JazzFest at 40 — Sweet as Ever

Posted: May 1st, 2009 | Filed under: Cinema, Community, Culture, Music, Ruminations, Sports, TV | 6 Comments »

Revised 5/02/09 11:20 a.m.

The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is now forty years on, and grooving as strong as ever. As we do, my krewe and I made it down for opening weekend. It was my 23d JazzFest, including 21 of the last 22. (For a primer on JazzFest and Quint Davis, the festival’s long-time major domo, you can read this article from the New Orleans newspaper.

It is a rite of spring. It is, as somebody far more poetic than myself once articulated, “the gravitational pull of my year.”

The first two albums I ever owned were recorded in New Orleans. “Here’s Little Richard” and a Fats Domino album, the title of which I’ve long forgotten. Fats and I share a birthday. There is something about the music of this town, and the city itself, flawed and fantastic, that cut through to my soul. I’d explain further, but I simply cannot.

JazzFest is my favorite thing to do.

What follows are some moments from this year’s festival.

* * * * *

There’s this guy in the Gospel Tent while the Nineveh Baptist Church’s Mass Choir is testifying with blissful harmony on the first Saturday of JazzFest.

The ensemble, about 75 strong with a full horn section joining the requisite organ, guitar and rhythm players, is soaring in cascades of reverence about “the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” Their power is such that, when you walk into the Gospel Tent, the force of song pins your ears back. Truth.

This fellow and a group of friends wend their way to a spot just vacated near the stage. They immediately feel the spirit. They wave their hands. They move their feet. They lock into the spiritual feel-good vibe. That’s the default character trait of the Gospel Tent.

The rub is that the smiling, happy-go-lucky fellow is wearing a t-shirt with homemade lettering, black magic marker on white.

“Are you in?” it asks on the front.

“Fuck Ethan!,” it proclaims on the back.

Proud, the Crescent City is nothing if not a town of contradictions, steeped in Praise. And in the Profane.

The lady next to me points to the incongruity, smiles and bemuses, “Wonder if he realizes where he is?”

* * * * *

The spirit of New Orleans greets you at the door.

When you hit the concourse at the airport, you are greeted by such as the traditional sounds of Sidney Bechet. He is to New Orleans clarinet as Louis Armstrong is to the trumpet. You won’t hear Muzak in this town.

As Satchmo did, Bechet escaped the confines of this musical burg, but never the spirit. When he settled in Paris, you still had no trouble knowing where he was from when his lips hit the embouchre.

When you step outside, it feels like the inside a car wash. You are not on the outside looking through that window. It’s like you’re actually inside. The heat and humidity provide the firmest reminder yet: This is the mouth of the Mississippi Delta. It’s more than a bit equatorial.

If you are wise, you will then be off for the further confirmation of place. Do it before even checking into your hotel or B & B. That would be eating a meal, no matter the hour. No matter that you have dinner reservations at Stella three hours hence and you don’t want to be full. No matter anything, go get some local delicacy. Period.

* * * * *

Uglesich’s, which, according to the lore, was the most sublime of the city’s lunch joints, is closed. May it rest in peace. The joint was U*G*L*Y on the outside, and in a part of town where you might be inclined not to stop at red lights. No biggie. It was an epicenter of basic N O cuisine. Sigh.

Frankie & Johnny’s on Arabella is the favorite of some visitors. And a worthy contender it is. The locals seem to favor Domilise’s. But, since Katrina, it closes on Thursdays. Which happens to be the day my krewe arrives each year.

Which means we have to settle for Drago’s. At the original location in Metarie, on Arnault just off Causeway, not the fancy schmantzy new joint they opened recently in the Hilton by the casino.

Drago’s — It’s a good thing. The “have to settle” part was meant as irony, you know, a joke. Drago’s is a must do destination.

Their specialty: Charbroiled oysters, cooked over open-flame grills, then slathered in garlic butter and served by the dozen. Make that several dozens.

Here’s a sure tip. From experience. Order more than you think you want. Even if you “don’t do oysters.” You will. If not, send me the bill, they’re my treat.

Here’s how good the sauce is. The wait staff won’t remove a tray from your table, even though it contains just shells, until they’re sure you’re not “still dippin’.’” That French bread soaks up all the treasure still puddled under the empty shells.

Before opening his eponymous eatery with wife Klara, Drago Cvitanovich shucked oysters at brother-in-law Drago Batinich’s place. When that closed he went to the famous Acme Oyster on Iberville in the Quarter. Then he opened his own joint.

