I stopped by Walgreens this afternoon to get some sunscreen with triple figure SPF for the trip to the Crescent City.
If there are no clouds during the day down there — which fortunately there usually are — it can be a broiler. Even at the end of April. A nice thick coat of protection is imperative.
When checking out, the clerk said, “You gonna be spendin’ some time outside, eh?”
“I’m off to New Orleans for JazzFest.”
“Oh yeah, New Orleans. Well, you be sure to check out Bourbon Street.”
Uh . . . no.
If the HBO series “Treme” does nothing else, it will give some perspective on Bourbon Street’s relevance to today’s New Orleans culture. Which is, succinctly, not much.
The street is now littered with titty bars and t-shirt stores and storefront purveyors of sweet alcoholic libations. And tourists. Lots of tourists. Lots of drunk tourists.
I’m always amazed but no longer surprised by how many people go to this fabulously diverse and unique city to drink themselves into a stupor on . . . Bourbon Street. What a waste.
It wasn’t always so. Bourbon Street was once one of the places to hear hot music in the city. Sam Butera tells the tale of playng his horn along the boulevard, until he was plucked by Louis Prima to be in that former New Orleanian’s big band.
Truth is you can hear real music there still. Those guys and gals are real players, the ones in the dark corners backing up the girls on the swings and the girls entwined on the poles and the girls trying to get you to buy them champagne cocktails. Guy and gal musicians without real chops get weeded out pretty quickly in this, the world’s foremost music city.
The city on the rebuild is still a place where playing in the high school band is bigger than being captain of the football team.
But the real action in New Orleans is NOT on Bourbon Street. Except Galatoire’s, of course, the best of the old line New Orleans eateries.
* * * * *
Speaking of “Treme,” the HBO series about post-Katrina New Orleans by the makers of “The Wire,” the audience reviews are mixed.
Some view it as too romanticized. Some wonder what’s the point if there’s not a lot of action? Some think there are too many non-Caucasian characters.
It’s still too early to tell if it will come close to the quality story telling and character development as “The Wire.”
But I, an unabashed fan of the town and its culture, am smitten. Any exposure in HD to the culture of the Crescent City is just alright with me. I cannot be objective.
And tomorrow, I’m off for a dose of the real deal.
If you are familiar with JazzFest, you know what I’m talking about. The Cubes are the daily schedule grids which denote which acts are playing on which stages at what time. It’s a spatial thing. Most helpful. (That The Cubes are really squares, not in 3D, is of no consequence whatsoever.)
You want to see how the stages are set up at Fairgrounds racetrack, click here.
That’s right, kids, action from 11:00 am to 7:00 pm at 11 stages at the same time. The schedule that should have popped up if you followed that link is for this Friday. So, in the middle of the day, you got New Orleans stalwart Deacon John on the big stage (He was in “Treme” last Sunday.), British ex-pat Jon Cleary on another and African supersinger Baaba Maal on a 3d. Plus 8 other possibilities.
Decisions, decisions. (If you’re keeping score at home, my intention is Baaba Maal. I’ve heard the others any number of times, and Baaba Maal only once before years ago. My default mechanism usually directs me to 3d World acts first.)
At any rate, it’s time to handicap The Cubes. Which is to say that today I and members of my Cultcha Maven Krewe — as well as every other of the tens of thousands of JazzFest vets — are pouring over The Cubes, trying to develop a personalized trip tic through each day of the festival.
Of course, my pal David, a long time Krewe member, needed to be guided how to print out The Cubes. For about the fifth year in a row. The guy can Fais Do Do but can’t point and click.
* * * * *
Speaking of African stars, King Sunny Ade eludes me yet again. He’s played JazzFest a number of times in the last 20 years or so. Every time but once, he was on the weekend I wasn’t there. (The festival is always on two consecutive weekends, the last in April, the first in May.) And the one year we were to be there at the same time, he canceled.
Which is what happened again this year. Seems there was a car accident in March that took its toll on a couple of his key band members, so the whole spring U.S. tour was canceled. Bummer.
Then again, it’s not like they’re won’t be other music to be heard.
Other acts I’m looking forward to hearing first weekend are New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars at the Lagniappe Stage, (Langiappe is a cajun word meaning “a little extra.”), Electrifying Crown Seekers in the Gospel Tent, Long Tall Marcia Ball, Bonearama, Midnite Disturbers (Galactic’s Stanton Moore and a bunch of hot horn players), New Orleans Nightcrawlers (A local supergroup formed in the wake of Katrina), Dr. John, Lost Bayou Ramblers and a very non New Orleans act that I’ve never heard before live, Simon & Garfunkel.
