Here are my well-considered suggestions for what should be in your Jazz Fest tote bag or back pack, to ensure that you're prepared and ready for almost anything, and have a good time:
--sunhat, preferably one that protects the back of your neck as well as your face; if it's windy, it should be snug-fitting or that ties on
--sunglasses, unless you really, really want extra wrinkles from squinting the whole time
--lots of cash (yes, there are ATMs, but there are also long ATM lines)
--one credit card in case you just have to have something in the Crafts area (more than one is just too much temptation)
--your cell phone, Blackberry, etc., with a waterproof carrier of some kind to protect it in case of spills or rain
--sunblock, preferably nothing lower than 30 SPF
--lip balm with a sunblock in it (a lot of people don't think about their lips getting sunburned, but they do)
--a handkerchief, to wipe your face and to wave during secondlines
--some kind of wet wipes (paper napkins are no match for BBQ ribs or boiled crawfish)
--toilet paper (the portalets often run out, especially toward the end of the day, and you can use it to blow your nose)
--small bottle anti-bacterial hand sanitizer
--Tide-stick or some other pocket-type stain remover (stuff happens)
--Jazz Fest schedule, preferably the kind inside the Off Beat Jazz Fest Bible
--folding umbrella (protects from sun and rain, if any, and also good for secondlining)
--for women, a light shawl or other wrap for windy, almost-chilly day, and to protect your shoulders from too much sun
--fan of some kind, folding fan or, better still, one of those spray-bottle fans available at the Fest
--if you have brought the battery-operated fan or other battery-eating appliance, bring 2 extra batteries of the correct size (you never know, and you can't be sure that the Jazz Fest General Store has the size you need)
--small emergency sewing kit with safety pins (you'll be glad to have this when/if something goes awry)
--small first aid kit with band aids of different sizes and bactine foaming spray and small bottle of tylenol (c'mon, you don't want to have to walk over to the Red Cross Tent for every little scratch or popped blister or sun headache, do you?)
--if getting soaking wet bothers you, bring a rain poncho or tyvek rain jacket, especially if rain is predicted
Personally, I think a camera is a waste of time, unless you're a pro or very rich, and have an expensive model with a telephoto lens, AND a Jazz Fest photographer pass, 'cause anything else is gonna take an unsatisfactory crowd shot with a pinhead in the far distance who is supposed to be the famous headliner. I wouldn't bother with a camera, except to take people-shots of yourself and your friends.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Jazz Fest 09 -- Day Three (whew!)
I am writing this on Monday, while eating a big bowl of oatmeal for brunch, after sleeping in. I'm not as young as I used to be, and Jazz Fest can really wear you out, even if (like me) you don't drink alcohol and you try to stay shaded and hydrated. Frankly, I feel a little beat-up and I'm glad that today is Monday.
Yesterday was cloudiest day of the Fest so far, and so it was also the least sunny. The weather forecasters had said that the wind would be around 12-15 miles per hour, and sometimes it seemed even stronger than that -- great natural air-conditioning. Because of Big Man's Gospel Tent set, we arrived the earliest I've ever been to the Fest, 10:30 am (which is actually before the Fest opens). We came through the deliciously named Mystery Gate (named for the street, but still) for the Musicians' Parking Lot. As we unpacked our stuff from the car, the musicians' shuttle came over to get us. We said Gospel Tent and were driven straight there. We met Jo Cool at the entrance to the backstage area, and were given our coveted backstage passes. We were about an hour early for the Jo Cool Davis set, so I ran over to the nearby Cafe du Monde booth to get an iced coffee for Big Man and a café au lait -- and yes, readers, I lost control of myself and got an order of beignets for me!
Inconveniently, I realized that it would have been smart to have brought the folding chairs from the car so that they could be set up at Congo Square for Earth Wind and Fire later in the day. I caught another musicians' shuttle back to the parking lot and then yet another to Congo Square (gosh, ya gotta love having access to those air-conditioned shuttles!). I unfolded our chairs in about the third makeshift row of other empty chairs, in the middle by the orange "track" that covers all the sound cables behind the barrier that separates the riffraff from the Grand Marshall/Big Chief area. A small band I didn't know, cryptically named "E.O.E." was on stage, doing creditable R&B. As I prepared to leave, the leader said, "This next tune we're proud of, it went to #1 in Uzbekistan, where our bass player is from. Any Uzbekis out there?" Apparently there were not. What a cool Jazz Fest moment. Then I cut across the field to the Gospel Tent, in time to hear the men of the Mass Zulu Choir rockin' it out.
I sat in the guest grandstands in the backstage area of the Gospel Tent as Big Man took the stage with Jo Cool. I am of course major prejudiced, but I thought the horn line, led by Big Man, sounded terrific. As Big Man gets more and more familiar with Jo Cool's "book," he just gets stronger in playing with him. In addition to Big Man, the players included our friend T on sax, another sax man J, Deacon John's brother on bass, C on keyboards, Joe Krown on more keyboards, a woman drummer, and another woman I had not seen before playing electrified fiddle. Jo went through his unique takes of classic hymns and R&B love ballads rededicated to Jesus. The tent was filled, not packed, but nearly every seat taken, and the crowd was mixed as to age and race (and apparently, locals and out-of-towners, judging from the reaction Jo got when he asked if anybody remembered Dr. Daddy-o, the iconic pompadored DJ of black radio back in the day) and were wildly enthusiastic.
When the set was over and the musicians got paid, T and Big Man and I hauled it at a run to the luckily next-door Blues Tent, where their next gig was set to begin in 10 minutes. We were too late to get our backstage passes, but they let us through with the Gospel stickers. (Technically, the Jazz Fest security folks are NOT supposed to let in backstage passes from one stage as backstage guests at another stage, but almost all of them do.) I used the musicians' portalet backstage (*another* terrific perk of the backstage pass -- portalets with absolutely NO lines!), and took a seat in one of the chairs in the backstage guest area, next to someone wearing a brass pass.
This set was for Guitar Slim Jr., the Grammy-award winning son of another legendary blues guitarist. Slim sometimes plays with the Bourbon Street band that is Big Man's regular 5-nights-a-week gig, which is how Big Man and T got the Jazz Fest gig. The set started with just the band, with Slim lurking behind the stage set, awaiting his special intro. Big Man blew a *smokin'* solo and some in the crowd jumped to their feet, hollering. Big Man doffed his hat to acknowledge the applause. Slim came to the stage, in a red suit and a sequined vest adorned with musical notes, and really had the crowd going with every tune. I was delighted to see how much the crowd appreciated the horn line, and my Big Man.
When the set was over, Big Man went after Slim for the payment, but was put off by "take care of it this week" (which we truly hope will be true). Big Man belatedly obtained his Blues Tent backstage sticker, and we headed, as quickly as possible, to the packed Economy Hall tent, where the Pfister Sisters had already begun their 30th anniversary show. Everyone there was a Pfister enthusiast, and there was a crowd outside almost equalling the one inside. We got into the backstage guest area (thank god for those lax security guards!), and then, having made sure Big Man had a place to sit after all that blowing, I went to forage food. My rule is, I never get into a food, drink, or portalet line that is longer than 3 people, and thus I ended up at the booth selling catfish meunienre with pecans, merliton seafood casserole, crabmeat cake with horseradish remoulade -- not wanting to make a choice, I got the combo. (*Always* get the combination plate at Jazz Fest, it's the best deal.)
I got back to Economy Hall just as Holley Bendtsen was introducing all the guests on the stage -- it being the anniversary show, there were the sisters' collective children and every woman who had ever been a Pfister or subbed as one. As Big Man and I savored the terrific food (the short line method almost always gets your terrific food that the mob has not heard of yet), the combined Pfisters went into their soulful version of "Louisiana" ("Get out your handkerchiefs," advised Holley). This was followed by some other Pfister favorites, including one of those where the girls imitate horns with their scatting voices. Yvette Volker was standing on our side of the stage, and it was great to watch her getting so much enjoyment from performing, and performing so well. They ended with "Laissez Faire" -- co-written by Holley Bendtsen about why life in New Orleans is the way it is. The crowd, including us, hollered their part of the chorus, "Lay-say fair" each time it came around. It was standing O's all around, front of the house and backstage, as the Pfisters came off the stage. We greeted and congratulated Holley, and gave Yvette big hugs.
We caught a shuttle back to the parking lot, where we stored Bog Man's trumpet in the trunk and stashed Big Man's straw hat. (It was so windy, he was afraid he'd lose it.) From there, we walked over to the Jazz Fest Store, where Big Man purchased a purple Jazz Fest 09 baseball cap -- he virtually *never* wears baseball caps, for all his hat-wearing, but he figured that a cap would be almost impossible for the wind to take. We tried to buy a tote bag (the "re-Museable" bag caught during Carnival had disappointingly popped a strap) but were unsuccessful in that. (Next weekend, only big sturdy tote bags with well-sewn, strong straps! Plus, I'm adding a small emergency sewing kit to the Jazz Fest supplies. See next post for my recommendations on what should be in the well-stocked Jazz Fest bag.)
Using our backstage passes, we went behind the barrier at the Jazz Tent as they set up for Terence Blanchard. Big Man was totally impressed to see that a piano tuner was hard at work on the grand piano on the stage; we wondered, but did not know, whether this was something they automatically did between every act, or whether it was something special just for Terence's band. As is usual with the "big names" the band came on without Terence to play the first tune (Big Man says it's as much a sign of respect for the band as an honor for the headliner). Then Terence came out with the sax player, greeted some folks warmly, and made for the stage. As he passed me, I began to clap, and he nodded and tipped his trumpet to me as he climbed the stairs to the stage.
That trumpet bears some notice. It was, of course, a Monette, custom-made only for him, so the mouthpiece was an integral part of the trumpet, not removable as on a regular, normal trumpet. The finish was matte brass, and featured the heavy diagonal bracework typical of a Monette. Terence had a wireless microphone and a harmonizer-thingy attached to the bell of the horn (the harmonizer makes it sound like more trumpets playing in harmony together), and had a gorgeous rich dark tone. He moved all around while playing, freed-up by wireless, bending and straightening, blowing to the crowd and to the ceiling of the crowded tent. We stayed for 2 tunes, enjoying it, Big Man watching and listening closely, but truth to be told, it's not really our kind of music (we'd've enjoyed it a lot more if Terence had played some of his movie sound track work or selections from his Katrina Memorial.) So we headed back to the Blues Tent for the rest of the Dew Drop Inn Revisited New Orleans All Stars Show.
Once again we sat in the backstage area, and rocked and grooved as Deacon John on guitar, his brother on bass, a 6-piece Wardell Querzergue-style horn line, a drummer, and pianist ran through well-beloved old New Orleans R&B hits. Big Man did not recognize as many as I did, he said it was because both he's younger than me (brag, brag), and that some of the tunes never made it as big hits up North. Special favorites for me were Robert Parker doing "Barefootin' " (crowd goes wild, takes off shoes and waves 'em in the air), and Al Johnson doing "Carnival Time" (crowd screaming all the words along with him). After a LONG (I mean REALLY, REALLY long) intro, the tremendously great, absolute genius Allen Toussaint, dapper as ever in a jacket and tie, was brought to the stage, taking the grand piano and taking control of the band. (In Deac's defense, anyone introducing Allen is faced with decades and decades of hit after hit after hit, and a long line of other famous people he's written for, played with, or whose records he's produced.) After 3 great tunes, Allen ended with a rousing version of what has become his post-Katrina anthem of hope (even though he wrote it years before), "Yes We Can Can." Just a bit teary, I sang the chorus with him, along with much of the crowd, and when he was done, we stood up and jumped up and down, and screamed our heads off. Nothing could top that, so we left, satisfied and almost drained.
