He was our guide when we took an exciting and informative air boat ride through the swamp during the Daze Between. Ernie grew up in the area of the Barataria basin, which contains the bayous we toured. My guess is that other than his time in Baton Rouge where Ernie majored in history at LSU, he’s spent most of his life at home in his familiar bayous. His appreciation and unfettered love for the land and waterways came through in his every word.
The bucolic area is a 20 minute drive from New Orleans. Thanks to the oil spill, it is in serious danger. They’ve started pumping fresh water into the basin, 4,000 cubic feet/ second from David Pond in St. Charles Parish. And it’s but one of many imperiled areas.
Just short of a quarter of a million gallons a day of oil is spewing into the Gulf of Mexico. By the time I write this on Friday morning, it’s probably already reached land. If that’s what you can call the already wetland depleted area down river from the Crescent City.
Best estimates say it will take a couple of months to cap the leak. The perils of slow and inadequate response to such a major crisis — default governmental character traits around here — are already rearing their ugly heads.
Some around town are complaining of the oily odor and other physical symptoms. The air is now being monitored more closely. Joanie has had a headache for the last day. Sinuses, she thought. Petroleum contaminants in the breeze, perhaps???
I’m inclined once again to invoke Randy Newman’s anthemic dirge about the perils of this land, “Louisiana 1927.”
Instead a line from Dylan comes to mind.
“Bury the rag deep in your face/ Now is the time for your tears.”
Last night on a return trip for sublime grilled oysters at Drago’s, our waiter expressed the increasing fear that the oyster beds will be a major casualty of this eco-crisis. So too, shrimp and other Gulf seafood. And birds. And plants. And the shoreline. And thus the economy and well-being of the denizens of this ill-fated land.
This is like some unlikely aftershock to the devastation of Katrina. And like that “natural” disaster, this one is, at the very least, exacerbated by the foibles of man, and arguably caused by us. Safety precautions are inadequate even in theory, and unworkable in execution.
While it’s not factually applicable, I’ve got to go here before ending this lament.
New Orleans and the Gulf Coast sure have gotten way more than their fair share of not fair.
Think about what you were doing at 11:15 this morning?
The Film Babe and I were sitting in the Blues Tent at JazzFest, the first chocolate snowballs of the day in hand, “walking with the spirit and talking with the spirit” of Coco Robicheaux & the Swamp Monsters.
Yes, that Coco Robicheaux, the voodoo priest you saw in Episode #2 of “Treme,” cutting the head off of a chicken in front of Steve Zahn, who was playing a WWOZ deejay. You remember the scene, blood was blowing all over the studio wall. Robichaeaux is a Voodoo priest, an artist and a musician with bayou gris gris dripping from every craggy note.
Coco calls his amazing female backup duo of singers, the Burning Bushes. They are indeed incendiary, if not biblical. When they ripped into “Rock Me Baby,” Joanie showed me the goose bumps on her arm.
He closed his set with a tune he wrote the week before “the incident.” (Hint: Katrina.) He introduced the song with words that festival regulars know to be true: “I don’t care where you are from . . . you are home right now!”
Can I get a witness?
Maggie Gyllanhall knows what he’s talking about. We walked by her in the crowd. No passes around her neck. Just one of the hoi polloi, pushing a baby carriage to the next stage.
* * * * *
Classie Ballou is one of Louisiana’s unsung rock & roll heroes. Don’t believe me? Check out the exhibit at The Cabildo at Jackson Square.
His family band is exactly that. Daughter on drums. Nephew on bass. Twentysomething grandson on drums. His pounding rhythms could drive piles. Then he was replaced by his 10 year old cousin, Classie’s grandson. The kid was incredible on traps. Classie ripped into a couple of instrumentals, including “Wipeout,” with plenty of drum breaks so the youngster could show off his chops.
Then it was time for a little lunch.
So, That’s how our day started.
You?
* * * * *
Amanda Shaw’s set was a stunner. This teen keeps growing. She’ll be a superstar one day. Her band, the Cute Guys, smoke. When she sang “Should I Stay, Or Should I Go?,” fraught with innuendo, the guys in the crowd were swooning.