That I might not hear but a couple of tunes by my all-time favorite Allman Brothers Band underscores that decisions must be made. Not to mention that Duane Allman and Dicky Betts won’t be plugging in.
Of course, I’ll hear some folks play music that will enchant me no end, whose name I don’t even know yet.
* * * * *
For some reason I got shirts for my Krewe this year.
So a big shout out to the gals at dirty tease on Bardstown Road across the street from Seviche. They helped me design the thing, and knocked out a Krewe’s worth in a couple of days.
* * * * *
I’d love to write more but I got some handicapping to do.
And counting down to the Krewe’s annual pre-Fest feast at Galatoire’s on Thursday. Our man Bob says the Cultcha Maven Krewe’s table is waitin’.
By all accounts I should cherish the availability of self checkout lanes at the grocery.
One. I don’t like waiting in lines.
Two. I’m a control freak.
Three. I don’t delegate tasks well, so I avoid dong so if possible. (Decades ago, I was named the director of a community outreach program. It didn’t work out well for a number of reasons. I never got the hang of what I should be doing myself, and what I should entrust to those working under me. There were also the realities of my low sense of responsibility, some very costly, ill-advised decisions and . . . well, that’s enough for the moment. That’s a tale for another time.)
Four. Nothing rankles me more than standing in the 15 Items Or Less lane behind somebody with 23 cans of cat food, a package of bologna, two six-packs of Miller Lite and a box of Snyder’s of Hanover pretzels. Not that I counted them or anything. (Okay, I also really get pissed when a driver in front of me is making a left turn without getting in the left turn lane. But that’s a rant for another time.)
So, when I do the grocery shopping and my cart is full, and I’m ready to tally the take, you would think I’d easily fall prey to the siren call of “Please scan your next item.”
You know where this is going.
I’d rather stand for twenty minutes behind an overloaded cart of groceries with two whining five year olds hanging over the edge throwing lollipops at each other than expose myself to the indignity of self checkout.
The Mrs. and I realized at 10:00 last night that we’d forgotten to replenish the cleaning supplies required by Barbie, who comes today and every couple of weeks to make our home livable. No jokes about her name please. She’s excellent at what she does. Plus she can carry on a conversation on her cellphone (with ear piece) and with her niece, who sometimes comes along to help her and who is also talking on her cellphone, while dusting with acumen. Keeping Barbie happy is important.
So I advised the Film Babe I was headed to the grocery to get the cleaning stuff.
“Why now and not in the morning?” It was a rhetorical question.
“You just want to get something sweet, right?”
Busted. Yes. I needed some of these maple sandwich cookies I often crave.
At that time of night, there was but a single womanned checkout lane. There was only one couple in front of me in that lane. But they were shopping for Derby apparently. And the Fourth of July. Two carts, loaded top and bottom.
I bit the bullet and headed you know where.
“Do you have your own grocery bags,” the machine asked? How did it even know I was there?
At this juncture, for brevity’s sake, for my own sanity and so I can put closure on the whole traumatic episode, I will spare you the details.
For reasons too elusive to comprehend, the process is so complicated that I, a fellow of reasonable intelligence, am at a loss and cringe at the prospect of ever having to endure it again.
There is no way I could survive another stare like that of the grocery attendant, who had to save me after I scanned an item twice.
Which I did because the machine specifically said, “Take the item you just scanned out the bag, and scan it again.”
It is only by the grace of a loving God that I was able to escape the scene with a modicum of sanity intact.
Only after consuming a third of the cookies, chasing them with milk in the largest glass our cupboard could offer, did the tremors dissipate.
My fear this morning is that I failed to purchase the right brand of scrub bubbles, the ones that Barbie prefers.
Usually I wake up an hour early on Wednesdays and cram. Which I will do. This week I started early, the afternoon before. Which is kind of why I’m sitting here writing about it instead.
The tune I’m currently trying to learn is way beyond my abilities. I know it. My teacher Chris Bizianes knows it. He’s even “dumbed down” the charts to make it easier. That is my phrase not his. He doesn’t like to view our process like that.
The simpler version of the tune — “Tipitina and Chuck” — derives from Allen Toussaint’s elegant primer on the New Orleans piano, “Tipitina and Me.” It’s off a post-Katrina sampler titled “Our New Orleans.”
I aspire. More than that, today, I perspire.
So I put that musical chart aside and pull out another which I can more readily muddle through. Satchmo’s “Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans?” As lovely and haunting as this evocative number is, it is relatively easy to learn.
So I say. I’m a lot closer than I ever thought I might be when learning those first chords a couple of years back. Sigh. I haven’t totally conquered it yet.