Feeling a bit peckish, we detoured to the Cracklins and Sweet Potato Chips booth, where we had the inspiration to eat them together -- we heartily recommend this combo! We were heading back -- finally! -- to our chairs already set up at Congo Square for Earth Wind and Fire, but the crowd had swelled to such proportions that people were practically sitting in the Congo craft booths, and set up even in the forbidden ditch on the track side. It was an incredible crowd; Jazz Fest had missed by not having them at a larger stage. It was a surreal trek to our chairs, since nobody ever thinks of people navigating through when they set up their chairs and blankets so close together. And we were carrying food! It took seemingly forever, but most folks were friendly and cooperative.
And then when we got close to where our chairs should have been, we couldn't see ANY empty captain's chairs in bright blue, our chairs' color. Then we figured that somebody might be sitting in our chairs while they were empty -- which is OK under the unwritten rules of the Fest, but still, they didn't seem to be where they should have been. We moved forward a little, which wasn't easy, believe you me, given the press of the crowd, and finally seemed to see our chairs, with kids sitting in them, in a what looked like a family group. "Are those *your* chairs?" I asked, and got a no. The kids jumped up and made like to fold the chairs up and give them to us, but I said, "No, no, we want to *sit* in them, they were set up here for Earth Wind and Fire." (But the chairs were not where I left them, they were further back, and moved to the right off center. The nice black family there told us that they had also set their chairs up for this set, and that when they arrived, all their chairs, as well as ours, had been *folded up and moved*. We commiserated with each other, us and them, over this incredible breach of Jazz Fest good manners. Really, in all my years of fest-going, that has NEVER happened. it was disappointing, but I was determined not to let it ruin the good feelings of the fest.
We made friends with the family, who turned out to be gospel performers with their church choir, and they were impressed I was a pastor (which they had found out because I had slipped my business cards into the ID window on the bags for the chairs). We were squeezed pretty close together, and there were people who thought nothing of standing in the tiny space between our feet and the chairs in front of us, but what the hey, it was Earth Wind and Fire and we were right there.
EW&F took the stage, dressed in cool festival bling and ran through their hits, but the horn line was sadly limp, playing some things a full octave below the original versions, and with a lot of songs now having a big bass solo inserted where there hadn't been one before. The crowd was happy and sang along with gusto, but it seemed to Big Man and me that it was like listening to a high-quality lounge tribute act to Earth Wind and Fire. Even if Big Man had not had to get to Bourbon Street to play that night, we still would likely have left when we did, it was so disappointing, such a let-down. (Just to confirm our judgment of the set, as we were making our way through the packed crowd, the band started "Sunny." SUNNY?? That's not a EW&F song! Like what, they ran out of EW&F hits to cover?? What a drag.) We should've gone to Dave Matthews.
On our way out, we stopped at the Mid-East booth by Jamila's and picked up their combo plate, which they generously over-filled, it being the end of the fest and all -- lamb tagine (a spicy stew over jasmine rice) some delicious tangy eggplant thing, and a lamb merguez (sausage) sandwich. Close to the musician's parking lot, we got to hear High Masekela's big band wailing through his big hit "Grazing in the Grass." Maybe we should have gone back to the Jazz Tent. Oh well, Jazz Fest is all about choices, and it's impossible to hit everything exactly right.
Still and all, a great Fest day to end the first weekend, with Big Man's first time playing twice on one Jazz Fest day.
Yesterday was cloudiest day of the Fest so far, and so it was also the least sunny. The weather forecasters had said that the wind would be around 12-15 miles per hour, and sometimes it seemed even stronger than that -- great natural air-conditioning. Because of Big Man's Gospel Tent set, we arrived the earliest I've ever been to the Fest, 10:30 am (which is actually before the Fest opens). We came through the deliciously named Mystery Gate (named for the street, but still) for the Musicians' Parking Lot. As we unpacked our stuff from the car, the musicians' shuttle came over to get us. We said Gospel Tent and were driven straight there. We met Jo Cool at the entrance to the backstage area, and were given our coveted backstage passes. We were about an hour early for the Jo Cool Davis set, so I ran over to the nearby Cafe du Monde booth to get an iced coffee for Big Man and a café au lait -- and yes, readers, I lost control of myself and got an order of beignets for me!
Inconveniently, I realized that it would have been smart to have brought the folding chairs from the car so that they could be set up at Congo Square for Earth Wind and Fire later in the day. I caught another musicians' shuttle back to the parking lot and then yet another to Congo Square (gosh, ya gotta love having access to those air-conditioned shuttles!). I unfolded our chairs in about the third makeshift row of other empty chairs, in the middle by the orange "track" that covers all the sound cables behind the barrier that separates the riffraff from the Grand Marshall/Big Chief area. A small band I didn't know, cryptically named "E.O.E." was on stage, doing creditable R&B. As I prepared to leave, the leader said, "This next tune we're proud of, it went to #1 in Uzbekistan, where our bass player is from. Any Uzbekis out there?" Apparently there were not. What a cool Jazz Fest moment. Then I cut across the field to the Gospel Tent, in time to hear the men of the Mass Zulu Choir rockin' it out.
I sat in the guest grandstands in the backstage area of the Gospel Tent as Big Man took the stage with Jo Cool. I am of course major prejudiced, but I thought the horn line, led by Big Man, sounded terrific. As Big Man gets more and more familiar with Jo Cool's "book," he just gets stronger in playing with him. In addition to Big Man, the players included our friend T on sax, another sax man J, Deacon John's brother on bass, C on keyboards, Joe Krown on more keyboards, a woman drummer, and another woman I had not seen before playing electrified fiddle. Jo went through his unique takes of classic hymns and R&B love ballads rededicated to Jesus. The tent was filled, not packed, but nearly every seat taken, and the crowd was mixed as to age and race (and apparently, locals and out-of-towners, judging from the reaction Jo got when he asked if anybody remembered Dr. Daddy-o, the iconic pompadored DJ of black radio back in the day) and were wildly enthusiastic.
When the set was over and the musicians got paid, T and Big Man and I hauled it at a run to the luckily next-door Blues Tent, where their next gig was set to begin in 10 minutes. We were too late to get our backstage passes, but they let us through with the Gospel stickers. (Technically, the Jazz Fest security folks are NOT supposed to let in backstage passes from one stage as backstage guests at another stage, but almost all of them do.) I used the musicians' portalet backstage (*another* terrific perk of the backstage pass -- portalets with absolutely NO lines!), and took a seat in one of the chairs in the backstage guest area, next to someone wearing a brass pass.
This set was for Guitar Slim Jr., the Grammy-award winning son of another legendary blues guitarist. Slim sometimes plays with the Bourbon Street band that is Big Man's regular 5-nights-a-week gig, which is how Big Man and T got the Jazz Fest gig. The set started with just the band, with Slim lurking behind the stage set, awaiting his special intro. Big Man blew a *smokin'* solo and some in the crowd jumped to their feet, hollering. Big Man doffed his hat to acknowledge the applause. Slim came to the stage, in a red suit and a sequined vest adorned with musical notes, and really had the crowd going with every tune. I was delighted to see how much the crowd appreciated the horn line, and my Big Man.
When the set was over, Big Man went after Slim for the payment, but was put off by "take care of it this week" (which we truly hope will be true). Big Man belatedly obtained his Blues Tent backstage sticker, and we headed, as quickly as possible, to the packed Economy Hall tent, where the Pfister Sisters had already begun their 30th anniversary show. Everyone there was a Pfister enthusiast, and there was a crowd outside almost equalling the one inside. We got into the backstage guest area (thank god for those lax security guards!), and then, having made sure Big Man had a place to sit after all that blowing, I went to forage food. My rule is, I never get into a food, drink, or portalet line that is longer than 3 people, and thus I ended up at the booth selling catfish meunienre with pecans, merliton seafood casserole, crabmeat cake with horseradish remoulade -- not wanting to make a choice, I got the combo. (*Always* get the combination plate at Jazz Fest, it's the best deal.)
I got back to Economy Hall just as Holley Bendtsen was introducing all the guests on the stage -- it being the anniversary show, there were the sisters' collective children and every woman who had ever been a Pfister or subbed as one. As Big Man and I savored the terrific food (the short line method almost always gets your terrific food that the mob has not heard of yet), the combined Pfisters went into their soulful version of "Louisiana" ("Get out your handkerchiefs," advised Holley). This was followed by some other Pfister favorites, including one of those where the girls imitate horns with their scatting voices. Yvette Volker was standing on our side of the stage, and it was great to watch her getting so much enjoyment from performing, and performing so well. They ended with "Laissez Faire" -- co-written by Holley Bendtsen about why life in New Orleans is the way it is. The crowd, including us, hollered their part of the chorus, "Lay-say fair" each time it came around. It was standing O's all around, front of the house and backstage, as the Pfisters came off the stage. We greeted and congratulated Holley, and gave Yvette big hugs.
We caught a shuttle back to the parking lot, where we stored Bog Man's trumpet in the trunk and stashed Big Man's straw hat. (It was so windy, he was afraid he'd lose it.) From there, we walked over to the Jazz Fest Store, where Big Man purchased a purple Jazz Fest 09 baseball cap -- he virtually *never* wears baseball caps, for all his hat-wearing, but he figured that a cap would be almost impossible for the wind to take. We tried to buy a tote bag (the "re-Museable" bag caught during Carnival had disappointingly popped a strap) but were unsuccessful in that. (Next weekend, only big sturdy tote bags with well-sewn, strong straps! Plus, I'm adding a small emergency sewing kit to the Jazz Fest supplies. See next post for my recommendations on what should be in the well-stocked Jazz Fest bag.)
Using our backstage passes, we went behind the barrier at the Jazz Tent as they set up for Terence Blanchard. Big Man was totally impressed to see that a piano tuner was hard at work on the grand piano on the stage; we wondered, but did not know, whether this was something they automatically did between every act, or whether it was something special just for Terence's band. As is usual with the "big names" the band came on without Terence to play the first tune (Big Man says it's as much a sign of respect for the band as an honor for the headliner). Then Terence came out with the sax player, greeted some folks warmly, and made for the stage. As he passed me, I began to clap, and he nodded and tipped his trumpet to me as he climbed the stairs to the stage.
That trumpet bears some notice. It was, of course, a Monette, custom-made only for him, so the mouthpiece was an integral part of the trumpet, not removable as on a regular, normal trumpet. The finish was matte brass, and featured the heavy diagonal bracework typical of a Monette. Terence had a wireless microphone and a harmonizer-thingy attached to the bell of the horn (the harmonizer makes it sound like more trumpets playing in harmony together), and had a gorgeous rich dark tone. He moved all around while playing, freed-up by wireless, bending and straightening, blowing to the crowd and to the ceiling of the crowded tent. We stayed for 2 tunes, enjoying it, Big Man watching and listening closely, but truth to be told, it's not really our kind of music (we'd've enjoyed it a lot more if Terence had played some of his movie sound track work or selections from his Katrina Memorial.) So we headed back to the Blues Tent for the rest of the Dew Drop Inn Revisited New Orleans All Stars Show.
Once again we sat in the backstage area, and rocked and grooved as Deacon John on guitar, his brother on bass, a 6-piece Wardell Querzergue-style horn line, a drummer, and pianist ran through well-beloved old New Orleans R&B hits. Big Man did not recognize as many as I did, he said it was because both he's younger than me (brag, brag), and that some of the tunes never made it as big hits up North. Special favorites for me were Robert Parker doing "Barefootin' " (crowd goes wild, takes off shoes and waves 'em in the air), and Al Johnson doing "Carnival Time" (crowd screaming all the words along with him). After a LONG (I mean REALLY, REALLY long) intro, the tremendously great, absolute genius Allen Toussaint, dapper as ever in a jacket and tie, was brought to the stage, taking the grand piano and taking control of the band. (In Deac's defense, anyone introducing Allen is faced with decades and decades of hit after hit after hit, and a long line of other famous people he's written for, played with, or whose records he's produced.) After 3 great tunes, Allen ended with a rousing version of what has become his post-Katrina anthem of hope (even though he wrote it years before), "Yes We Can Can." Just a bit teary, I sang the chorus with him, along with much of the crowd, and when he was done, we stood up and jumped up and down, and screamed our heads off. Nothing could top that, so we left, satisfied and almost drained.