* * * * *
Dr. Klaw is yet another New Orleans based funk band, following in the foot steps of the Meters, who set the standard. Ian Neville played the six string.
101 Runners features a lot but not too much percussion, stalwart June Yamaguchi on guitar and some of the better Mardi Gras indian singers. They ripped through a great version of Longhair’s “Mardi Gras in New Orleans,” which every single group would do back in the festival’s early days.
Martin Sexton was a pleasant surprise on the Fais Do Do stage. Groupa was not. The Scandinavians play Nordic folk fusion. Whatever it is/was, it is/was no more than a curiosity. Though I loved how one of the guys, before one of the songs, admonished the thin crowd to “moooooove yuuuur aszszs.”
After the McDonogh #35 High School Gospel Choir tried to blow the roof off the Gospel Tent — and came close — stage emcee Linda Lou was so jacked up on Jesus, she wouldn’t stop testifying — volume cranked to 11 — before the Inspirational Souls of Chicago came on a half hour later.
Mark Adam Miller had John Papagros sitting in on organ, always a good thing. More important, he let backup singer Karen Bailey, with her amazing country voice, step out front a couple times.
* * * * *
The day ended with a cooling breeze and a laid back set by Elvis Costello and his latest group, the Sugarcanes, a walk by the Average White Band at Congo Square, and a reasonable version of “Ophelia” by the perennially overrated Widespread Panic. the latter while waiting at our meeting spot for my krewe to gather for our exodus.
* * * * *
Okay, enough. Gotta go to bed. Tomorrow means more of the same. Including perhaps some to die for Crawfish Strudel.
It’s not like the Daze Between has been totally devoid of music for the hardcore element of the Cultcha Maven’s Krewe. That would be the Film Babe and me. The second weekenders arrive today.
There was Toussaint on Tuesday night. Yesterday afternoon, we stopped by the Louisiana Music Factory for some CDs. We caught the end of Mitch Woods set. And that of the Stanton Moore Trio with Anders Osborne sitting in. The place was of course jammed with hardcore JazzFesters.
I’ve run into fellow Louisville expatriates escaping Derby both times we’ve stopped by that great music store.
There’s a great little exhibit in the Cabildo on “The Unsung Heroes of Louisiana Rock & Roll.” Yesterday was opening day and we were there. After which we watched for a bit as the “Treme” crew was filming a scene with Steve Earle in Jackson Square.
Marcia Ball played her traditional Daze Between gig in Lafayette Square yesterday evening, but we missed it . . . to dine.
I’ve been trying to get a reservation at Cochon during JazzFest for the last several years. To no avail. Finally I was able to score one to eat at the indecent hour of 6:00 pm. Anyway, it’s worthy of all the praise it’s been getting, including yesterday in the New York Times.
Some quick shot restaurant reviews:
Hank Williams might have drunk less and eaten a bit more if he was presented with Cochon’s crawfish pie. Mmmmm good. The fried oyster and bacon sandwich was just as decadent as it’s combination of ingredients implies, but worth every calorie, gram of fat and cholesterol tally. Our main waitress and one of her cohorts who helped at our table were somewhat pissy and dismissive. But it didn’t ruin the experience that much. Others on the staff were friendlier.
I can also recommend Delmonica, John Besh’s Italian place in the refurbished Roosevelt Hotel. The food and service were impeccable. Besh also runs The American Sector restaurant in the WWII museum. Classic American diner food and more taken to the nth degree. The buster crab po boy and onion rings were to die for.
I’ve already mentioned Galatoire’s and Drago’s too many times, so I won’t heap any more praise.
Also on tap before we waddle back to Louisville, Emeril’s Delmonico and Vizard’s. Okay, and one more trip to Drago’s tonight with the second weekend krewe.
And, hey, there’s four more days of JazzFest. Gonna get me some Van Morrison, Neville Brothers Band, Aretha, Classie Ballou, Coco Robichaux, The Iguanas, The Gypsy Kings, Henry Butler, etc, etc, etc.
