JazzFest ‘08 — It’s Too Late To Stop Now

It is the quietest day of the year around here, isn’t it? The first Monday after the first Saturday in May. All the hoopla, juleps, bed races, hair coifs, visit to the milliner’s shoppe, hair appointments, celebrity sightings, last minute alterations to that apparel you must wear to the Derby or Oaks or both, discarded tickets . . . all gone to bed until we arise to Thunder again in ‘09.

Well, it’s about the same in New Orleans. JazzFest, the world’s premier music festival, always ends the day after Derby, and the tired, somewhat empty feeling in the Crescent City is similar to that here in Derbyplace USA. (Okay I know that Ash Wednesday at Mardi Gras epicenter also invokes a major sigh of relief, but work with me here. I’m trying a new segue on my annual New Orleans during JazzFest update and the metaphors aren’t coming through cleanly.)

Vanilla Fudge - A Welcome Blast From The Past

The song blasted from the box in my car like a welcome punch to the solar plexus. God bless those New Albany High School deejays for continually foisting such chestnuts on us. A gem a day keeps the doc away. I couldn’t stop smiling during the entire seven-and-a-half minutes.

At the bombastic faux seriosity.

At the simplistic yet soaring riffs from the Hammond B-3. It’s rock’s greatest instrument, you know?

At the sitaresque guitar licks, Bronx Italoharmonies and Carmine Appice’s thunderdrumming.

At the stolen moments from The Supremes, Berry Gordy’s signature Motown girl group.

At the band’s telling yet effective moniker, Vanilla Fudge.

“You Keep Me Hanging On.” Indeed.

Bob Dylan/ Elvis Costello Vex Freedom Hall

When I got home last night from Bob Dylan’s latest landing in Louisville, I put on Modern Times. Frankly I hadn’t listened to his last album much. Like most releases these days, by any artist for that matter, it didn’t grab me immediately, so I placed it on the shelf with the myriad of other Dylans.

But as I listened with new ears, which I’m doing again this morning as I write, last night’s gig makes perfect sense.

Lesley Gore Sings To The Girls

It was Ladies Night Out.

There was a gaggle of them. Eight maybe in one notable group. Perhaps a baker’s dozen. It was a night for the Girls. Some had told hubby to make sure the kiddos finish their homework before bath and bed, they were going out. Others, single, or single mothers, or perhaps divorced, said the same to the babysitter. Some may have come as couples.

Nevilles On The Fourth — Boffo

The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina is still being assessed. Not the least of which devastation is the extent to which the vibrant music scene of New Orleans has been battered, how the players have scattered hither and yon. There are still too many of the Crescent City’s stalwarts exiled in the Diaspora.

Among the more notable expatriots are the brothers Neville. Some are in Austin. One, at least, in Nashville. It’s hard to know for sure. What is certain is that there has been a breach in the relationship between “New Orleans First Family of Music” and the city it has come to represent. Normally the closing act at JazzFest, the band hasn’t returned for either of the two post-tragedy festivals.

My Affair With Allen Toussaint’s “Southern Nights”

When I put the CD on the box, the Film Babe said she’d been wondering when I’d finally get around to playing it. She knows that Allen Toussaint’s Southern Nights is one of my very favorite albums. And she knows that I only play it when it’s hot and sweaty outside. It’s a summertime thing.

What About A Real Music Festival?

Richard Thompson has a new album out.

But here’s my question about this generally under appreciated rock & roll superstar. How come he’s not playing the Belvedere at a real Louisville music festival? Instead the city gets a bunch of wannabes who think that dressing up and singing like John Lennon is craft?

JazzFest 07 — Van Is The Man.

Before his gig in New Orleans last week, I’d heard Van Morrison in person for only three sets. None compared to the transcendence of this most recent JazzFest gig. In fact, few sets by anybody else at anytime in my half century listening career approached the exquisite performance.

Caroline, Nick & Rodney Hit and Run

Where to start with that talented but wacked trio that beguiled last Friday on Live Lunch, and again in the evening at the Kentucky Center Gallery?

Okay, let’s do Caroline. Caroline, Caroline, bo Baroline banana fanna fo Faroline, fe fi mo Maroline, Caroline.

Lucinda — Forlorn But Still Movin’ On

At this juncture, several desultory albums down a different rutted byway, it’s hard to grab a hold of the anticipation that preceded Lucinda Williams’ long awaited Car Wheels On A Gravel Road.

Prince Trumps Peyton for MVP

It’s a sign of exactly how big Super Bowl Sunday has become, this movement to make the day after a national holiday from work.

Jerry Lee & Spam — A Connection. Believe it!

Each evening, from December to December/ Before you drift to sleep upon your cot/ Think back on all the tales that you remember/ Of Spamalot.

Apologies to Richard Burton. Couldn’t help myself.

Actually before I get to my rant — which is about email spam — my favorite story about “Camelot.” At least peripheral to “Camelot.” It’s actually about Jerry Lee Lewis.