Feeling a bit peckish, we detoured to the Cracklins and Sweet Potato Chips booth, where we had the inspiration to eat them together -- we heartily recommend this combo! We were heading back -- finally! -- to our chairs already set up at Congo Square for Earth Wind and Fire, but the crowd had swelled to such proportions that people were practically sitting in the Congo craft booths, and set up even in the forbidden ditch on the track side. It was an incredible crowd; Jazz Fest had missed by not having them at a larger stage. It was a surreal trek to our chairs, since nobody ever thinks of people navigating through when they set up their chairs and blankets so close together. And we were carrying food! It took seemingly forever, but most folks were friendly and cooperative.
And then when we got close to where our chairs should have been, we couldn't see ANY empty captain's chairs in bright blue, our chairs' color. Then we figured that somebody might be sitting in our chairs while they were empty -- which is OK under the unwritten rules of the Fest, but still, they didn't seem to be where they should have been. We moved forward a little, which wasn't easy, believe you me, given the press of the crowd, and finally seemed to see our chairs, with kids sitting in them, in a what looked like a family group. "Are those *your* chairs?" I asked, and got a no. The kids jumped up and made like to fold the chairs up and give them to us, but I said, "No, no, we want to *sit* in them, they were set up here for Earth Wind and Fire." (But the chairs were not where I left them, they were further back, and moved to the right off center. The nice black family there told us that they had also set their chairs up for this set, and that when they arrived, all their chairs, as well as ours, had been *folded up and moved*. We commiserated with each other, us and them, over this incredible breach of Jazz Fest good manners. Really, in all my years of fest-going, that has NEVER happened. it was disappointing, but I was determined not to let it ruin the good feelings of the fest.
We made friends with the family, who turned out to be gospel performers with their church choir, and they were impressed I was a pastor (which they had found out because I had slipped my business cards into the ID window on the bags for the chairs). We were squeezed pretty close together, and there were people who thought nothing of standing in the tiny space between our feet and the chairs in front of us, but what the hey, it was Earth Wind and Fire and we were right there.
EW&F took the stage, dressed in cool festival bling and ran through their hits, but the horn line was sadly limp, playing some things a full octave below the original versions, and with a lot of songs now having a big bass solo inserted where there hadn't been one before. The crowd was happy and sang along with gusto, but it seemed to Big Man and me that it was like listening to a high-quality lounge tribute act to Earth Wind and Fire. Even if Big Man had not had to get to Bourbon Street to play that night, we still would likely have left when we did, it was so disappointing, such a let-down. (Just to confirm our judgment of the set, as we were making our way through the packed crowd, the band started "Sunny." SUNNY?? That's not a EW&F song! Like what, they ran out of EW&F hits to cover?? What a drag.) We should've gone to Dave Matthews.
On our way out, we stopped at the Mid-East booth by Jamila's and picked up their combo plate, which they generously over-filled, it being the end of the fest and all -- lamb tagine (a spicy stew over jasmine rice) some delicious tangy eggplant thing, and a lamb merguez (sausage) sandwich. Close to the musician's parking lot, we got to hear High Masekela's big band wailing through his big hit "Grazing in the Grass." Maybe we should have gone back to the Jazz Tent. Oh well, Jazz Fest is all about choices, and it's impossible to hit everything exactly right.
Still and all, a great Fest day to end the first weekend, with Big Man's first time playing twice on one Jazz Fest day.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
T-Shirts Seen at Jazz Fest 09
"Chocolate City -- We're bitter."
"George Matters" (George Porter, naturally)
"Air George" (With silhouette of George Porter jumping)
A skull pictured over two trombones placed X-wise -- skull & cross 'bones, get it?
At the crawfish sack booth, the workers wore T-shirts with an outline of the New Orleans skyline and the tag "Sacks and the City" -- get that one?
"Mystic Krewe of Mau Mau" (We used to call it "mau-mauing" back in the day when elected officials in NOLA were almost all white, and we wanted to affect a vote by bringing in a large group of black folks.)
"Zulu Diamond Cutters" (I'm pretty sure this did NOT refer to Zulus in Africa.)
On a woman not attractive enough to get away with it: "Too horny for my own good."
A little child's T-shirt: "I'm really in charge, the parents are just for show."
An older woman's T-shirt: "Mothers Against Absolutely Everything -- We don't nag, we encourage in a nagging way."
"George Matters" (George Porter, naturally)
"Air George" (With silhouette of George Porter jumping)
A skull pictured over two trombones placed X-wise -- skull & cross 'bones, get it?
At the crawfish sack booth, the workers wore T-shirts with an outline of the New Orleans skyline and the tag "Sacks and the City" -- get that one?
"Mystic Krewe of Mau Mau" (We used to call it "mau-mauing" back in the day when elected officials in NOLA were almost all white, and we wanted to affect a vote by bringing in a large group of black folks.)
"Zulu Diamond Cutters" (I'm pretty sure this did NOT refer to Zulus in Africa.)
On a woman not attractive enough to get away with it: "Too horny for my own good."
A little child's T-shirt: "I'm really in charge, the parents are just for show."
An older woman's T-shirt: "Mothers Against Absolutely Everything -- We don't nag, we encourage in a nagging way."
Jazz Fest 09 -- Day Two
This beautiful day at the Fest I'll call Ladies' & Icons Day.
Today was cloudier than yesterday -- still blue skies, but more of the fluffy, rainless white stuff that keeps the sun from burning you up; more breezes to cool things off. Another beautiful day.
We arrived too late to catch Walter (Washington), Russell (Batiste), and Joe (Krown) -- all of whom have played with Big Man, or Big Man has played with them, depending on your perspective -- as the opening act of the Gentilly Stage, but in time to hear the closing numbers of Big Sam's Funky Nation (Big Man has sat in with them on Frenchman Street occasionally). Needless to say, the crowd went wild, audible 2 stages away.
Big Man and I did a little shopping around Congo Square; he's on the hunt for a great, retro dashiki, short caftan-thing, possibly tie-dye (heaven help us). We had fun looking, but didn't find anything up his alley. We went back to the Acura Stage, where we had set up our chairs, and enjoyed several classic numbers ("Doo Run Run," "Going to the Chapel," and of course "Iko Iko") by the original New Orleans girl-group, the Dixie Cups, the two of us feeling all gushy since "Chapel" was featured on our wedding invitations.
When they were over, we picked up some food (quail, pheasant, and andouille gumbo for Big Man and a grilled chicken livers and greens plate from Praline Connection for me), listening to the Rebirth Revival with Kermit Ruffins at Congo Square. Kermit can't help himself, he's been in show business playing trumpet since he was a little kid (old black and white photos of him by Michael Smith were on display near our chairs at Acura), and while he's not the best trumpeter in the city, he's certainly one of the most entertaining and most popular.
Then Big Man and I temporarily split up -- he to Gentilly for Ivan Neville and Dumpstafunk, and me to Acura for Pete Seeger. Quint Davis himself introduced Pete and was temporarily at a loss for words as his emotions choked him up. He wound up calling Pete "the grandfather of the Jazz Festival." Pete had with him a full folk band of much younger musicians (some of them related to Pete), and his voice when we could hear it was thin and reedy. But it was Pete Seeger, for heaven's sake, just shy of his 90th birthday, and he led us and the band in his wonderful, ageless songs, like "Turn, Turn, Turn" and retold old stories ("The Blind Men and the Elephant") in his inimitable style. It was a privilege to be there and to see and hear him one more time.
Big Man showed up and he was hot and sun-struck, so we moved to the Grandstands for air conditioning and shade. A completely unexpected pleasure --another one of those serendipitous Jazz Fest moments -- was Ms. Sharde Thomas and the Rising Star Fife and Drum, an old-fashioned combo of what looked like all women, playing wonderfully on the little Lagniappe Stage to an appreciative crowd on 2 levels of the Grandstand.
Turned out Big Man was just too tired from playing on Bourbon Street until about 2 am, and was concerned about having enough energy to play again tonight -- let alone have the energy for the two Jazz Fest gigs on Sunday! So I walked him to the exit, kissed him good-bye, and sent him home.
I kind of passed through the Blues Tent and heard a tune from Texas Johnny Brown and the Quality Blues Band, a very good hard-drivin' R&B group. As I was coming through, a phalanx of Jazz Fest security guards escorted Somebody Famous through the tent, near the front. While I couldn't see who it was, I could see the effects: folks jumped to their feet, clambered on top their chairs, craned their necks to get a glimpse, and ran to take shots with cameras and cell phones. A wave of enthusiastic applause followed the fast walking train on their progress. Never did find out who it was.
My real objective was the Jazz Tent, where trumpeter Marlon Jordan's sister, the chanteuse Stephanie Jordan, was scheduled to do a big-band tribute to Lena Horne. James Andrews, Troy's (Trombone Shorty's) older brother, was part of the band (along with a drummer, a guitarist, two trumpeters, a pianist on a grand piano, and a trombonist). The arrangements were smokin', the musicianship incredible, and Stephanie herself, in a pretty bias-cut champagne-colored halter dress, did a great job with Lena Horne-esque vocals, running through Lena's greatest hits. I was really grooving to it, and had a terrific seat, second row of the second section, directly under one of those mist-sprayers -- BUT all I could think about was that if I stayed any longer, I'd miss all of Irma. So I dragged myself out, and my seat was immediately taken.
Back at Acura, Irma Thomas was singing her heart out on an unusual choice, some classic ballad. While I couldn't hear much of it, I know the song wasn't one normally associated with Irma, because afterwards, she thanked the crowd for "indulging" her. She then launched into "It's Raining," "Time Is on My Side" (which she wrote and the Rolling Stones covered), and "Breakaway." She did her usual explanation of second-lining and encouraged the crowd to get their "back field in motion" while she sang "Iko Iko" and "Pocky Way." She gave us an encore and left us all perfectly satisfied and happy. Since you can't be two places at once, it was a good decision to leave Stephanie halfway through in order to catch half of Irma.
The schedule said there was nearly an hour between Irma and James Taylor, so I went for some food. I had been disappointed earlier that the line for soft-shell crab and soft-shell crawfish po boys was so long, so I tried it again and was pleased this time to go right up. There is NOTHING like soft-shell crawfish perfectly fried -- and it's a delicacy that is difficult to find outside the fest. (Any reader who knows a restaurant that serves 'em should clue me in!) I savored every single crumb of it. (Sincere prayer: Thank you , God, for soft-shell crawfish!!!!)
I thought I made it back to the Acura Stage with lots of time to spare, but it wasn't long after I sat down in my chair that music began to play. I thought to myself, "Are they playing *recorded* music??" but as I glanced up at the jumbo screen, I saw JT himself, the long drink of water, striding across the stage and putting on his guitar as his band played. Prize for the all-time LEAST pretentious start to a Jazz Fest set goes to James Taylor, who began with absolutely NO introduction at all. (Which I've NEVER seen any other group or artist do -- I do wonder, however, how exactly they restrained Quint Davis.)
JT was totally wonderful, laid-back, inviting, generous, appreciative of the audience and Jazz Fest and New Orleans. While introducing beloved old favorites ("You've Got a Friend") he was interesting and funny ("If I had only known when I first heard it that I'd be singing it every single day of the rest of my life..."). For "Carolina on My Mind" he gave a shout-out to all the other North Carolinians in the audience. The crowd sang along, standing and swaying in the slanted golden light as the sun went down. There must have been 30 or 40 thousand people in front of that stage, and all of them, of whatever age or race or nationality, were perfectly, perfectly happy to be there. A lovely Jazz Fest moment.
