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floating blues-a-thon FORT LAUDERDALE, FLA. Dr. John was in the right place at the wrong time. One of 16 major acts scheduled to headline the fourth annual Legendary Rhythm & Blues Cruise, the voodoo-inspired New Orleans pianist was in a bad way. Heavy-set and pyramid-shaped, the 64-year-old performer had asked for a chair while he waited in the cruise terminal to be checked in, and there he sat, clearly pained by what he was hearing. A fellow pianist, hired to welcome passengers as they arrived, was making unbearable sounds, his boogie and woogie producing big clunky notes that bounced off the building's concrete walls. A disturbed Dr. John muffled his ears with his hands as a sour, horrified expression crossed his face, now roughly the same shade of grey as his ponytail and beard. The week-long, Caribbean-bound floating festival had yet to pull out of Fort Lauderdale, Fla., but the ceaseless blues barrage had begun. It was too much for Dr. John; would it be too much for me? Blues? Cruise? Some might consider the music's despair to be at odds with the Caribbean's bright vibe. But more than 1,600 blues fans, from 47 states and 11 countries, knew differently. Well aware of the music's healing and celebratory properties, they had piled onto the Holland America Line's Zuiderdam, an 11-deck behemoth chartered to feed, water and house them. Port of calls were scheduled for Grand Turk, Tortola and St. Maarten, but the music was clearly the draw. Indeed, with a performer schedule that counted Taj Mahal, Anson Funderburgh, Shemekia Copeland, Susan Tedeschi and a dozen other major acts, the cruising concert, in terms of assembled talent, would rank higher than all but a few land-based blues festivals. Before the boat even pulled out of port, the shows had begun. Lil' Ed & the Blues Imperials, playing raucously in the indoor Vegas-style Vista Lounge, were well into their set when the ship's engines began a competing rumble. Chicago's Lil' Ed, an impish, revved-up performer with a fez atop his teensy round head, was just the first blow in a seemingly endless blues onslaught. And the 60 or so concerts were just the tip of the iceberg. Also scheduled were industry panels and musician workshops, and late-night pool-deck jams under the stars. Cruisers were encouraged to bring their own instruments aboard, as stages were available for informal get-togethers. On the in-room television sets, blues programming ran continually, and one of the channels was dedicated to a live-feed from the Vista Lounge. Just like the meals, the music was a buffet -- and my appetite was large. On the first evening, after checking out Lil' Ed, I visited the veteran-laden Phantom Blues Band (at one time, Taj Mahal's backing band) on the outdoor stage, before heading inside to see Mahal himself, a multi-genre musician who, on this cruise, added steel drums to his island blues. Day 2 started barely past noon on the deck stage, where Corey Harris, a riveting solo performer who mixes droning African folk songs with thumping delta blues, was producing fine results. Following Harris was slide-guitar phenom Derek Trucks and his band. By the time Trucks had finished his eclectic set, California blues-rocker Tommy Castro was well under way inside. Later, on a third stage, it was time for Kenny Neal, a swamp-blues artist from Louisiana who maintains a staunch Canadian fan base from his days in Toronto when he fronted the Downchild Blues Band. By 11 p.m., dulled by a day of iced beverages and sun, I leaned toward dozing. But no, Dr. John was set to begin shortly in the Vista Lounge, and I was curious to see him, given his earlier state. He had recovered, miraculously enough, and was funky and wonderful, as he almost always is. After his set, Bernard Allison, the amiable son of the late, great Luther Allison, hosted the late-night jam session. An energetic guitarist and singer, Allison was a crowd favourite, and although things were still in high gear, I headed to my cabin well before the jam shut down hours later. With Dr. John's One 2 A.M. Too Many still ringing in my head, I settled down for some much-needed sleep. I had set a mean pace -- one that couldn't possibly be sustained. A break was required, and thankfully by morning the ship had arrived off Grand Turk. But with land in view, the announcement came: The waters were too rough for the tenders to take people ashore. Ship leave was cancelled. Seeking a non-blues distraction, I headed to the ship's library, only to find it commandeered by a Blues Bazaar, with hawkers of CDs and others blues-related merchandise. Back in the cabin, Martin Scorsese's blues documentary A Musical Journey played on the TV. I was bluesin' my mind, until I remembered a conversation the day before with a small, brittle-looking man from Connecticut. Other than a spectacular orange-grey mullet and a holster attached to his belt that carried a small bottle of Tabasco sauce, he (along with his wife) fit the profile of many of the passengers: middle-aged, white, weathered and endlessly friendly. (One first-time passenger had a less charitable description: "Did you ever see such an ugly group of people in your life?" she quizzed in all seriousness.) Like the majority of those on board, "Uber Mullett" and his wife were repeat customers -- they had signed on to all three previous Legendary Rhythm & Blues Cruises, and a few other similar ones before that. While I was scurrying around in a mad attempt to catch as many performances as possible, he seemed cheerfully rooted to a bar just to the left of the deck platform. "Sooner or later, they'll come around to the Lido Stage," he sagely reasoned. It was true enough. Each of the main acts would perform at the outdoor venue at least once, often more. While I hunted, he let the blues come to him. For the rest of the cruise, I picked my spots. When the Derek Trucks Band finished an extraordinary set with the soul-gospel number Joyful Noise, with help from Susan Tedeschi (Trucks's wife) and Aubrey Ghent (the steel-guitar playing minister who married them), there was no sense in seeing anything else that night. It was only 10 p.m., but nothing was going to top it. Trying to adhere to any schedule was the wrong thing to do; the informality of the cruise is its charm. Stopping by the piano lounge after midnight, for example, you might catch the ancient Sam Meyers playing harmonica with keyboardist Mitch Woods. For blues fans, the accessibility of the performers is a huge reason why they come back to the cruise year after year. There's no backstage. You're sitting at a dinner table with Taj Mahal or saying good morning to Tito Jackson (Tito Jackson!), one of the surprise guests on board. Dr. John was one of the few performers who kept a low profile, but I caught him one more time at the end of the cruise, on Mardi Gras night. I Walk on Gilded Splinters, In the Right Place and Come On (Let the Good Times Roll) -- eerie, funky music that lifted the crowd into a mild frenzy. In all certainty, they knew what Dr. John knew, that the blues not only sink, but can float as well. For more information, call 1-888-258-3746 or visit http://www.bluescruise.com
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