You don’t need a weatherman/ To know which way the wind blows
My guess is that many of you, sitting in your basements last night, perhaps wearing that toy hardhat you got when renovating your house, with your flashlights, a week’s supply of bottled water, and your cat scurrying about, investigating every dank nook and cranny, might have wondered why such the attention to Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday?
Or, probably not.
But the guy did cut a phrase appropriate for any occasion.
Be glad I spared you the entirety of “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall.”
I was down in the cellar last night. With family and lanterns and dog in her favorite chair lugged down there and cat scurrying about, investigating every nook and cranny. And radio, turned to the weather. And TV, tuned to the weather. Read the rest of this entry »
Yesterday, my buddy Larry, a Dylan aficionado from the get go back in the early 60s, sent me a link to the Rolling Stone commemorative issue, honoring the bard as he crosses the threshold to septuagenarianism.
I replied with this smudge of pissiness: “Actually I was contemplating Dylan during my jog today, and how irrelevant he’s been for a long time.”
The context is that I just experienced Paul Simon, who is the same age, at the Ryman in Nashville. And was struck by what a gracious and generous performer he is, how vibrant his music remains still, what a crack band he had in support, playing Simon’s innovative arrangements, and how unappreciated Simon remains. Read the rest of this entry »
Revised 5/22/11 @ 9:19 pm. In my original copy, I indicated that long time Simon percussionist Steve Gadd had passed away. That is not the case. I apologize to Mr. Gadd, and any others for this egregious error.
It would have been special enough had the concert ended during — What was it? — the second or third encore.
Paul Simon’s crack band stayed to the man in the wings for the first time all night. The star and his guitar were alone in the considerable spotlight.
At which point, he regaled the adoring gathering with an altered version of “Sounds of Silence.” More talkative. Quieter. Still emotive after all these years. More resonant than before. The NashVegas cowboy dude standing next to me in the aisle at the top of this fabled auditorium looked over after the song ended, sniffling. “Damn, that song makes me cry.”
He was right, you know. It was an endearing moment that would have perfectly capped this Paul Simon concert, the best of his I’ve experienced. Read the rest of this entry »
Still going through withdrawal from ten days in New Orleans, I did see a couple of flicks over the weekend in hopes of easing the symptoms.
(Neko Case on Monday. And Paul Simon tomorrow (Thursday) at the Ryman have helped soften the landing.)
Wanted to hear Harry Shearer at the Village 8 on Monday talk about the situation with the levees and flood prevention in New Orleans, but Ms. Case prevailed. “The Big UnEasy” does present a different view of the situation than that propagated by the Army Corps of Engineers. It’s certainly worth seeing.
“Bridesmaids” is, as expected from a cast that includes Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolph and Melissa McCarthy, funny.
For a more detailed analysis, listen below.
Do not be disturbed by my host’s analysis of my sartorial choices. He of the camo t-shirt knows not what of which he speaks.
Instead of doing a film review when I returned from New Orleans, I spent the time at my regular Tuesday gig on FPK 91.9 (wfpk.org), rehashing some memories from this year’s JazzFest.
If you’re at this site, you’ve probably been reading my blogging throughout the festival. But, if you crave hearing the news and the dulcet tones of my voice, here’s the cherry on top of the sundae.
Actually I did see a film Monday after my return: “Super.” An odd piece of work featuring Rainn Wilson and Ellen Page. What I can say is it’s not a comedy, despite its ad campaign. More a psychological exposé of a superhero comic book geek.
But I digress. Here’s the audio of yesterday’s radio JazzFest report.
I’ve been at this 25 years, going to JazzFest. There is always interesting music to hear. Every year. Some new, some familiar.
And, if lucky, there will be a special moment any given JazzFest weekend. An indelible memory that resonates with the spirit of New Orleans. A musical interlude that soothes all aches and woes. A confirmation that being in New Orleans for JazzFest is true and right, a blessing from on high.
Two in one day, like Saturday, and my heart sings.
* * * * *
Marcia Ball was born in Orange, Texas, grew up in Louisiana, and started playing piano at age 5, falling in love early on with the New Orleans stylings of Fats Domino, James Booker and Professor Longhair.
If you’ve been following me here, you know I love JazzFest.