Today was cloudier than yesterday -- still blue skies, but more of the fluffy, rainless white stuff that keeps the sun from burning you up; more breezes to cool things off. Another beautiful day.
We arrived too late to catch Walter (Washington), Russell (Batiste), and Joe (Krown) -- all of whom have played with Big Man, or Big Man has played with them, depending on your perspective -- as the opening act of the Gentilly Stage, but in time to hear the closing numbers of Big Sam's Funky Nation (Big Man has sat in with them on Frenchman Street occasionally). Needless to say, the crowd went wild, audible 2 stages away.
Big Man and I did a little shopping around Congo Square; he's on the hunt for a great, retro dashiki, short caftan-thing, possibly tie-dye (heaven help us). We had fun looking, but didn't find anything up his alley. We went back to the Acura Stage, where we had set up our chairs, and enjoyed several classic numbers ("Doo Run Run," "Going to the Chapel," and of course "Iko Iko") by the original New Orleans girl-group, the Dixie Cups, the two of us feeling all gushy since "Chapel" was featured on our wedding invitations.
When they were over, we picked up some food (quail, pheasant, and andouille gumbo for Big Man and a grilled chicken livers and greens plate from Praline Connection for me), listening to the Rebirth Revival with Kermit Ruffins at Congo Square. Kermit can't help himself, he's been in show business playing trumpet since he was a little kid (old black and white photos of him by Michael Smith were on display near our chairs at Acura), and while he's not the best trumpeter in the city, he's certainly one of the most entertaining and most popular.
Then Big Man and I temporarily split up -- he to Gentilly for Ivan Neville and Dumpstafunk, and me to Acura for Pete Seeger. Quint Davis himself introduced Pete and was temporarily at a loss for words as his emotions choked him up. He wound up calling Pete "the grandfather of the Jazz Festival." Pete had with him a full folk band of much younger musicians (some of them related to Pete), and his voice when we could hear it was thin and reedy. But it was Pete Seeger, for heaven's sake, just shy of his 90th birthday, and he led us and the band in his wonderful, ageless songs, like "Turn, Turn, Turn" and retold old stories ("The Blind Men and the Elephant") in his inimitable style. It was a privilege to be there and to see and hear him one more time.
Big Man showed up and he was hot and sun-struck, so we moved to the Grandstands for air conditioning and shade. A completely unexpected pleasure --another one of those serendipitous Jazz Fest moments -- was Ms. Sharde Thomas and the Rising Star Fife and Drum, an old-fashioned combo of what looked like all women, playing wonderfully on the little Lagniappe Stage to an appreciative crowd on 2 levels of the Grandstand.
Turned out Big Man was just too tired from playing on Bourbon Street until about 2 am, and was concerned about having enough energy to play again tonight -- let alone have the energy for the two Jazz Fest gigs on Sunday! So I walked him to the exit, kissed him good-bye, and sent him home.
I kind of passed through the Blues Tent and heard a tune from Texas Johnny Brown and the Quality Blues Band, a very good hard-drivin' R&B group. As I was coming through, a phalanx of Jazz Fest security guards escorted Somebody Famous through the tent, near the front. While I couldn't see who it was, I could see the effects: folks jumped to their feet, clambered on top their chairs, craned their necks to get a glimpse, and ran to take shots with cameras and cell phones. A wave of enthusiastic applause followed the fast walking train on their progress. Never did find out who it was.
My real objective was the Jazz Tent, where trumpeter Marlon Jordan's sister, the chanteuse Stephanie Jordan, was scheduled to do a big-band tribute to Lena Horne. James Andrews, Troy's (Trombone Shorty's) older brother, was part of the band (along with a drummer, a guitarist, two trumpeters, a pianist on a grand piano, and a trombonist). The arrangements were smokin', the musicianship incredible, and Stephanie herself, in a pretty bias-cut champagne-colored halter dress, did a great job with Lena Horne-esque vocals, running through Lena's greatest hits. I was really grooving to it, and had a terrific seat, second row of the second section, directly under one of those mist-sprayers -- BUT all I could think about was that if I stayed any longer, I'd miss all of Irma. So I dragged myself out, and my seat was immediately taken.
Back at Acura, Irma Thomas was singing her heart out on an unusual choice, some classic ballad. While I couldn't hear much of it, I know the song wasn't one normally associated with Irma, because afterwards, she thanked the crowd for "indulging" her. She then launched into "It's Raining," "Time Is on My Side" (which she wrote and the Rolling Stones covered), and "Breakaway." She did her usual explanation of second-lining and encouraged the crowd to get their "back field in motion" while she sang "Iko Iko" and "Pocky Way." She gave us an encore and left us all perfectly satisfied and happy. Since you can't be two places at once, it was a good decision to leave Stephanie halfway through in order to catch half of Irma.
The schedule said there was nearly an hour between Irma and James Taylor, so I went for some food. I had been disappointed earlier that the line for soft-shell crab and soft-shell crawfish po boys was so long, so I tried it again and was pleased this time to go right up. There is NOTHING like soft-shell crawfish perfectly fried -- and it's a delicacy that is difficult to find outside the fest. (Any reader who knows a restaurant that serves 'em should clue me in!) I savored every single crumb of it. (Sincere prayer: Thank you , God, for soft-shell crawfish!!!!)
I thought I made it back to the Acura Stage with lots of time to spare, but it wasn't long after I sat down in my chair that music began to play. I thought to myself, "Are they playing *recorded* music??" but as I glanced up at the jumbo screen, I saw JT himself, the long drink of water, striding across the stage and putting on his guitar as his band played. Prize for the all-time LEAST pretentious start to a Jazz Fest set goes to James Taylor, who began with absolutely NO introduction at all. (Which I've NEVER seen any other group or artist do -- I do wonder, however, how exactly they restrained Quint Davis.)
JT was totally wonderful, laid-back, inviting, generous, appreciative of the audience and Jazz Fest and New Orleans. While introducing beloved old favorites ("You've Got a Friend") he was interesting and funny ("If I had only known when I first heard it that I'd be singing it every single day of the rest of my life..."). For "Carolina on My Mind" he gave a shout-out to all the other North Carolinians in the audience. The crowd sang along, standing and swaying in the slanted golden light as the sun went down. There must have been 30 or 40 thousand people in front of that stage, and all of them, of whatever age or race or nationality, were perfectly, perfectly happy to be there. A lovely Jazz Fest moment.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Jazz Fest 09 -- Day One
I guess we could call this our Literary Day at the Fest; you'll see why.
A gorgeous day, we couldn't have asked for better. Blue skies decorated with fluffy white clouds, a steady cooling breeze -- just what you want for hanging out at the Fairgrounds for 4 or 5 or 6 hours. On our way to the Fest, we stopped at Walgreen's to drop off some prescriptions, and noting our apparel (straw hats, tropical clothing), the young woman behind the drop-off window asked, "On your way to the Fest?" She wished us a happy one and we thanked her.
The Fairgrounds neighborhood was filled with pedestrians who had decided to do public transportation and save the parking hassle. (You can always tell Fest-goers by their clothing -- backpacks or large bags, foldable chairs slung over shoulders, sun hats of all kinds, shorts for men and shorts or sundresses for women.) Big Man said that taking the bus was a good option for folks who did not have to get to work on Bourbon Street within 2 hours after the Fest was over.
We expected to have trouble finding decent parking within a short-as-possible walking distance to the Fest, but 2 blocks off Esplanade on Lopez, a nice-looking red-haired guy was holding a sign up in his driveway saying, "Parking-Bathroom-Soda-$20." A great location, a great deal. We took him up on it. The side and back parking areas of his house allowed for quite a few cars, if packed in, and the guy said you had to leave your keys so he could shuffle the cars as necessary. He was very organized, asking us to sign a form giving him permission to move our car (he filled in make, model, and license plate); then he presented us with a full-color Google map, clearly showing the route between his house and the Fairgrounds, giving his name, address, and cell phone number. We were very impressed and felt confident about leaving the car with him. (His bathroom was clean and well-stocked, with foaming anti-bacterial soap at the sink, and a big roll of paper towels. All very nice.)
[Yeah, yeah, you're saying, why is she going on and on about the guy's bathroom? You'd know if you were a dedicated Fest-goer. Believe you me, bathroom facilities are a BIG deal at the Fest.]
The walk over was short and sweet -- literally so, since the air was perfumed with jasmine and roses. Folks on Lopez are house-proud, and their gardens are lush and beautiful. One yard was a symphony in reds -- roses, amaryllis, some flowering shrub I don't know the name of, and even blood-red poppies! Lovely. Everyone walking to the Fest was in a good mood, wishing each other Happy Fest and smiling with anticipation of a great time.
Our first stop was the Congo Square Stage, where a young trumpeter, K, sort of a protegé of Big Man's, was playing with a band called Water Seed. (Water Seed? Yeah, the lead singer, a lovely young African-American woman, explained the name from the stage but I won't bother -- it was way too corny.) They had a good groove going. Along with the lead singer and the trumpeter, there was a drummer, and another woman on flute and percussion. They were pretty good; we stayed for 2 tunes. At one point right after a trumpet solo, K looked right at Big Man, as if for his approbation. Big Man smiled, nodded, and gave a big thumbs-up. K gave a giant grin back, apparently happy to receive approval from his mentor. Big Man gave K a wave as we left, so he would know we were going.
From Congo Square we wandered through the Fest, enjoying the crafts and art on display and all the amazing people-watching. As we passed through the Indian/Native American area, we made the obligatory stop at the Houma Tribe booth where they sell 2 kinds of maque choux and traditional fry bread. We got shrimp maque choux this time and promised we'd be back for the sausage later in the Fest. We made our way to the Gentilly Stage, where we planned to set up for Amanda Shaw and Trombone Shorty later in the day. As we were considering which spot, we were hailed by T-P columnist and author and Pulitzer Prize-winner Chris Rose (our first literary contact of the day), and decided to set up near him. As we left that area to cruise the food, a band called Benjy Davis Project was playing. I'd never heard of 'em, but they sounded good.
I got us a gorgeous combo plate consisting of a crawfish sack, oyster patty, and crawfish beignets in remoulade sauce ($13) and we headed to the Jazz Tent to eat and hear trumpeter Marlon Jordan. As soon as we sat on the metal bleachers (in the back, but with a good view of the stage), a woman leaned over eagerly to ask where we got that plate. Big Man said later that as we walked up, the woman's jaw dropped when she got a glimpse of that plate. The Jazz Tent was pretty well filled, but there were still lots of places to sit, and not just the bleachers. They had the misters going in the middle of the tent, but we were too far away for them to have an effect. But we were comfortable with the breeze coming in the open entrances to the tent.
Marlon was very good, as was Jason Marsalis on drums. We left just as they started their final tune. Our next stop was the Blues Tent, where for whatever weird reason Jazz Fest had scheduled the Ladysmith Red Lions (who clearly belonged at Congo Square). Moving in that direction brought us past Baquet's booth, where we decided to get a plate of Trout Baquet (sauteed trout with a topping of lump crabmeat in a lemon butter sauce -- oh my god!) to share. The Blues Tent was more crowded than the Jazz Tent, but we were still able to find 2 seats together, pretty close up.
The Red Lions are from the same township in South Africa as Ladysmith Black Mambazo (who were featured on Paul Simon's Graceland album) and do similar music -- intricate African vocal harmonies, punctuated with whoops and clicks, and coordinated with smooth unison dance moves, reminiscent of the Temptations (leading to a discussion between Big Man and me about the "chicken and the egg" relationship between the Motown moves of the Temps and the African moves of the Lions). We enjoyed the Lions very much, but we didn't want to miss too much of Amanda Shaw, so we left. (On our way out, we ran into a parishioner of mine who greeted Big Man as Big Man, thus letting me know I had another reader of this blog!)
