It’s A Beautiful Day

Triple entendre, that.

The title, that is.

First, simply literally.

As I was taking care of errands, motoring about the other afternoon, it was a poetic spring day.

Sunny. Short sleeve warm. Not too humid.

And, oh my, that sky.

Azure to infinity.

Lazy billowy Cumulus. Layered. Textured.

The sort of visual, like the Pacific at Big Sur, the verdancy of Cherokee in full bloom, or an August field of tall sunflowers in the Périgord which causes you to stop and marvel at the beauty of Spaceship Earth at rest in its natural state.

And figuratively.

I’m at the stage of life that while savoring the day, I had successfully completed two of my triad of medical appointments last week. Not that many over the norm for an octogenarian. Good news at both. Blessings. All that’s left is annual eye checkup. Easy peasy.

So, it would have psychologically been a boffo day even were Mark Weinberg on the telly huffin’ and puffin’ about some rotation hovering over my condo.* Read the rest of this entry »

In Praise of Little Feat

In the nature of rock & roll acknowledgment, it is a mistake, an egregious omission of the highest order.

A travesty.

For those like me obsessed with such matters, it is difficult to swallow. Thus, I hardly give a glance to the annual induction announcement from the institution that ostensibly is the chronicler of excellence in the genre.

I choose to ignore.

Until I can’t.

Yesterday, while putzing around my hacienda, I pulled Time Loves A Hero off the shelf.

As I was taking care of my tasks, bouncing around with a boogie beat to the syncopated rhythms, mesmerized as always with the masterful musicianship, smiling bemusedly at the astute clever lyrics, listening in wonder at the truly unique eclectic stylings, that cloud hovered.

As I am wont to do, I thought, even uttered out loud with disgust, LITTLE FEAT IS NOT IN THE ROCK & ROLL HALL OF FAME!

How can this possibly be?

How can this iconic band, comfortably in the conversation contemplating the best outfits of the Rock Era, have slipped through the cracks?

The R&RHoF inductee list is full of charlatans, unworthies. So many, to name but a few would be an injustice.

But no Little Feat.

What. A. Crock. Read the rest of this entry »

A Hoopaholic’s Derby

Yes, kids, that’s me wearing my personalized Hoopaholic ballcap.

All day, Derby Day.

Along with a Dr. Gonzo Kentucky Derby is decadent and depraved t-shirt.

As for the quote on the back above the signature of Randall Ave’s Favorite Tormentor, “From that point on, the weekend became a vicious drunken nightmare,” those days are long past*

*But while knocking out this perfunctory, meeting-my-contractual-obligation obligation, I remembered another doozy tale from yesteryore, which I’ll regale you with below.

Adding to the legitimacy of my header: While running errands drizzly Derby morn, I ran into Lancaster Gordon at Costco. That counts, right? Plus upon returning from a post-race pizza run (Wheated, if you must ask, on my virgin trip. Tasty, worthy of being mentioned in same sentence as Pizza Lupo.), my hosts graciously agreed to turn off the local post-Downs telecasting, and turn to the Nugs vs. Clips.

Ya know, enough is enough even for the obsessed, watching folks limping to buses, shoes muddied, fascinators drooping

So, yeah, I was bi-sportal, Derby 2025. Hoops & Horses.

It ended up being my favorite Derby Day in decades. Read the rest of this entry »

Tales from Derbies of Yesteryore

One of Glorious Editor’s cute quirks is his annual call for members of the Commentariat to regurgitate their most mondo bizzaro stories of how they got home from the track on Derby Day.

Hey, since, I got the key to the gate, I’ll weigh in. And, triple post it at all my venues. And, in addition, throw in other tales of the first weekend in May, some of which might actually be of moderate interest. Some with more info than you probably ought to be told.

But let’s start with 2025, since I got a huge dose of Derby Derby just last evening.

Derby Wednesday Dinner at Jeff Ruby’s.

Our corner table was multi-geographical. Guy in from LA, gal in from NYC. The usuals from New Orleans. Crescent Hill, Clifton and a Downtown denizen all in attendance.

The place was jammed. And jammin’. Electric. Like everybody had a power cord comin’ outta their hip, plugged into a socket under the table. Vibes of Good Times.

Fellas with rolls of pocket cabbage. Ladies on their arms in four inch stilleto fuck me pumps. Dudes who looked like they wandered in off the street staring. Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest Redux: Whither New Orleans

Since I’m not at JazzFest — COVID shutdown years aside — for the first time since 1990, I’ve decided to repost some of my favorite reports from the past.  

This from the first Fest after Katrina.

Bob’s back at Galatoire’s. Sumptuous and gracefully worn, it’s New Orleans finest old line eatery. Both survived Katrina. So far.

For the last several years, Bob has waited on our gang at an annual Galatoirean feast the night before the first day of JazzFest.

