On Tuesday, October 18, Rev. Jim VanderWeele and I joined a group of activists and religious leaders for a "Tour of Truth" led by the organizers and members of the local Congreso de Jornaleros (Congress of Day Laborers). The plan was to visit several sites in and around New Orleans where agents of Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE) had arrested and abused the Latino day laborers who were brought to New Orleans in 2005 to work on post-Katrina reconstruction and rebuilding.
The first stop was, ironically, the corner of Martin Luther King Street and South Claiborne Avenue, at a gas station which is a well-known local corner where workers gather for hire as casual labor (and where once, a Latino worker assisted me in getting the stuck gas cap off my van so I could fill it up). The workers who had been there told us, through a translator, of the daily hassles and threats they had endured, and of workers suddenly "disappearing" after being picked up by ICE. We sang a hymn and continued to the next stop.
Across the street from the Lowe's Home Supply Store on Elysian Fields Avenue, we heard the story of six workers picked up on a Friday by a contractor, who asked if they would be available to work over the weekend. All six eagerly agreed. One young man related, through the interpreter, how excited he had been to get a weekend job; he anticipated being able to buy groceries for his family and pay his rent on the following Monday. But the "contractor" proved to be an ICE agent in disguise. When the workers tried to run away, they were beaten. (Running away is apparently considered by ICE to be "resistance" and thus use of physical force is justified.) Again, an African-American neighborhood activist led us in singing a traditional hymn, one often used in the civil rights movement, and we left for the next location.
On a quiet street in Mid-City, we stood in front of the house that had been home to Delmy, her husband, and their newborn son. Holding the baby, now a squirmy toddler, and wiping away tears, Delmy shared the story of the night that she and her husband had an argument and when he left the house to cool off, she locked him out. When he found he couldn't get back in, and not knowing what else to do, he called the police. When the police arrived, they broke down the door, and dragged Delmy out of bed. They handcuffed her in her nightclothes, separated her from her by-now screaming baby, and arrested her for "domestic violence." Because of the Orleans Parish Sheriff's habit of allowing ICE into the jail to look over prisoners, Delmy ended up in an ICE hold, and was kept incarcerated for *three months*, away from her baby (an American citizen), and her husband, who kept calling the jail saying he wanted all charges dropped. All of us hearing the story were close to tears.
While our little group listened, several neighbor women came out of their houses, and moved closer to see who we were and what we were doing there. When they recognized Delmy with her baby son, they greeted her warmly. They knew Delmy from her time there in their neighborhood; one of them said, "We knew her when she was pregnant, and once that baby was born, she was with him all the time." One of the women had witnessed the arrest and had tried to intervene, asking over and over, "What did she do?" and informing the officers that there was a new baby in the house. The woman was threatened by officers with arrest if she kept asking questions. The two women kept saying to Delmy, "We're so glad to see you, and back with your baby!" When they were informed that Delmy was under a deportation order that would separate her from little Josué, they were outraged. "It's so wrong!" they said, "It's a shame they can do you like that." Once more, we joined hands in a circle and sang a hymn, some of us with tears streaming.
Our final stop was in front of set of cheap apartments in Kenner. A group of workers repeated the same story: after having worked for a local house-leveling firm for two weeks, a group of nearly 40 workers were notified by telephone that they were to be paid at 7:30 am the next morning, and given a location to come to. When the workers arrived, they were immediately surrounded by ICE agents wielding clubs and handcuffs. Anyone who attempted to get away was beaten; one worker ended up in a local hospital for stitches -- and ironically, due to being at the emergency room, was the only worker not held in custody by ICE that day. None of the workers was paid for work they had done -- close to one hundred thousand dollars in total. I thought to myself, That's a good way for a business to save money! We did not feel much like singing, and the tour ended.
On the following Thursday, October 20, a similar group met outside an office building on Poydras Street near the New Orleans Superdome where ICE has its local offices. We had posters representing four members of Congreso who had been abruptly deported the night before, even though they could show legal documents proving that they were subpoenaed witnesses in court cases over wage theft. We laid the posters on the public sidewalk -- after the group was roughly moved away from the front of the building by a security guard -- and laid both symbolic toy handcuffs and bouquets of roses on the posters. We chanted, "We are human beings!" in Spanish. The building's guard called the police and an officer stood by, watching. He made no move to shove the group along, stop the protest, or arrest anyone. A little Latina girl brought him one of the roses bouquet, and, unsure what to do, he laid it gently on top one of the posters on the sidewalk depicting a deported worker. (He told me later, "I love my country and I love the constitution, and people have a right to peacefully protest. I'll always defend that." I thanked him.)