As we were walking back to our spot at the Gentilly Stage, fantastic trad sounds from the Economy Hall Tent drew us in. This band sounded amazingly like a 1920s recording. We went in, past the dancers on the little dance floor, and saw a group of men with dark hair and hawklike profiles, dressed all alike, just playing their hearts out, in this old-time, traditional groove, great musicianship. We later learned that they were from Bordeaux, France. I figured they had devoted themselves to memorizing and internalizing old recordings. They were fabulous, a real Jazz Fest find.
At the Gentilly Stage, Amanda Shaw was tearing the place up, just as cute as she could possibly be, playing and singing, bouncing around the stage with her able and talented band, the Cute Guys. We stayed for almost all of her set, getting a real kick out of her. (At one point, she covered that old chestnut "Devil Went Down to Georgia" and when she got to the end, she wouldn't sing the original lyric and called the Devil "You ol' son of a bleep" -- we all laughed and loved her for it, the sweet thing.)
From there, we went back to Congo Square to catch some of Henry Butler's set on keyboard. (We were surprised he was using an electric keyboard instead of a grand piano.) Henry's hands flew over the keys like magic, making you think maybe there were more than 2 hands involved. While we were there, we bumped into Geraldine Wyckoff, a well-known local music critic whose work has appeared in Jazz Times, The Gambit, OffBeat magazine, Louisiana Weekly, and many other places. She said Henry was a particular favorite of hers. She and Big Man exchanged some musical observations for a while. (Making this our second literary run-in of the day.) Also while there, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could include me in her Internet "hat montage" of Jazz Fest; but of course I agreed and she snapped me and my pink-flower trimmed straw hat from the back. How cool!
Both for the air conditioning and for the content, our next stop was the Grandstands, where we sat in for the last half of the interview with New Orleans drummer extraordinaire Johnny Vidacovich. Johnny was a trip, his answers were amusing and entertaining, and he gave a little performance on the kit he was sitting behind. A good reminder that not only is the Grandstand a good refuge from too much sun, it's also a hidden gem for good stuff to see and hear. (The security guard on the second floor inside the Grandstand was friendly almost to a fault, asking us, "Are y'all havin' a good time, darlins?")
We had to pass the Book Tent on our way back to Gentilly, and we could not pass it up, especially since Big Man had noticed an ad for a book in the OffBeat magazine that intrigued him. It was a local book enticingly titled "The Sound of Building Coffins;" the blurb said it was about New Orleans in the early 20th century -- well, that's like catnip to us and we had determined to buy it. So we walked in and Big Man turned to me and said, "The title was something like 'The Sound of Coffins' Building' " and a man said, "No, it's 'The Sound of Building Coffins' and it so happens I wrote it," and Louis Maistros introduced himself to us and handed us a copy. We got into a conversation about how supremely interesting that period of New Orleans history is, and how much we love reading about it and learning about it. Of course we bought the book and of course he kindly inscribed it for us, making him our third literary happening of the day.
We made it back to Gentilly just as Trombone Shorty hit the stage, to an adoring and gigantic crowd. He ripped through some funk, added in some Lennie Kravitz-inspired rock ("American Woman"), and did some R&B standards. He blew some stuff on the 'bone that *really* impressed Big Man -- he said few in the crowd except horn players would know exactly how difficult those slides from deep and low up to high notes were. Shorty switched to his beautiful Monette trumpet for crowd-pleasing versions of "Let's Stay Together" and a funky complaint about an unfaithful lover, "You Got the Same Thang On." It was hard to leave, but we had wanted to catch at least a little of the Lincoln Center Jazz Ensemble with Winton Marsalis, so we packed it all up and made a slow circuit back to Congo, passing Fais Do Do on the way, where yet another pretty girl fiddler was performing. (Big Man said, "That girl probably wakes up every day thinking, 'I could have been a star if it weren't for Amanda Shaw!'.") We almost passed the sweet potato pie booth, but stopped ourselves in time for just one. Yum!
Well, we could have predicted it, but Congo Square was having logistical problems setting up for such a giant band and they were running a few minutes behind. We stood around for a while, but it was hot and we were dry, so we went to get more iced tea. Having walked that far away from the stage, we started a conversation about whether we really wanted to walk back. Upshot: this being the first day and all, with 6 more to go, and with Big Man having to blow on Bourbon Street tonight, we decided to bag it for the day, but not to rush out.
We took the long way to the exit gate, taking us first past the booth where they sell the bodacious cracklins -- I know, I know, we shouldn't eat that stuff, but we couldn't resist! Then, happily munching cracklins, we strolled past the Acura Stage to hear the last of the set for the Drive-By Truckers with the incredible Booker T -- a good decision! As we made our way to the exit, we called the guy where our car was parked, and asked him to get our car ready to go.
When we approached the block, our guy was standing on the sidewalk waiting for us. We waved and he waved back. He called to us, "Ice water, diet Barq's, or beer?" Big Man took the Barq's and I the water. We used his clean and well-stocked bathroom and hung out in his kitchen, drinking the drinks he provided and shooting the breeze. Of course, it turned out we knew folks in common. Eventually, we went outside and got our car, and told our new friend M we'd likely be back.
And so ended our first day of Jazz Fest., with 3 interesting literary highlights.
A gorgeous day, we couldn't have asked for better. Blue skies decorated with fluffy white clouds, a steady cooling breeze -- just what you want for hanging out at the Fairgrounds for 4 or 5 or 6 hours. On our way to the Fest, we stopped at Walgreen's to drop off some prescriptions, and noting our apparel (straw hats, tropical clothing), the young woman behind the drop-off window asked, "On your way to the Fest?" She wished us a happy one and we thanked her.
The Fairgrounds neighborhood was filled with pedestrians who had decided to do public transportation and save the parking hassle. (You can always tell Fest-goers by their clothing -- backpacks or large bags, foldable chairs slung over shoulders, sun hats of all kinds, shorts for men and shorts or sundresses for women.) Big Man said that taking the bus was a good option for folks who did not have to get to work on Bourbon Street within 2 hours after the Fest was over.
We expected to have trouble finding decent parking within a short-as-possible walking distance to the Fest, but 2 blocks off Esplanade on Lopez, a nice-looking red-haired guy was holding a sign up in his driveway saying, "Parking-Bathroom-Soda-$20." A great location, a great deal. We took him up on it. The side and back parking areas of his house allowed for quite a few cars, if packed in, and the guy said you had to leave your keys so he could shuffle the cars as necessary. He was very organized, asking us to sign a form giving him permission to move our car (he filled in make, model, and license plate); then he presented us with a full-color Google map, clearly showing the route between his house and the Fairgrounds, giving his name, address, and cell phone number. We were very impressed and felt confident about leaving the car with him. (His bathroom was clean and well-stocked, with foaming anti-bacterial soap at the sink, and a big roll of paper towels. All very nice.)
[Yeah, yeah, you're saying, why is she going on and on about the guy's bathroom? You'd know if you were a dedicated Fest-goer. Believe you me, bathroom facilities are a BIG deal at the Fest.]
The walk over was short and sweet -- literally so, since the air was perfumed with jasmine and roses. Folks on Lopez are house-proud, and their gardens are lush and beautiful. One yard was a symphony in reds -- roses, amaryllis, some flowering shrub I don't know the name of, and even blood-red poppies! Lovely. Everyone walking to the Fest was in a good mood, wishing each other Happy Fest and smiling with anticipation of a great time.
Our first stop was the Congo Square Stage, where a young trumpeter, K, sort of a protegé of Big Man's, was playing with a band called Water Seed. (Water Seed? Yeah, the lead singer, a lovely young African-American woman, explained the name from the stage but I won't bother -- it was way too corny.) They had a good groove going. Along with the lead singer and the trumpeter, there was a drummer, and another woman on flute and percussion. They were pretty good; we stayed for 2 tunes. At one point right after a trumpet solo, K looked right at Big Man, as if for his approbation. Big Man smiled, nodded, and gave a big thumbs-up. K gave a giant grin back, apparently happy to receive approval from his mentor. Big Man gave K a wave as we left, so he would know we were going.
From Congo Square we wandered through the Fest, enjoying the crafts and art on display and all the amazing people-watching. As we passed through the Indian/Native American area, we made the obligatory stop at the Houma Tribe booth where they sell 2 kinds of maque choux and traditional fry bread. We got shrimp maque choux this time and promised we'd be back for the sausage later in the Fest. We made our way to the Gentilly Stage, where we planned to set up for Amanda Shaw and Trombone Shorty later in the day. As we were considering which spot, we were hailed by T-P columnist and author and Pulitzer Prize-winner Chris Rose (our first literary contact of the day), and decided to set up near him. As we left that area to cruise the food, a band called Benjy Davis Project was playing. I'd never heard of 'em, but they sounded good.
I got us a gorgeous combo plate consisting of a crawfish sack, oyster patty, and crawfish beignets in remoulade sauce ($13) and we headed to the Jazz Tent to eat and hear trumpeter Marlon Jordan. As soon as we sat on the metal bleachers (in the back, but with a good view of the stage), a woman leaned over eagerly to ask where we got that plate. Big Man said later that as we walked up, the woman's jaw dropped when she got a glimpse of that plate. The Jazz Tent was pretty well filled, but there were still lots of places to sit, and not just the bleachers. They had the misters going in the middle of the tent, but we were too far away for them to have an effect. But we were comfortable with the breeze coming in the open entrances to the tent.
Marlon was very good, as was Jason Marsalis on drums. We left just as they started their final tune. Our next stop was the Blues Tent, where for whatever weird reason Jazz Fest had scheduled the Ladysmith Red Lions (who clearly belonged at Congo Square). Moving in that direction brought us past Baquet's booth, where we decided to get a plate of Trout Baquet (sauteed trout with a topping of lump crabmeat in a lemon butter sauce -- oh my god!) to share. The Blues Tent was more crowded than the Jazz Tent, but we were still able to find 2 seats together, pretty close up.
The Red Lions are from the same township in South Africa as Ladysmith Black Mambazo (who were featured on Paul Simon's Graceland album) and do similar music -- intricate African vocal harmonies, punctuated with whoops and clicks, and coordinated with smooth unison dance moves, reminiscent of the Temptations (leading to a discussion between Big Man and me about the "chicken and the egg" relationship between the Motown moves of the Temps and the African moves of the Lions). We enjoyed the Lions very much, but we didn't want to miss too much of Amanda Shaw, so we left. (On our way out, we ran into a parishioner of mine who greeted Big Man as Big Man, thus letting me know I had another reader of this blog!)
As we were walking back to our spot at the Gentilly Stage, fantastic trad sounds from the Economy Hall Tent drew us in. This band sounded amazingly like a 1920s recording. We went in, past the dancers on the little dance floor, and saw a group of men with dark hair and hawklike profiles, dressed all alike, just playing their hearts out, in this old-time, traditional groove, great musicianship. We later learned that they were from Bordeaux, France. I figured they had devoted themselves to memorizing and internalizing old recordings. They were fabulous, a real Jazz Fest find.
At the Gentilly Stage, Amanda Shaw was tearing the place up, just as cute as she could possibly be, playing and singing, bouncing around the stage with her able and talented band, the Cute Guys. We stayed for almost all of her set, getting a real kick out of her. (At one point, she covered that old chestnut "Devil Went Down to Georgia" and when she got to the end, she wouldn't sing the original lyric and called the Devil "You ol' son of a bleep" -- we all laughed and loved her for it, the sweet thing.)
From there, we went back to Congo Square to catch some of Henry Butler's set on keyboard. (We were surprised he was using an electric keyboard instead of a grand piano.) Henry's hands flew over the keys like magic, making you think maybe there were more than 2 hands involved. While we were there, we bumped into Geraldine Wyckoff, a well-known local music critic whose work has appeared in Jazz Times, The Gambit, OffBeat magazine, Louisiana Weekly, and many other places. She said Henry was a particular favorite of hers. She and Big Man exchanged some musical observations for a while. (Making this our second literary run-in of the day.) Also while there, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could include me in her Internet "hat montage" of Jazz Fest; but of course I agreed and she snapped me and my pink-flower trimmed straw hat from the back. How cool!