If you’re not familiar with my love affair with the music and talent of Allen Toussaint, it’s too late to explain it all now. (Read my previous dispatches from JazzFest.) I saw him last night at Snug Harbor, and will simply now cut and paste the email I just sent my piano teacher Chris Bizianes, who is also a fan.
By the time you get this on this Wednesday morning, it should be my appointment time and hopefully you will be channeling your inner Toussaint while simplifying “Tipitina & Me” into what I now would like to call “Tipitina, Allen & Chuck.”
His set last night was just lovely, inspiring, emotive.
To introduce his last song, he said, “People always ask me what my influences are, so here goes.” At which point he started with “Chopsticks” and moved seamlessly through, I don’t know, snippets of 20 melodies, 30, 50? From Mozart to “Mona Lisa,” and all stops in between. Bach, James Booker, boogie woogie. Stunning.
One of his many traits as a player/ musician is his ability to recognize the shared note combinations and themes and key signatures of diverse pieces of music so he can transition from one to the other in a logical way that makes sense both from a players’ standpoint and that of the listener.
He did that solo for, oh, ten minutes while his combo stood mute but ready. Until the first note of Longhair’s coda, at which point they jumped perfectly into “Tipitina.” For maybe a minute, then Toussaint took off again by himself. Ending with heartfelt full rendering with the full combo of Steve Goodman’s “City of New Orleans.” Even Allen’s brittle voice was in fine fettle and haunting, effective.
I have no more words about that. You know what it did to me and for me.
They also played “Traffic,” “St James Infirmary,” in E flat he said, “In My Solitude,” “The Bright Mississippi,” a Sidney Bechet tune, “Egyptian Something or Another,” and a few I am less familiar with.
Allen’s son-in-law, Herman LeBeau, played drums. We sat right next to Allison, LeBeau’s wife and Allen’s daughter/ business manager. She’s a very sweet, bright and engaging person. We didn’t get the opportunity to talk with Allen at all. Steve Masakowsy played guitar. He’s a new Orleans stalwart, and an academician, the chairman of the music department at either Tulane or UNO. I couldn’t understand the sax/ clarinet player’s name. but he was really good and something like Sidney Bechet’s grand nephew once removed. A fellow named Ramon Garron/ Garrow? played bass.
* * * * *
During the day, Joanie and I took one of those touristy air boat rides through the swamp. Plenty of which land/ waterscape, by the by, exists but a 20 minute ride from downtown New Orleans.
Our guide/ “driver” Ernie was a grizzled, old timer, LSU history grad, who grew up in the bayou, loves it and imparted his wisdom about the ecosystem, how it’s become endangered and what may save it. The latter of which has to do with your used Christmas trees, which are sent down here and used to effectively set up barriers to catch the river’s overflow of silt and sediment into which is planted new native plant life in hopes of holding off what seems an inevitable decimation. Big Oil could also stop building channels that allow salt water to creep northward and eat away the land and plant life.
Ernie believes the area where we were will be “Gulf of Mexico in 20 years.” I asked him about Plaquemines, the parish made famous in Randy Newman’s “Louisiana 1927.” Baically “under water with a ribbon of land down the middle,” advised Ernie.
Lots of gators in the swamp. And they love marshmallows. Who knew?
At some point, even on vacation in the Land o’ Kickin’ Out The Jams, you sit down in the morning and read the local paper. (Actually I do that wherever I go, but I’m going for the Hemingway dispatches from the war zone oeuvre here, so stick with me.)
In the Crescent City, there’s always lots of local news.
New mayor coming in next Monday. The citizens have high hopes that something might get done of substance in City Hall, unlike the administration of Ray Nagin, which devolved into the usual morass of ineptitude and corruption.
Sunday’s Times-Picayune ran a scathing assessment of his eight years in office. Which included this unbelievable photo of local ministers laying hands on Hizzoner in ’02:
Is that some kind of Last Supperish imagery or what? Where is Leonardo when we need him to capture the image for posterity in oil for the Louvre?
