Another gorgeous day at Lafayette Square, with blue skies, bright sunshine, the petunias nodding their pretty heads, the crowd -- not as big as it'll be next week for Marcia Ball! -- looking happy and attractive. Some folks were already sporting the Jazz Fest shirts, camisoles, skirts, and T-shirts. I imagine they'll have laundry to do before the fest starts on Friday -- or maybe these are lucky die-hard people with *so many* Jazz Fest-themed items of clothing that that is not an issue.
It was a family night for us at the Square. Our sister H, from Minnesota, was in town for a wedding and joined us straight from the airport. Sister D was there, just off work at a local white-shoe law firm, and I had ridden with our sister L and her husband, along with our nephew B, who is temporarily staying with them Uptown while he searches for a NOLA apartment. Big reunion with lots of hugging and kissing and exclamations of compliments ("You look fabulous!" "No, you do!") by the Henry Clay statue.
Side question: Why is there no statue of the Marquis de Lafayette in Lafayette Square?? The central statue is of Henry Clay, and the statue in the front, across from Gallier Hall, is of schoolchildren paying tribute to John McDonough. But where oh where is Lafayette? Isn't that strange?
OK, back to the concert. Or rather, back to the food. I discovered that the Rib Room at the Royal Orleans Hotel now has a booth selling their unbelievably delicious shaved prime rib with gravy on a pistolet topped with horseradish cream sauce. OMG -- devoted readers of this blog might recall that Big Man and I thought that was the absolute best thing at the French Quarter Festival 2 years ago. Of course I told them that as I purchased my pistolet (7 $1 tickets), and they apologized to me for not being at this year's festival. (I was actually relieved, because I had thought they were there, and I just couldn't locate them.) So I'm walking around holding a cup of wine and this fabulous behemoth of a sandwich, and people keep stopping me to ask where I got it. I sent so many people over there that my nephew said I should go and ask for a referral fee or discount on my next one.
Amanda Shaw and the Cute Guys is a great band and they come out like gangbusters, revving the crowd up right from the start. It is such a treat to see Amanda, who the whole city has watched grow up from a cute-as-a-button child prodigy to this amazingly attractive, mature, stage-wise performer. Highlights of the show were: "It's All Right," "Hot Tamale Baby" and a smokin' version of "Devil Went Down to Georgia."
There was so much good feeling when it was all over that it took a long time for the crowd to disperse. Wait til next week, when it'll be about TWICE as many people!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tremé, Episode 2 (Spoiler Alert!)
We had another crowd over for the second installment of HBO's "Tremé" on Sunday. A freak rain storm had blew up, and everyone arriving was wet. One guest had to bring his dog, too scared by all the flashing lightening to leave at his house or in the car. (Riley and Keely had a petty good time together, but they got a little riled up, no pun intended.) Sunday's crowd included my sister L and her husband, who have satellite but no HBO.
To help set the scene, we played our DVR copy of HBO's "Beyond Bourbon Street" (Big Man growls, "I'd like to get beyond Bourbon Street!"), which is sort of the Da Vinci Code or Rosetta Stone for the Tremé series, explaining all about our New Orleans music, food, culture, and traditions.
My sister demanded we turn out all the lights and so the 8 of us sat in the dark as the episode began -- with the crazy-wonderful Coco Robichaux supposedly in the WWOZ studios, being interviewed by the Steve Zahn character, who trashed the redone French Market as "soulless" which got a laugh in my living room. (That character -- and his real-life counterpart -- are taking a lot of hits from viewers both inside and outside the Crescent City, but I say, how can you totally dislike someone played by Steve Zahn? Even when he's a pain in the ass, he's still somehow cute.) Although all of us in New Orleans are sick and tired of out-of-towners acting like voodoo is everywhere here, the fact is, everyone knows that Coco really IS into it, and so that first scene played well, if a bit over the top.
The scene where the chef-based-on-Susan-Spicer broke down and cried hit us all in the heart. The living room went dead quiet. We all remembered what that was like -- when you couldn't stop crying, or you thought you had stopped and something small and trivial happened, like burning an omelet, and then you would just break down again. And we respected that the incident was not referred to again -- they didn't try to explain it or have her talk about it to anyone. That's not real. Props for getting that right.
The street musician giving "volun-tourists" hell for being so caring about the Lower Ninth Ward post-Katrina (but never having a passing thought about poor folks in New Orleans before) was both realistic and unrealistic. Realistic because a lot of us felt/still feel that way, and unrealistic because a busker dependent on tips would have to be crazy to bite the hand that feeds him. The young volunteers did have the perfect scrubbed-face, wide-open look of so many of the (sweet, well-intentioned) Midwesterners who have come down since the Storm. (And really, God bless them.)