I LOVE JazzFest. More than U of L basketball. More than Impellizzeri’s Pizza. More than anything on the globe or in the cybergalaxy, more than anything except my sweetie the Film Babe, I love JazzFest.
But there are times when it’s too much. Too hot. Too crowded. Simply too much.
Like this afternoon.
I hit the wall with three hours of music left, including the 20th anniversary of the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars, arguably my favorite Crescent City ensemble.
I grabbed one last chocolate snowball and headed for my car. Back in the hotel, showered and air conditioned, content, I’m listening to the WWOZ live stream of the Mingus Big Band, playing the closing set as I write in the Jazz Tent.
Tomorrow, Scarlett, is another day. It will be my last at this year’s fest. I’ve changed my reservations. I’ll miss Sunday. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Six days of this glorious celebration will more than sate me for this year.
* * * * *
I believe I wrote last year about Bonearama, a local rock/ funk band fronted by three synthesized trombones. Stunning stuff.
During their set, my pal David from PA asked if they were local?
At which point I immediately deadpanned, “Where else? Bonesylvania?
‘Trombonesia?
“Trombonia?”
Another pal Mark, asked, “If Jimmy Buffet’s fans are parrotheads, does that make Bonearama fans, Boneheads?”
Or, Boners.
* * * * *
Needing to start the day in a spiritual space, I headed immediately upon entry to the Gospel Tent.
The white-suited Wimberly Family Singers found the sweet spot with Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.”
The Electrifying Crown Seekers kept the vibe going. They opened by singing the Lord’s Prayer, then sang, “Just a little talk with Jesus/ Will make everything all right.”
While I’m of the Jewish persuasion, it worked, soothing my stressed soul.
* * * * *
The flip side was cajun country songstress Yvette Landry.
Loved her tune, “Friday Night Special.”
“Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Cuervo/ I’ve had ‘em all/ But they’re only your friends/ ‘Til the clock on the wall says that’s all”
* * * * *
Local legend, former Meter, Leo Nocentelli joined the Soul Rebels Brass Band on stage. SRBB, if memory serves, was the first of brass band movement to merge its R & B/ funk/ Second Line horns with hip hop.
They did a sweet version of Allen Toussaint’s “Night People.” Which, because the house band Quickdraw played it every night, always reminds me of Eddie Donaldson’s.
Then they did a new Nocentelli composition, entitled, “Say Now Hey.” Which, in this town, makes total sense.
* * * * *
Don’t know I’ve mentioned the second line parades that proceed through the Fairgrounds several times a day. Lots of photo ops for the turista. These folks spend the entire year from Mardi Gras to Mardi Gras, sewing thousands and thousands of beads on these intricate — and very heavy — costumes.
* * * * *
Local Keeper of the Flame Kermit Ruffins spiced his set with an Otis Reddingish version of “Try A Little Tenderness.”
One of the questions some readers have asked, given my penchant to extol the virtues of this great festival, is: Are there ever any bad performances?
Legit query.
While I believe there is a musical spirit force to New Orleans that brings out the best in those that play here, it is not infallible.
There are clunkers. The reason I don’t write about them is this. With music on ten stages simultaneously, one needn’t stay with a group or artist that’s not clicking. You move on.
As I did yesterday from Lucinda Williams. As good as her show was recently in Louisville, that’s how mediocre I found her effort yesterday. Her voice sounded strained. As if she was weary from this tour and in need of a break.
So I went to another stage to experience the indescribable New Orleans Bingo Show, a Brechtian revue that befuddled most who didn’t know what they were getting into.
So, the answer is: Yes, there are mediocre and poor performances here. But, with all the different choices, it’s easy to meander to another stage.
* * * * *
The Jeffrey Lee Puckett of New Orleans is Keith Spera, the lead music writer for the New Orleans Times-Picayune.
What I find most odd is that his festival reviews feature the BNA (big name acts). He eschews discussion of the locals during the festival to write about Wilco and Robert Plant’s Band of Joy, etc.
Kind of weird, I think.
* * * * *
It’s the 50th anniversary of the year Ernie K-Doe’s “Mother In Law” was #1 on the charts.
* * * * *
One of the town’s up and coming jazz trumpet players is Christian Scott. Yesterday, during his set in the Jazz Tent, he proposed to his sweetie, Isadora Mendez.
Sweet.
I’ve been there, done that. I asked the Film Babe to marry me several years back, while New Orleans Social Club was playing the Gentilly Stage.