And continues to this day to get his oysters from fellow Croatian fishermen, who apparently kind of control the local market.

Jerry Kelly, who won the Zurich Classic, the PGA event played in New Orleans coincidental with JazzFest’s first weekend, knows Drago’s. During his post-victory celebration, he admitted to having downed 58 of those sublimely grilled Drago’s oysters in one sitting.

It was obviously good for his game.

* * * * *

Now a seventysomething, Etta James remains as crusty as ever. Her closing Sunday set at JazzFest was a perfect capstone to the weekend.

During a performance, she will still feel herself up. She will fellate the microphone. She hasn’t forgotten how to sing a song, despite her age and some health issues which caused her to lose what seems like a hundred pounds and stay seated during her set.

She will grouse. She will complain about the wind blowing wisps of her wig in her face.  But when it’s time to sing “I’d Rather Go Blind” or cover Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart,” you will be schooled that she can still work a song even if she’s forgotten as much as most singers ever learn in a lifetime.

As her band broke into the intro of her famous tune, “At Last,” Ms. Etta assumed a look which can only be described as disgust. She leaned into the mic and barked “Beeee-Yon-Say!!!!!!” If you hadn’t heard, James didn’t like how she was portrayed in “Cadillac Records.”

After nailing the tune, and basking in the glow of a standing O, Ms. Etta reminded everyone in the crowd, “That’s MY song.”

Who are we to disagree?

* * * * *

John Mooney is the great slide guitar player you more than likely haven’t heard. Or heard of.

From Rochester, New York, he migrated to Mississippi. Where he studied at the feet of master Son House. In the mid 70s, Mooney moved to New Orleans, where he was blessed enough to jam with The Meters, doyen of Crescent City guitarists Snooks Eaglin and the fellow who became his greatest influence, Mr. Professor Longhair.

His style combines the metallic resonance of Delta slide guitar with the syncopation of Zig Modeliste, legendary drummer of The Meters. Which is to say he both rocks and swings and is firmly immersed in the spirit force of Louisiana music.

Here’s a taste of Mooney, recorded in 2007 during an in-store appearance at the town’s best music store, Louisiana Music Factory. (Lots of acts perform there during the ten days of JazzFest.)

He played the Blues Tent this year with his stellar gang, Bluesiana. Is that one of the great band names, or what? Alfred “Uganda” Roberts, the legendary conga player, sat in.

He ripped “Baby, Please Don’t Go,” a great blues tune that I heard Lightnin’ Hopkins do at my first JazzFest in 1976.

Mooney ended his usual stirring set with “Shortenin’ Bread.” Yeah, that one, the one you sang as a kid: “Momma’s little baby loves shortenin’ shortenin’/ Momma’s little baby loves shortenin’ bread.”

The crowd, moi aussi, was on its feet, dancing the body electric.

* * * * *

At the end of a JazzFest day, my krewe will trade stories about what they saw, like the funniest t-shirt or something like that, what they ate (Crawfish strudel perhaps, maybe some jama jama), who they heard and who were their favorite performers of the day.

Three, maybe four years ago, Sally, one of the regulars, went on and on about this youngster she heard, playing, in of all places, the Kids Tent. Amanda Shaw was no more than 13 years old then.

We made sure to look her up the next year. She and her band had moved up to the Fais Do Do Stage, traditionally the most consistently raucous of the ten or so stages. It features zydeco, cajun, rockabilly and swamp pop mostly. Being from the bayou, Ms. Amanda fit right in with her band, the Cute Guys.

As you can tell on this clip from 2008 festival, Amanda Shaw has, uh, grown up.

This year, she played the Gentilly Stage which is one of the festival’s two largest venues. She ripped the joint with a smokin’ version of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down To Georgia.”

You may remember her, if you saw the IMAX flick about the dissipation of Louisiana’s wetlands. She was featured.

She can sing. She can play the fiddle. She has personality. She has presence. She’s a looker.

Amanda Shaw has a future.

* * * * *

People who know I journey down to New Orleans every year are always asking where they should eat when they visit?

Did I mention Drago’s? Domilise’s? Frankie & Johnny’s?

So I did.

As for the finer restaurants, there are plenty. It’s hard to have a bad meal in New Orleans, especially at any of the noteworthy places. But I have had bad ones. Including this year at heralded Commander’s Palace.

Considering the really disappointing food, and a less than refined dining experience, I was a bit stunned. There are so many waiters and managers and bus boys and girls and support staff that the restaurant felt like the Atlanta airport during rush hour. It was not fun.