Both for the air conditioning and for the content, our next stop was the Grandstands, where we sat in for the last half of the interview with New Orleans drummer extraordinaire Johnny Vidacovich. Johnny was a trip, his answers were amusing and entertaining, and he gave a little performance on the kit he was sitting behind. A good reminder that not only is the Grandstand a good refuge from too much sun, it's also a hidden gem for good stuff to see and hear. (The security guard on the second floor inside the Grandstand was friendly almost to a fault, asking us, "Are y'all havin' a good time, darlins?")
We had to pass the Book Tent on our way back to Gentilly, and we could not pass it up, especially since Big Man had noticed an ad for a book in the OffBeat magazine that intrigued him. It was a local book enticingly titled "The Sound of Building Coffins;" the blurb said it was about New Orleans in the early 20th century -- well, that's like catnip to us and we had determined to buy it. So we walked in and Big Man turned to me and said, "The title was something like 'The Sound of Coffins' Building' " and a man said, "No, it's 'The Sound of Building Coffins' and it so happens I wrote it," and Louis Maistros introduced himself to us and handed us a copy. We got into a conversation about how supremely interesting that period of New Orleans history is, and how much we love reading about it and learning about it. Of course we bought the book and of course he kindly inscribed it for us, making him our third literary happening of the day.
We made it back to Gentilly just as Trombone Shorty hit the stage, to an adoring and gigantic crowd. He ripped through some funk, added in some Lennie Kravitz-inspired rock ("American Woman"), and did some R&B standards. He blew some stuff on the 'bone that *really* impressed Big Man -- he said few in the crowd except horn players would know exactly how difficult those slides from deep and low up to high notes were. Shorty switched to his beautiful Monette trumpet for crowd-pleasing versions of "Let's Stay Together" and a funky complaint about an unfaithful lover, "You Got the Same Thang On." It was hard to leave, but we had wanted to catch at least a little of the Lincoln Center Jazz Ensemble with Winton Marsalis, so we packed it all up and made a slow circuit back to Congo, passing Fais Do Do on the way, where yet another pretty girl fiddler was performing. (Big Man said, "That girl probably wakes up every day thinking, 'I could have been a star if it weren't for Amanda Shaw!'.") We almost passed the sweet potato pie booth, but stopped ourselves in time for just one. Yum!
Well, we could have predicted it, but Congo Square was having logistical problems setting up for such a giant band and they were running a few minutes behind. We stood around for a while, but it was hot and we were dry, so we went to get more iced tea. Having walked that far away from the stage, we started a conversation about whether we really wanted to walk back. Upshot: this being the first day and all, with 6 more to go, and with Big Man having to blow on Bourbon Street tonight, we decided to bag it for the day, but not to rush out.
We took the long way to the exit gate, taking us first past the booth where they sell the bodacious cracklins -- I know, I know, we shouldn't eat that stuff, but we couldn't resist! Then, happily munching cracklins, we strolled past the Acura Stage to hear the last of the set for the Drive-By Truckers with the incredible Booker T -- a good decision! As we made our way to the exit, we called the guy where our car was parked, and asked him to get our car ready to go.
When we approached the block, our guy was standing on the sidewalk waiting for us. We waved and he waved back. He called to us, "Ice water, diet Barq's, or beer?" Big Man took the Barq's and I the water. We used his clean and well-stocked bathroom and hung out in his kitchen, drinking the drinks he provided and shooting the breeze. Of course, it turned out we knew folks in common. Eventually, we went outside and got our car, and told our new friend M we'd likely be back.
And so ended our first day of Jazz Fest., with 3 interesting literary highlights.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
French Quarter Festival 09
It was difficult for me to attend as much of this year's French Quarter Festival as I would have liked. I had a wedding to perform in the French Quarter on Saturday that also had several "attendant" events that took up my time, albeit pleasantly (a Thursday night "Ladies Dinner," a Friday afternoon Crawfish Boil, the Friday evening rehearsal and Rehearsal Dinner, then the wedding itself on Saturday evening). The three churches of my denomination in the New Orleans area were planning their 4th Annual Shared Earth Day Service and Picnic in Audubon Park and this also required time and effort on my part. When all was said and done, I did not get to the festival at all on Friday, only briefly on Saturday, and just for a few hours on Sunday. And even though I LOVE the food at the French Quarter Festival, this year I did not get to eat there at all! (Luckily, there's always next year!)
With my being so tied up the weekend of the festival, I actually had to miss two of Big Man's three FQF gigs -- his first, but surely not his last. Friday night he played with Walter "Wolfman" Washington, and Saturday night he appeared with Renard Poché's band, both times (interestingly enough) on the Abita Beer Stage at Woldenburg Park on the river. This is considered to be one of the biggest stages of the fest, and Big Man reported crowds of about 10,000 people each night -- other than his television appearances, just about the biggest live audience he's ever played for. He said it was very exciting, and somewhat gratifying to look into the crowd and be able to recognize people he knew, friends, relatives, Friends of Bill W. and so on. I HATED having to miss those two sets, but I'm assured that Big Man played his heart out and delighted both band leaders as well as the crowds watching and dancing.
The weather was strange FQF weekend. Temperatures hovered in the high 60s and low 70s, aided by strong winds which sometimes made it feel almost chilly (OK, not really chilly, just chilly to New Orleanians). TV weather guys kept on predicting rain for every day of the fest, but amazingly enough, the only time it rained was very early Sunday morning (or late Saturday night, depending on how you looked at it), which was very convenient for all concerned. It wasn't even a lot of rain, even thought the clouds had been dark gray and threatening both Friday and Saturday.
Sunday dawned cloudy, but then spent the morning clearing up, until by afternoon, it was like, "What clouds? What rain?" The lovely and talented Anaîs St. John had asked Big Man to come play for her FQF set at the small and intimate Whitney Bank and Windsor Court Hotel Stage in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court on Royal Street, and so we arrived about an hour or so before the start time. Crowds were heavy, but navigable and friendly, mixed as to age, race, orientation, and certainly as to dress. (What different folks think is appropriate festival attire is a blog post in itself!) We cruised and listened to the Jazz Vipers (great!), David & Roselyn (always a crowd-pleaser, though not necessarily the greatest musicians), a mixed group of musicians under a canopy, earnestly pleading with the crowd for tips, and a young magician plying people with sleight of hand.
Anaîs's set was terrific, and not just because Big Man played most of it with her. She's such a beauty, and such an entertainer, really knows how to work a crowd, and play with them, interact with them. She did her justly-famous torch songs, added a tribute to Eartha Kitt ("I Wanna Be Ee-vill"), and of course had to do some of her notorious double-entendre numbers, like "Man O'War." (I'm not even gonna quote lyrics here, just take it from me, it was hot!)
Big Man really enjoyed the non-scripted, loose playing with Anaîs and the talented musicians (like Michael Skinkus on percussion and Harry Mayronne on piano), and the back-and-forthing between the trumpet or flugelhorn and the vocalist was well done. And who couldn't play hot and nasty with Anaîs draped provocatively on top the piano, right in front of your face? Big Man was well up to that onerous task, and blew it away.
It was funny, though, right after the set, I ran into a male acquaintance and asked him how he had liked Big Man's trumpet playing with Anaîs. My friend stared at me blankly and asked, "There was a trumpet?" Apparently, for much of the audience, they only had eyes for Anaîs, and who can blame them? (But really, I swear, Big Man was there!)
With my being so tied up the weekend of the festival, I actually had to miss two of Big Man's three FQF gigs -- his first, but surely not his last. Friday night he played with Walter "Wolfman" Washington, and Saturday night he appeared with Renard Poché's band, both times (interestingly enough) on the Abita Beer Stage at Woldenburg Park on the river. This is considered to be one of the biggest stages of the fest, and Big Man reported crowds of about 10,000 people each night -- other than his television appearances, just about the biggest live audience he's ever played for. He said it was very exciting, and somewhat gratifying to look into the crowd and be able to recognize people he knew, friends, relatives, Friends of Bill W. and so on. I HATED having to miss those two sets, but I'm assured that Big Man played his heart out and delighted both band leaders as well as the crowds watching and dancing.
The weather was strange FQF weekend. Temperatures hovered in the high 60s and low 70s, aided by strong winds which sometimes made it feel almost chilly (OK, not really chilly, just chilly to New Orleanians). TV weather guys kept on predicting rain for every day of the fest, but amazingly enough, the only time it rained was very early Sunday morning (or late Saturday night, depending on how you looked at it), which was very convenient for all concerned. It wasn't even a lot of rain, even thought the clouds had been dark gray and threatening both Friday and Saturday.
Sunday dawned cloudy, but then spent the morning clearing up, until by afternoon, it was like, "What clouds? What rain?" The lovely and talented Anaîs St. John had asked Big Man to come play for her FQF set at the small and intimate Whitney Bank and Windsor Court Hotel Stage in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court on Royal Street, and so we arrived about an hour or so before the start time. Crowds were heavy, but navigable and friendly, mixed as to age, race, orientation, and certainly as to dress. (What different folks think is appropriate festival attire is a blog post in itself!) We cruised and listened to the Jazz Vipers (great!), David & Roselyn (always a crowd-pleaser, though not necessarily the greatest musicians), a mixed group of musicians under a canopy, earnestly pleading with the crowd for tips, and a young magician plying people with sleight of hand.
Anaîs's set was terrific, and not just because Big Man played most of it with her. She's such a beauty, and such an entertainer, really knows how to work a crowd, and play with them, interact with them. She did her justly-famous torch songs, added a tribute to Eartha Kitt ("I Wanna Be Ee-vill"), and of course had to do some of her notorious double-entendre numbers, like "Man O'War." (I'm not even gonna quote lyrics here, just take it from me, it was hot!)
Big Man really enjoyed the non-scripted, loose playing with Anaîs and the talented musicians (like Michael Skinkus on percussion and Harry Mayronne on piano), and the back-and-forthing between the trumpet or flugelhorn and the vocalist was well done. And who couldn't play hot and nasty with Anaîs draped provocatively on top the piano, right in front of your face? Big Man was well up to that onerous task, and blew it away.
It was funny, though, right after the set, I ran into a male acquaintance and asked him how he had liked Big Man's trumpet playing with Anaîs. My friend stared at me blankly and asked, "There was a trumpet?" Apparently, for much of the audience, they only had eyes for Anaîs, and who can blame them? (But really, I swear, Big Man was there!)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Maundy Thursday Green Gumbo
I'm late reporting on the annual tradition of gumbo z'herbes on Maundy Thursday at Dooky Chase Restaurant. An old-time Creole custom with a long history, this hearty green gumbo is supposed to be served on Holy Thursday (old-fashioned liturgical term, Maundy Thursday) to prepare yourself for the rigors of fasting all day on Good Friday. And just because most folks have given up the idea of fasting completely on Good Friday does not negate the importance of gumbo z'herbes!
The traditional recipe for the gumbo, which of course varied a little from family to family, contains a number of greens -- the exact number of which and consisting of what could ignite heated controversy amongst passionate New Orleanians -- plus a heckuva lot of MEAT, from chicken to pork to veal to beef. Mrs. Leah Chase uses 9 different greens, and it is said that a person will make the same number of new friends in the year to come as the umber of greens in the gumbo, so I guess I'm primed now for those 9 new friends.
