party time

What is it about the American psyche that loves that particular form of a party that involves a public display? I have been to three parties this weekend, two in Pasadena and one in the City of Industry several miles east, and I could have gone to a lot more. Common to them all was that they took place in the open air, they featured live music and stalls selling food and drink - and, of course, it helped that the sun shone. A little breeze scattered sheet music at one point, but that hardly mattered.
What does matter is the love of congregating outdoors. I don't say Americans, let alone Californians, are unique in this - Mexicans and South Americans love parades - but it certainly appeals to a distinct streak in American society.
The first party I went to, on Saturday evening, was the 30th annual Colorado Street Bridge party. This is the beautiful structure, often known as the Suicide Bridge for the number of deaths it has inspired, which spans the deep V of the Arroyo River that snakes through Pasadena. The bridge was built in 1913 and has several times been in danger of demolition in the cause of progress - most notably in the 1950s when the 210 freeway was being planned. But local pressure saved it, and its rescue has been commemorated for the past 30 years by closing the bridge for an evening and holding a party.
Hundreds turned up, and there is something very liberating about socialising on a stretch of ground that is normally in thrall to cars zooming over it at 30 or 40 mph. For the new driver, it can be quite hard to find as the entrance is hidden around a corner, adjacent to the freeway entrance. So for this occasion a separate pedestrian entrance was created on the nearby Orange Grove, where some of Pasadena's more ostentatious millionaires like to parade their wealth.
It wasn't cheap to get in: $15, mainly to swell the funds of Pasadena Heritage, the worthy body that did most to save the bridge and many other buildings in the area. The bridge itself was lined down one side with food and drink stalls, bandstands and tables and chairs. Unusually, alcohol was freely available, and not just weak beer: you could buy anything from a premium wine to a watermelon martini. But before you were allowed your first sip, you had to line up to buy scrip, tokens costing $1 each which you then handed to the stallholder, presumably to cut down on pilfering.
Like all bridge parties - and I've been to some on the upper deck of London's iconic Tower Bridge - the shape of the structure has a big influence on the atmosphere, for you are encouraged to walk up and down rather than stand around, and you naturally keep passing the same places, if not the same people. However, the wonderful curve of the Colorado Street Bridge (combined with the alcohol) ensured that no one walked in a straight line. When it was time to go I had eight scrips left, so to the surprise of the stallholder I bought eight $1 bottles of water and carried them off in their case. Waste not, want not, and all that.
On Saturday and Sunday the annual Ticket to the Twenties festival was held at the quaintly named Homestead Museum in the City of Industry. At one end of the park there was the bizarre sight of men in tuxedos, bow ties and formal black shoes milling about in the 90-degree heat, while dozens of people in regulation baseball caps, tee-shirts, shorts and trainers were claiming places to sit among the nearby trees. All became clear when the tuxedo'd gents (and one woman) started producing from their cases guitars, drums, saxophones and a bass. It was the ten piece Ian Whitcomb & His Dance Band, getting ready in Ian's immortal words 'to play for listening enjoyment and for dancing'. Ian, a cultured, English former pop star who now rides Route 66, claims that his ensembles, comprising accordion, ukulele, banjo, slide guitar, violin, sax and horn sections, xylophone, piano, bass and drums, are the only ones in California playing specifically for dancers: waltzes, tangos, foxtrots, one steps, two steps and even early rock & roll.
Back along the path which was to serve as a dance floor, local charities sold shaved ice, kettle corn, sugared almonds and soft drinks. Other bands, twenties and jazz, did their thing amid the Homestead buildings and one table operated a particularly complicated lottery, with different tickets for different prizes and all sorts of combinations in between. Top prize was a particularly ugly chrome barbeque which would overwhelm all but the biggest patio or garden. Still, at least the winner could put it on ebay.
Meanwhile, people opened out their folding chairs and politely jostled for the best positions from which to see Ian's band. There was a bit of leapfrogging: if someone dared to block someone else's view, the blocked person would start squawking and move their chair in front of their antagonists. That could have invited retaliation, but luckily good sense and Californian goodwill prevailed.
Like bands the world over, seemingly shambling chaos suddenly turned into polished and professional music as if Whitcomb's Wanderers knew nothing else - though the truth was that they hardly knew one another, having never even rehearsed together, so he proudly told us. Impossible to tell, though, and as the twenties melodies started wafting through the trees some remarkably well turned-out and accomplished dancers began to twirl on the makeshift dance floor. This encouraged some of the genuine audience, who jostled in their casual gear with the colorful flapper dresses, flat caps and co-respondent shoes of their costumed counterparts.
What is it about the twenties that still exerts such fascination? I think it was an upbeat decade when dancing was of a pace that today's 50 and 60 year-olds can reproduce with comfort. The 30s and 40s were overladen with the gloom of depression and war, and by the 50s and 60s the prevailing dances were a little on the energetic side, even in the climate of eternal youth that pervades southern California. So I predict the twenties will continue to live on, at least until the horrors of the second world war become a sufficiently distant memory for the 40s to take over.
As Ian and his band took their second break, we drove back to Pasadena for yet another open-air party: the formal opening of City Hall after a $117 million renovation to shield it from earthquakes.
We had missed the formal speeches, and arrived at a lull. People were sitting in audience formation in front of an empty platform which blared out recorded music while they waited for the Pasadena Pops Orchestra to turn up. More stalls selling food and drink, but alcohol was strictly ruled out - not sure why, if people could drink it the previous day on the bridge. Different bureaucrat, I suppose. The oddest sight was youngsters desperately trying to get rid of red tote bags covered in the white target logo of the Target retail chain - 'please take some, I'm tired of trying to give them away', said one. Imaginatively, each bag contained a chequers set which you could play on the target logos on one side of the bag, which quite a few were doing. Jugglers juggled (not very well) and a stilt-walker twirled a twirler with a flourish that threatened to tie passers-by in knots. Despite the promise of a 'fantasy light show,' the air of lassitude got to us so we went home to cook a BBQ in what remained of the evening, reflecting on the American love of meeting to sit around in the sunshine enjoying overpriced snacks and drinks.
The weekend's activities seem to me to be directly connected to the American love of parades, exemplified notably by the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade every new year's day and repeated round the country at every imaginable excuse. It seems ingrained in the culture, and I'd welcome any comments suggesting why this should be so.