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.
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 »
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.
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.”
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.
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 »
A new film has just dropped, another attempt to pin down the unpindownable.
It’s about Bob Dylan. The early years.
It’s called “A Complete Unknown” and stars Timothée Chalamet, who it is said spent a half decade learning how to mime the Unwashed Phenomenon’s affectations, speak and sing with the Original Vagabond’s inflections.
Whatever.
This is not a review of that film.
Haven’t seen it.
A goodly number of my pals, long term Dylan acolytes like myself, saw it first day.
I understand the obsession.
For several reasons, I chose not to. I’m sure I’ll get around to viewing it. Though I may wait until it’s streaming.
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 »
How it is an integral part of the most immersive of art forms.
And there are two specific instances where movies allowed me to rediscover what are easily two of my favorite Doo Wop songs ever.
Both original artists and both are one hit wonders. Though in one case, the elegiac tune has been covered any number of times through to the now.
My favorite doo wop tune of ever is “I Love You” by the Volumes.
Oh the harmonic swoops and swirls of teen longing.
The group is from my birthtown Detroit. Though I didn’t learn of that connection until years later.
The song was released in ’62.
My remembrance is that I only heard it once, maybe twice during my high school years.
It faded into some nook and cranny of my mind.
At a point in the 70s surely, I recall a record store somewhere along the Frankfort Ave corridor. The owner prided himself on how many hundreds of oldies he had taped. Packed on reel to reel, if I remember correctly.
During a visit, somehow the Volumes tune came to mind. I hadn’t heard in who knows when, around the time of release for sure. When he found and played it, chills froze me.
I want to say literally, but not really. Figuratively, oh yeah.
Yes, this shall be a review of Chris Wilcha’s outstanding documentary “Flipside.”
Which is — I shan’t bury the lede — the best film I’ve seen this year. In several years.
But, as is my wont, I shall wend my way there, starting with Anne Lamott.
Whom I’ve adored from the get go when hearing the author being interviewed decades ago by Terry Gross. She was/ is wise, literate, funny, and the author of the best book on writing I know of, “Bird by Bird.” Which I have recommended and given away copies of many times since.
Lamott writes what are termed, somewhat derogatorily by some, “fix me books.”
And, other than the many of her endeavors I own and have savored, I eschew generic fix me books. (With a lone non-Lamott exception of Richard Carlson’s “DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF . . . and it’s all small stuff.”)
Anyhow, Ms. Lamott, long in 12 step recovery, has the great facility to extrapolate life lessons from every day events and moments. Especially how to turn what we might consider failures of ourselves into changes for the good. They are shared with insight, humor and truly engaging writing.
Filmmaker Wilcha’s film is centered, sorta, kinda (but it’s really much more) on the small town NJ record shop with the title’s name, owned by a guy named Dan. And a rival shop across town. Owned by a different guy named Dan.
But what it’s really about is how, like Lamott, director/craftsmith Wilcha is eventually able to gain insight and serenity within from what he considered previously a career of unfinished projects, a life of failures. 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’.
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.*
As I vowed in 
I am now a denizen of the Land of Daily Medical Treatments.
Culling through the NYT, I saw a header that touched my inner cinephile.
As those enamored with “The Big Lebowski” know, Walter Sobchak “don’t roll on Shabbos.”
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.
A new film has just dropped, another attempt to pin down the unpindownable.
Back when, you know, in the day, there would be more than occasional Saturdays that arrived without evening plans.
Yes, this shall be a review of Chris Wilcha’s outstanding documentary “Flipside.”
I am a desperado.