The Mardi Gras Indian practice scene was just right, and satisfied even those of us who, while moved last week when the Big Chief came down the street in his suit, did not feel that either his moves or his chants were authentic.
We were all disgusted by the contractor who ripped off Gigi's Bar, and we all knew stories, first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, of people that had happened/is still happening to. And we were saddened and angered about the Big Chief's tools being stolen from the house he hired to redo. And while we were feeling the anger, still, we were shocked into silence when the Chief found the thief ("copper miner") in the act in an empty house and beat him up badly. We fear the Chief may have killed the guy, and since we all like and respect the Chief character, this has us worried.
Music throughout the episode was perfect. (The Boswell Sisters in John Goodman's scene was an especially nice touch.)
The best tribute I can tell you as to exactly how we felt about this episode is that, when it was over, and we were all talking about it, somebody said, "Why don't we watch it again?" and that's just what we did.
To help set the scene, we played our DVR copy of HBO's "Beyond Bourbon Street" (Big Man growls, "I'd like to get beyond Bourbon Street!"), which is sort of the Da Vinci Code or Rosetta Stone for the Tremé series, explaining all about our New Orleans music, food, culture, and traditions.
My sister demanded we turn out all the lights and so the 8 of us sat in the dark as the episode began -- with the crazy-wonderful Coco Robichaux supposedly in the WWOZ studios, being interviewed by the Steve Zahn character, who trashed the redone French Market as "soulless" which got a laugh in my living room. (That character -- and his real-life counterpart -- are taking a lot of hits from viewers both inside and outside the Crescent City, but I say, how can you totally dislike someone played by Steve Zahn? Even when he's a pain in the ass, he's still somehow cute.) Although all of us in New Orleans are sick and tired of out-of-towners acting like voodoo is everywhere here, the fact is, everyone knows that Coco really IS into it, and so that first scene played well, if a bit over the top.
The scene where the chef-based-on-Susan-Spicer broke down and cried hit us all in the heart. The living room went dead quiet. We all remembered what that was like -- when you couldn't stop crying, or you thought you had stopped and something small and trivial happened, like burning an omelet, and then you would just break down again. And we respected that the incident was not referred to again -- they didn't try to explain it or have her talk about it to anyone. That's not real. Props for getting that right.
The street musician giving "volun-tourists" hell for being so caring about the Lower Ninth Ward post-Katrina (but never having a passing thought about poor folks in New Orleans before) was both realistic and unrealistic. Realistic because a lot of us felt/still feel that way, and unrealistic because a busker dependent on tips would have to be crazy to bite the hand that feeds him. The young volunteers did have the perfect scrubbed-face, wide-open look of so many of the (sweet, well-intentioned) Midwesterners who have come down since the Storm. (And really, God bless them.)
The Mardi Gras Indian practice scene was just right, and satisfied even those of us who, while moved last week when the Big Chief came down the street in his suit, did not feel that either his moves or his chants were authentic.
We were all disgusted by the contractor who ripped off Gigi's Bar, and we all knew stories, first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, of people that had happened/is still happening to. And we were saddened and angered about the Big Chief's tools being stolen from the house he hired to redo. And while we were feeling the anger, still, we were shocked into silence when the Chief found the thief ("copper miner") in the act in an empty house and beat him up badly. We fear the Chief may have killed the guy, and since we all like and respect the Chief character, this has us worried.
Music throughout the episode was perfect. (The Boswell Sisters in John Goodman's scene was an especially nice touch.)
The best tribute I can tell you as to exactly how we felt about this episode is that, when it was over, and we were all talking about it, somebody said, "Why don't we watch it again?" and that's just what we did.
Annunciation Park Fence Gets Hit Again!
Big Man and I live in what we jokingly call the "Lower-Lower Garden District" -- so close to the Warehouse District and the CBD that it hardly seems like Uptown at all. The house we found to live in nearly 3 years ago is very close to (in fact, in sight of) Annunciation Park, with its graceful iron fenced gateways on each end of the park. We love this neighborhood and we like the convenience of the park.
For whatever reason, the city has never installed a big yellow sign with a black arrow pointing both ways at the curb of the park where Annunciation Street comes to an "end" at the park's gates. (It's not really an end, of course, because if you go around Race Street, there's one block of Annunciation all by itself on the other side of the park.) In the daytime, even the worst drivers can see that they're at a dead end and have to turn to the right or left to continue on their way.