There are moments when playing Louis Armstrong’s melancholy lament that I’m there. When the notes fit. When the rhythm swings just right. When I can smell the magnolias through the trolley window. When I’m standing at the streetcar stop and can hear Stanley yell up for Stella.
Before moving on, I played four measures of Toussaint over and over again. And again. And — teach will be so proud — again and again. It remains a fitful ambition. But I am in the process, living for those moments when I am at one with the song’s creator.
They come. Sometime. Just not this afternoon.
So I set both aside and pulled out Ann Lamott’s “bird by bird,” the best take on the process of writing. Which is something else I don’t practice enough.
But I’ve been at it longer. My fingers are somewhat more facile on this keyboard than the upright across the room.
Instead of reading about writing, I’ve chosen the later for the moment. This is good.
So I blog, knowing that maybe one or two or even ten people out in the cybergalaxy might take the time to read what I am now writing. There is a comfort though, because this endeavor too is process first and foremost.
I cherish the moment when I create a sentence that sings, one where every syllable and ampersand sits in its proper place.
It’s also nice when somebody else says, “I read your piece. I like it.” Which happens now and again.
Next week I’m off to New Orleans with my sweetie and friends for what has been aptly described by a wordsmith more talented than myself, as “the gravitational pull of my year.” The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival.
I write about it a lot. Because it and University of Louisville basketball have been the two great loves of most of my life. With the Film Babe, there’s now a holy trinity.
So, if you read this, and are at all curious of the current state of New Orleans, America’s most unique city, and my take on it, stay tuned. Starting Thursday a week, I plan on weighing in most every day. About the city. About the music. About the food. About my lifelong love affair.
Fingers and mind willing, I’ll even write a few pieces leading up to the trip.
While also trying to get in touch with my inner Toussaint.
In a couple of weeks, my krewe will be heading down to the Crescent City, as we do annually, for JazzFest.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat it once again: It’s the greatest 10 days of music anywhere on the planet.
Among the hundreds of acts that will appear — most from New Orleans and Louisiana, but many big names from hither and yon — the one I’m looking forward to hearing the most this time around is Allen Toussaint. (For the complete lineup, click here.)
I’ll get three opportunities to hear him. He’ll play the big stage with his R & B band. He’s playing the Jazz Tent, hopefully with the lineup that joined him on his marvelous last album, the Joe Henry-produced, “The Bright Mississippi.” And he’s playing a mid-week gig at Snug Harbor, to which The Film Babe and I have already scored tickets.
If you’re not immediately familiar with this music of this gentle giant of Crescent City sound, let me help.
He was a stalwart in the early days of rock & roll. Here he is doing a medley of some hits you might not identify with him.
Yes, kiddies it must be said, he’s the guy behind the Ernie K-Doe classic.
During the 70s, he released a sublime album that calms the savage beast within whenever I listen. Trust me, “Southern Nights” has saved me thousands of $$$ in therapy bills. To say it soothes would be understatement. If you can track down a copy, I advise you do so. (So too “The Bright Mississippi.”)
More than likely you identify the title tune “Southern Nights” with Glen Campbell.
Here it is as it’s supposed to sound. Pristine. You can see the full moon and smell the magnolias in the humid southern night.
Toussaint’s influence is far and wide. My sense is few understand how much music we love he has created. The horn charts used by the The Band on their famous songs. Allen Toussaint wrote ‘em.
And, oh yes, this is his song.
Oh yeah. A bunch of Little Feat tunes: Allen Toussaint. Okay, one more. Check this out.
Enough is enough. You get the point. Allen Toussaint is the unknown genius of contemporary popular music. Period. End of argument.
So, anyway, I’m listening to Toussaint today, and fighting my way through trying to learn some of his songs on the piano, despite the fact that they are way beyond my novice abilities, and waiting anxiously to hear him yet again live and experiencing his genteel genius and confirming yet again how grateful I am that I’ve discovered the power of his musical creativity.
I stopped by Walgreens this afternoon to get some sunscreen with triple figure SPF for the trip to the Crescent City.
Dateline Louisville 4/20/10.
Of course, my pal David, a long time Krewe member, needed to be guided how to print out The Cubes. For about the fifth year in a row. The guy can Fais Do Do but can’t point and click.
By all accounts I should cherish the availability of self checkout lanes at the grocery.
Tomorrow morning is my weekly piano lesson.
So I set both aside and pulled out Ann Lamott’s “bird by bird,” the best take on the process of writing. Which is something else I don’t practice enough.
In a couple of weeks, my krewe will be heading down to the Crescent City, as we do annually, for JazzFest.