* * * * *
Not to rub it in, but the weather here is the opposite of what’s happening in Louisville. The area could use some rain. Essentially the skies have been cloud free since I’ve been here, but for one day midweek.
While it’s most always more fun when it doesn’t rain, cloudy days work better. The sun in New Orleans this time of year is already mid-Summer brutal.
That said, one of my top 5 JazzFest moments was a Randy Newman set during a hellacious rain. Which fostered the best, most resonant rendition I’ve ever heard of his tune “Louisiana 1927.”
I gots to tell ya. It was probably the oddest musical day I’ve experiened in my quarter century at JazzFest.
Not bad. Just . . . well . . . unusual.
Satisfied but bemused, I did slide out of the Fairgrounds on the good foot. Thanks to Maceo Parker’s soulful ensemble that was tighter than Mitch McConnell’s sphincter at a Democratic fund raiser.
Parker’s a saxophonist with a serious resumé. Parliament-Funkadelic before they were P-Funk. James Brown’s epochal outfits. The dude’s got some chops. And so does his current band.
If the Fairgrounds racetrack weren’t so sandy, folks would have doing the James Brown on one foot slide out the exits at the end of the day.
Before that closing set, there was so much unusual goin’ on, it would have been appropriate for last weekend’s surprise star Tom Jones to sing his hit as an anthem for the day.
* * * * *
Which brings us to this weekend’s first day stunner. So far.
Name the singer?
Her band features three members of the Hi Records Rhythm Section. And blues harmonica ace Charlie Musselwhite.
She plays the dulcimer on one tune. And features Mississippi’s Rising Star drum & fife corps on several others.
Her repertoire includes tunes by BB King, Albert King, Louis Jordan (“Went to Dookie Chase’s/ To get something to eat”) and Robert Johnson’s seminal “Crossroads.” She got her start in a Janis Joplin cover band. Her first break came when a demo tape of hers fell in the hands of the guy managing the Allman Brothers Band.
If you guessed “Who is Cyndi Lauper?”, you get a gold star, many props and win the latest edition of the Jeopardy game to play at home.
The lady’s hairdo remains asymmetrical. Her banter’s still from Queens. But her pipes remain, and she’s a legit soul sister. Stunning.
Here she is singing a N O classic, 25 years ago in Japan:
Seems she’s not such an odd choice to end a JazzFest Thursday on one of the two big stages. Far from inappropriate. When she said playing the festival has always been one of her dreams, you knew she wasn’t just woofin’.
* * * * *
Another blonde on another stage made the same proclamation.
But first the back story.
The morning before I go out to the festival, I’ll look through the cubes and try to youtube acts I’ve never heard or heard of, to see if I want to fit them in my plan.
Second up at the Lagniappe Stage yesterday was The Help. Intrigued by the clever name, I tried to find some info. Nothin’. Literally. I kept getting clips from the upcoming film of the same title.
I checked ‘em out anyway.
Four 20something white kids were tuning up, then, when ready to go, up on the stage jumps a frenetic late 40something blonde, dressed in a naughty school girl outfit, she might have bought at the porn shop next to Galatoire’s on Bourbon Street. (“How do I look,” she asked ironically. “Be cruel.”)
The group was fun as they blasted their way through one double-time new wave-ish number after another with wry lyrics. (“Good guys don’t wear white” “Come on over/ Cause it’s all over”). Like a throw back to the era of Fishbone and Elvis Costello was reintroducing us to rock & roll.
Which makes sense. The über energetic lady in question with the 50s voice is Barbara Menendez. One of her acolytes in the crowd — there were plenty, she has a big local following — advised she fronted a very popular band in the 80s called The Cold.
Far from what I’d expect at JazzFest, but a hoot nonetheless. The Help was/were much fun.
* * * * *
While New Orleans is a trumpet town first and foremost, then a piano place, it’s been the home of many great drummers.
Yesterday I had a chance to hear two of the current crop of stalwarts, both ubiquitous during JazzFest. Johnny Vidacovich, whose light touch on the traps is extraordinary. And Galactic’s centerpiece, young turk Stanton Moore. The former, older perhaps wiser, plays easy. Big Easy. The latter, young and still full of piss and vinegar plays hard.
Both are great.
