Not that I don’t think that Larry David’s alter cocker Jewish humor isn’t funny. I do.

It’s just that way too many episodes are just like my life: David, Bill and I watching a ballgame together. Or going out to dinner, either with our significant others or just the guys. It’s like this is me, didn’t I just live this out yesterday watching U of L play?

Old Jewish guys giving each other shit, switching triangulations, complaining about customer service at the florist or our aches and pains du jour.

Except that, while David and I are of the Jewish persuasion, Bill really isn’t. But when he moved to Louisville and first started practicing law decades ago, a local barrister who was Bar Mitzvahed thought Bill was and took him under his wing.

Bill however did take it as a sign. Many of his close friends through the years have been, well, you know.

Which, come to think of it, would be a classic Larry David episode.

I have been pretty much locked into CYE this summer season. Larry’s kvetchier than ever. Which makes me laugh a lot, but I can understand why some might not get the humor.

Larry switched divorce attorneys because the one he had whom he thought was Jewish wasn’t. Of course, it did not inur to Larry’s benefit.That opening episode of the season also had an absurd scene where a youngster coming to sell Girl Scout cookies to Larry has her first period while at his house. So, she’s in the bathroom and Larry’s outside the door, reading instructions on how to insert the tampon. Never saw that on the Cosby show.

Last night’s episode centered on a Palestinian chicken place opening a branch next to a favorite deli, and how Larry got caught in the middle of it. And how his buddy having an affair got busted when caught eating at the chicken joint because he didn’t think any other Jews would be in the place.

So it goes.

* * * * *

I think I was locked into “Entourage” for one season, maybe two.

Love the bombast of Johnny Drama and Ari.

But that was several seasons ago. I lost track, but watched the first installment of the final season last night.

Yawn.

Talk about a show that has truly outstayed it’s welcome. This one had a half life of three seasons tops, and it’s trundling on way beyond that as if any of us cares what happens with this gang.

Besides Vinnie Chase has always been the most boring central character of any television series ever.

Now, were they to spin off a series centered on Ari’s assistant Lloyd, the one character who always brings it, I’d watch.

* * * * *

I only see the endings of “True Blood.”

Before CYE comes on.

I know it’s got a big following. It simply doesn’t resonate for me.

* * * * *

“Game of Thrones.” Don’t get me started.

I’d catch the end of this while waiting for my beloved “Treme.”

Hated it. Even when I’d see the character played by the guy who was Mayor Carcetti in “The Wire.”

How it could garner some Emmy nominations while “Treme” did not is beyond me.

Different strokes, I suppose.

* * * * *

Is it time for the 3d season of “Treme” yet?

]]> http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/07/25/thumbs-up-for-larry-down-for-vinnie-hbo-sunday-night/feed/ 2 http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/05/26/whither-responsible-weather-warnings/ http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/2011/05/26/whither-responsible-weather-warnings/#comments Thu, 26 May 2011 14:26:35 +0000 mail http://www.culturemaven.com/blog/?p=1365 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.

And, of course, the Mavs vs. Thunder. (For the record, bobdylan.com lists 15 of his tunes referencing “thunder.” I’ll spare you the gratuitous quote(s).)

Because the weather fellas didn’t mention tornadic possibilities a lot, and because all those computerized, radarized images didn’t ever have any of those little circles that indicate — all together now — tornadic activity, my sense was the worst possibility was some lost power, no internet connection, and perhaps a limb across the hood of a car.

Yet, yet, yet . . . I’ve seen the photos from Joplin. I remember what Cherokee Park, a half block away, looked like after our big tornado.

So, we sat in the glum surroundings. Until the storm hit the West End, and it became obvious that major damage, and the need to avoid it by staying in the basement, wasn’t gonna happen.

Which raises the question whether the hyperbolic TV weatherheads are being irresponsible with their apoplectic rhetoric of upcoming devastation?

Actually, the question is how they can convey the information we need in a way that adequately and accurately portrays potential danger without crying wolf?