But at night, in the dark, unfamiliar drivers, drivers who are impaired in some way, and drivers who are speeding for whatever reason often miss what's going on. In less than 3 years, Big Man and I and our neighbors have witnessed at least 4 major accidents (one included at least one fatality). In one instance, a drunk driver just plowed through the stop sign at Annunciation and Race and hit an SUV parked on the street in front of the entrance way to the park. (The driver tried to run away but was "captured" by some neighbors and held til the police arrived. Big Man hollered after him, "Dude, don't make it any worse!")
Another time, a driver (drunk? stoned?) sped so fast down Annunciation, that he missed the stop sign and literally FLEW into the park, knocking down a portion of the iron fence, which thus flipped the car upside down. It landed wheels up and then slid across the park almost to the other side. Obviously, that was the accident where someone got killed. A third accident also hit the park fence, but not going as fast, so the offending car was left hanging off the raised granite curb of the park, the poor fence on the ground again. (I wonder how much it costs the city to keep on fixing that fence -- seems to me that not all these drivers could have had insurance.)
Last Friday night, round about midnight, as I watched TV in the living room with our dog Keely, we heard a car motor gunned all the way and a rapidly approaching siren. Then blue lights flashed in the window, two cars whooshed by, and then there was a dull BOOM! All of us in the neighborhood on both sides of the street poured out onto our porches and balconies to see the Annunciation Park fence down again, and a police car, lights flashing, parked perpendicular to the park. Deep inside the park, we could hear angry police officers hollering, "Get out of the car NOW!!" Later, from the police officer stationed there to guard the car until hapless owner could come and get his stuff out, we found out it was a guy in a stolen car, who, on hitting the granite and fence, jammed the front wheels of the car almost to the back. He was lucky he wasn't badly hurt. The car was, of course, totaled.
I guess we ought to petition the Streets Department about getting one of those yellow signs with the black arrows for that spot facing Annunciation. We don't want to keep losing that fence.
For whatever reason, the city has never installed a big yellow sign with a black arrow pointing both ways at the curb of the park where Annunciation Street comes to an "end" at the park's gates. (It's not really an end, of course, because if you go around Race Street, there's one block of Annunciation all by itself on the other side of the park.) In the daytime, even the worst drivers can see that they're at a dead end and have to turn to the right or left to continue on their way.
But at night, in the dark, unfamiliar drivers, drivers who are impaired in some way, and drivers who are speeding for whatever reason often miss what's going on. In less than 3 years, Big Man and I and our neighbors have witnessed at least 4 major accidents (one included at least one fatality). In one instance, a drunk driver just plowed through the stop sign at Annunciation and Race and hit an SUV parked on the street in front of the entrance way to the park. (The driver tried to run away but was "captured" by some neighbors and held til the police arrived. Big Man hollered after him, "Dude, don't make it any worse!")
Another time, a driver (drunk? stoned?) sped so fast down Annunciation, that he missed the stop sign and literally FLEW into the park, knocking down a portion of the iron fence, which thus flipped the car upside down. It landed wheels up and then slid across the park almost to the other side. Obviously, that was the accident where someone got killed. A third accident also hit the park fence, but not going as fast, so the offending car was left hanging off the raised granite curb of the park, the poor fence on the ground again. (I wonder how much it costs the city to keep on fixing that fence -- seems to me that not all these drivers could have had insurance.)
Last Friday night, round about midnight, as I watched TV in the living room with our dog Keely, we heard a car motor gunned all the way and a rapidly approaching siren. Then blue lights flashed in the window, two cars whooshed by, and then there was a dull BOOM! All of us in the neighborhood on both sides of the street poured out onto our porches and balconies to see the Annunciation Park fence down again, and a police car, lights flashing, parked perpendicular to the park. Deep inside the park, we could hear angry police officers hollering, "Get out of the car NOW!!" Later, from the police officer stationed there to guard the car until hapless owner could come and get his stuff out, we found out it was a guy in a stolen car, who, on hitting the granite and fence, jammed the front wheels of the car almost to the back. He was lucky he wasn't badly hurt. The car was, of course, totaled.
I guess we ought to petition the Streets Department about getting one of those yellow signs with the black arrows for that spot facing Annunciation. We don't want to keep losing that fence.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Day Off at the Lake
Monday is the only day of the week that Big Man and I have off together, and we try to savor it when we can -- although it must be said that many weeks, Monday simply becomes the day for housecleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping. (Well, at least we're together while we're doing all that!)
