PBS’s “Country Music”: Review & Podcast

It would seem to me that to call Ken Burns an American treasure would be understatement.

The fellow has provided history and cultural perspective on any number of topics through the decades with his excellently crafted PBS documentaries.

The Vietnam War.

Jazz.

The Civil War.

To name but three.

He, along with c0-producer Dayton Duncan, have done it again.

This time the subject matter is the history and evolution and importance of Country Music.

It is 16 hours long, divided into 8 two-hour episodes. The first four aired last Sunday through Wednesday. The final four shall commence for four straight nights, starting this Sunday evening. The series can also be streamed through the middle of October at pbs.org.

It’s a brilliant piece of documentary filmmaking, and a must see for all music fans.

For more insight on the series, listen to the podcast below:

“Yesterday”: Film Review & Podcast

Of course, the premise of the movie “Yesterday” is absurd.

There’s a momentary global electrical blackout, the main after effect of which appears to be that the entire history of The Beatles is erased.

Including the presence of their albums in the collection of Himesh Patel, a run of the mill singer/ songwriter, whose career has gone nowhere singing his own songs. He’s apparently the only person left on the planet who remembers the Fab Four.

So, he starts singing there tunes.

Odd? Why, yes, it is a unique premise.

But, by golly, despite a couple of moments I could have done without, I fell prey to the movie’s inherent charm. Patel is an endearing character. So too that of his long time bestie and manage, Lily James.

There are a couple of scenes that play with the underlying mythos of the Beatles and this situation that pulled me in.

For more insight on this most entertaining film listen to the podcast below:

“Amazing Grace”: Film Review Podcast

Concert footage of the iconic 1972 Gospel Concert by Lady Soul Aretha Franklin has finally been released, under the title, “Amazing Grace.”

It languished in the vaults for decades, essentially because director Sydney Pollack didn’t know how to film a concert. Only when digital editing allowed the visuals and sound to be synchronized was the raw concert footage able to be turned into a film.

And, then, for reasons which remain somewhat mysterious — though I offer a possible explanation in my podcast — Ms. Franklin herself forbade its release before her passing.

It is a blessing that it is finally in release, and will be showing dozens of times in my town at the Speed Museum Cinema between now and the end of May.

Though the film is to be seen and savored by anyone who cares about music, in my podcast below, I discuss some oddities about the filming of this concert that temper my enthusiasm somewhat.

Please listen:

JazzFest ’19, Day 4: If You Don’t Go, You Don’t Know

(My apologies for the late post. Had a Sunday night Crawfish Boil. And I chose not to drive and type at the same time while on my way home Monday.) 

I’m reminded of an evening years ago, at dinner with my krewe after a day at the Fest.

We pulled out our wrinkled Cubes and extolled the experience of the groups we shared and one upped each other on the ones we heard when we went our separate ways. It’s the nature of the beast, given how much music plays at the same time on so many stages. There’s more great stuff you miss, than you can possibly hear.

So, at this dinner the night I’m talking about, all of a sudden I start laughing while I peruse my scribbles for the day.

“What’s up,” my pals inquired?

“Oh, just that I totally blew off Ray Charles.” Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest ’19, Day 2: Sometimes Enough is Enough

There are now two days at JazzFest when I have been simply sated, had my fill even though there was tuneage left to be heard, when I was OK to bid adieu before the music stopped.

In 1988, I felt comfortable enough to return to the indulgent charms of New Orleans and rejoined the Fest for the first time since I’d cleaned up my profligate act six years earlier.

I couldn’t get enough, running from stage to stage, heading into the night for more on the Riverboat. By the time the Neville Brothers Band, then at the height of their power took the stage the last day, I was just about consumed . . .

. . . then I heard for the first time Aaron, with only brother Art accompanying him on the piano, singing the lustrous “Arianne.”

Swooping. Soaring. Soulful. Shiver inducing. The Ultimate Aaron.

There was room for nothing more. I was full with satisfaction.

I turned, walked to the car, where I waited for an hour or so for my pals who stayed until the day’s end.

There was a redux of sorts this Friday. Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest 2019: The Day Before

There is a burning question for those of us obsessed with the anecdotia of rock & roll, especially that of New Orleans.

Why is that Allen Toussaint, a fellow on the Mount Rushmore of American music, a bespoke, dapper fellow, who was alway dressed impeccably in the finest if elegantly flamboyant, superbly tailored suits, a dandy; why is that the Mr. Toussaint, with never a thread out of place, always wore sandals with white socks.

If it weren’t for his musical eminency, such an apparel quirk would never have cut it.

To find out the answer to this nagging query about my favorite musician — that’s Toussaint and me at the top of the c d kaplan Culture Maven Facebook page — I went to the source.

Allen Toussaint’s haberdasher.

Ozzie Hunter is also immaculately attired, if considerably more conservatively, given that he’s been a salesman to the stars and New Orleans gentry (and turista) for decades at Rubenstein’s. Which family owned Crescent City store at the corner of St. Charles and Canal continues to clothe men for whom New Orleans is more than a thing, but a way of life.

“I catered to Allen’s tastes for over twenty years,” advises Hunter. Read the rest of this entry »

Two Lady Shouters Extraordinaire: Rock & Roll RePast

One of the great uses of rock & roll in a movie soundtrack — my personal favorite — comes in Martin Scorcese’s portion of the otherwise forgettable three short films released as one feature in 1989, “New York Stories.”

I frankly have no recollection of what Woody Allen’s “Oedipus Wrecks” or Francis Ford Coppola’s “Life Without Zoe” portions of the film trio are about. And have but faint recollection of Scorcese’s contribution titled “Life Lessons.”

Except for this one scene.