Last night, just as in Shyamalan’s “The Village,” there was no real wolf. Will we be desensitized the next time a storm front comes through? Which, given the weather patterns developing because of global warming — yes, you elephants, it’s very real — are going to be coming ever more often.

Well, I’d ramble on with this contemplation. But, I swear I just saw a snippet of sun, if only for a fleeting moment. So, I’m going outside to recreate . . . after I go get some supplies to replenish “our safe place, away from windows.”

So the first question — and a legit one at that — is whether it’s fair to judge this much hyped HBO prohibition-era gangster saga, based on that single episode?

Probably not.

Since when has a single such sampling stopped somebody with an opinion and Word Press in this contemporary age of instant gratification, instant response, instant judgement?

Considering myself an observer of some discernment, I shall refrain totally damning “Boardwalk Empire” solely on the basis of its lame inaugural episode. But I’ll tell ya, I know “The Sopranos.” I know “Only in America.” I know “The Godfather Saga.” I know “The Wire.” So far, even with Mahatma Martin Scorcese in the director’s chair, “Boardwalk Empire” you couldn’t shine those other series’ shoes.

And it’s obvious from the star maker machinery that’s been in place, from the PR anschluss heralding the recreation in exactitude of the era’s Atlantic City boardwalk on a Brooklyn back lot, that HBO is looking for a redux of “Deadwood,” the return of Paulie Walnuts and Omar Little combined.

So much so, that the series teases us in the opener with the quickest of cameos by Michael K. Williams, the actor who played the beguiling Omar in “The Wire.” He’s sitting in an ante room, awaiting an audience with Nucky Thompson, the centerpiece crime kingpin of the series, played inappropriately by the eminently talented but woefully miscast Steve Buscemi. Williams’ character here — called cleverly Chalky White — has a single line which has absolutely no resonance with anything else in the episode.

As for Buscemi? Carl Showalter in “Fargo?” Absolutely. Donny Kerabatsos in “The Big Lebowski?” Of course. But a powerful, duplicitous, bootlegging but upstanding citizen of Atlantic City around which an entire series is being fashioned? Uh, I don’t think so. At least, not yet.

And that’s just one of the flaws that plagued the premiere. Hokey, trite dialog is another. Also, trying too hard for period authenticity to the point where the sets looked like some curio.

To me, the characters almost to a man and woman seemed one-dimensional caricatures from the start.

Then there’s the pseudo-hipness, best exemplified by a Corleonesqueish scene where bad stuff is going contemporaneously with a vaudeville comedian’s show, in which he’s regaling an audience with “my wife is so dumb” jokes.

Have I given up entirely on “Boardwalk Empire?”

Probably not. I’m sure I’ll watch another episode or two, hoping it gets a hum going.

The premiere was a colossal disappointment, if you ask me.

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.

* * * * *

There’s this guy in the Gospel Tent while the Nineveh Baptist Church’s Mass Choir is testifying with blissful harmony on the first Saturday of JazzFest.

The ensemble, about 75 strong with a full horn section joining the requisite organ, guitar and rhythm players, is soaring in cascades of reverence about “the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” Their power is such that, when you walk into the Gospel Tent, the force of song pins your ears back. Truth.

This fellow and a group of friends wend their way to a spot just vacated near the stage. They immediately feel the spirit. They wave their hands. They move their feet. They lock into the spiritual feel-good vibe. That’s the default character trait of the Gospel Tent.

The rub is that the smiling, happy-go-lucky fellow is wearing a t-shirt with homemade lettering, black magic marker on white.

“Are you in?” it asks on the front.

“Fuck Ethan!,” it proclaims on the back.

Proud, the Crescent City is nothing if not a town of contradictions, steeped in Praise. And in the Profane.

The lady next to me points to the incongruity, smiles and bemuses, “Wonder if he realizes where he is?”

* * * * *

The spirit of New Orleans greets you at the door.

When you hit the concourse at the airport, you are greeted by such as the traditional sounds of Sidney Bechet. He is to New Orleans clarinet as Louis Armstrong is to the trumpet. You won’t hear Muzak in this town.