But Monday came up even prettier than the weekend had been -- and the French Quarter Festival weekend had been absolutely primo. Monday was sunny, with temperatures slightly cooler, a light breeze, and gorgeous blue skies. So perhaps it was not so strange that as we sat on the couch to talk about what we should do with the day that we both said at the same moment, "Let's go to the Lake!"
We changed into Lake-going clothes, including sunhats, packed a bag with sunblock, a large tablecloth, a towel in case we needed it, and a few sections of the New York Times for relaxing reading. We also got Keely Smith the dog, since a romp at the Lake on a beautiful day is perfect for good doggies.
Even the drive was lovely, the city so sparkly and full of flowers. We drove along Lakeshore Drive, picking the best spot, and found a place between two fishermen, with lots of clover. I spread out the yellow tablecloth, and we placed shoes and sunblock bottles on the corners to hold them down in the stiff Lake breeze. Wave spray washed over us lightly and the sun poured down. Big Man took Keely for a long walk along the seawall, as I carefully applied sunblock before laying out with the Book Review. More semi-salty spray hit my bare legs and I grew sleepy with the sun and the wind and the soft grass beneath me. I think I had a short relaxing nap.
Big Man and Keely got back, and one of them was wet. No, not my dog but my husband -- he couldn't resist taking a few steps down toward the waves and got good and splashed. Keely's too smart for that and managed to avoid getting really wet. The three of us got cozy on the spread, and I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone. We talked, and sort of slept, and stroked the dog. We watched the groups of fisherfolk, whole families pulling redfish and mullet off their lines and into their ice chests. Everything was lovely.
Eventually we got too hungry to stay, and packed up our stuff, took the dog on one last walk on the seawall, and got back in the car. We drove to the Lakeview Robért's and bought a mess of their sushi and ate it on the cast iron table and chairs outside under the overhang. Keely sat with us, hoping for a handout which she did not get. (All we need to do is train that dog to expect us to give her table scraps!)
When we got home, it was too late to go to Elmwood Fitness Center and Big Man had to squeeze in some trumpet practice time, and the kitchen still needed cleaning and the laundry wasn't done -- and we agreed it was of our best days off ever.
But Monday came up even prettier than the weekend had been -- and the French Quarter Festival weekend had been absolutely primo. Monday was sunny, with temperatures slightly cooler, a light breeze, and gorgeous blue skies. So perhaps it was not so strange that as we sat on the couch to talk about what we should do with the day that we both said at the same moment, "Let's go to the Lake!"
We changed into Lake-going clothes, including sunhats, packed a bag with sunblock, a large tablecloth, a towel in case we needed it, and a few sections of the New York Times for relaxing reading. We also got Keely Smith the dog, since a romp at the Lake on a beautiful day is perfect for good doggies.
Even the drive was lovely, the city so sparkly and full of flowers. We drove along Lakeshore Drive, picking the best spot, and found a place between two fishermen, with lots of clover. I spread out the yellow tablecloth, and we placed shoes and sunblock bottles on the corners to hold them down in the stiff Lake breeze. Wave spray washed over us lightly and the sun poured down. Big Man took Keely for a long walk along the seawall, as I carefully applied sunblock before laying out with the Book Review. More semi-salty spray hit my bare legs and I grew sleepy with the sun and the wind and the soft grass beneath me. I think I had a short relaxing nap.
Big Man and Keely got back, and one of them was wet. No, not my dog but my husband -- he couldn't resist taking a few steps down toward the waves and got good and splashed. Keely's too smart for that and managed to avoid getting really wet. The three of us got cozy on the spread, and I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone. We talked, and sort of slept, and stroked the dog. We watched the groups of fisherfolk, whole families pulling redfish and mullet off their lines and into their ice chests. Everything was lovely.
Eventually we got too hungry to stay, and packed up our stuff, took the dog on one last walk on the seawall, and got back in the car. We drove to the Lakeview Robért's and bought a mess of their sushi and ate it on the cast iron table and chairs outside under the overhang. Keely sat with us, hoping for a handout which she did not get. (All we need to do is train that dog to expect us to give her table scraps!)
When we got home, it was too late to go to Elmwood Fitness Center and Big Man had to squeeze in some trumpet practice time, and the kitchen still needed cleaning and the laundry wasn't done -- and we agreed it was of our best days off ever.
