While walking my beagle Abbey the other day in Cherokee Park, I crossed paths with Eleanor Bingham, whom I know enough from our days at U of L to say hello.
As she walked on, the devil inside wanted to scream, “If it wasn’t for you and your sister Sallie, the Courier might still be thriving.”
Which knee jerk impulse got me wondering. What would the state of the sinking Courier-Journal be in the new digital age, were the patrician Binghams still in charge?
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The Bingham stewardship is the stuff of legend, worthy of chronicle by no less an observer of the American scene than Fitzgerald.
Did family patriarch Judge Bingham poison his wife, the inheritance from her passing allowing him to purchase the newspaper from “Marse Henry” Watterson.
After building the family business to a revered status, the judge was named ambassador to Great Britain by FDR.
His son Barry Bingham Sr. built the family’s media empire into a nationally known entity, winner of several Pulitzer Prizes. The C-J was ranked among the very best newspapers in the land.
My latest techno obsession is solid state hard drives. Like Apple introduced in the latest ideation of its Air laptop.
They’re a lot faster than old school hard drives, which work still kind of like a turntable playing an LP. With a fast fingered DJ.
So I dropped by the Apple store at Oxmoor the other day, figuring one of Steve Jobs acolytes working there would be more than anxious to share if there was any buzz that SSDs would be standard in the next go round of iMacs?
So I asked the first geek that pounced in my direction.
“I’m curious,” said I, “whether there are rumors that maybe the next edition of the iMacs will have solid state drives as standard issue.”
“You know, we just came out with a new line of upgraded iMacs . . .”
“Yes, yes, but I was wondering about the next release, and whether you’d heard anything?” Read the rest of this entry »
When my friend Jane arrived to our table at Jim Porter’s on Friday night, she was holding her head with both hands in wonder, her mouth agape, her eyes befuddled.
“Look at all these people,” she, H.S. Class of ’62, gasped. “Everybody’s so . . . old.”
“Jane,” I replied, “this is us.”
The occasion was a show commemorating the 50th anniversary of Cosmo & the Counts, one of Louisville’s seminal early rock & roll bands.
Cosmo is Tommy Cosdon, a seriously talented R & B singer — trainer of last place Derby finisher Rae’s Jet and former entrepreneur of Cosmo’s Wiggery — whose voice still holds sway as he rockets toward age 70. He was lead singer of The Sultans, the most popular Louisville band in the early 60s. At least in the East End. Johnny Hourigan and The Trendels (originally The Four Frantics), teamed with The Carnations, were as popular in other areas of town.
As such evolutions are wont to happen, Cosmo split off from The Sultans and started his own group in ’61. Friday night, he was still at it a half century later. Read the rest of this entry »
For various and sundry reasons — some beyond my control, some not — last night was my first Waterfront Wednesday of the season. (I’m still pissed at the local weatherheads and their blasphemy which resulted in my missing Over The Rhine.)
So it was my first WW at what may be its new home under the Big Four Bridge.
As for the music: The Film Babe and I missed the opener because of a standing early Wednesday evening commitment. We arrived during the middle of Abigail Washington’s set. My sense is her quirky Americana needs a quieter, more attentive audience. It appeared she failed to resonate, at least in the area we were sitting. Which is not to condemn her music or talent in the least. It was just hard to connect. Read the rest of this entry »
Another weather event has come and gone, thank you very much, and the Hogan’s Fountain Teepee survived.
Long may it stand.
While the brouhaha over the pavilionesque structure in Cherokee Park isn’t the most important issue facing our burg these days, it does seem to be striking a raw nerve. It sure has with me.
Seems Metro Parks and the do good Olmstead Parks Conservancy have developed a Master Plan — doesn’t that sound official — which includes the demolition of the teepee and the erection of some new structures. Apparently that hallowed Master Plan calls for two “more appropriate” replacement structures, which would bring the area into compliance with “the most fundamental of Frederick Law Olmstead’s vision.” Which, according to a C-J letter to the editor from the Conservancy’s president, is that anything that interferes with focus on the landscape must go. Read the rest of this entry »
The law of averages invoked itself yesterday morning.
While working on the computer — something of import I’m sure though I can’t remember what — I was thwarted by a pop, then out went the lights.
After immediately advising L G & E, I called my friend David.
“You’ll be pleased to hear this,” I advised. “You’re the second to know our power went out.”
In all the power sapping weather events of the last couple of years, our house until yesterday had suffered but a nanosecond hiccup of no lights one time. While David’s home, not that far away, has been hit every time out, often for extended periods. Save yesterday. Read the rest of this entry »
At half past noon on a benignly cloudy summer’s Tuesday, he stood on Main at 1st, steadying himself against a statue, his walker by his side. His face blotched, his beard scruffy, his arms flaccid from lack of sustenance, he was grizzled beyond his years.
In hospital scrubs weeks of wearing beyond sanitary, he was oblivious to the inappropriateness of his action.
It was far from artful. There was no sense of aesthetics, though there he stood, unsteady, in front of the Cressman Center, which houses U of L’s Hite Art Institute.
Some cellphoning passersby took no notice. Others looked askance, but made no mention.
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 »
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.”
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.
I may have once before weighed in on the Louisville obsession that has been the Rick Pitino/ Karen Sypher Affair.
It’s not like there hasn’t been plenty to read and slobber over from other sources.
Today I feel compelled to take one last look. Karen Sypher, convicted of federal criminal charges, is now in a federal penitentiary. Where she will reside for better than the next half decade.
It is a situation that is sad as it is sordid.
I shan’t bore with you with any details, which, by now, should be permanently attached to your DNA.
I’m pissed that Rick Pitino, who is one of the leading citizens of our community. And who is getting paid millions of dollars a year — some of it my hard earned money — didn’t have enough sense and fidelity to his marital vows to get himself in this stew. I’m mad he was never called to task by the president and athletic director of his employer, the University of Louisville.
I’m also sad about Karen Sypher. Make no mistake, I don’t feel bad because she’s in the hoosegow. She deserves it for what she did, which was very wrong.
But I am sad that this reasonably attractive woman evolved into to an all too familiar prototype: she who feels her way through life is by granting sexual favors. I am sad at the extent of her delusion about what she did and what the consequences for such actions must be.
I am really pissed at her most recent doofus attorney, a feckless fellow who wasn’t even in good standing with the Bar when he took the case, because he hadn’t paid his dues. And his sidekicks, who have filled their client Karen Sypher with ridiculously misguided false hope. They’ve been tilting at windmills in a manner so ham handed as to be laughable. I can’t believe anything but they’ve fostered in their client, an absurdly optimistic sense of her future.
I can’t imagine what the conversations were like in the drive from Louisville to Florida where she surrendered for her imprisonment today? In her deluded mind, she was debased by Pitino. Then by her trial attorney, who, by all accounts, did the best he could with a nothing case. Truth: She’s also been deceived by her latest gang of “protectors.” Perhaps more than any other players in this saga.
Karen Sypher is in prison now. She soon will be little more than a fleeting anecdote in Louisville’s cultural history, a subject of the query, “Whatever happened to . . .?”
Rick Pitino is still around, his presence a constant reminder that being a good coach doesn’t mean you’re an admirable person.
While walking my beagle Abbey the other day in Cherokee Park, I crossed paths with Eleanor Bingham, whom I know enough from our days at U of L to say hello.
