“Spinal Tap II: The End Continues” A Review

The lede shall not be buried.

The sequel to “This is Spinal Tap” is not as good as the original.

It happens.

There’s only one “Godfather 2.”

Only one “Astral Weeks.”

Only one “Guernica.”

That settled, next question: Should there have been a sequel?

After all, the original is a masterwork. It essentially invented the category of Mockumentaries. It is hilarious, and nails the big rock scene. It holds up four decades on.

Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer, and Rob Reiner are all quick witted, very clever improvisers with a reverence for rock & roll along with affection for its and foibles. So too their brilliant supporting cast. The original (and the sequel) are love letters to the music and culture that sustained my generation.

It was all there. Crank it to 11. Stonehenge. They’ve taken on new meanings in pop culture vernacular. Read the rest of this entry »

Mad Magazine: Blast from the Past

Impulsive compulsive consumerizer that I am, it doesn’t take much.

So, I was toast when the face stared out at me from the ‘zine rack by checkout at Jeff Bezos’ grocery store — purposely there to snare a dude with my predilection.

From the way back machine.

Someone I haven’t thought about for decades frankly.

Alfred E. Neuman.

The Mad Magazine “Golden Collection of Garbage” was in my cart with nary a second thought.

It was a significant part of my subteen years. Maybe a few more.

Have no recollection when I was mature? enough to move on? Read the rest of this entry »

“Thunder Road”: Fifty Years On

Screen door slams/ Mary’s dress sways/ Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

It is the opening line of the opening tune of Bruce Springsteen’s 1975 masterwork of an album, “Born To Run.”

A collection of eight short stories no less relevant and seminal than Salinger’s “Nine Stories,” or Joyce’s “Dubliners.”

“Thunder Road.”

My firm belief — subjective of course, not an absolute — it’s the singular greatest teen rock & roll anthem.*

*For Dylan, it’s “A Teenager in Love.” Like I said, subjective.

Which, because rock & roll at its essence is the chronicling of teen angst, a time to begin figuring things out, a longing to escape, a fantasy of hitting the road for new life changing adventure, a meeting THE ONE, a get out of jail card for preternatural high school loneliness, means the song is the great rock anthem.

Roy Orbison singing for the lonely/ Hey that’s me and I want you only

I was thirty when the album and song were released, remember exactly where I heard it for the first time. At my next door neighbor Johnny C’s apartment in the Triangle.

I recall that the spare less than orchestrated opening of the album version gave clearance for the resonant lyrical poesy to hit me like a shot to the solar plexus. Read the rest of this entry »

Cellphones: A Curse & A Blessing

My my my generation is one that grew up learning how to dial a rotary phone, which plugged into the wall with wires that ran to a telephone pole outside.

Some of us experienced the oddness of family lines, where several households had the same number and could listen in on the others’ calls.

True.

We remember when Ma Bell was deemed a monopoly and broken into regional monopolies.

We remember when we could buy our own phones instead of renting one from SC Bell.

And when push button phones became the norm. In colors no less.

We had answering machines.

Etc, etc.

You’re welcome for the quick trip back in the time machine.

Some of us were late arrivals to phones you could carry around in your pocket.

Guilty. Read the rest of this entry »

Celebrity Wedding Culture & the Antithesis

It has happened a few times recently.

A moment when I’ve been chided with something like, “You’re the Culture Maven, or so you say, but you don’t seem to be posting much about, eh, culture.

“The occasional movie review, or another blog about how much you love the Tedeschi Trucks band, but not much else.

“So, are you the Culture Maven or not? Fish or cut bait, dude.”

OK. Guilty.

I remain fascinated as ever by the passing scene, what Katy Perry’s up to, or the every once in awhile curiosity about Paris Hilton.

In fact, I’ll own that I’m been more curious than I should be about those nuptials over in romantic Venice. One of the world’s richest dudes. His shapely new bride. The A+ list on hand for the celebration.

Actually, and this is the truth, I mostly look at the photos. Lots of security protecting Oprah as she gets in and out of water limo.

I wonder. Is Jeff Bezos really friends with the Kardashians? If so, whatever might they talk about? Does Tom Brady chat them up, now that’s he’s single?

Plus, are the Kardashians really friends with  . . . anybody? 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 »

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

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 »

The Highwomen: Rock & Roll Rewind

Back when, you know, in the day, there would be more than occasional Saturdays that arrived without evening plans.

So, they began at the record store.

Karma.

ear x-Tacy.

Looking for somebody to flirt with.

Knowing some similar music obsessives would be there to chat up, maybe with knowledge of where that night’s action was.

Thumbing through the racks you’d thumbed through oh so many times before. Pulling out albums you hadn’t chosen in the past, giving them one more consideration.

How many times did I pull out the Velvet Underground Nico album, the one with the Warhol banana on the cover? A lot. Never bought it. A hole in my resumé I suppose. 

Before leaving I’d always have two, three, four under my arm. If one’s good, ya know, more is better.

Soon enough, maybe even that night if no intriguing destination was to be learned of, I’d sit down to listen, hopefully savor.

Paying attention with total focus. Unless of course there’d be knock at the door. A pal dropping by, maybe with a new Moody Blues release, “I had to hear.” Probably toting some exotic herbal repast.

Anyway, often an album would get glossed over. I’d just give a quick glancing listen and if it didn’t immediately grab me, put it on the shelf. Read the rest of this entry »