Several times I have labored over Miss Leah's recipe in my own kitchen, sometimes having to visit more than one market to obtain the requisite variety of greens. Most memorable to me was the spring I made it in Chattanooga, Tennessee. As I was checking out at the local grocery store with turnip greens, mustard greens, carrot tops, spinach, beet tops, dark kale, and dandelion greens (a real coup, I thought) in my cart, the clerk, a young light-skinned African-American woman looked sharply at me and said (to my complete and utter amazement!), "Are you making that special gumbo?" "How did you know that?" I stammered out and she explained that her "Ma-Maw" was from Louisiana and always made this special green gumbo before Easter.
Russell, a long-time friend of mine, a local politico and lobbyist for progressive causes, always reserves a private dining room at Dooky's for this occasion, and has been doing this every year, going all the way back to the days when Dutch Morial was first running for mayor. One of the hardships of living "in exile" all those years I lived away was knowing that back home in New Orleans, Dooky's was serving gumbo z'herbes, hot politics were being hotly discussed, and I had to miss it. (Russell used to make me even more homesick by sending me photos of the event that had appeared in the New Orleans media.) Now that we are home for good, there's no reason to miss it and every reason to go.
When Big Man and I arrived a little after 12 noon, Dooky's was already packed. You couldn't park in the parking lot, or anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the building. We had to park a block away, on the side of the empty space where the Tremé Housing Project used to be, and make our way back to the front door. Folks were lined up from the door to the dining room all the way down to the bar and then along the bar. Big Man hesitated -- he doesn't like to cut ahead of people -- but I knew this wasn't a line for the folks going to the Gold Room.
We "'scused us" through all the people waiting and made our way to the French doors at the entrance to the Gold Room (so hard to remind yourself that this was once the ONLY dining room at Dooky's, before they added the 2 other next-door buildings and renovated them into more space). The usual assortment of Russell's relatives, elected officials (a smattering of local judges, a former state representative, a candidate or two), lawyers, ministers, journalists, and what-have you were already seated around an L-shaped arrangement of tables. The noise level was pretty high, what with the conversations at our L-table, and the cacophony in the main dining room, packed to the rafters with happy folks spooning down green gumbo.
Russell is an excellent host and he took us round the table, introducing us to those we might not have met before, and may not have remembered from previous Maundy Thursdays. Russ likes to split up couples if he can, so that conversation is more lively, so Big Man was seated near Sybil Morial, Dutch's widow, and I got a place on the other end of the table, near some folks I had met before.
Despite the hordes of people, service was swift -- I guess it's relatively easy to serve even the biggest crowd when you don't have to worry about menus! Platters of hot fried chicken were spaced conveniently around the table, needfully replenished often, and each person got a large bowl with a generous portion of gumbo z'herbes, with liberal amounts of various meats. Topping things off were baskets of hot sweet corn muffins that served (to me, at least) as dessert. It goes without saying (ça va sans dire) that everything that touched our lips was sublime.
Of course, politics was a common topic, with the current mayor coming in for well-deserved drubbing; the city council did not escape their share of the criticism. (Many of us, black and white across the table, agreed that the city had not been so racially polarized since the 1960s.) We shared ways that things had gotten better, and worse, in our lives and in the city since Katrina. We fondly recalled that the year before, the Holy Thursday that had marked the first time that Dooky's was opened for a seated public luncheon since Katrina. We remembered individuals who used to share this luch with us, but who were now in the Great Beyond. We talked about our children and our grandchildren. In short, it was a grand time.
With more hungry folks arriving, Big Man and I did not linger *too* long and left after eating and doing a little table-hopping to talk with more folks there. As we left, we passed another long line of folks still waiting to get in. I heard later from Miss Leah and a Dooky's waiter that they hadn't been able to close until after 6 pm!
The traditional recipe for the gumbo, which of course varied a little from family to family, contains a number of greens -- the exact number of which and consisting of what could ignite heated controversy amongst passionate New Orleanians -- plus a heckuva lot of MEAT, from chicken to pork to veal to beef. Mrs. Leah Chase uses 9 different greens, and it is said that a person will make the same number of new friends in the year to come as the umber of greens in the gumbo, so I guess I'm primed now for those 9 new friends.
Several times I have labored over Miss Leah's recipe in my own kitchen, sometimes having to visit more than one market to obtain the requisite variety of greens. Most memorable to me was the spring I made it in Chattanooga, Tennessee. As I was checking out at the local grocery store with turnip greens, mustard greens, carrot tops, spinach, beet tops, dark kale, and dandelion greens (a real coup, I thought) in my cart, the clerk, a young light-skinned African-American woman looked sharply at me and said (to my complete and utter amazement!), "Are you making that special gumbo?" "How did you know that?" I stammered out and she explained that her "Ma-Maw" was from Louisiana and always made this special green gumbo before Easter.
Russell, a long-time friend of mine, a local politico and lobbyist for progressive causes, always reserves a private dining room at Dooky's for this occasion, and has been doing this every year, going all the way back to the days when Dutch Morial was first running for mayor. One of the hardships of living "in exile" all those years I lived away was knowing that back home in New Orleans, Dooky's was serving gumbo z'herbes, hot politics were being hotly discussed, and I had to miss it. (Russell used to make me even more homesick by sending me photos of the event that had appeared in the New Orleans media.) Now that we are home for good, there's no reason to miss it and every reason to go.
When Big Man and I arrived a little after 12 noon, Dooky's was already packed. You couldn't park in the parking lot, or anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the building. We had to park a block away, on the side of the empty space where the Tremé Housing Project used to be, and make our way back to the front door. Folks were lined up from the door to the dining room all the way down to the bar and then along the bar. Big Man hesitated -- he doesn't like to cut ahead of people -- but I knew this wasn't a line for the folks going to the Gold Room.
We "'scused us" through all the people waiting and made our way to the French doors at the entrance to the Gold Room (so hard to remind yourself that this was once the ONLY dining room at Dooky's, before they added the 2 other next-door buildings and renovated them into more space). The usual assortment of Russell's relatives, elected officials (a smattering of local judges, a former state representative, a candidate or two), lawyers, ministers, journalists, and what-have you were already seated around an L-shaped arrangement of tables. The noise level was pretty high, what with the conversations at our L-table, and the cacophony in the main dining room, packed to the rafters with happy folks spooning down green gumbo.
Russell is an excellent host and he took us round the table, introducing us to those we might not have met before, and may not have remembered from previous Maundy Thursdays. Russ likes to split up couples if he can, so that conversation is more lively, so Big Man was seated near Sybil Morial, Dutch's widow, and I got a place on the other end of the table, near some folks I had met before.
Despite the hordes of people, service was swift -- I guess it's relatively easy to serve even the biggest crowd when you don't have to worry about menus! Platters of hot fried chicken were spaced conveniently around the table, needfully replenished often, and each person got a large bowl with a generous portion of gumbo z'herbes, with liberal amounts of various meats. Topping things off were baskets of hot sweet corn muffins that served (to me, at least) as dessert. It goes without saying (ça va sans dire) that everything that touched our lips was sublime.
Of course, politics was a common topic, with the current mayor coming in for well-deserved drubbing; the city council did not escape their share of the criticism. (Many of us, black and white across the table, agreed that the city had not been so racially polarized since the 1960s.) We shared ways that things had gotten better, and worse, in our lives and in the city since Katrina. We fondly recalled that the year before, the Holy Thursday that had marked the first time that Dooky's was opened for a seated public luncheon since Katrina. We remembered individuals who used to share this luch with us, but who were now in the Great Beyond. We talked about our children and our grandchildren. In short, it was a grand time.
With more hungry folks arriving, Big Man and I did not linger *too* long and left after eating and doing a little table-hopping to talk with more folks there. As we left, we passed another long line of folks still waiting to get in. I heard later from Miss Leah and a Dooky's waiter that they hadn't been able to close until after 6 pm!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Pork & Beads Benefit
I'd never been to it before -- indeed, I'd never even heard of it before, but there's an annual fundraiser for Bridge House called the Cochon Cotillion or the Pork and Beads Ball. held at Blaine Ken's Mardi Gras World across the river. (Bridge House is a resident facility that works with alcoholics and drug abusers to gain sobriety and productive lives. Since the 1950s, they have only had men as clients, but now with the new multilevel place they're in the process of building on Earhart, they will be adding a floor for women.) It's an extremely worthy cause, one dear to Big Man's heart, with his 19 years of sobriety. So we were pleased that a band he works with told him this was their regular gig, and even more pleased to learn that band members could bring spouses and partners to the event.
I went online to see what one wears to this event and learned that "costumes or tacky clothing" was the suggested attire. For those still at sea, there were helpful photos of participants at past Cotillions. Colored wigs, feather boas, and funny hats seemed common choices. Big Man had it easy -- the band members were to dress in black -- big deal. I was the one with decisions to make. My selections were complicated by the fact that the benefit featured all you could eat food from some premier New Orleans restaurants, so I didn't want to put on anything too binding. Eventually, I settled on kind of a Pirate Queen thing with a mask but no wig or hat.
I always enjoy going to Mardi Gras World, seeing up close and at rest the fancy floats and figures that usually go by too quickly at Carnival. But most of the time I'm there for MOMs, which is a completely different milieu than the Cochon Cotillion (enough said about that!). Inside the main room, different tables were up around the periphery, each table representing a different restaurant or caterer, with selections like shrimp remoulade, Cajun pasta, alligator burgers, Creole Country Store sausages, spinach salad with pecans, potatoes au gratin, fruit salad, even pizza and hot dogs (I didn't waste calories on that, believe you me!)
For dessert, there were several varieties of bread pudding, cupcakes, and an unbelievable array of jewel-like tiny pastries by a new pastry chef Uptown, a young woman who looked Philippine-American. They were AMAZING! I had to physically restrain myself from just hanging out there and eating like a, well, like a little cochon.
One thing that might seem strange (MIGHT??) was that this was an open-bar event. I mean, only in New Orleans, right? would there be a benefit for an institution promoting sobriety where there'd be so much drinking. It was weird enough, even for us, that two of the emcees mentioned it from the stage. ("Where else but New Orleans could you get this drunk in the name of staying sober?")
A prominent feature of the Cotillion is the annual parade, leading of course to its other nickname, Pork & Beads. There's a king and queen and court, there's an actual high school marching band, and lots of bead throwing, even dubloons (but these were actually chocolate coins from the Magazine Street chocolate shop, Blue Frog. Yum!) I couldn't get myself interested in more beads -- which I'd only have to drop off at Sophie Gumbel anyway -- but I did enjoy watching the parade and seeing the costumes people came up with. (Lots of pig themes, natch, and lots of references to current events.)
Then I saw someone I thought I knew, and in a flash I realized I only thought I knew him because his famous face was so familiar. It was James Carville, and then I saw his wife Mary Matalin as well. Wow! I wanted to run up to them and say, "Y'all helped inspire my marriage!" because Big Man is a Republican and I'm a congenital Democrat. When we'd get into verbal scuffles over politics when we were dating, we'd say, "I wonder how Carville and Matalin handle this?" and we eventually figured out that they probably decide not to keep on talking when they have an impasse. (We don't know that for sure, we just made it up. But it does work for us.) I didn't interrupt the parade to tell that, and later I couldn't find them. Oh well. Next time I run into them in this small town, I'll tell them.
Since Big Man and I had to arrive before the Patron Party at 7 pm, and I was so sun-struck from the Riverfest earlier in the day, I conked out pretty early and retreated to the van until Big Man was free to leave. Next year, I'll devise an even more comfortable costume, and maybe invite a sister or a friend to go with me so I'd have somebody to talk to while Big Man is on stage.
But it's a terrific good time in a great cause -- not to mention the irony!
I went online to see what one wears to this event and learned that "costumes or tacky clothing" was the suggested attire. For those still at sea, there were helpful photos of participants at past Cotillions. Colored wigs, feather boas, and funny hats seemed common choices. Big Man had it easy -- the band members were to dress in black -- big deal. I was the one with decisions to make. My selections were complicated by the fact that the benefit featured all you could eat food from some premier New Orleans restaurants, so I didn't want to put on anything too binding. Eventually, I settled on kind of a Pirate Queen thing with a mask but no wig or hat.
