Concert Review: Jimmy Buffett & The Coral Reefer Band
“Son of a Son of a Sailor: High Tide” Tour
April 25, 2019
Alpharetta, Georgia
Ameris Bank Amphitheatre
By Jason Burge
It’d been 18 years since I’d seen Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefers when my good friend Paul Leslie informed me a free trip to the traveling Margaritaville show was in my future, should I choose to accept. Never one to contradict the old once-a-parrothead-always-a-parrothead adage (there is one, right?), I did so without hesitation. EVEN THOUGH for very boring reasons I can’t drink right now, which was slightly concerning because I am pretty sure the only time I’ve ever even thought about much less heard a Jimmy Buffett song was while I was either drinking or would be drinking soon.
What would Buffett sound like sober? Did Buffett exist in a sober world?
Now, that is slightly reductionist, I know. Songs like “A Pirate Looks at 40” and “He Went to Paris” are emotional wallops and drinking only amps their wistful, nostalgic roundhouse to knockout power. But that’s kind of the point…those are sad, sobering songs for people who drink.
So as we approached the pristine outdoor amphitheater in a ritzy Atlanta suburb, I braced my 0.0 BAC for two things: rain and a potential let-down.
And I only got one of those. It was supposed to rain all night, but as Paul anecdotally shared earlier that day, Jimmy’s shows just don’t get wet. He and his band are somehow proof against bad weather, and after a single, party-threatening cloudburst that splashed through the whole pavilion and even hit the stage, the tangible corona of the Coral Reefers’ coconut resolve blew dem clouds away. All eleven of them as it were; that is one big band. I think one guy’s only job was to shake an egg, but man he shook that thing.
Being blind-sided by roaming beach balls is more fun when you’re hammered, but it’s still fun, and so is Jimmy. And BUFF. Jimmy Buffett is in better shape and has more energy at 72 than most people I know half his age. He is all smiles, laughs, winks, and somehow, biceps. Apparently he rises every day at the crack of dawn to swim four miles, and this I have to assume is with at least half a head full of rum. Because he’d better be drinking, if I can’t.
He played the hits, and I’ll admit to getting lost about ten songs deep into his catalogue. I came for “Volcano” and “One Particular Harbor” and his rendition of Crosby, Stills & Nash’s “Southern Cross,” and I got what I came for. A huge screen pumping video of every beautiful beach on the planet insisted I stay on island time for my little vacation from land-lock, and they played those shanties like it was the tenth, and not ten millionth, time they’d jammed out in front of ridiculously dressed people. They put on hats the fans tossed on stage, gave it everything they had, and would be damned if you weren’t having as much fun as they were.
And let’s talk about the fans for a second: are there better people on this earth than parrotheads? Whether it’s the kind of person who chooses to see Buffett on a Thursday, or whether you simply can’t be a jerk while donning a Hawaiian shirt and a flamingo hat, everyone is just freakin’ nice. It’s just how I remember it from my past shows, and nothing has changed.
Jimmy Buffett makes people happy. And you don’t need drinks or an umbrella, you just need to get to the show. He’s got it from there.