The folks in this neck of the woods are legitimately concerned about the oil blowout and spill in the Gulf that could ruin the local fishing and seafood harvest industry for decades.
But garnering a top headline on the Metro page was a matter of equal concern if not more. This is a city that takes its food seriously. So you can imagine the panic when reading this headline: “LaPlace fire damages andouille smokehouse.”
The two-alarm fire at Jacob’s World Famous Andouille and Sausage Smokehouse, thank the food Gods, was brought under control in about an hour. More important is the fact that — well, the sub-headline says it all — “Most of sausage moved to safety.”
My buddy Dave was down here this past weekend with his lovely bride to make sure he didn’t get in trouble. The two of them have taken to spending most winters in Sydney. Tough life, theirs.
And Dave, fashioning himself a chronicler of some gifts, regales an email list with his daily doings with the kangaroos. Including a day by day, meal by meal, course by course recitation of all he eats.
There are those — or so he would argue — that not only tolerate such minutiae, but crave it. To each his own I suppose. While, his closest friend, I long ago learned to set my junk mail filter to high when Dave is Down Under and has internet access.
Because of that experience, I shall refrain from such narcissism at this moment, at the end of a day when The Film Babe and I did little of note but have two fine meals.
Okay, we went to the heralded World War II Museum on Camp Street, and it is a powerful place. Loved the special exhibit on Nazi book burnings.
We actually wanted to go to the Civil War Museum across the street, but it wasn’t open today. So we switched conflicts. I would be remiss if I didn’t note the exhibit showing at the Museum of Southern Art, which is attached to the Civil War Museum. New Orleans Hip Hop and Bounce music. Go figure.
And we stopped by Louisiana Music Factory to buy some tuneage, and heard an in store set by Eric Lindell in the process. Tonight we’re kicking back in our hotel, watching some b-ball.
Other than those endeavors — the exposition of which is admittedly very narcissistic on my part — just those two meals. I’ll spare you the details. But when visiting New Orleans, you can do worse than lunch at American Sector at the WWII Museum, and eat dinner at Domenica, a new Italian place at the refurbished Roosevelt Hotel. Both eateries are John Besh establishments. They guy just knows his stuff.
Music? Like I said it was a day of rest. Tomorrow night, Allen Toussaint at Snug Harbor, after an air boat ride in some swamp with real live alligators.
If you’ve actually read all of this self indulgent blather, many thanks. I’ll try for less chaff and more wheat in the future.
One of the best parts of JazzFest is that there are a lot of options at any given time. (It can also be a curse when several artists you really want to hear play at the same time.) So, if something isn’t working, there’s always another stage.
The Gospel Tent and Economy Hall are stalwarts, if nothing else immediately grabs your attention.
I try to hear all the 3d world acts. It’s not like L’Ivorie Spectacle with Seguenon Kone come through my town on a regular basis. So I check ‘em all out.
But that was a group that wasn’t working for Joanie and me. Even Mr. Music — always at JazzFest Marty Kasdan — was checking his cubes for another option. After 15 minutes or so, we moved on.
To coin a phrase, we’re glad we did.
Even before the devastation of Katrina, the wetlands down river from New Orleans were being lost. Parishes are going to literally be swallowed by the Gulf. Special thanks go to the Army Corps of Engineers and Big Oil for this gift.
A group of musicians banded together in the wake of Katrina in hopes of highlighting the problem to the world. And, of course, play some amazing Louisiana music. The Voice of the Wetlands All-Stars are a revolving conglomeration of locals who play for the love of the music and love of their homeland.
Of course, at JazzFest, it was the cream of the crop. On stage at the same time were Stanton Moore, Dr. John, Cyrille Neville Jr., Tab Benoit, Anders Osborne, George Porter Jr. . . . gimme a moment to catch my breath . . . Johnny Vidacovich, John Sansone, Waylon Thibodeaux, Big Chief Monk Boudreaux and Allen Toussaint.
Rare is the occasion when such super groups really find a groove. This was one of them.
Which is not to mention that Quint Davis offered that it was the first time ever at JazzFest that Toussaint and Dr. John were on the same stage at the same time. Davis ought to know. He’s been the director of the festival since its inception.