I always enjoy going to Mardi Gras World, seeing up close and at rest the fancy floats and figures that usually go by too quickly at Carnival. But most of the time I'm there for MOMs, which is a completely different milieu than the Cochon Cotillion (enough said about that!). Inside the main room, different tables were up around the periphery, each table representing a different restaurant or caterer, with selections like shrimp remoulade, Cajun pasta, alligator burgers, Creole Country Store sausages, spinach salad with pecans, potatoes au gratin, fruit salad, even pizza and hot dogs (I didn't waste calories on that, believe you me!)
For dessert, there were several varieties of bread pudding, cupcakes, and an unbelievable array of jewel-like tiny pastries by a new pastry chef Uptown, a young woman who looked Philippine-American. They were AMAZING! I had to physically restrain myself from just hanging out there and eating like a, well, like a little cochon.
One thing that might seem strange (MIGHT??) was that this was an open-bar event. I mean, only in New Orleans, right? would there be a benefit for an institution promoting sobriety where there'd be so much drinking. It was weird enough, even for us, that two of the emcees mentioned it from the stage. ("Where else but New Orleans could you get this drunk in the name of staying sober?")
A prominent feature of the Cotillion is the annual parade, leading of course to its other nickname, Pork & Beads. There's a king and queen and court, there's an actual high school marching band, and lots of bead throwing, even dubloons (but these were actually chocolate coins from the Magazine Street chocolate shop, Blue Frog. Yum!) I couldn't get myself interested in more beads -- which I'd only have to drop off at Sophie Gumbel anyway -- but I did enjoy watching the parade and seeing the costumes people came up with. (Lots of pig themes, natch, and lots of references to current events.)
Then I saw someone I thought I knew, and in a flash I realized I only thought I knew him because his famous face was so familiar. It was James Carville, and then I saw his wife Mary Matalin as well. Wow! I wanted to run up to them and say, "Y'all helped inspire my marriage!" because Big Man is a Republican and I'm a congenital Democrat. When we'd get into verbal scuffles over politics when we were dating, we'd say, "I wonder how Carville and Matalin handle this?" and we eventually figured out that they probably decide not to keep on talking when they have an impasse. (We don't know that for sure, we just made it up. But it does work for us.) I didn't interrupt the parade to tell that, and later I couldn't find them. Oh well. Next time I run into them in this small town, I'll tell them.
Since Big Man and I had to arrive before the Patron Party at 7 pm, and I was so sun-struck from the Riverfest earlier in the day, I conked out pretty early and retreated to the van until Big Man was free to leave. Next year, I'll devise an even more comfortable costume, and maybe invite a sister or a friend to go with me so I'd have somebody to talk to while Big Man is on stage.
But it's a terrific good time in a great cause -- not to mention the irony!
Riverfest 2009
There we were, the weekend of April 4 and 5, and Big Man and I were in a quandary. It's festival time again in the gorgeous Crescent City, and it's a surfeit of choices. There was a Catfish Festival, the Strawberry Festival, the Latino Festival, the Old Algiers Riverfest, and approximately 15 others. (See Julie Posner's terrific Louisiana Festival calendar if you don't believe me -- Saturday and Sunday of the first weekend of April had about 20-odd festivals of various kinds, depending on how far you wanted to drive.) So we were debating which festival we would go to -- and eat at, since this conversation was occurring about 12 noon on Saturday.
At that moment, the phone rang. It was a band leader calling for Big Man, wanting to know if he was busy, and if he was willing to come play with a thrown-together R&B band at the Riverfest. Big Man agreed to do it, and to be there no later than 2 pm. We looked at each other -- the decision was made. We would go to the festival they were paying us to go to. Fine by us. The best fest is always the one they pay you to go to!
It was a bright shiny day, with a strong cool breeze, and a few wispy shreds of clouds in an otherwise clear and dark blue sky. We had time and inclination, so we took the Canal Street ferry over (on the crossing, the breeze was so strong, it was almost cold), and parked in the lot on the batture (for those of you from "away," the batture is the land between the river and the levee). Old Algiers, with its old Victorian houses and little gardens, is like a time capsule, and many of the neighbors took advantage of the Riverfest crowds to hold yard and porch sales.
The festival was set up in front of the old Courthouse, a weird 19th century concoction that sort of looks like a castle. (It has a big ol' clock in a tower, the face of which was damaged by Katirna, but it still works and you can still tell time from it, but there's no markings.) A nice crowd, of all ages and colors, had gathered and was enjoying the music of a klezmer band on the stage. This gave Big Man the opportunity to observe once again that he can't understand why more people don't realize the connection between klezmer and early jazz.
We cruised the food booths and finally purchased some fresh iced tea, a home-made pastrami po-boy (him) and a catfish po-boy (me), along with an indulgent and unnecessary little bag of fresh warm cracklins. (Look, we know we shouldn't've, but we couldn't resist!)
There was a nice selection of crafts booths, and a small tent for the artist who did the Riverfest commemorative poster, Terrance Osborne. Osborne is an African-American artist whose bright-colored renditions of our city became emblems of our recovery after Katrina. (Paintings he did immediately after the Storm broke my heart, with wild colored shotguns resting on trees and neighborhood streets lined with pirougues.) I went over and introduced myself to him and told him how much I admired his work, and what his post-K paintings meant to me. He was very gracious, and to my surprise, said that he and his wife (also sitting there, a lovely woman) had been thinking about visiting my church. I told him about the Super Sunday service we had just done, and asured him they would be welcome ANY Sunday. That was nice.
Soon it was time for Big Man to take the stage with the "New Orleans All-Stars" (apparently a good catch-all name for a pick-up band) featuring Marilyn Barbarin as vocalist (now, there's a New Orleans musical name!). They played a lot of R&B classics and Marilyn really puts a tune across. They were well received by the crowd, and lots of folks got up to dance. I watched from up the slope of the levee, sprawled on the grass along with a hundred or so other good folks. (Including a very pretty long-haired brunette woman in turquoise and white, who with perfect unself-consciousness rolled up her camisole top to expose her midriff to the sun and lay out on the soft levee lawn. She had a neat way of twisting her hair up and making it stay off her neck.)
A little black boy, looking about 5 or maybe 6, danced by himself near the stage. He was darn good and good only be what he was, a native New Orleanian doing what comes naturally. His dancing was energetic and rhythmic and had a wonderful variety -- he moonwalked, he popped the gator, he jogged in place, he twirled. He was so great he attracted partners -- a young white man, an older black man, women of various ages and races. Another notable dancer was Marilyn Barbarin's 75-year-old auntie, a slim woman with a short white Afro wearing a gold lamé shirt as an open jacket over slacks and a top. She was graceful and beautiful and totally confident, and I'm sure nearly every woman there was, like me, vowing to be that lady when we got to be 75.
Another dancer of note was an old man, either much older than Auntie Barbarin or just having lived a much harder life, hunched up in front of the stage doing old-time nasty dances. Not so nasty that he would've scared the many children present, but just borderline lewd enough to get the crowd roaring. He did "the chicken" and did the shakes. People around me were just killing themselves laughing, all in good spirit.
The sun just poured down on us all, and I belatedly realized I was unprotected. I went back to the car and got an umbrella and sheltered beneath it, but I was too late. When we got home that afternoon, I was sunburnt on my arms, neck and cheeks. A good lesson relearned -- sunblock every single day, and a better sunhat. I'm too old for this.
When Big Man left the stage, he was still hungry, so we grabbed a smoked turkey leg for the ride across the river. It was a great time, and just imagine -- they paid us to have that good time!
At that moment, the phone rang. It was a band leader calling for Big Man, wanting to know if he was busy, and if he was willing to come play with a thrown-together R&B band at the Riverfest. Big Man agreed to do it, and to be there no later than 2 pm. We looked at each other -- the decision was made. We would go to the festival they were paying us to go to. Fine by us. The best fest is always the one they pay you to go to!
It was a bright shiny day, with a strong cool breeze, and a few wispy shreds of clouds in an otherwise clear and dark blue sky. We had time and inclination, so we took the Canal Street ferry over (on the crossing, the breeze was so strong, it was almost cold), and parked in the lot on the batture (for those of you from "away," the batture is the land between the river and the levee). Old Algiers, with its old Victorian houses and little gardens, is like a time capsule, and many of the neighbors took advantage of the Riverfest crowds to hold yard and porch sales.
The festival was set up in front of the old Courthouse, a weird 19th century concoction that sort of looks like a castle. (It has a big ol' clock in a tower, the face of which was damaged by Katirna, but it still works and you can still tell time from it, but there's no markings.) A nice crowd, of all ages and colors, had gathered and was enjoying the music of a klezmer band on the stage. This gave Big Man the opportunity to observe once again that he can't understand why more people don't realize the connection between klezmer and early jazz.
We cruised the food booths and finally purchased some fresh iced tea, a home-made pastrami po-boy (him) and a catfish po-boy (me), along with an indulgent and unnecessary little bag of fresh warm cracklins. (Look, we know we shouldn't've, but we couldn't resist!)
There was a nice selection of crafts booths, and a small tent for the artist who did the Riverfest commemorative poster, Terrance Osborne. Osborne is an African-American artist whose bright-colored renditions of our city became emblems of our recovery after Katrina. (Paintings he did immediately after the Storm broke my heart, with wild colored shotguns resting on trees and neighborhood streets lined with pirougues.) I went over and introduced myself to him and told him how much I admired his work, and what his post-K paintings meant to me. He was very gracious, and to my surprise, said that he and his wife (also sitting there, a lovely woman) had been thinking about visiting my church. I told him about the Super Sunday service we had just done, and asured him they would be welcome ANY Sunday. That was nice.
Soon it was time for Big Man to take the stage with the "New Orleans All-Stars" (apparently a good catch-all name for a pick-up band) featuring Marilyn Barbarin as vocalist (now, there's a New Orleans musical name!). They played a lot of R&B classics and Marilyn really puts a tune across. They were well received by the crowd, and lots of folks got up to dance. I watched from up the slope of the levee, sprawled on the grass along with a hundred or so other good folks. (Including a very pretty long-haired brunette woman in turquoise and white, who with perfect unself-consciousness rolled up her camisole top to expose her midriff to the sun and lay out on the soft levee lawn. She had a neat way of twisting her hair up and making it stay off her neck.)
A little black boy, looking about 5 or maybe 6, danced by himself near the stage. He was darn good and good only be what he was, a native New Orleanian doing what comes naturally. His dancing was energetic and rhythmic and had a wonderful variety -- he moonwalked, he popped the gator, he jogged in place, he twirled. He was so great he attracted partners -- a young white man, an older black man, women of various ages and races. Another notable dancer was Marilyn Barbarin's 75-year-old auntie, a slim woman with a short white Afro wearing a gold lamé shirt as an open jacket over slacks and a top. She was graceful and beautiful and totally confident, and I'm sure nearly every woman there was, like me, vowing to be that lady when we got to be 75.
Another dancer of note was an old man, either much older than Auntie Barbarin or just having lived a much harder life, hunched up in front of the stage doing old-time nasty dances. Not so nasty that he would've scared the many children present, but just borderline lewd enough to get the crowd roaring. He did "the chicken" and did the shakes. People around me were just killing themselves laughing, all in good spirit.
The sun just poured down on us all, and I belatedly realized I was unprotected. I went back to the car and got an umbrella and sheltered beneath it, but I was too late. When we got home that afternoon, I was sunburnt on my arms, neck and cheeks. A good lesson relearned -- sunblock every single day, and a better sunhat. I'm too old for this.
When Big Man left the stage, he was still hungry, so we grabbed a smoked turkey leg for the ride across the river. It was a great time, and just imagine -- they paid us to have that good time!
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