An Unexpected Encounter at the Jazz Festival

The night was cool, the overpriced drinks flowed fast, and for the first time that week, the cool down zones were empty. After days of high temperatures, high humidity, and low turnouts, the Jazz festival was shrugging off its apathy and ready for a party.

As the crowds filtered in, performers took to the various stages to thrill the crowds. Women draped in fairy lights paraded down St Catherine, taking photos with revelers. Isaiah Trickey stood to the side, no one takes much notice.

During an intermission, a woman strolls around a makeshift ring singing in Spanish, while two muscular Latin men toss a large rope ring between them. They need to keep it spinning to maintain the illusion. Some watch the rope, some listen to the music, some watch the sweaty bare-chested men, and tightly dressed woman, as they twirl seductively around the performance square. Something for everybody, as they say. Trickey moves from the front, to the back, watching it all, from the performers to the observers, though no one sees him.

Occasionally orange patrollers, melting in and out of the crowd, appear with someone who’s good time has ended early, dragging them back to the medical tent. People filter past them, paying them no mind, their bright orange shirts make them a background detail.

Unnoticed through the crowds strolls Trickey. Trickey is not used to going unnoticed. His wide frame and height make him stand out in most places, the hefty canvas camera bags he carries should make him a constant pest, but instead he gracefully weaves through the crowds. He is one of many photographers making their way around the stages. Somehow remaining inconspicuous despite their abundance of equipment.

While Trickey takes a break by the Hyundai stage to listen to a blues guitarist, a rotund photographer ducks behind the fence and climbs up onto the stage. His zoom lens is so large it feels as though it is going to knock the performers harmonica out of his mouth. But no one is looking at him. As soon as the huge sweaty man moves from the stage he is forgotten, invisible in the crowds.

There’s a certain magic around the photographers, that turns these pack mules into cats, creeping up to the stages and slinking away.

“That kid was interviewing a photographer,” says one festival goer.

“What Photographer?” Says another, oblivious to the small army of photographers who have come and gone around the stage since the performance started.

“It’s the first time I’ve covered this festival… it’s fun, I’m really liking it,” Trickey says glancing at the blues guitarist, strumming out a fast beat behind him.

Trickey is a photographer, he also the son of Minnijean Brown Trickey. Trickey’s mother left the USA before he was born, she had gone to an all-white school in Little Rock Arkansas in 1957, Trickey’s mother is black. She was one of the Little Rock Nine. Nine African-American students who broke segregation in Arkansas. Trickey grew up outside the USA, but that struggle has always been a part of his life. And for him the Jazz festival is the perfect illustration of the world his mother fought so hard to create.

“It’s Montreal, the festival, everyone, everybody, is here, everyone is welcome,” says Jerry Moorhouse, an old anglophone reeling a little, and looking as though he has teleported from Woodstock, a little worse for wear.

It’s the vibrant multiculturalism of the festival that has drawn Trickey. As night falls people become drunker, and a certain still illegal aroma drifts across the crowds, dancing between the lines of police minding the event.

“I’m not kidding,” shouts the blues guitarist, “I want everybody drinking!”

As the guitarist blares out behind him, Trickey laughs as he remembers first getting into photography. For Trickey photography connects him to his parents, and allows him to tell stories, the way his mother did for so many people.

Trickey holds his Canon DSLR like a baby, patting it as he talks, but his eyes really light up talking about his father’s old 35mm film camera’s. As the music picks up he quickly launches into a story about his father.

Trickey’s father kept his camera’s pristine, and away from little hands, but for Trickey the temptation was too much. He had watched his Dad carefully cleaning them, putting them on a shelf out of reach, for years. One day when Trickey was fifteen he couldn’t help himself.

“I was never allowed to use any of the house cameras. so, I snuck and used one.”

As soon as he was tall, and brave enough Trickey grabbed one of his father’s 35mm film camera’s and took a role around his home and town. Time passed and Trickey waited anxiously for his Dad to find out he had used his precious camera’s.

“I don’t remember taking these, they’re great,” said his father, one day, flicking through his latest photos.

The young Trickey crept forward and told his Dad shamefacedly, but pridefully, he had taken them.

“He didn’t believe me,” says Trickey “Then I knew I had a great eye, because he’s a great photographer, so, the fact he thought he had taken them inspired me.”

Trickey’s parents had shown the world a side it did not want to see. Trickey wants to show people the world too.

“I want to photograph everything, I want people to be able to see what I see.”

For Trickey photography is one of the ways he maintains a connection to his mother’s activism. Trickey watches the huge multi ethnic audience through his lenses, a smile on his face.

“I started when I was 15, I’m 46 now,” says Trickey.

As the guitarist finishes his set Trickey disappears into the crowd, off to find more stories to tell.

As the blues guitarist winds down, a Caribbean funk band blares out from the opposite stage, gathering an eclectic audience, who sway and jump with enthusiasm. The performance ends, and people groan, suddenly the band emerges from the rear of the stage. Their huge horns filling the air, they move through the crowd to a huge cheer, and much applauding.

As the Caribbean funk band, head off, one member in a huge multi coloured beanie is grabbed by the crowd. His full body laugh fills the air, and people clap him on the back, which sends his long grey beard swaying side to side.

An old man in a suit walks up, pushing through the crowd, his dour expression and bald head juxtapose the young neo hippies still dancing wildly. The man in the beanie sees him and yells, throwing his arms around him in a broad bear hug, and the two friends walk off to reminisce.

“No, this isn’t about diversity, this just is Montreal.” Says George Arthur a drunken young man swaying side to side, he waves his arm enthusiastically at the crowds to illustrate his point.

The Jazz Festival in all its eclectic madness (despite having surprisingly little jazz), is the epitome of Montreal for many locals. Trickey loves it. He grew up in a house with one of the most iconic civil rights activists in history. And while his parent’s home country has a ‘long way to go’, he sees his country as everything his parents wanted, diversity normalised.

“I love it,” he says smiling “It’s perfect.”

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