Premiere of HBO's "Tremé"
We invited a few friends who are without HBO over for Sunday evening's premiere of HBO's new series set in New Orleans post-Katrina, the long-awaited "Tremé." Scenes and episodes have been shot all over town, including our own neighborhood, and most New Orleanians are only a degree or two (or less) separated from locals who've been given parts of varying sizes in the series. Excitement ran really, really high -- "Tremé" was pretty much all anyone could talk about round town last week, and the local TV channels and radio talk shows, from NPR to 'OZ to Rush Radio was all over it. The Sunday Times-Picayune had a grand total of *6* different articles, stories, reviews, and blurbs about it.
There were 6 of us squeezed around our TV at 9 pm on Sunday, and we were all antsy with anticipation. At various points in the first episode, we sang along, "I feel like funkin' it up, feel like funkin' it up," we laughed (mostly at Steve Zahn's character), we argued ("Is that a real Indian chant?" "Was that Central City or Seventh Ward?"), we shouted "Hey!" (when the on-screen band played the familiar bars of "Secondline"), we equivocated ("Maybe that was the world's oldest and stalest Hubig pie"), cheered and yelled "AMEN!" (when John Goodman's character threw the microphone into the Industrial Canal after an interviewer as good as said New Orleans should not be rebuilt), and we collectively caught our breaths and tried not to cry (when the Indian chief put on his suit and cried out, "Won't bow -- don't know how!").
Afterwards, probably like all the other New Orleans viewers, we traded our own Katrina stories. I'm pretty sure that those scenes in "Tremé" brought those memories back to everyone watching from New Orleans. One of our guests, a nurse at Charity Hospital during the Storm, recalled how the sound of helicopters was pervasive in the city immediately after Katrina, how the sound invaded her dreams and that even today she couldn't stand to hear it. We recounted how much water we had had, and how horrible our first glimpses of the city were. All over the city, and in those places of the diaspora, these conversations were repeated over and over. We talked and talked (I thought folks would never leave) until we were talked out.
We give the show a big thumbs up. It gets us right, and gives us our props. We can't wait for episode 2 -- same time, same group, potluck this time.
Heard today (Tuesday) that HBO has already ordered another season. Good on 'em.
There were 6 of us squeezed around our TV at 9 pm on Sunday, and we were all antsy with anticipation. At various points in the first episode, we sang along, "I feel like funkin' it up, feel like funkin' it up," we laughed (mostly at Steve Zahn's character), we argued ("Is that a real Indian chant?" "Was that Central City or Seventh Ward?"), we shouted "Hey!" (when the on-screen band played the familiar bars of "Secondline"), we equivocated ("Maybe that was the world's oldest and stalest Hubig pie"), cheered and yelled "AMEN!" (when John Goodman's character threw the microphone into the Industrial Canal after an interviewer as good as said New Orleans should not be rebuilt), and we collectively caught our breaths and tried not to cry (when the Indian chief put on his suit and cried out, "Won't bow -- don't know how!").
Afterwards, probably like all the other New Orleans viewers, we traded our own Katrina stories. I'm pretty sure that those scenes in "Tremé" brought those memories back to everyone watching from New Orleans. One of our guests, a nurse at Charity Hospital during the Storm, recalled how the sound of helicopters was pervasive in the city immediately after Katrina, how the sound invaded her dreams and that even today she couldn't stand to hear it. We recounted how much water we had had, and how horrible our first glimpses of the city were. All over the city, and in those places of the diaspora, these conversations were repeated over and over. We talked and talked (I thought folks would never leave) until we were talked out.
We give the show a big thumbs up. It gets us right, and gives us our props. We can't wait for episode 2 -- same time, same group, potluck this time.
Heard today (Tuesday) that HBO has already ordered another season. Good on 'em.
French Quarter Festival
What a gorgeous French Quarter Festival we just had! Perfect weather, happy crowds of lively people, terrific music, and delicious food -- what more could you want?
Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.
The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.
I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!
Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")
Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.
The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)
When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.
Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.
The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.
I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!
Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")
Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.
The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)
When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Not-So-Big Sam & the Funky Nation at Wednesday at the Square
Overcast and windy, very likely threatening rain, Wednesday was not exactly promising for a late afternoon outdoor concert. However, it was going to be Big Sam & the Funky Nation, so it was appropriate to brave the elements. Luckily, the cloudy sky and friendly breeze lowered the temperature and made it very comfortable -- not sweltering like it will be later (for example, for Marcia Ball later in the season).