As Satchmo did, Bechet escaped the confines of this musical burg, but never the spirit. When he settled in Paris, you still had no trouble knowing where he was from when his lips hit the embouchre.

When you step outside, it feels like the inside a car wash. You are not on the outside looking through that window. It’s like you’re actually inside. The heat and humidity provide the firmest reminder yet: This is the mouth of the Mississippi Delta. It’s more than a bit equatorial.

If you are wise, you will then be off for the further confirmation of place. Do it before even checking into your hotel or B & B. That would be eating a meal, no matter the hour. No matter that you have dinner reservations at Stella three hours hence and you don’t want to be full. No matter anything, go get some local delicacy. Period.

* * * * *

Uglesich’s, which, according to the lore, was the most sublime of the city’s lunch joints, is closed. May it rest in peace. The joint was U*G*L*Y on the outside, and in a part of town where you might be inclined not to stop at red lights. No biggie. It was an epicenter of basic N O cuisine. Sigh.

Frankie & Johnny’s on Arabella is the favorite of some visitors. And a worthy contender it is. The locals seem to favor Domilise’s. But, since Katrina, it closes on Thursdays. Which happens to be the day my krewe arrives each year.

Which means we have to settle for Drago’s. At the original location in Metarie, on Arnault just off Causeway, not the fancy schmantzy new joint they opened recently in the Hilton by the casino.

Drago’s — It’s a good thing. The “have to settle” part was meant as irony, you know, a joke. Drago’s is a must do destination.

Their specialty: Charbroiled oysters, cooked over open-flame grills, then slathered in garlic butter and served by the dozen. Make that several dozens.

Here’s a sure tip. From experience. Order more than you think you want. Even if you “don’t do oysters.” You will. If not, send me the bill, they’re my treat.

Here’s how good the sauce is. The wait staff won’t remove a tray from your table, even though it contains just shells, until they’re sure you’re not “still dippin’.’” That French bread soaks up all the treasure still puddled under the empty shells.

Before opening his eponymous eatery with wife Klara, Drago Cvitanovich shucked oysters at brother-in-law Drago Batinich’s place. When that closed he went to the famous Acme Oyster on Iberville in the Quarter. Then he opened his own joint.

And continues to this day to get his oysters from fellow Croatian fishermen, who apparently kind of control the local market.

Jerry Kelly, who won the Zurich Classic, the PGA event played in New Orleans coincidental with JazzFest’s first weekend, knows Drago’s. During his post-victory celebration, he admitted to having downed 58 of those sublimely grilled Drago’s oysters in one sitting.

It was obviously good for his game.

* * * * *

Now a seventysomething, Etta James remains as crusty as ever. Her closing Sunday set at JazzFest was a perfect capstone to the weekend.

During a performance, she will still feel herself up. She will fellate the microphone. She hasn’t forgotten how to sing a song, despite her age and some health issues which caused her to lose what seems like a hundred pounds and stay seated during her set.

She will grouse. She will complain about the wind blowing wisps of her wig in her face.  But when it’s time to sing “I’d Rather Go Blind” or cover Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart,” you will be schooled that she can still work a song even if she’s forgotten as much as most singers ever learn in a lifetime.

As her band broke into the intro of her famous tune, “At Last,” Ms. Etta assumed a look which can only be described as disgust. She leaned into the mic and barked “Beeee-Yon-Say!!!!!!” If you hadn’t heard, James didn’t like how she was portrayed in “Cadillac Records.”

After nailing the tune, and basking in the glow of a standing O, Ms. Etta reminded everyone in the crowd, “That’s MY song.”

Who are we to disagree?

* * * * *

John Mooney is the great slide guitar player you more than likely haven’t heard. Or heard of.

From Rochester, New York, he migrated to Mississippi. Where he studied at the feet of master Son House. In the mid 70s, Mooney moved to New Orleans, where he was blessed enough to jam with The Meters, doyen of Crescent City guitarists Snooks Eaglin and the fellow who became his greatest influence, Mr. Professor Longhair.

His style combines the metallic resonance of Delta slide guitar with the syncopation of Zig Modeliste, legendary drummer of The Meters. Which is to say he both rocks and swings and is firmly immersed in the spirit force of Louisiana music.