Vidacovich backed guitar wiz John Rankin yesterday, one of his many gigs this week. Moore was holding forth with his main gang on the big stage. Today he plays a smaller stage with his trio.
Here’s Vidacovich with a bunch of N O stalwarts.
* * * * *
Several more surprises yesterday.
Cedric Watson & Bijou Creole are a most self possessed and unique cajun/ zydeco group.
Gov’t Majik – The Dirty South Afro-Beat Arkestra pays homage to Sun Ra while playing a number of Fela Kuti covers. Latin. African. Layered. Intricate. Percussive. Energetic.
Eagle & Hawk is a Native American rock band where the singing is actually harmonious, as opposed to guttural and abrasive, as is often the case.
No matter how many times you’ve visited New Orleans, and no matter your purpose in being here — hopefully it has some nefarious end — you gotta putz around the Quarter.
Another stroll down Pirate Alley, trying to conjure the image of the privateering Lafitte Bros. cutting the deal with Old Hickory to hold off the Brits, never hurts.
So I’m all Vieux Carré all day.
Ate lunch at classic old school Tujaques on Decateur with my pal Winston and fifty or so of his close and personal acquaintances. Seems there’s this regular gathering of old interwoven friends, the whole deal fostered by photographer Louie Sahuc.They close the joint for this crowd.
Winston calls Sahuc, the “mayah of the qwahtuh.”
Interesting group. Guys. Gals. Architects. Professionals. New Orleanians to the core. Plus assorted wannabe hangers on like myself.
Lots of stories. Like the one Louie tells of the time his pal Tim Mooney, who is sitting across the table, brings fabled Louisville ex-pat Dr. Hunter S. Thompson Jr. RIP to the Crescent City.
The Mayah takes HST to the Josephine, a guest house, owned by my pal Winston. It was run by Dan Fuselier, a classic Cajun come to New Orleans character and his equally hard charging gal, Mary Ann. The Fuseliers have been noted for decades for their ability to party and penchant therefore. The term iron constitution comes to mind.
The Mayah leaves HST in the Fuseliers hands, and takes his leave. He gets a call the next day from Dan, who has never been known to say “no mas.”
Dan: “Now that guy is really crazy.”
* * * * *
By the by, the lunch is the same every Wednesday between JazzFest weekends. Vegetable soup with a hunk of brisket in the middle of the bowl. And pea inserted mashed potatoes to dollop in. Iced tea.
You can almost see Diamond Jim Moran sitting in the corner.
* * * * *
Royal Street is filled with buskers by the block.
“Jazz Vocalist & Romantic Balladeer” Ras Chemash Lamed has a voice so smooth, he could teach Mel Torme about velvet.
Down the street, a pudgy white kid is playing the blues like Robert Johnson.
* * * * *
Walking by Cafe Du Monde about ten minutes too late, I miss my chance to be in a scene from an upcoming episode of “Treme.” They’ve just finished filling the tables with extras.
* * * * *
Would love to chat more, but I’m heading over to check out Mayah Sahuc’s photos at his gallery. It’s in the Pontalba, where he also lives. That’s the edifice along Jackson Square, which happens to be the oldest apartment building in the United States.
Today has again dawned righteously. The horizon’s name is ROY G BIV.
Yesterday, apparently the only one that will have been less than stellar during my busman’s holiday, was less so. Cloudy. Windy. Cool.
As is my tradition, I jogged anyway — slowly, fitfully, but consistently — through the awakening Quarter.
On Royal, at the quiet end of the Vieux Carre, near Esplanade, there’s a community elementary school. As I trundled past, several youngsters — 4th, 5th, 6th graders??? — were practicing with their horns.
The unmistakable melancholy of “Harlem Nocturne” filled the air. Not the easiest of tunes. But hearing it confirmed yet again why music is what holds this fascinating burg together. It’s in the air. Literally. Figuratively. Indelibly.
New Orleans is surely the only town in our land where playing in the school band is the highest honor.
This is a piano town. This is a trumpet town.
It’s why the guys who make “Treme” are true to their vow of discovering the heart of the city. Every episode is filled with tunes.
Here, music is more than soundtrack.
It is sustenance.
* * * * *
They also like to eat down here.
Restaurateuring is the one endeavor one might argue is as strong an ambition as evolving into the next Satchmo. It ain’t quite so, but there are loads of good places to eat amazing meals.