Big Man and I enjoyed dinner at home (our favorite post-Easter dinner of hard-boiled egg curry) and then parked the car at a lot on Magazine, walking through the pedestrian mall between the federal courthouse and the federal building to the square. I can never be in that neighborhood without remembering that where the Hale Boggs Federal Building now stands was where my father's Steelworkers' Union office used to be (interestingly enough, it was also where Lee Harvey Oswald's "Fair Play for Cuba" office was back in the day), and that our family used to spend Mardi Gras Day in Lafayette Square, with 2 long aluminum folding picnic tables set up together, laden with food, and lined with folding aluminum lawn chairs. Those few blocks are filled with memories for me.
Lafayette Square was pretty crowded, but not as packed as it had been for Trombone Shorty a few weeks ago. As always, the dress code was extremely diverse: law firm denizens in conservative business suits, menfolk in the New Orleans "uptown uniform" of Haspel seersucker and white buck shoes, long and short sundresses on the young women, lots of Jazz Fest shirts and T-shirts, bikers, old folks in their comfy clothes, little kids, lots of dogs, and one giant colorful parrot on this guy's shoulder.
We spotted one tall Creole-looking woman with long brunette hair in tight white jeans and a midriff-baring white embroidered top; we were admiring her when we realized we were practically ogling our friend Anaîs St. John. We called to her, and she walked over quickly, gathering glances and stares the whole way. She hugged us both and complimented me on my recent haircut. "So becoming," she cooed and I preened.
Big Man and Anaîs talked music for a while and compared notes on the New Orleans music biz and their upcoming gigs for the French Quarter Festival this weekend. Unfortunately, Anaîs's set on Saturday afternoon is too close to the ordination ceremony I am obligated to go to, so I told her I'd have to miss it. She waved her hand at me, tant pis ("no matter"). She told us her husband and toddler daughter were over near the food booths, but as we had already eaten, we weren't going that way. We wrapped up our conversation (the cynosure of all eyes the whole time!), kissed again, and parted.
Big Sam and his group the Funky Nation took the stage -- you can't mistake that loud beat-insistent sound! But as we approached the stage, something was very different. It didn't at first look like Big Sam was onstage, even though there was a guy waving a 'bone around. He was much too thin to be Big Sam. But as we got closer to the stage, we could see it was indeed Big Sam, "big" no longer -- he was positively slender! Full of energy and good spirits, he skipped, danced, ran, jumped, and moonwalked the stage; Big Man said maybe all this stage energy had helped him to lose the weight. But whether the hijinks were the *cause* or the *result* of the weight loss, it was still quite impressive. He looked GOOD, y'all. (Whatever you did or are doing, Sam, you just keep it up now.)
Songs bled into one another with interesting musical linkages. Each of the musicians on the stage were given ample opportunity to shine in solos, sometimes with Sam and his trumpet player often coming over to highlight the player and tease him with their mimicry and stage antics. Favorites for me were the classics "Liza Jane" and "Sissy Strut" (that song always did need horns!) and Sam's own "Ba-dooey-dooey."
We left earlier than we wanted to due to Big Man having to make his regular Bourbon Street gig, but we had a good time nonetheless. Props to Big Sam for getting so healthy, and for putting on a great show!
Big Man and I enjoyed dinner at home (our favorite post-Easter dinner of hard-boiled egg curry) and then parked the car at a lot on Magazine, walking through the pedestrian mall between the federal courthouse and the federal building to the square. I can never be in that neighborhood without remembering that where the Hale Boggs Federal Building now stands was where my father's Steelworkers' Union office used to be (interestingly enough, it was also where Lee Harvey Oswald's "Fair Play for Cuba" office was back in the day), and that our family used to spend Mardi Gras Day in Lafayette Square, with 2 long aluminum folding picnic tables set up together, laden with food, and lined with folding aluminum lawn chairs. Those few blocks are filled with memories for me.
Lafayette Square was pretty crowded, but not as packed as it had been for Trombone Shorty a few weeks ago. As always, the dress code was extremely diverse: law firm denizens in conservative business suits, menfolk in the New Orleans "uptown uniform" of Haspel seersucker and white buck shoes, long and short sundresses on the young women, lots of Jazz Fest shirts and T-shirts, bikers, old folks in their comfy clothes, little kids, lots of dogs, and one giant colorful parrot on this guy's shoulder.
