Editor's Note: I sent CL intern/USF Crow’s Nest News Editor Tyler Killette to cover this year’s Tropical Heatwave. I was looking for a fresh perspective on an old classic and she definitely delivered. The following is a document of her experiences. Photos by Tracy May. Enjoy! —Leilani Polk
WMNF's 32nd annual Tropical Heatwave left me with a cracked iPhone, sore feet, a lost pen (that I “borrowed” from a friend), a severe lack of sleep and a driver’s license never to be seen again. None of these losses, however, are as great as what I gained. In two days, I experienced more than 20 bands across nine stages in what I now believe is one of Tampa’s greatest local events.
Though I grew up just miles away, I never made it to a Heatwave before this one. As a newbie my expectations were low. I figured I’d be overwhelmingly outnumbered by the Mimis and Pop Pops of my scarcely post-adolescent peers. I thought I’d be scouring the scene for something worthy of my notepad all night and end up fighting sleep in front of a smooth jazz band by 10 p.m. I’ve never been so glad to be so wrong.
In the combined 12 hours I spent at Heatwave, I saw two of my favorite bands play absolutely perfect sets, fell in love with a few lead singers, and developed a profound appreciation for the local music scene — which I’m almost ashamed to have lacked before. My calendar is now booked with local shows for the next few months.
Heatwave’s intention is to introduce people to music they otherwise may never have heard. Perhaps I’m a special case, but based on my experience, WMNF more than accomplished their goal this year.
DAY 1: Friday, May 10
Check-in: 6:18 p.m. The Mercy Brothers are the first band to go on outside the Cuban Club. Their bluesy, jazzy, occasionally funky religious sermon of a set screams Louisiana. Though the frontman throws out a few too many hallelujahs for my taste, the crowd of about 100 people — mostly grey-haired — takes to the Brothers well. A couple of devout fans stand in front of the stage, clapping and throwing their hands in the air, praising the Lord, or possibly, the guitarist’s sweet Fu Manchu 'stache.
The sun seems to be shining directly on the Cuban Club courtyard. To escape the heat, I head inside to the Cantina. It smells like scachatta, though I don’t see any, and now I’m hungry. The crowd is smaller inside. Ray Bonneville is on stage ripping on a harmonica. A man, whose braided hair and fringed shirt lead me to believe he might be Native American, just threw his straw hat on the floor, stuck his arms straight out at his sides and began bobbing up and down from his knees. I can't help staring.
I walk back outside and catch the end of the Mercy Brothers’ set. An older gentleman wearing a Wilco T-shirt passes by me. I want to be friends with him. I also catch a glimpse of a guy with a crazy afro in dressed hot pink from head to toe. I want to be friends with his hair.
7:30 p.m. There’s a big crowd inside for Applebutter Express, a country folk band consisting of a double bassist, a banjoist, a violinist and a female singer. On the way inside I run into my friend’s parents, who seem to be enjoying themselves.
After a few songs, I head back outside. It turns out my afro-sporting future best friend is Selwyn Birchwood (could his name be any cooler?), the smooth yet smoky-voiced guitarist who fronts a Tampa-based bluesy jazz band. The courtyard is pretty packed now. I’ve seen this one man swing dancing/jiving/possibly jitterbugging (clearly, I’m no expert on dance styles) with at least five different women throughout the night. Good for him.
9:42 p.m. Things are in full swing now. The breeze is nice. My bangs are no longer clinging to my forehead. The courtyard filled in with some movers and shakers. A few couples twirl each other around while others just sway their hips. And some keep their feet firmly planted, moving nothing but their forearms, as though lifting hand weights. Apparently this is how one dances after becoming eligible to collect Social Security. Perhaps they think they’re at Jazzercise.
I imagine the stand-in bartenders are giving generous pours. The sun set a while ago but blood alcohol levels have certainly risen. I’m going to pop my head in the Cantina for the beginning of American Aquarium’s set then duck out to rest up for tomorrow night.
DAY 2: Saturday, May 11
5:10 p.m. Parking was more expensive than yesterday, so clearly, tonight is a bigger deal. I walk to the CL Space, taking the long way around the Cuban Club to catch a glimpse of the stage. Some sort of string orchestra is playing and the violins are lovely but seem out of place. My bangs are already matted to my skin. The act on the El Pasaje stage just asked how to pronounce 'Ybor.'