John Besh is the current King of the Hop. Restaurant August. Domenica. Luke. American Sector.
My krewe ate at Domenica in the elegantly restored Roosevelt Hotel on Sunday night. My appetizer of wood fired sardines was fine. So too the Pizza Eno (anchovies, tomatoes, garlic and mortadello) we shared at the table, and my entree of branzino.
Other’s meals were less than satisfying, the service a bit sketchy. (Fine dining here during JazzFest suffers from the same syndrome as fine dining in Louisville during Derby.)
So, a friend emailed John Besh through his web site, constructively, at length and in detail, criticizing the experience. Within hours my pal received an email response, then a phone call, from Alon Shaya, the chef and Besh’s partner in the venture. Later in the day, another missive came from Besh himself.
Professionals both, they expressed legitimate appreciation for the salient observations, apologized for the flaws, and promised our whole gang a chance to make it up . . . on them.
So, last night I slipped over to Luke, for a quick repast. The bacon/ oyster/ avocaco salad was sublime, topping even the oyster/ bacon sandwich, the featured dish at Cochon here, one the NY Times Top 10 new eateries.
Music. Food. Friends. Life is good.
* * * * *
Most of yesterday, I spent checking out eastern New Orleans and the near Gulf coast in Mississippi.
Driving out of New Orleans, up Elysian Fields, then on Gentilly which morphs into Chef Menteur Highway (US 90), I was again struck by what a diverse town this is, not all trolley cars and elegant homes with immaculately kept yards.
I crossed the infamous Industrial Canal through areas of town where Hispanics reign, and Vietnamese reign, home to scorched, barren tracts where industry holds forth. It is the yin to the romantic yang of Satchmo and Storyville.
Bay St. Louis and Pass Christian were the epicenter of Katrina’s arrival on land. There are definite signs of life, but it is still springtime of the recovery.
Lots of empty acreage along the coast. The foliage-depleted areas are dotted with concrete slabs where buildings once stood. Woodrow Wilson’s summer White House withstood the storm. It and others like it are the exceptions not the rule.
There is the aroma of fresh 2x6s and paint in the air, the sound of nails being hammered.
Most residents, enamored of the casual beach culture, have returned. Many who came to help them recover, stayed.
If Haley Barbour talks of a new dawn along the Mississippi coast, he’s not just politicizing. It’s real and encouraging.
* * * * *
Tomorrow, the final four day run of JazzFest ’11 commences.
While talking about Dr. John’s set in my previous blog, I failed to mention the most endearing part of the proceedings.
Midway through, they wheeled out Dave Bartholomew for a couple of tunes. Seeing this musical giant, a stalwart of significant contribution to the pantheon of R & B and rock ‘n’ roll, in a wheelchair was bracing. A confirmation of what a strange, and very long trip it’s been.
(In the nature of FYI, he produced most of Fats Domino’s considerable repertoire. He wrote “I’m Walkin’,” “Ain’t That A Shame,” “Blue Monday,” “One Night” and hundreds of others. Suffice to say, without him, pop music in the 50s and 60s might have considerably different.)
As feeble as he appeared, when his lips became embouchure with his trumpet, time stood still. His legs may be weary, but his lungs and soul can still blow.
It was a marvelous moment, lost to most in the big throng at the big stage, waiting to hear sullen John Mellencamp, who, as good as he is, has nothing to do with New Orleans.
Then again, neither does Tom Jones. So, shut it up, Chuck.
* * * * *
Okay I lied. I said I was going to totally rest today, but I did just slip over to Louisiana Music Factory to find out who was playing the in store? It was a young woman of little consequence doing adequate but not startling renditions of tunes like “Sheik of Araby.”
But I did run into the one fellow from Louisville with more JazzFest experience than anybody. Way more than me, and this is my 25th.
Mr. Music, I have dubbed him.
Marty Kasdan.
Because of family obligations, he lamentably missed the opening weekend, but is catching up fast. You’ve probably read his music reviews in Louisville Music Mag (Isn’t that what it’s called?) and, I think, the C-J also.
* * * * *
My favorite shirt of the weekend for the first time wasn’t a tee shirt.
The guy was wearing a work shirt, with a patch over each breast pocket.
You don’t need a weatherman/ To know which way the wind blows
