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?
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.
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.
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 »
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.
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.
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 »
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 »
One who has for all the bounty I’ve enjoyed in life been somewhat desperate of soul. An outlaw of sorts once upon a time.
Just as a descriptor, it is a sonorous word, with which I’ve been fascinated.
It’s use in two totally different tunes is something I’ve been meaning to write about for a long while. Years actually.
But, I’ve been somewhat of a missing person, if you will a desaparecido — another play on that term — when it has come to actually sitting down at the keyboard and doing what I am at this moment.
Because the reasons for putting it off are how closely I relate to some of the lyrics.
Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?/ Come down from your fences, open the gate/ It may be rainin’, but there’s a rainbow above you/ You better let somebody love you/ (Let somebody love you)/ You better let somebody love you before it’s too late
So, yeah, the otherwise insufferable* Don Henley and partner Glenn Frey’s lyrics cut through like a machete.
(* Why do I use that adjective to describe the obviously talented and successful Henley. Two reasons. One, the Eagles have been famous for not liking each other for decades, taking separate limos from hotel to venue. Rubs me the wrong way. But, his arrogance caught me from the get go. The first time I heard the band, they opened for Yes at Louisville Gardens. As was often the case, much of the crowd was milling about before the headliner, not really listening. At some juncture, Henley, annoyed at the inattention, brayed into his mic, “What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you know who we are? We’re the Eagles!”)
Still it’s a great damn song, a bracing use of imagery. Best rendered by the incomparable Linda Ronstadt, who stole the tune.
Damn, Linda, shred me apart why don’t ya?
* * * * *
Then, there’s Guy Clark with a totally different tale, also a brilliant use of the imagery.
About his relationship with an old man.
About how life evolves with its inevitable conclusion.
I know nothing about playing Moon and Forty-two.
But I look in the mirror and I’m pushing 80, an old man.
Conscious that not too far off that sumbitch is comin’.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories. Lots of stories. Here’s another.
Noticing that the Beach Boys — or so as now constituted they would call themselves — are playing a number of festivals this summer, including Bourbon & Beyond, I couldn’t help but be wryly bemused.
Their Endless Summer Gold Tour, I believe that’s what the fifty or so dates starting in April are dubbed, is also noted on the group’s website as “The Beach Boys/ Mike Love.”
Of course it is. Because the insufferable octogenarian Love is a fellow who once had the audacity (and apparent legal clout) to kick Brian Wilson out of the band after a short reunion earlier this century. Tsk tsk.
OK, there’s also Bruce Johnston, not an original member, but he did start subbing on tours for Brian Wilson in ’65, after the genius who was the creative centerpiece for the iconic American outfit suffered a “nervous breakdown.” Other than Love and him there’s just a bunch of fill ins this time around.
Dennis and Carl Wilson are both departed. Al Jardine has retired. Brian Wilson’s life long demons finally won him over, and it was announced earlier this year he has dementia.
All that travesty and sadness notwithstanding, under the mentorship and creative craftsmanship of Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys were the one and true seminal Great American Rock & Roll Band.
They both set and reflected teen zeitgeist in the mid 60s.
“If everybody had an ocean/ Across the USA/ Then everybody’d be surfing’/ Like Californi-a”Read the rest of this entry »
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories, lots of stories. Here’s another.
Bluegrass music is not rock & roll. Though it’s certainly a part of it.
Elvis Presley’s first release had Father of Bluegrass Bill Monroe’s “Blue Moon of Kentucky” on one side, and blues master Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup’s “That’s All Right, Mama” on the flip.
There was plenty of cross-pollination through the years.
Byron Berline, once of member of The Cumberlands, played fiddle on the Stones’ “Honky Tonk Woman.” Jerry Garcia hooked up with Vassar Clements and former Bluegrass Boy Peter Rowan in Old and In The Way. Rowan ventured into rock in Seatrain. Banjo savant Earl Scruggs joined his sons in forming a rock band.
Sam Bush and Newgrass Revival covered Little Feat’s “Sailin’ Shoes.”
So let’s venture back to the halcyon days when the only urban bluegrass festival settled in on Louisville’s Belvedere. Read the rest of this entry »
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories. Lots of stories. Here are more.
Given my annoying propensity to play rock & roll oneupsmanship at every opportunity, I’m often asked a question.
Are there any bands from back in the day you didn’t see live?
Of course there are. As loathe as I am to admit it.
My résumé has holes, some of my own making.
The one that stands out above the rest actually isn’t a concert but a lecture.
One night when I was at U of L, during Little Richard’s first exile from performing, he was giving a lecture at school. I had heard him perform previously, but this was an opportunity to experience one of the Founding Fathers up close and personal.
For some reason, dunderheaded in retrospect, I blew it off. To discover later, there weren’t but about a dozen people there, that he was very engaging and he spoke mostly about his religion, handed out bibles, but answered questions.
It has happened a few times recently.
In the nature of rock & roll acknowledgment, it is a mistake, an egregious omission of the highest order.
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.
It is that time of the year when I attempt annually to wring a drop or two of blood from the turnip.
So, for this year anyway, I’m taking the exit to Mystery Street.*
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.
One song.
Back when, you know, in the day, there would be more than occasional Saturdays that arrived without evening plans.
I am a desperado.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories. Lots of stories. Here’s another.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories, lots of stories. Here’s another.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories. Lots of stories. Here are more.