* * * * *
In the last couple of years, there’s been a return to a festival tradition that reigned in the early years, but seemed to have gotten lost along the way. Musicians sitting in with others.
Yesterday there was Wayne Toups playing his squeeze box with Marcia Ball.
A number of stalwarts sat in with Levon Helm and his band. (Sadly I must surmise that Helm’s bout with throat cancer isn’t won. He sang very little, and looked very old and beaten down.)
There was Terrence Blanchard and Louisville’s Jim James with the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. (I’m advised My Morning Jacket’s set on Saturday was stupendous. I was at another stage.) On Sunday, our MMJ homie seemed a bit overshadowed during his version of “St James Infirmary.”
But I can’t tell you how much I admire the former Heine Brothers barista. He is using his talent and fame to expose his audience to music they otherwise wouldn’t know. Preservation Hall Band is touring with MMJ. And James keeps exploring arcane traditions of popular music. So props to you, dude.
* * * * *
Heard most of the Blind Boys of Alabama’s set. You know if only those guys’ voices were richer and more resonant, they’d be on to something. (That’s an attempt at irony, in case you missed the joke.)
When they did “People Get Ready,” I was taken back to the other great version of that song I experienced. By the Chambers Brothers at the 1970 Atlanta Pop Festival. Where I was drawn so close to the speakers, the hearing in my right ear has never been the same.
Loved long tall Marcia Ball. A sassy gal, she. “I brought these damn rubber boots, so I’m gonna wear them. But they’re sure hot.” Her rendition of Bobby Charles “Party Town” rocked.
* * * * *
Da whole Cultcha Maven Krewe — at least most of us — ended the day with the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars. Klezmer is essentially eastern European Jewish dance music. In the hands of NOKA-S, that’s just the starting point.
These impeccable musicians rip and run with it. Usually in double or triple time. Or second line. Those dancing in the crowd still keep up. But this is not the klezmer music of Max and Tillie Kaplan, my grandparents.
Think John Coltrane dance music. I’m trying here for other descriptors. Can’t come up with them. The songs are raucous, chaotic, melodic, atonal, clever, lyric-less and mesmerizing. I just couldn’t stop smiling at the ingenuity and devil may care nature of the group and their music.
Plus the clarinet player was texting in the middle of one of the tunes.
I have written a number of times previously about my love for Allen Toussaint, the gentle and genteel man and his music which is the essence 0f New Orleans.
I’m not sure if I’ve written about how smitten my piano teacher Chris Bizianes has become with Toussaint’s “Tipitina and Me,” which is featured on the post-Katrina “Our New Orleans.” I am trying to learn a simplified version of the tune. Fitfully. After Chris transcribed the song note for note, measure for measure.
So, you can imagine my heart rate when yesterday morning, I ran into Allen Toussaint in the lobby of our hotel here in New Orleans.
When engaging him in conversation, I desired to keep my cool, but am afraid I did start blabbering a bit. The foibles of abject fandom most always rear their head at inopportune moments.
I mentioned my teacher, the transcription, my Facebook communications with Joe Henry, my love for his music and what it means to me, how I was trying to learn the song. Probably without taking a breath. And allowing Allen only enough conversation space to nod and say thank you.
I told him Joanie and I have tickets to see him this week at Snug Harbor.
As we parted with a handshake, he turned and mentioned, “I was in the studio with Joe this week.”
“Yes, I know. With Aaron Neville. Are you all doing an album?”
“Gospel.”
“That will be great.”
Shaking my hand again, he asked, “Now tell me your name?”
I was immediately five years old.
But full with the satisfaction that I could impart to this man of incredible talent and quiet grace how much serenity and joy his music and performances have brought me through the decades.
When I started coming down to this festival in ’76, the anthem that every group played was Professor Longhair’s “Go To Mardi Gras.” You still hear it a lot. It’s part of every New Orleans’ piano player’s canon.
In the post Katrina era, it’s been replaced as the song you hear the most by two others. One is Randy Newman’s “Louisiana 1927.” The other is “When The Levee Breaks.”
