You know, in China they say, 'The thinner the chopsticks, the higher the social status.' Of course, I got the thinnest I could find.....that's why people hate me. - Martha Stewart
The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival is now forty years on, and grooving as strong as ever. As we do, my krewe and I made it down for opening weekend. It was my 23d JazzFest, including 21 of the last 22. (For a primer on JazzFest and Quint Davis, the festival’s long-time major domo, you can read this article from the New Orleans newspaper.
It is a rite of spring. It is, as somebody far more poetic than myself once articulated, “the gravitational pull of my year.”
The first two albums I ever owned were recorded in New Orleans. “Here’s Little Richard” and a Fats Domino album, the title of which I’ve long forgotten. Fats and I share a birthday. There is something about the music of this town, and the city itself, flawed and fantastic, that cut through to my soul. I’d explain further, but I simply cannot.
JazzFest is my favorite thing to do.
What follows are some moments from this year’s festival.
It’s halftime of the Pitt/ Villanova game. Do we get to laugh at the stupid commentary of Greg Anthony and Seth Davis (who is really Billy Packer after Extreme Makeover Tournament Edition)? Do we get to see an interview with maybe The Rick or Roy Williams? Do we some stats?
Of course not.
We get Jay “Boy Do I Like To Hear My Self Talk And See Myself In The Monitor” Cardosi, bellowing about some possible tornado warnings miles south of the Metro Area.
Now don’t get me wrong. Advising people of severe weather is a good thing. But when you’re telecasting on several stations, you can let Jay Cardosi blather away on one and run a crawl under the others, advising people they click over for more important info.
But Noooooooooooooooo! There’s Jay Cardosi blabbering ad nauseum, saying the same things over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over . . .
This happened on the last day of the regular season during the Duke/ Carolina game. I know the station heard from folks, because I personally know 23,974 people who called or emailed. Did WLKY-32 learn from that lesson?
Here’s what I’d like to say to WLKY weather guru Jay Cardosi: Shut up!
Listen I like to be apprised of bad weather on the horizon as much as the next guy. And I’ll admit to being fascinated by many of the technological gadgets and gizmos these TV stations use to entice us to their coverage.
Buuuuuuuuuuuut . . . we’re talking Carolina vs Duke this Sunday afternoon. What I’m getting is the game in about a one inch square box in the corner of my 42″ HDTV. Sometimes that gamecast is partially covered by yet another indecipherable weather graphic. That I shouldn’t — come on Jay, say it to me one mo’ time — “I shouldn’t let my guard down” has been hammered home every fifteen seconds.
(Jay, you’d be better off giving that advice to the Blue Devils, who, if I can decipher the tiny writing on my screen are down six with less than 8:00 to go.)
So, of course, the Film Babe and I went to a party which good friends’ host annually for the Super Bowl. What, you think we’re not patriotic or something?
Lots of bon homie. Three kinds of chili. The requisite guacamole and chips. Joanie’s to die for Italian Creme Cake with strawberry cream chees icing, and some lesser desserts. Some guys watched the golf tournament on one TV before kickoff. Others talked b-ball. The women mingled mostly among themselves.
It was good friends, good feedbag, good football. And Bruce.
Love him or not, Bruce Springsteen has always been the most seminal of rock & rollers. He’s a traditionalist, his best music emanating from Jersey’s blue collar streets, the folk tradition and Top 40 radio into rollicking anthems.
I’m not hear to critique his 12 minute halftime onslaught. I’ll leave that to critics who find it a necessary task. What I know is everyone at our party gathered. And enjoyed. Hey, how about that crotch shot.
And today I went to youtube.com to see if I could find a fitting version of my pick as rock’s greatest song, the one that embodies the teenage hope, melancholy, lust and verve that are the bases of rock & roll. And I did. Let me share it with you now.
You don’t need me to tell you yet again how despicable the outgoing president and his let-them-eat-cake administration have been. I’m not alone. And it’s not just partisans who now realize what a revolting development W’s eight years in office turned out to be.
I shan’t dwell on it. In 48 hours, W will be free to crony up with oil buddies every day for lunch without having to worry about a country to lead. He can concentrate on spring training without silly old position papers to attempt to digest. It’ll be a good thing for him. A better thing for the rest of us.