That the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Fair itself would survive Katrina was far from a given. Its survival is the work of some supreme spirit force that bestows gifts on the flock.

Bob is the dapper, engaging waiter, the long time server with a gleam in his eye and Stratford-on-Avon-quality double-take when diners are as offbeat as he. Despite his charming faux befuddlement, he’s a marvelous garçon in Galatoire’s mirrored main room, the one where the city’s gentry celebrates birthdays and lingering Friday afternoons. Read the rest of this entry »

JF ’25: Exit To Mystery Street

It is that time of the year when I attempt annually to wring a drop or two of blood from the turnip.

When, as JazzFest sits just over the horizon, I attempt to regale you with some tales I haven’t overtold, heralding how very very much I love Fest and New Orleans, why it has been the gravitational pull of my year for a half century.

I’ll cull my archives of daily JF reports, seeking an interlude unreported for awhile, some anecdote to give readers a sense of how this musical, cultural, gustatory fantasia is like no other.

Like the time in the mid oughts when the Film Babe and I happened to be at the stage when the irrepressible  Bobby Lounge was being wheeled out in an iron lung by a woman dressed as a nurse. True. Upon exiting from it, he dazzled with his facility on the 88s and came with the funniest lyrics I’d ever heard.

Oh what the Lagniappe Stage giveth.

Like the day, I asked the Film Babe to marry me. Then after walking to the big stage to join friends for Van Morrison and advise them, one of the those message planes drove over the Fest. “Joan, will you marry me, love Charles,” the banner read. Talk about twilight zone, I had nothing to do with it. I’ve never called Joanie Joan. She’s never called me Charles.

Just some JazzFest serendipity.

Like the time we blew off our favorite band ever, the Allman Brothers, because we were at a stage with pals and the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars were smokin’ hot.

Like how you can savor some Crawfish Strudel or a Soft Shell Crab poboy, while sitting in the Gospel Tent, being overwhelmed by some unknown singer in a church choir who is the equal of Aretha.

In this preview, I’d advise what new acts I’d discovered while handicapping the Cubes — quaint nomenclature of the daily stage schedules — and promise to report in with updates as the Fest unfolds.

 * * * * *

But here’s the acid reality of Two thousand and Twenty Five, 35 Fests under my belt.

For the first time since The Year of Our Lord 1990, I shall not be in attendance.*

*Two years were lost to COVID, when there were no Fests.

There are times when real life gets in the way, when the actuality of altercockerdom and its symptoms intrudes.

So it is.

One of the few blessings of being an old fart is the onset of perspective. I considered bulldozing my way through stuff I’m dealing with and going for it anyway.* But with the help of confidants and the occasional flash of mature thinking, I made the decision to sit this one out.

Understand the issues I’m facing are nettlesome, not dire. But enough that it would skew the experience. 

 * * * * *

So, for this year anyway, I’m taking the exit to Mystery Street.*

*Of course, being a compulsive shopper, I purchased the tee shirt with the “Exit to Mystery Street” logo pictured above.

The reference of course is to one of the actual means of egress from the festival grounds. To, ya understand, Mystery Street.

It’s where I’m standing at the moment.

Emotionally that is.

 * * * * *

So, if you want a sense, a small one anyway, of what JazzFest is like, tune in to the live stream starting Thursday at wwoz.org. There’ll be too much talk, but some live performances from the smaller stages.

For a full sense of all the music, check out the Cubes.

Here’s a list of the food choices, which you will note does not include corn dogs or elephant ears.

Here’s a map of the festival grounds.

What’s it like inside there: Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go, nowhere to go. Inside the gates, for me anyway, there is no other reality.

 * * * * *

So, for those of you who are still with me there, thanks.

Obviously I needed to get this off my chest. Kind of a therapy, don’t ya know.

I am totally comfortable with my decision, as difficult as it has been.

I’m protecting myself from some last minute knee jerk ill advised compulsion to jump in my car and go there.

One, I’ve had several friends who will be there ask my for musical tips. As I’ve said, I normally go through the schedules, checking out the acts I don’t know to discover the must sees. Such as, from years past, Las Cafeteras, Bombino, Mdou Moctar.

Not gonna do it.

And, I’m making dinner for the Film Babe and the couple who introduced us, on Wednesday evening, JF eve.

When I shall attempt to recreate dishes from my krewe’s go to JF Eve dinner spots.

Godchaux Salad from Galatoire.

Chicken a la Grandé from Mosca’s.

Thanks again for listening.

— c d kaplan

“A Complete Unknown”: My Belated Take

As I vowed in my initial post providing reasons why I, a Bob Dylan acolyte since he crashed onto the scene in the early 60s, wasn’t a premier day viewer of the Dylan flick, I watched it a couple days ago streaming.

Despite my admittedly haughty take at first — we of strong opinion are reluctant to dismount our high horse — I clicked “Watch Now” with an open mind.

Mostly because of the wise perspective of Joan Osborne.