The latter was written and recorded in 1929 by Memphis Minnie and her hubby, Kansas Joe. Most know it from the cover by Led Zeppelin. (Of course, as was their wont, they gave no song writing credit to the artists that penned the haunting tune.)
In my story of the first JazzFest after Katrina, I wrote of the incredible version of tune rendered by Galactic, the local funk band.
Yesterday that was trumped — and significantly so — by Bonearama. They are another local band, led by, count ‘em, three trombones. But they run their sound through loops and computers or whatever (when necessary for effect) and are simply mesmerizing. After they finished their set on the Gentilly stage with an extended Zeppelinized version of “When The Levee Breaks,” the Film Babe shook herself and said, “That song made me shiver.”
It’s the highlight of the festival so far.
Though hearing Davell Crawford, Jon Cleary and Dr. John with six hands on one piano for a set ender at the Blues tent was mighty sweet. Earlier in the set, Crawford did “Big Boss Man,” which I know from the hit back in the day by Jimmy Reed, who played it at the first concert I ever attended in ’62.
Which is not to mention that Crawford, a New Orleans star you probably aren’t familiar with but should be, did his version of that Randy Newman anthem I talked about at the top.
L’il Buck Sinegal played some zesty blues too. With that rural Louisiana touch: a washboard.
While taking a rest at the big stage between the Funky Meters and Simon & Garfunkel, the sounds of the Midnight Disturbers blew over from the Jazz & Heritage stage. Stanton Moore on drums with a number of young turk horn players. Sweet.
Speaking of the Funky Meters, Ian Neville now plays the guitar where Leo Nocentelli once stood. Of course, Art Neville and George Porter Jr. still remain the solid core, aided by Russell Batiste’s drumming. The band found its groove early yesterday, and helped blast through the cloud cover. The sun broke through at the first note of Neville’s solo on “People Say.”
Of course the tuneage of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel has little connection to New Orleans. But they are icons of the highest echelon for my generation. And I’d never heard them before. Which meant that I caught nary a note of My Morning Jacket, which was playing the other big stage at the same time.
Reality is that Art Garfunkel’s voice yesterday was a croak. He owned it, apologized for it and the crowd loved him through the set full of harmonies that really weren’t. But we know the songs and they are boffo. I’m always struck that Paul Simon doesn’t get his due as a songwriter. One guy’s opinion: He’s right up there with Dylan, Leonard Cohen and Elvis Costello. (How did Costello, not Jewish, get in that group? Oh yeah, talent.)
During “Mrs. Robinson,” the excellent band dipped into some Bo Diddley. Of course, they did it by playing Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away.”
The day ended with smiles, satisfaction and the sun setting over the church steeple by the big stage.
* * * * *
I know you care about where my krewe at dinner, right? We went immediately to the downtown Drago’s, got an 8 top as soon as we got there. The tally: Our quartet of couples downed six dozen grilled oysters drowning in garlic butter and cheese, three humongous crab salads, two gigantic orders of onion rings and a treat from owner Thomas Cvitanovich. Fried shrimp with a peanut batter and red pepper aioli sauce. We cut through the garlic, for social reasons only, with a couple of humongous desserts we also shared.
* * * * *
Best t-shirt of the day (Other than, of course, Da Cultcha Maven’s Krewe official garb.) read “Today’s Forecast . . . Sunny With A Chance Of Shit Shake.”
Not having a clue what that means, but curious, I called the phone number on the back of the shirt, 867-5309. Alas it was not a 504 area code. So it remains a mystery.
“Well, it rained real hard/ And it rained for a long, long time.”
“Thunder and lightning/ Very, Very Frightening.”
Catch my drift here?
Okay, one more for Lou Christie.
“Lightning is striking again!”
When it rains in New Orleans, it doesn’t mess around. Rain drops as big as your fist, I’m tellin’ ya. Which is not to mention that the Fairgrounds Race Track, where the festival is held, is set up so the run off drains to the infield.
Muckus maximus!!!!!