It was on odd menu, with far fewer selections than I recall from my last visit maybe a decade and a half ago.

The famous Banana Bread Pudding Souffle was almost up to par. The rest was truly ordinary. Go figure.

If you feel you must do Commander’s Palace, caveat emptor.

The exact opposite is true of Galatoire’s. The Bourbon Street treasure remains far and away the finest of the classic New Orleans eateries.

Don’t make a reservation. If you do, you’ll have to sit upstairs. Upstairs is quiet and refined. Nice. But you don’t want that. Trust me. You want to sit in the main room downstairs. It is loud. (But not so loud you can’t hear your dining companions.) Exciting loud. One of the great rooms anywhere.

You can avoid a wait downstairs by getting there a bit early. Do it.

Galatoire’s is seeped in over a century of tradition. Simply stated, it is my favorite place to eat in all the world. And . . . I like to eat. (Okay there’s this great little place by a trout run on a little river in the Dordogne region of France, but, hey, you don’t need a passport to get into New Orleans. Yet.)

I’m not going to tell you what to order. But you can’t go wrong with Godcheaux Salad. This year I had fried softshell crab with Meuniere sauce on top — what’s a little added butter? — topped with crabmeat. Sigh.

When you go — to be brutally honest, it’s worth a trip to New Orleans just to eat at Galatoire’s — tell them you want Bob Noncarrow to be your waiter. Tell Bob I sent you. He’ll take care of you. He knows what’s fresh. And if something isn’t going to work he’ll warn you.

A couple of years ago, somebody asked what was the soup of the day? Bob shook his head and called us off. Which didn’t stop our friend Bill, who said he liked that kind of soup, and ordered a bowl. Bob served it with a shrug of his shoulders and a roll of his eyes. Think Rodney Dangerfield in “Caddyshack.” Bill consumed it all after salting it up with half a shaker. Still Bob comped him on the soup.

There are any number of fine places to eat down there. If it’s substantial New Orleans Creole cooking you want, try Brigsten’s or Clancy’s. The list of other fine eateries is topped by Restaurant August. We had a fine meal last week at a new place, MiLa on Common Street. Cochon, where I’ve not been able to get a reservation for two years in a row now, is the hot place.

* * * * *

The number of old line New Orleans stalwart musicians diminishes each year. It’s nature’s way.

This year Snooks Eaglin and Eddie Bo passed away.

That’s why I check out the oldsters at every opportunity. You never know when the Reaper is going to strike. Word is that Art Neville is in a bad way.

So the one performance I didn’t want to miss during the first weekend of this year’s JazzFest was the New Orleans R & B Revue. It was emceed by Deacon John, a long time local fixture on the scene. His big band can play. The guy’s a showman. He even changes jackets and slacks and hats between songs. It’s cute.

The review featured another local favorite, Wanda Rouzan. She wowed us with the Popeye. She can shimmy better than your sister Kate. Robert Parker was a might boring, but it’s always nice to hear “Barefootin” one more time.

Al “Carnival Time” Johnson has sucked about as much life from his 1958 hit as possible. It still gets the parasols twirling and people off their duff.

Hall of Famer Allen Toussaint finished the review. I’m not going to go through his resume here. Look him up here at Wikipedia. It’ll be worth the trip.

He’s as good as it gets. Immaculate impassioned piano playing. A gentle, soulful demeanor. New Orleans to the core.

He’s got a new album out, which is a must buy if you want to experience the melancholy magic of this seminal musical mecca. (A little too much alliteration, but it’s hard not to wax poetic.) It’s called “The Bright Mississippi.” He does “West End Blues,” “St. James Infirmary,” a Sidney Bechet song, some Ellington, some Leonard Feather. It is elegant.

His other great album, which I’ve written about before (Read it here.) is “Southern Nights.” I’m not sure if it’s still available? One friend says it is. If not, you might have to go to Ebay. It’s worth it. Here’s Allen Toussaint doing the song on a tour of Japan. Forget his voice, feel the spirit:

* * * * *

Okay, enough is enough.

It’s Oaks Day, and I’m stuck in Derbytown with the New Orleans blues again.

I should be down there for the second weekend. But, like I said, enough is enough.

Solomon Burke, all five hundred pounds of him, was apparently marvelous yesterday on the Congo Square stage.

But, like I said, enough is enough.

So, now I’m going to walk over to my new upright and continue to learn the Satchmo tune that says it all, “Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans?”

Tis a Creole tune that fills the air.

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