We spotted one tall Creole-looking woman with long brunette hair in tight white jeans and a midriff-baring white embroidered top; we were admiring her when we realized we were practically ogling our friend Anaîs St. John. We called to her, and she walked over quickly, gathering glances and stares the whole way. She hugged us both and complimented me on my recent haircut. "So becoming," she cooed and I preened.
Big Man and Anaîs talked music for a while and compared notes on the New Orleans music biz and their upcoming gigs for the French Quarter Festival this weekend. Unfortunately, Anaîs's set on Saturday afternoon is too close to the ordination ceremony I am obligated to go to, so I told her I'd have to miss it. She waved her hand at me, tant pis ("no matter"). She told us her husband and toddler daughter were over near the food booths, but as we had already eaten, we weren't going that way. We wrapped up our conversation (the cynosure of all eyes the whole time!), kissed again, and parted.
Big Sam and his group the Funky Nation took the stage -- you can't mistake that loud beat-insistent sound! But as we approached the stage, something was very different. It didn't at first look like Big Sam was onstage, even though there was a guy waving a 'bone around. He was much too thin to be Big Sam. But as we got closer to the stage, we could see it was indeed Big Sam, "big" no longer -- he was positively slender! Full of energy and good spirits, he skipped, danced, ran, jumped, and moonwalked the stage; Big Man said maybe all this stage energy had helped him to lose the weight. But whether the hijinks were the *cause* or the *result* of the weight loss, it was still quite impressive. He looked GOOD, y'all. (Whatever you did or are doing, Sam, you just keep it up now.)
Songs bled into one another with interesting musical linkages. Each of the musicians on the stage were given ample opportunity to shine in solos, sometimes with Sam and his trumpet player often coming over to highlight the player and tease him with their mimicry and stage antics. Favorites for me were the classics "Liza Jane" and "Sissy Strut" (that song always did need horns!) and Sam's own "Ba-dooey-dooey."
We left earlier than we wanted to due to Big Man having to make his regular Bourbon Street gig, but we had a good time nonetheless. Props to Big Sam for getting so healthy, and for putting on a great show!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase
Maundy, or Holy, Thursday arrived as a gorgeous spring day, with cloudless skies, and temperatures expected to go to the high 70s. First thing I heard was the sound of a brass marching band, and I went out the house dressed in only a caftan to see what was going on. A school band was marching pretty sharply, in school uniforms, NOT band uniforms, with adults and children marching behind them, carrying signs which I was too far away to read. (And clad only in a caftan, I was not about to get any closer!) Not sure which school it was, but I suspect it was the International School and not St. Michael's Special School. As I walked back to the house, I thought, "Thank God I live in New Orleans, where a neighborhood parade is a fairly normal thing."
Another part of the day to give thanks for living in New Orleans is Ms. Leah Chase's annual serving of green gumbo or "gumbo dezherbes" for Holy Thursday. An old Creole tradition for the end of Lent, it involves 7 meats and 7 different kinds of greens to form a thick, rich gumbo served over rice. Dooky Chase Restaurant in the Tremé is always packed for this event, and today was no exception.
With a little difficulty navigating the construction on Orleans Avenue, and an even bigger challenge in finding parking, we made it shortly before 12 noon. Of course, there was a line waiting for a table, but we were "privilege characters" (as my Mama used to say) with an invitation to a private party hosted by my old friend RJH in the old Dooky's dining room, now called the Gold Room.
All of the servers were hopping, overtaxed by the huge crowd. In the far room, I could get glimpses of Ms. Leah, in a bright green "Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase" T-shirt. (I want one, and I hardly ever wear T-shirts!) There was so many people wanting to speak to her, she moved through the packed dining rooms like a politician or celebrity, or like a saint! touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, bussing a cheek, exchanging snippets of conversation as she made her slow way around.
There was supposed to be 20 people at RJH's green gumbo party, but of course more showed up, so Ms. Leah's twin grandsons, who work as waiters, carried in 2 more tables and settings. I was seated between Mrs. Sybil Morial, widow of one former mayor and mother of another, and local civil rights activist attorney BR. Others in the room included local judges, candidates for office, civil servants, and political operatives, as well as RJH family members.
We were served "Arnold Palmers" -- a mix of half lemonade and half iced tea -- and soon the gumbo dezherbes arrived, each bowl seemingly carefully apportioned with bits of the 7 meats: hot sausage, smoked sausage, andouille, chicken, veal, beef, and ham. We kvetched that we wanted bread (or more bread, as one end of the long table had gotten hot garlic bread slices and promptly scarfed it all up), and young Dooky patted me on the shoulder as he flew by, "Coming, it's coming!"