No matter. The show went on. A few rain drops on your shrimp and grits? No biggie. Suckin’ crawfish heads in the rain? Sublime.
Thank you garbage bags and Gore Tex. While many unprepared folks headed for the exits. Most stayed. A lot went to the tents. A lot donned their garbage bags, grabbed another libation and partied on, Garth. If you’re an accountant from Des Moines and you’ve just finished tax season and the one thing that carried you through was JazzFest, you are not going to let a simple deluge deter the bon temps roulez. You’re more likely to chuck your wet cotton t-shirt and boogie down.
There were some casualties. My cellphone died from the wet. Even the hair dryer trick didn’t work. So too, the Film Babe’s. Double trouble.
Today: Mo’ rain. Did I mention there’s a Tornado Watch?
* * * * *
You’ve probably never heard of Dave Egan.
Hell, I’d never heard of Dave Egan until the first Fest after Katrina. He’s from Shreveport with a smoky voice perfect for swamp pop. That’s what they call Louisiana rock & roll down here.
Once again Egan stopped me in my tracks to start the day. Easy but insistent.
You’ve probably never heard of Glen David Andrews either.
Hell, I’d never heard of him until yesterday.
You might know his cousin, Trombone Shorty. Who isn’t so short, but is a rising musical superstar in this town. Both those Andrews boys play the ‘bone. That’s the kind of place this is, kids grow up wanting to play trombone. Way more than 76 of ‘em in New Orleans.
Andrews invited “cousin” Amanda Shaw up on stage to add her fine fiddle to the mix. This is no longer the cute little Amanda Shaw we first heard at the Kids Tent just a few years back. The mini-skirted talent is, as they say, “all growed up.” She can bring fire to the mountain.
Listening to this mostly horn conglomeranza break into Hendrix’ “Voodoo Chile” was one of the day’s highlights.
Senegalese superstar Baaba Maal rocked through the rain drops at Congo Square. Dr. John & the Lower 911, his current contingent, laid out some primordial gris gris at the Gentilly stage.
Kenny Neal and Wanda Rouzan enchanted in the Blues Tent.
And mo’.
* * * * *
Jim Harkness is in the house. At least that’s what his krewe that I shared an elevator ride said.
“Harkness called last night, said he’s coming.”
“You kiddin’ me?”
“Nope. Said he closed the deal. Is hopping the red eye. But has to leave on Sunday to get back to L A.”
“That’s Harkness. Always needs to make a big splash at the big scene.”
A few more observations on the Crescent City before the music begins today.
The local newspaper, New Orleans Times-Picayune, remains profitable and robust. Yet another testament to the reality that this town is like no other in America.
The sports pages are thicker than the entire C-J on a normal day. Plus four other full sections, covering local news, national stories, local culture, arts & entertainment. Several thick sections of classifieds. It’s a real throw back. Former columnist Angus Lind confirmed to me what is obvious. People in this town are still old school enough to sit down in the morning and read the paper in print with their coffee and chicory.
* * * * *
Felisha — remember her from yesterday’s post, the gal who drove our van to the rental car lot — advises that her home insurance carrier did her right. That her house has been rebuilt in the now infamous Lower 9th.
“It’s up on stilts,” she advises.
“Above the flood line?”
“No.” She laughs.
Another case of almost doing it right.
“But the area is coming back.”
So it seems. The reign of totally ineffectual mayor Ray Nagin ends Monday a week. Mitch Landrieu then takes over and those around here who care about such matters — most everybody — seems pumped for some positive change. The new Hizzoner has task forces reporting to him on everything from sanitation to infrastructure rebuilding to cultural empowerment to a new police chief, etc, etc.
That the town has survived Katrina, Nagin’s doofus administration, Bush’s failure to help, the Army Corps of Engineers and the town’s default ways is stunning.
There is actually road work being done here. Slow, the New Orleans way, but in motion — slow motion — nonetheless.
It’s a sight to see.
Along St. Charles and Carrolton near Riverbend, you’d never know there was a Katrina
That said, there are plenty areas in town which remain Desolation Row.
Some friends drove into New Orleans from the east on I-10. They say there are still any number of barren vistas along that route.
