The Palm Beach Post Saturday, February 7, 1998 Buffett, band take faithful happily to Havana By Charles Passy, Palm Beach Post Arts Writer
It's an idealized Florida that Jimmy Buffett sings about, replete with swaying palm trees, comical criminals and, of course, lost shakers of salt.
But there's nothing ideal about the damp, chilly weather that greeted Buffett at the Coral Sky Ampitheatre on Friday night. The evening concluded with an El Nino downpour.
No matter. Palm Beach's own parrothead troubadour knows how to warm a wet crowd, particularly of the full-house, fun-loving variety that greeted him here (tonight's repeat show is also sold out). The abundance of beer and margarita vendors didn't hurt, either.
Buffett's "Havana Daydreaming" tour features the singer-songwriter and his Coral Reefer Band in a well-conceived and well-paced two-hour-plus program. The set is an old Havana street scene. The concept is the audience is to join Jimmy on a slow boat ride to Cuba.
It works because the idea allows Buffett to stray comfortably from greatest-hits territory. Oh, you had your Cheeseburgers in Paradise and Changes in Latitude, your Come Mondays and Why Don't We Get Drunk (and you know what). But you also had lesser-known songs about dancng Carmen Mirandas and tin-cup memories. He even threw in a Name That Tune-style segment, which he appropriately called "Stumpo El Bando."
The point is that to know Buffett by his hits is to know him only as a reckless pirate. He has more depth than that. Not a lot more, but enough to convince you that there's a poet buried underneath the boozy facade.
Buffett clearly relished the theatricality of the show, making his entrance in a cardboard convertible and cracking jokes about his son kicking soccer bals on stage. It's a rare performer who can turn a 20,000 seat venue into a friendly nightclub, but that's Buffett charm. Then again, if he had to get by on his salty-dog voice, he'd still be playing bars in Key West.
It also doesn't hurt that Buffett's Coral Reefer Band is such a well-oiled machine. Solo opportunities - on harmonica, guitar, steel drums, you name it - were greeted with enthusiasm. Never did songs of such simple tropical abandon get such royal treatment.