Soon he and another server were back with platters of corn bread squares, which we fell on with gusto. They were warm and rich and sweet, needing no butter (although I bet Big Man wanted some but was too polite to say so!). This would have been good enough -- more than good enough -- but then young Dooky swept back in, carrying 2 heavy platters of hot fried chicken. "I had to sneak this outa the kitchen," he grinned. We squealed and oohed and aahed, grabbing at the hot chicken, dropping it quickly on our plates, our fingers nearly burned.
What sublime chicken! I mean, it was perfect! The skin golden brown and as crispy as hot popcorn, the meat inside tender and juicy. I know the New York Times calls the fried chicken at Willa Mae's (around the corner from Dooky's) the best in the country, but Big Man and I can see only a hairbreadth's difference between them. I'm sorry to confess that I had *2* pieces of that exquisite chicken, and ended with a piece of garlic bread.
We made our farewells around the table, and then came out into the main dining room -- where who do we see but the current Mayor of New Orleans, in the very worst table in the place, a tiny TV-tray sized thing, barely big enough for one but with the mayor and guest squeezed at it, up against the wall. (That table is so small that normally it is only used as a station for water pitchers.) What better indication could you have of the estimation of Ms. Leah, that this is where the outgoing mayor ended up??
Another part of the day to give thanks for living in New Orleans is Ms. Leah Chase's annual serving of green gumbo or "gumbo dezherbes" for Holy Thursday. An old Creole tradition for the end of Lent, it involves 7 meats and 7 different kinds of greens to form a thick, rich gumbo served over rice. Dooky Chase Restaurant in the Tremé is always packed for this event, and today was no exception.
With a little difficulty navigating the construction on Orleans Avenue, and an even bigger challenge in finding parking, we made it shortly before 12 noon. Of course, there was a line waiting for a table, but we were "privilege characters" (as my Mama used to say) with an invitation to a private party hosted by my old friend RJH in the old Dooky's dining room, now called the Gold Room.
All of the servers were hopping, overtaxed by the huge crowd. In the far room, I could get glimpses of Ms. Leah, in a bright green "Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase" T-shirt. (I want one, and I hardly ever wear T-shirts!) There was so many people wanting to speak to her, she moved through the packed dining rooms like a politician or celebrity, or like a saint! touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, bussing a cheek, exchanging snippets of conversation as she made her slow way around.
There was supposed to be 20 people at RJH's green gumbo party, but of course more showed up, so Ms. Leah's twin grandsons, who work as waiters, carried in 2 more tables and settings. I was seated between Mrs. Sybil Morial, widow of one former mayor and mother of another, and local civil rights activist attorney BR. Others in the room included local judges, candidates for office, civil servants, and political operatives, as well as RJH family members.
We were served "Arnold Palmers" -- a mix of half lemonade and half iced tea -- and soon the gumbo dezherbes arrived, each bowl seemingly carefully apportioned with bits of the 7 meats: hot sausage, smoked sausage, andouille, chicken, veal, beef, and ham. We kvetched that we wanted bread (or more bread, as one end of the long table had gotten hot garlic bread slices and promptly scarfed it all up), and young Dooky patted me on the shoulder as he flew by, "Coming, it's coming!"
Soon he and another server were back with platters of corn bread squares, which we fell on with gusto. They were warm and rich and sweet, needing no butter (although I bet Big Man wanted some but was too polite to say so!). This would have been good enough -- more than good enough -- but then young Dooky swept back in, carrying 2 heavy platters of hot fried chicken. "I had to sneak this outa the kitchen," he grinned. We squealed and oohed and aahed, grabbing at the hot chicken, dropping it quickly on our plates, our fingers nearly burned.
What sublime chicken! I mean, it was perfect! The skin golden brown and as crispy as hot popcorn, the meat inside tender and juicy. I know the New York Times calls the fried chicken at Willa Mae's (around the corner from Dooky's) the best in the country, but Big Man and I can see only a hairbreadth's difference between them. I'm sorry to confess that I had *2* pieces of that exquisite chicken, and ended with a piece of garlic bread.
We made our farewells around the table, and then came out into the main dining room -- where who do we see but the current Mayor of New Orleans, in the very worst table in the place, a tiny TV-tray sized thing, barely big enough for one but with the mayor and guest squeezed at it, up against the wall. (That table is so small that normally it is only used as a station for water pitchers.) What better indication could you have of the estimation of Ms. Leah, that this is where the outgoing mayor ended up??
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