Here’s a taste of Mooney, recorded in 2007 during an in-store appearance at the town’s best music store, Louisiana Music Factory. (Lots of acts perform there during the ten days of JazzFest.)

He played the Blues Tent this year with his stellar gang, Bluesiana. Is that one of the great band names, or what? Alfred “Uganda” Roberts, the legendary conga player, sat in.

He ripped “Baby, Please Don’t Go,” a great blues tune that I heard Lightnin’ Hopkins do at my first JazzFest in 1976.

Mooney ended his usual stirring set with “Shortenin’ Bread.” Yeah, that one, the one you sang as a kid: “Momma’s little baby loves shortenin’ shortenin’/ Momma’s little baby loves shortenin’ bread.”

The crowd, moi aussi, was on its feet, dancing the body electric.

* * * * *

At the end of a JazzFest day, my krewe will trade stories about what they saw, like the funniest t-shirt or something like that, what they ate (Crawfish strudel perhaps, maybe some jama jama), who they heard and who were their favorite performers of the day.

Three, maybe four years ago, Sally, one of the regulars, went on and on about this youngster she heard, playing, in of all places, the Kids Tent. Amanda Shaw was no more than 13 years old then.

We made sure to look her up the next year. She and her band had moved up to the Fais Do Do Stage, traditionally the most consistently raucous of the ten or so stages. It features zydeco, cajun, rockabilly and swamp pop mostly. Being from the bayou, Ms. Amanda fit right in with her band, the Cute Guys.

As you can tell on this clip from 2008 festival, Amanda Shaw has, uh, grown up.

This year, she played the Gentilly Stage which is one of the festival’s two largest venues. She ripped the joint with a smokin’ version of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down To Georgia.”

You may remember her, if you saw the IMAX flick about the dissipation of Louisiana’s wetlands. She was featured.

She can sing. She can play the fiddle. She has personality. She has presence. She’s a looker.

Amanda Shaw has a future.

* * * * *

People who know I journey down to New Orleans every year are always asking where they should eat when they visit?

Did I mention Drago’s? Domilise’s? Frankie & Johnny’s?

So I did.

As for the finer restaurants, there are plenty. It’s hard to have a bad meal in New Orleans, especially at any of the noteworthy places. But I have had bad ones. Including this year at heralded Commander’s Palace.

Considering the really disappointing food, and a less than refined dining experience, I was a bit stunned. There are so many waiters and managers and bus boys and girls and support staff that the restaurant felt like the Atlanta airport during rush hour. It was not fun.

It was on odd menu, with far fewer selections than I recall from my last visit maybe a decade and a half ago.

The famous Banana Bread Pudding Souffle was almost up to par. The rest was truly ordinary. Go figure.

If you feel you must do Commander’s Palace, caveat emptor.

The exact opposite is true of Galatoire’s. The Bourbon Street treasure remains far and away the finest of the classic New Orleans eateries.

Don’t make a reservation. If you do, you’ll have to sit upstairs. Upstairs is quiet and refined. Nice. But you don’t want that. Trust me. You want to sit in the main room downstairs. It is loud. (But not so loud you can’t hear your dining companions.) Exciting loud. One of the great rooms anywhere.

You can avoid a wait downstairs by getting there a bit early. Do it.

Galatoire’s is seeped in over a century of tradition. Simply stated, it is my favorite place to eat in all the world. And . . . I like to eat. (Okay there’s this great little place by a trout run on a little river in the Dordogne region of France, but, hey, you don’t need a passport to get into New Orleans. Yet.)

I’m not going to tell you what to order. But you can’t go wrong with Godcheaux Salad. This year I had fried softshell crab with Meuniere sauce on top — what’s a little added butter? — topped with crabmeat. Sigh.

When you go — to be brutally honest, it’s worth a trip to New Orleans just to eat at Galatoire’s — tell them you want Bob Noncarrow to be your waiter. Tell Bob I sent you. He’ll take care of you. He knows what’s fresh. And if something isn’t going to work he’ll warn you.