Okay, so usually during the winter, I’m a basketball sloth. After dinner, I turn whatever college hoops contest is on, try to avoid the cacaphony of Dick Vitale, and veg. Thereby ignoring the other pleasures of the other hundreds of stations to which I subscribe in my Insight Digital package.
After last night, I now have a new plan for Wednesdays.
At 9:00 on the Sundance Channel is a new show called “Elvis Costello Spectacle.” For music buffs it’s the real deal. On the first show he interviewed Elton John. And fascinating it was. They talked about influences, such as Laura Nyro, Leon Russel, and the songwriting craft. While some might want more music — there is some — I loved that it was mostly talk about the craft and their histories.
When they did play a little it was with the backing of a top notch band featuring the estimable Allen Toussaint and rock’s great unknown guitar hero, Jame Burton.
Anyway, if you like this kind of stuff, this is a top notch show.
And at 10:30 on Comedy Central, following the always off the charts “South Park,” is “Chocolate News.” David Alan Grier, whom I first know from the always hilarious “In Living Color,” hosts this fake news show. It is irreverent and very very funny. A bracing reminder of the still less than admirable state of race relations in the U.S. of A.. If something’s worth skewing, no matter how politically incorrect, this gang will do it.
Besides, Carolina was ripping Michigan State and Dickie V, who really should, all kidding aside, just simply shut the fuck up, wouldn’t stop shouting.
In this stunning, never-ending presidential campaign, it was a moment that resonated as both its most endearing and its most dispiriting.
If you haven’t seen the snippets of John McCain’s appearance on SNL last Saturday, just three days before the election, do yourself a favor. Check ‘em out at nbc.com.
The opening segment where McCain and Tina Fey as Sarah Palin are pitching at QVC is genius satire. Cindy McCain, bless her stoic, shrewish heart, even shows up and mugs for the camera in her own very measured way.
That McCain, who by all accounts will lose the election, would come on this stage and make fun of himself and the whole process says a lot about the man. It shows that he is decent and self effacing. It shows how much he chose or was forced or convinced to sublimate those instincts of decency in order to try to get elected. (To his credit, when running mate Sarah Palin’s incendiary attacks against Obama started to get vicious, McCain reigned in her diatribe and vitriol as well as his own.)
Anna’s use of the word “vagina” is discussed yet again. Anna explains the difference between football in the stadium for the players and on the tube for fans. I mention a couple of flicks I’ve seen. The phone rings in the background. Of course, we talk about Sarah You-Know-Who, the bailout nationally and locally, and generally have a rollicking good time. Who knows, next week maybe we field dress a pigskin or something. Check it out:
I ran into my buddy Will Russell the other day at Heine Brothers.
You gotta love a guy who, along with a pal or two, turned obsession with the Coen brothers’ The Big Lebowski into a reasonably lucrative cottage industry. Annual festivals across the country, paraphernalia, a book for heavens’ sakes. Such Achievers, those boys.
So while we were each waiting for our actual coffee companions to arrive, we shot the shit. I asked if any actors from the film have actually showed up at any of these festivals. Yes, several. And Will explained as how Jeff Bridges, who played The Dude himself,posted at a festival in L A. Brought his band too. “Really nice guy,” advises Will.
Which conversation got me to thinking about these types of gatherings which attract myriads of obsessed aficionados from hither and yon. I guess the biggest cult of these sorts involves Star Trek. But, given that Lebowski Fests are centered on bowling and White Russians, they’re obvious looser and more fun.
Competitive professional golf is a curious spectator sport. It’s the only one that I can think of where the fan without a genuine emotional rooting interest cheers for the favorite rather than the underdog.
Which means if there’s no guy in the hunt who grew up down the street or working in the pro shop at your country club, you tend to root for . . . Tiger Woods.
We will eat chips. Tons of chips. Corn. Potato. And dips. Guacamole, lots of guacamole. So much that one of us, the guy in the corner with green dribbles down his sweater, will mention how there’s more avocados sold this weekend than the rest of the year combined. Or something like that.
It is easy to understand the popularity of “The L Word.” Theoretically, of course.
A healthy segment of the American populace adores looking at attractive women without their clothes on, watching them making love, making sex, making eyes at their girlfriends’ girlfriends and generally carrying on as people love their soap opera stars to do.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
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The Culture Maven reviews film weekly on WFPK 91.9. The reviews (and entertaining attendant shtick) are archived here. Hear them live Tuesdays at 8:05 a.m.