Nick Nolte’s an artist who has taken comely Rosanna Arquette, twenty years his junior, under his wing to teach her, understand, “life lessons.” To be his, uh, muse, giving lip service to the development of a deep and meaningful relationship. Truth be told, as best as I recall, what he wants is for her to be available as a hot young thing on his arm at gallery openings and be around when he’s ready for the down and dirty.

I forget the details, but that’s the gist of it. Their relationship is tempestuous. To say the least.

Finally there’s a breach. Either he sends her packing. Or she stomps out after telling him she’s had enough.

He’s in his studio, where the showdown played out, pissed, full of sexual frustration, and intent on working out his roiling anger on canvas.

Before grabbing his brush and palette, he punches his paint splattered cassette boom box to Play.

Here’s what blasts from the speaker, the perfect song for the moment. Read the rest of this entry »

“Mystery Train”: Rock & Roll RePast

If contemplating the origins of rock & roll, the music that delivered a haymaker to Eisenhower’s America in the mid 50s, one can never stray too far from Elvis.

Soon enough after Dewey Phillips big reveal on WHBQ560, and his forsaking of that job at Crown Electric, the undisputed King of Rock & Roll was leading the charge around the globe, where back-beated shots to the solar plexus jolted pop culture for the good and the forever.

The airwaves were freed at last. In rushed Little Richard, shouting rockers about the trannies of rural Ga., Lieber and Stoller acolytes with tales of unsoiled young lasses with yellow ribbons in their hair, and the Killer with balls aflame. No longer just “race music” as it was then dubbed, the real stuff raced over from the WLOUs on the edges of the dial into pure, unadultered, transistorized WAKYness.

It was more than a bit prescient that the impresario of 706 Union Ave 38103, Sun Studio’s major-domo Sam Phillips — no blood relation to DJ Dewey — was adamant that the young Mr. Presley cover Junior Parker’s enigmatic “Mystery Train” not long before the boss man sold E’s contract to RCA for pocket change. Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest Day 3: Dirty Notes & a Gulp of Chocolate Milk

My apologies for the lateness of these musings on the first weekend’s final day. Sleep deprivation and the exigencies of being beamed back from that other universe to real life are my excuses. Sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused.

Truth is not every day at JazzFest is magical. Sometimes just being there, with a few musical moments here and there through the day, has to suffice.

For me, Sunday was that type of day. Not that there wasn’t a lot of incredible music being offered, it’s just that I never fired. My sleep schedule was way off. I was never able to hook up with my peeps as our texts crossed. Etc, etc.

That said, the worst day at JazzFest is better than any day in real life, but for a few exceptions. Those days when your granddaughter runs up and hugs you. When the Cards beating the Cats in any sport. And, well, that’s about it. JF beats the rest.

 * * * * *

Aaaaaaaaaand, after essentially ignoring their annual set for decades, I caught Johnny Sketch & the Dirty Notes on the big stage to start the day.

Several years back, I caught their last song, which was smokin’, and made a mental note not to miss them again. Which, of course, I forgot until Sunday, when I was reminded of their supreme chops as they were soundchecking as I entered the Fest site. Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest Day Deux: Sona, Hora, Aurora & Fats

Though I didn’t realize it then, my affinity to New Orleans music dates back to my first 45s, which I listened to on a $19.95 record player I bought with my own earned money at Ben Snyder’s Department Store, and my second LP my grandparents bought me at a shop in Detroit.

I had more of Fats Domino’s Imperial singles than any other of the Founding Fathers. And that LP was also Fats. (The first was Little Richard, also a gift from Grandpa Max & Grandma Tillie.)

I guess I realized, even in junior high, that Fats was from New Orleans, but it wasn’t until years later that I discovered we share the same birthday.

I was fortunate to hear him back when, and several times at Fest, including his last gig of consequence here, what, ten years ago or so, when he played the big stage, reunited with long time collaborator Dave Bartholomew for the first time in decades. Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest Day #1: Sidi, Samantha, Flutes, Fiddles & Tres Hombres

My favorite t-shirt of the day is as good a place to start as any.

While walking in my direction the clean shaven, apparently pretty middle of the road kind of fellow, saw something in the crowd that brought a bemused smirk  to his face. It was obvious he was, like all, having a great time, reveling in his presence at Fest and soaking in the scene.

In black Times Courier on his plain white t-shirt, it read, “Not In The Office.”

Which was akin to my thoughts earlier on a gloriously temperate, humidity-free opening day. At 12:17 when the sun was high, Breaux Bridge’s Yvette Landry and her contingent, including a boffo pedal steel guy and fiddler Beau Thomas, took the Fais Do Do stage.

A big down beat kicked off their suitably rockin’ cover of Wanda Jackson’s classic.

“I never kissed a bear/ I never kissed a goose/ But I can shake a chicken in the middle of the room/ Let’s Have A Party.” Read the rest of this entry »

JazzFest Eve: The Tribes have Gathered

So, Suzette, she of Mitchell and Suzette, the Connecticut couple the Film Babe and I met several years back as we all were strolling to the Louisiana Music Factory for the Day Before Pow Wow, is standing with Jordan, their daughter, a JazzFest neophyte.

They have a bunch of album covers splayed out on a counter top. Jordan’s deciding which ones to buy, her decision based somewhat on music but just as much perhaps more on cover aesthetics. She’s going to frame and hang them in her new abode in NYC where she’s doing PR for Columbia Records.

Among the LPs, hopefully for the cover not so much the tuneage, is a Village People release.

A fellow walks by, glances over their shoulders and immediately enters the conversation as folks are wont to do here when the tribes gather for fest. He advises: “You know, I was in the Village People.”

To which proclamation the ladies look askance over their shoulders, with bemused doubt.

“No, true,” he continues, “I was the construction guy.

“And I invented the whole YMCA thing.” Read the rest of this entry »