You know the saying, Rome wasn’t built in . . .
* * * * *
As always, the Quarter is bustling with turista.
Bourbon Street remains a cesspool of drunkenness. Jackson Square is still full of “artist squatters.” Contrary to one report I read, they still serve beignets and coffee in and on ceramic ware at Cafe Du Monde.
One curiosity that might interest only me. Last night there was a line to get in Felix’s Oyster Bar, while there was no wait across the street at the eminently more famous Acme Oyster Bar.
What’s it mean? I dunno.
* * * * *
This year’s harvest of soft shell crabs is abundant. Gulf Pompano remains the fish to be eaten, with some crabmeat Meuniere on top.
My new main man is Jonathan at the Alamo Rental Car Rental counter.
I shopped for prices renting MiniVans — I got me a big krewe — and Avis tried harder. Until I got to MSY where there was a long line at only one company’s counter. That’s right, Avis.
So I asked the Film Babe to check at the empty Alamo counter to see what they charged? $350 more than We Use To Try Harder. As we walked away, my man Jonathan saw I had a reservation in hand.
“What daya got there?”
“If you can match this number, it’s your deal.”
Not only that, he beat We Try Harder by $50, saving the Cultcha Maven Krewe four hundred.
Thanks to my new main man Jonathan, I can say without fear of contradiction: On this day in the Crescent City, Alamo Tries Harder.
Plus we got that great ride over to the lot with the ever loquacious Felisha, who regaled us with her tale of driving Art Neville to Cooter Brown’s.
While I’m handing out props, let’s hear it for Continental. No delays. No lost luggage. It’s a good thing.
None of which of course has anything whatsoever to do with JazzFest, but hey these folks deserve a shout out for a job well done.
A quick stop at Frankie & Johnny’s on Arabella uptown, let us sate ourselves just enough — Love those onion rings and oysters — to hold us until our Galatoire’s reservation, which is less than two hours away.
* * * * *
While I’ve only been here a few hours, one thing is immediately apparent about The City Time Forgot.
It is alive and kicking.
Lots more traffic than even last year. Lots more people on the streets. Just more action. Considering what this city was like after Katrina, it is the truest testament to the will of New Orleanians.
The Westin Canal Place is jammed to the gills with folks in for JazzFest, and the unfortunates who are here for a Dermatology convention and seem, for the most part, clueless as to what’s really happenin’ here for the next ten days.
So too the guys riding in the van to rental car lot, who are in town for 12 hours just to go to a Crawfish Boil of a big customer.
“Must be a really good customer,” I opined.
“Yes, yes, yes he is.”
* * * * *
Just checked in with charter Krewe member Bill, who can’t make it down this year.
“Who are your big acts tomorrow?”
Baaba Maal. Dr. John. Chocolate Milk. Steel Pulse. New Orleans Nightcrawlers. Lost Bayou Ramblers.
Maybe a little “Sea Cruise” with Frankie Ford. Some Atomic Doggy with G. Clinton & P-Funk. (Just learned on the flight here that the first appearance of the Mothership at one of their shows was here in New Orleans in ’76.)
And I’ll have to check out some Mas Mamones.
Surely there will be a pleasant surprise or two. After all, there are fifty acts I didn’t mention.
Which is to say, rain or shine on the morrow, there will be good times rollin’.
Dateline New Orleans 04/30/10.
Dateline New Orleans 04/27/10.
One of the best parts of JazzFest is that there are a lot of options at any given time. (It can also be a curse when several artists you really want to hear play at the same time.) So, if something isn’t working, there’s always another stage.
I have written a number of times previously about my love for Allen Toussaint, the gentle and genteel man and his music which is the essence 0f New Orleans.
When I started coming down to this festival in ’76, the anthem that every group played was Professor Longhair’s “Go To Mardi Gras.” You still hear it a lot. It’s part of every New Orleans’ piano player’s canon.
“Well, it rained real hard/ And it rained for a long, long time.”
A few more observations on the Crescent City before the music begins today.
Dateline New Orleans 4/22/10.