State of the Union Address: Romantic Comity?

I believe President Obama will be delivering the State of the Union address tomorrow night.

To the nation on the telly, if you can find one of the channels that will be televising it. To a host of politico dignitaries in the House chambers — Supreme Court, etc, etc — along with a joint session of Congress.

For the first time in years I may tune in for a bit. (Assuming there’s not some really good double OT game on the Deuce.)

Seems there’s new seating arrangements evolving. It could be the dawn of new era.

Traditionally, the donkeys all sit on one side of the aisle, elephants on the other. And it is as if there is a buried electric fence running down the middle and any member crossing the line will be shocked into cardiac arrest. So these affairs have evolved into partisan political rallies.

The president’s party members stand and applaud every 24 seconds, whether the nation’s leader says anything worthy at all. While the not so loyal opposition adopts as bored a demeanor as they can, checking their cellphones every 24 seconds to see if there’s a text from a like-minded senator sitting in the next seat?

But things seem to be playing out a bit differently this year. In the aftermath of the Tuscon shootings, Congress may actually be giving more than lip service to civility.

Members of the House and Senate shall actually be mingling amongst themselves. Many, perhaps most, are finding a buddy from the opposition to sit with. Kind of like at the swimming pool at summer camp.

Of course, there are those who see this burgeoning sense of community as a commie ploy. One Republican house member opined that it was a leftist plot to stifle GOP dissent.

And then there’s Mitch. Kentucky’s very own ever smiling, ever engaging, always hail fellow well met, Mitch McConnell. One of the Senate Minority Leader’s staff was asked with whom Mitch would be sitting? He responded tersely, “Whoever sits down next to him.”

Anyway, maybe this is all symbolic, signifying, if not nothing, very little.

On the other hand, it can’t be anything but positive.

All social concerns — that includes politics — are amicably resolved with a process that starts with one simple dictum: Talk and listen to each other with an open mind. Talking and listening is where it starts, the open mind thing might not come for awhile.

Not to put too big a spin on this seating trend, let me just comment that it is: One small step for man, one giant step for mankind.

“Nightbirds” LaBelle: Albums I Love, Part IX

It is that time of year.

As the period for my sacred annual ritual draws closer, the gravitational pull grow stronger.

Several times a day, I’m going to the New Orleans JazzFest website, hoping the list of performers for the upcoming spring extravaganza will finally be posted.

Sigh, not yet. But, word is it will be any day now.

Yes, I know, I’ve written too many times before about my love/ obsession with New Orleans, her charms, her music, and my annual trek to the rite of spring which is JazzFest.

I can’t help myself. It’s too late to stop now. This year’s Fest will be my 25th.

At some point as an adult with my addiction to rock & roll fully manifest, I realized that way too many to be a coincidence of the songs I loved in my youth were created in New Orleans. Little Richard. Fats Domino. (With whom, by the by, I share a birthday.) Etc, etc.

The phenomenon continued through the party years. Little Feat. Robert Palmer. They and more have a strong connections with the Crescent City.

Okay, yada, yada, yada, you’ve heard it all ad nauseum. I know. I already apologized once.

If the 70s were halcyon years for soul — and they were, you know — LaBelle’s Nightbirds is one of the high points. “Lady Marmalade,” something of a hook-laden gimmick, recorded in one take by the by, was the “hit” from the album.  But a sturdy, stalwart and sensually soulful effort the whole album was. And remains.

Sure, Patti LaBelle, Sarah Dash and Nona Hendryx were divas maximus, taken to swooping and soaring somewhat out of control. But so solid and seminal is the production of Allen Toussaint — Yes, him again — they never blast asunder. The gals were from Philly, a plenty damn soulful town itself, but this music is as saucy and piquant as Mosca’s Chicken a la Grande. You can almost hear Stanley Kowalski, yelling “Stella” in the background.

The underpinnings are all Crescent City. George Porter Jr. on bass, Leo Nocentelli on guitar, Art Neville on organ. Yes 3/4s of the The Meters. New Orleans ace Herman Ernest is on traps. Not sure where Zig Modeliste was. The horns are all local vets.

Not sure when I realized this album I’d loved for years was yet another New Orleans effort, but, when I did, I kind of shrugged, smiled, said to myself, “Sure, of course, makes sense.”

Listening to the album now — for the first time in awhile frankly — it holds up well. Still saucy. Still full of swagger. Still damn sexy.

The good ones remain fresh.