Doesn't seem equally suspicious that not only workers who need to be paid are deported, but also those standing up for their civil rights? I love my country too, and in general I respect its laws. But when my country acts unjustly and unreasonably, I am moved to witness and to protest. It is wrong to deny the right to remain to the Latino workers who have given so much to New Orleans' post-Katrina recovery. It is wrong to separate families, mothers and fathers from little children, intimate partners from each other. It is wrong to pretend to hire honest workers, only to cheat them of the wages they've earned, and then, worse, to deport them away from their families.
People of faith are called to stand up and be counted when wrongs are being done, and Rev. JIm and I were glad to stand with the Congreso.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Trombone Shorty at Harvest the Music
I've avoided blogging about the phenomenal concert last Wednesday night at Harvest the Music at Lafayette Square because I didn't know what to say. I've written about Shorty before -- it's already obvious that I have a giant-sized jones for Shorty, that I'm crushing on him in a big way, unseemly in a woman nearly 60 years old.
But hey, it's not just me. Big Man and arrived a full 45 minutes early, and still there was a big crowd already there ahead of us. The young man has serious fans in NOLA; we're all about as proud of him as if we'd all given birth to him (and I guess in a metaphorical way, we did). There were people of all ages, literally -- a young mom went past our chairs with a very new baby in a chest carrier, the baby's ears protected from loud music by bright pink headphones, and in front of us was a grandma and grandpa, shaking their booties to Shorty's music. By the time the concert actually started, the crowd had doubled in size, and when Shorty took the stage, maybe half again. It was PACKED, and every single one of us, despite outward differences of age, race, education, and career options, were grooving hard and screaming our lungs out. (I had a slight sore throat after the concert, and my heart was beating so fast I felt dizzy.)
The level of musicianship was phenomenal. At one point, I turned to Big Man and asked, "Could you play that?" and he said, "Sure! It wouldn't sound as good, but I could play it." Trumpet or trombone, young Troy played like the consummate pro he is, with brilliance and verve. His vocals are more than serviceable and he knows how to put a song across to the audience. (SUCH as contrast to the shy diffident teenaged boy we spoke to at the Clifford Brown Jazz Festival in Wilmington, Delaware, all those years ago!) He has tremendous stage presence. His original songs are catchy an sexy and soulful. And his horn playing almost literally blows you away.
Why Troy Andrews is not a huge national star by now, I just don't know. But he is surely on the verge of major stardom -- it's just a matter of time.
If you have not heard Trombone Shorty, you need to. Go get his new CD, "For True" (as he said Wednesday night, "It's like we say in New Orleans, f'true"). And if you are lucky enough to have a chance to see him in person, by all means, GO!
But hey, it's not just me. Big Man and arrived a full 45 minutes early, and still there was a big crowd already there ahead of us. The young man has serious fans in NOLA; we're all about as proud of him as if we'd all given birth to him (and I guess in a metaphorical way, we did). There were people of all ages, literally -- a young mom went past our chairs with a very new baby in a chest carrier, the baby's ears protected from loud music by bright pink headphones, and in front of us was a grandma and grandpa, shaking their booties to Shorty's music. By the time the concert actually started, the crowd had doubled in size, and when Shorty took the stage, maybe half again. It was PACKED, and every single one of us, despite outward differences of age, race, education, and career options, were grooving hard and screaming our lungs out. (I had a slight sore throat after the concert, and my heart was beating so fast I felt dizzy.)
The level of musicianship was phenomenal. At one point, I turned to Big Man and asked, "Could you play that?" and he said, "Sure! It wouldn't sound as good, but I could play it." Trumpet or trombone, young Troy played like the consummate pro he is, with brilliance and verve. His vocals are more than serviceable and he knows how to put a song across to the audience. (SUCH as contrast to the shy diffident teenaged boy we spoke to at the Clifford Brown Jazz Festival in Wilmington, Delaware, all those years ago!) He has tremendous stage presence. His original songs are catchy an sexy and soulful. And his horn playing almost literally blows you away.
Why Troy Andrews is not a huge national star by now, I just don't know. But he is surely on the verge of major stardom -- it's just a matter of time.
If you have not heard Trombone Shorty, you need to. Go get his new CD, "For True" (as he said Wednesday night, "It's like we say in New Orleans, f'true"). And if you are lucky enough to have a chance to see him in person, by all means, GO!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Our Anniversary Dinner at Méson 923
Big Man and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary in a strange way -- we worked together on another couple's wedding ceremony! It was the first time we had done that, but we plan to do more, as soon as we get our joint website up and running, me doing the custom service and him doing the music.
On Saturday, after the wedding rehearsal, we decided, a little last minute, to go out to dinner for our anniversary. We thought of a couple of places that would be delicious and impressive and romantic, and made a couple of calls. No dice. There must have been some kind of big convention in town or something, because every place we called was either all booked up or would seat us at or after 9:30 pm. We were looking to eat at around 8-ish, so that was out.
