been doing the Beale Street Music Festival poster for 17 years. He’s got a gallery next to the Blues Tent where he’s signing posters throughout the day. And after all these years, he’s still having a great time.

I would like to officially apologize to the Memphis Police Department for speeding here to catch Oracle and the Mountain. I’m sorry, but I only break the law when it’s really, really convenient for me.

I had to catch the only band here who is from Memphis, who is not a rap group, who is somewhat representative of what currently, really goes on around here. (In my tiny head/world anyway.)

I mean seriously, where is all the Memphis music?

(I’m not talking about the Jerry Lee Lewis kind.)

We didn’t have 40 minutes for the Noise Choir? or Vending Machine? or even Lucero or Snowglobe or The Glass or whatever? Adios Gringos maybe? Joint Chiefs? Mouserocket? The Warble? The Subteens? Arma Secreta? I’m nothing that even approaches a music critic, but come on!?

In my head its early Saturday afternoon at the Tom Lee Park BSMF, most people are waiting around on the headliners, and this is the best time to wander and discover something. Preferably from Memphis. We have such an amazing, diverse music scene and it’s lame for it to just lie here dormant at our big “showcase.” I guess Muck Sticky and Saving Able is what the kids want to see.

But I’m not so sure. Maybe I just don’t get it.

Anyway Oracle and the Mountain was great.
We should have more acts like that.

Now that I’ve gotten my single, solitary gripe out of the way; I’m going to have some fun.

Maybe wander over towards the Buddy Guy, Lou Reed area. You guys should come hang out. I hear the draw today is 60,000, but it doesn’t really seem that crowded to me…

(I have pictures, but this computer is bobo… you’ll have to wait. I know you can hardly stand it.)

A corn dog is calling my name.

Cheers.

Granted, I’m sure these people didn’t make it out of the park at 11 p.m. with their shoes in such pristine condition, but at the time I caught this photo (7ish, maybe?) , it was still sort of shocking to even see this shade of white anywhere in the park.

Well that was pretty cool, just looking over and seeing Charlie Musselwhite backstage shooting the breeze with Keb ‘Mo’ before they went on. Lil Ed who has just finished his set came around and the three joked around and got some picture taking done. It was just minutes later when the downpour began — well, one of many during the day — and suddenly the Blues Tent was the most popular place around. Maybe some of the crowd who wouldn’t have thought to go in had their minds changed when Musselwhite started his set with some no-nonsense blues. Here’s how it played out.

Internet, let me tell you what’s awesome: Slinking into a steamy tent that’s throbbing, old-timey revival style, and watching a man named Super Chikan and his trio of bluesy ladies jam on their bedazzled git-ars and diddly-bos just enough to get the crowd all worked up into a clapping, hip-shaking frenzy before dinner time.

Oh, Memphis. How I love you.

I’ve been mucking my way through the park all evening — yes, mucking, because that’s what you do when the ground is the consistency of melting ice cream — and snapping as many pictures as possible between downpours. Downpours, plural. Have you heard? It’s been raining a little bit down here at Tom Lee. But most everyone’s got galoshes and ponchos and umbrellas and beer.

So I think the kids are all right.