A couple of years ago, somebody asked what was the soup of the day? Bob shook his head and called us off. Which didn’t stop our friend Bill, who said he liked that kind of soup, and ordered a bowl. Bob served it with a shrug of his shoulders and a roll of his eyes. Think Rodney Dangerfield in “Caddyshack.” Bill consumed it all after salting it up with half a shaker. Still Bob comped him on the soup.

There are any number of fine places to eat down there. If it’s substantial New Orleans Creole cooking you want, try Brigsten’s or Clancy’s. The list of other fine eateries is topped by Restaurant August. We had a fine meal last week at a new place, MiLa on Common Street. Cochon, where I’ve not been able to get a reservation for two years in a row now, is the hot place.

* * * * *

The number of old line New Orleans stalwart musicians diminishes each year. It’s nature’s way.

This year Snooks Eaglin and Eddie Bo passed away.

That’s why I check out the oldsters at every opportunity. You never know when the Reaper is going to strike. Word is that Art Neville is in a bad way.

So the one performance I didn’t want to miss during the first weekend of this year’s JazzFest was the New Orleans R & B Revue. It was emceed by Deacon John, a long time local fixture on the scene. His big band can play. The guy’s a showman. He even changes jackets and slacks and hats between songs. It’s cute.

The review featured another local favorite, Wanda Rouzan. She wowed us with the Popeye. She can shimmy better than your sister Kate. Robert Parker was a might boring, but it’s always nice to hear “Barefootin” one more time.

Al “Carnival Time” Johnson has sucked about as much life from his 1958 hit as possible. It still gets the parasols twirling and people off their duff.

Hall of Famer Allen Toussaint finished the review. I’m not going to go through his resume here. Look him up here at Wikipedia. It’ll be worth the trip.

He’s as good as it gets. Immaculate impassioned piano playing. A gentle, soulful demeanor. New Orleans to the core.

He’s got a new album out, which is a must buy if you want to experience the melancholy magic of this seminal musical mecca. (A little too much alliteration, but it’s hard not to wax poetic.) It’s called “The Bright Mississippi.” He does “West End Blues,” “St. James Infirmary,” a Sidney Bechet song, some Ellington, some Leonard Feather. It is elegant.

His other great album, which I’ve written about before (Read it here.) is “Southern Nights.” I’m not sure if it’s still available? One friend says it is. If not, you might have to go to Ebay. It’s worth it. Here’s Allen Toussaint doing the song on a tour of Japan. Forget his voice, feel the spirit:

* * * * *

Okay, enough is enough.

It’s Oaks Day, and I’m stuck in Derbytown with the New Orleans blues again.

I should be down there for the second weekend. But, like I said, enough is enough.

Solomon Burke, all five hundred pounds of him, was apparently marvelous yesterday on the Congo Square stage.

But, like I said, enough is enough.

So, now I’m going to walk over to my new upright and continue to learn the Satchmo tune that says it all, “Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans?”

Tis a Creole tune that fills the air.

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?

Correct Answer: Absolutely Not!!!!!!

Geesh.

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.)

What’s fascinating about this Local Battle of the Weather Wizards is the difference in coverage. NASCAR fans are missing nary a thing. WLKY isn’t even running streamers about the weather at the bottom of the HD screen. My man Jeff Gordon is currently in the lead. You go, dude.

WHAS is running a split screen with the weather on one, but the NBA game box is bigger than the college one I’m trying to watch, and it overlaps the weather map. Folks watching golf on WAVE are in the same boat as us basketball fans. But, you know, Tiger’s not playing, so nobody is probably watching anyway.

What bugs me about Cardosi is his manner. His attitude says what he’s doing is the only important thing going on and if you care more about hoops, well, tough. He keeps threatening that he’ll return to the game on full screen, but those are false alarms.

I tried to call WLKY to register my complaint. Uh, imagine this, nobody’s answering the phone. There’s no machine to take a message. And no numbers on their website. Very customer oriented, don’t you think?

Okay, thanks for listening to my rant. I appreciate your attention.

And, Jay, shut up.

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.

– c d k