Using my iPhone's Zagat app (and thanks again, Steve Jobs!), I found a place in the Warehouse District about 6 or so blocks from our house. It was called Méson 923, at 923 South Peters Street. It had extraordinary reviews online, and the restaurant website made everything look heavenly. What the hey, I thought, and even though I had never heard of it before I booked us a table for 8 pm, and made sure to say it was our wedding anniversary. (Look, you have to tell a restaurant when it's your special day or a special occasion; they love that and they'll always make a special fuss over you and comp something.)
It being a lovely breezy evening, Big Man and I strolled over, taking our time and talking the whole way. We arrived and found the place with its elegant gas-lit sign and door on the corner. As you enter, you are in the tiny bar with its high stools and a few scattered high tables with stools set around. (On the bar was a small red notice that the restaurant had been chosen as one of the Zagat Top Ten Restaurants in America in 2010 -- What?? Why have I never heard of them?)
They have the ubiquitous flat-screen TV over the bar but the volume was muted, so there was no disturbance. To the left, over a pony wall, is the little dining room, which has one showplace booth that seats about 6, and then about 6 or 7 other tables (yes, it's a tiny place). The walls of the bar and dining room are a soft muted and mottled silver, faintly metallic but not shiny or tacky. There's a long high horizontal window into the kitchen, which gives a partial, and thus mysterious, view into the goings-on in there. Everything you could see in the kitchen, however, was spotless; I told Big Man, cleaner than our kitchen at home by far. He said, "I hope so!"
Our table for two had a view of everything, and we had two waitpersons -- one, seeming familiar to Big Man, turned out to have worked in the past at the old J'Anita's on Magazine Street (which I've blogged about before) and she is even friends with Craig and Kimmie. So it was like old-home week at our table and our service was attentive and on-the-spot throughout our delicious dinner.
And delicious it certainly was! An amuse bouche was brought to us right away, and it was a tiny portion of salmon tartar in a spicy sauce. It was so great, we wondered if anyone had ever ordered it as a full appetizer. We tried 2 of their signature starters, the cold carpaccio with the fried poached egg and caviar and the hot seared scallops with corn relish, and both were absolutely perfect. In the former, the raw beef was sliced so thin we could not figure out how they did it -- however in the world did they do the slicing so fine, and then manage to transfer the slices so perfectly to the plate? On top of that, as literally on top of the slices of beef, was the lightly fried, perfectly oval-shaped poached egg, still runny on the inside, with a small spoonful of caviar as the icing on the cake. So how do you poach and egg and then fry it -- and still have the yolk be liquid? It was a complete mystery. Big Man said, "You know it's a terrific dish if you have no idea how they did it." The scallops were golden brown on both sides and yet still translucent on the the inside.
For entrees, Big Man simply could not choose between the red fish and the filet with crabmeat and told Jessica, our server, to just surprise him. I ordered the slow-roasted duck breast. Jess picked the filet for the Big Man (he looked like a beef-eater to her) and it was superb, with giant lumps of fresh crabmeat over a nice-sized filet, perfectly grilled to medium rare, with grilled asparagus. My duck breast was roasted also to medium rare, and served over a polenta concoction -- it all melted in my mouth and was so delicious! We oohed and aahed, and traded our plates back and forth, til everything was gone. (Our other waiter came over and, looking at the scrubbed plates, inquired with a straight face, "Are you done with that?")
Since portions had been been nicely calibrated we decided we did have room for dessert. Big Man ordered the goat cheese cake with home-made graham cracker crumb crust, and I got the chocolate mousse something-or-other with an eensy dollop of passion fruit sorbet on the side, with cappucinos. Simply put, both desserts were like eating heaven.
With the restaurant thoughtfully comping one of our desserts for our anniversary, me having 2 gingery cocktails (a house specialty), and the great food and great service, our bill came to under $150. We think such a 5-star meal was worth every single penny, and we will definitely recommend Méson 923 to all our family and friends with an occasion to celebrate. Remember this chef: Mr. Baruch Rabasa -- you are gonna hear a lot about him very soon!
On Saturday, after the wedding rehearsal, we decided, a little last minute, to go out to dinner for our anniversary. We thought of a couple of places that would be delicious and impressive and romantic, and made a couple of calls. No dice. There must have been some kind of big convention in town or something, because every place we called was either all booked up or would seat us at or after 9:30 pm. We were looking to eat at around 8-ish, so that was out.
Using my iPhone's Zagat app (and thanks again, Steve Jobs!), I found a place in the Warehouse District about 6 or so blocks from our house. It was called Méson 923, at 923 South Peters Street. It had extraordinary reviews online, and the restaurant website made everything look heavenly. What the hey, I thought, and even though I had never heard of it before I booked us a table for 8 pm, and made sure to say it was our wedding anniversary. (Look, you have to tell a restaurant when it's your special day or a special occasion; they love that and they'll always make a special fuss over you and comp something.)