Not because she’s a Louisville homie, who at her show a few years back on the Waterfront, talked about being at Waggener HS, and never imaging the possibility of performing in her town on the river in front of a throng.

And not because in her take — on Facebook by the by —  she advises readers to go view other Dylan films, the very ones I mentioned in my above linked post.

What struck me is her take that, if for nothing else, the biopic provides a history lesson for younger music lovers, who might wonder why all the fuss about this guy with zero stage persona, a craggy voice, who is a defiant, vexing chameleon.

Advice that resonated with me.

The story I tell is of the day in ’77 when Bing Crosby died just a few months after Elvis. Read the rest of this entry »

Facing 80

I am now a denizen of the Land of Daily Medical Treatments.

I know my pharmacist better than the neighbors who live on either side of me at my condo building.

Last week’s smile inducer was discovering there’s a 24 hour/ 7 day pharmacy just five minutes from my place. On the Sunny Side. Paying the bridge tariff for the comfort of knowing it’s there just in case is but a slight nuisance.

In a couple of days, I’ll be an octo-.

Seems like yesterday that it took me an hour staring at the phone to get up the courage to call and ask Jenni Lehman to a hay ride in the 9th grade.

Time, whatever that really is, accelerates.

My pal Michael in New Orleans had a rule he invoked at our annual dinners during JazzFest at Galatoire, Mosca’s, Peche, GW Fins or wherever.

One medical conversation per meal. Read the rest of this entry »

“Paddington 2”: Who Knew? Not Me!

Culling through the NYT, I saw a header that touched my inner cinephile.

“Why Everyone Is Still Talking About ‘Paddington 2′”

A kid’s move that appeals to adults.

Funny. Clever. Well crafted. Deftly acted. Overwhelmingly well reviewed.

A perfect 100% rating at Rotten Tomatoes. Until, that is, one naysaying critic retroactively posted his negative review from when the film was released in 2017. For which he may have had to hire security, so excoriated was he by an ever expanding throng of devotees.

Clicked on the synopses of reviews, one of which said something to the effect, “Paddington 2 is to Paddington as Godfather 2 was to Godfather.”

That’ll peak a movie lover’s interest. Read the rest of this entry »

“Bad Shabbos” & JFF Preview

As those enamored with “The Big Lebowski” know, Walter Sobchak “don’t roll on Shabbos.”

Others might not know Shabbos, that it is another arguably more immersive reverential for the Sabbath Day.

No, the cult classic is not a part of this year’s Jewish Film Festival.

But a truly cockamamie gem titled “Bad Shabbos” is.

Sobchak is shomer Shabbos.

He observes the rituals of sabbath.

So too, the upper West Side family in this film, headed by Ellen (Kyra Sedgwick) and Richard (David Paymer). Along with their three adult children.

So, what we have here — at the start anyway — is a traditional Friday night family dinner. A stop at Barney Greengrass on the way. Lighting of the candles. Brisket. Challah. Wine. Familial discomfort. Etc, etc.

Son David is engaged. To Meg. A shiksa, whose Catholic parents have flown in from Milwaukee to meet the future in-laws at dinner.

Youngest son Adam, is trying to find himself, training to join the IDF, he says. And doesn’t get along with sister Abby’s BF Benjamin.

The latter of which scenarios leads to an “accident.” One more serious than the brisket landing on the kitchen floor as it does.

Chaos ensues. Over under sideways down. Read the rest of this entry »

Perspective & “Moonstruck”: A Contemplation

Yet again, I am struck by how one’s personal situation, health, station in life, sense of well being, all that personal stuff affects one’s perception.

It’s a significant thing to keep in mind.

Whether it’s how we hear a new song.

Or meet someone new.

Or watch a film.

Chasing down some rabbit hole or another recently I came upon a review of a movie written by the same guy who penned the screenplay to “Moonstruck.”

John Patrick Shanley.

The review shredded the film in question — forgot the title already — and wondered how Shanley, who was masterful in crafting “Moonstruck” could have been so off his feed.

Which reminded me of my reaction to the Cher/ Nicholas Cage comedy romance when I saw it upon release in ’87.

Which was luke warm.

Certainly didn’t hate it. Didn’t consider it a bad film by any stretch. Recall just feeling, OK this is nice, but don’t get all the hosannas being tossed its way.

So I went to Roger Ebert’s review of the acclaimed flick. It was so adoring. 4 of 4 stars. Figured it was time for a revisit. Read the rest of this entry »

Snow Day R&R: Ghost Riders in the Sky

One song.

Two moments.

One that actually happened and was pretty special.

The other a dream denied.

The song: Ghost Riders in the Sky.

It’s just one of those tunes that’s lingered around, maleable, adaptable, written by Stan Jones in the late 1940s.

It’s been dubbed the Greatest Western Song Ever.

But that is far from the whole deal. Read the rest of this entry »