It being a lovely breezy evening, Big Man and I strolled over, taking our time and talking the whole way. We arrived and found the place with its elegant gas-lit sign and door on the corner. As you enter, you are in the tiny bar with its high stools and a few scattered high tables with stools set around. (On the bar was a small red notice that the restaurant had been chosen as one of the Zagat Top Ten Restaurants in America in 2010 -- What?? Why have I never heard of them?)
They have the ubiquitous flat-screen TV over the bar but the volume was muted, so there was no disturbance. To the left, over a pony wall, is the little dining room, which has one showplace booth that seats about 6, and then about 6 or 7 other tables (yes, it's a tiny place). The walls of the bar and dining room are a soft muted and mottled silver, faintly metallic but not shiny or tacky. There's a long high horizontal window into the kitchen, which gives a partial, and thus mysterious, view into the goings-on in there. Everything you could see in the kitchen, however, was spotless; I told Big Man, cleaner than our kitchen at home by far. He said, "I hope so!"
Our table for two had a view of everything, and we had two waitpersons -- one, seeming familiar to Big Man, turned out to have worked in the past at the old J'Anita's on Magazine Street (which I've blogged about before) and she is even friends with Craig and Kimmie. So it was like old-home week at our table and our service was attentive and on-the-spot throughout our delicious dinner.
And delicious it certainly was! An amuse bouche was brought to us right away, and it was a tiny portion of salmon tartar in a spicy sauce. It was so great, we wondered if anyone had ever ordered it as a full appetizer. We tried 2 of their signature starters, the cold carpaccio with the fried poached egg and caviar and the hot seared scallops with corn relish, and both were absolutely perfect. In the former, the raw beef was sliced so thin we could not figure out how they did it -- however in the world did they do the slicing so fine, and then manage to transfer the slices so perfectly to the plate? On top of that, as literally on top of the slices of beef, was the lightly fried, perfectly oval-shaped poached egg, still runny on the inside, with a small spoonful of caviar as the icing on the cake. So how do you poach and egg and then fry it -- and still have the yolk be liquid? It was a complete mystery. Big Man said, "You know it's a terrific dish if you have no idea how they did it." The scallops were golden brown on both sides and yet still translucent on the the inside.
For entrees, Big Man simply could not choose between the red fish and the filet with crabmeat and told Jessica, our server, to just surprise him. I ordered the slow-roasted duck breast. Jess picked the filet for the Big Man (he looked like a beef-eater to her) and it was superb, with giant lumps of fresh crabmeat over a nice-sized filet, perfectly grilled to medium rare, with grilled asparagus. My duck breast was roasted also to medium rare, and served over a polenta concoction -- it all melted in my mouth and was so delicious! We oohed and aahed, and traded our plates back and forth, til everything was gone. (Our other waiter came over and, looking at the scrubbed plates, inquired with a straight face, "Are you done with that?")
Since portions had been been nicely calibrated we decided we did have room for dessert. Big Man ordered the goat cheese cake with home-made graham cracker crumb crust, and I got the chocolate mousse something-or-other with an eensy dollop of passion fruit sorbet on the side, with cappucinos. Simply put, both desserts were like eating heaven.
With the restaurant thoughtfully comping one of our desserts for our anniversary, me having 2 gingery cocktails (a house specialty), and the great food and great service, our bill came to under $150. We think such a 5-star meal was worth every single penny, and we will definitely recommend Méson 923 to all our family and friends with an occasion to celebrate. Remember this chef: Mr. Baruch Rabasa -- you are gonna hear a lot about him very soon!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Remembering Steve Jobs
First thing I thought of when I heard Steve Jobs had died was how my son S would take the news. S has been an Apple fan and a Mac techie since he was small, and so Steve Jobs has been his hero, almost his idol, ever since. I soon found out that S had taken the news hard, almost as though he had lost a friend, almost a family member.
My second thought was of that damn Tandy computer that was the first computer I ever had to deal with. It was grossly ugly -- and I know that shouldn't have mattered, but it was offensively unattractive -- and there was no way a normal person could memorize all the commands to get it to do anything with a word processor or a database. I had to keep a 8x11 "cheat sheet" under the keyboard -- well, actually, while I was using the computer, the sheet had to be out on the desk all the time -- with every single gobbledy-gook command on it. Computers would have gone nowhere without Steve Jobs. Do you really think people would want them in their homes and carry them everywhere if they stayed like that?
I remember the very first Mac I bought. We brought the box home in the afternoon, and I had a paper due in a seminary class that evening. We unpacked it and set it up, using the clear line drawing diagram, no directions or special instructions or anything. We hooked it up, plugged it in, turned it on, loaded in the application disks that came with it, and there it was. I sat down -- again, no instructions of any kind -- and wrote the paper from my notes, edited it, and printed it out. Slam-bang, it was done. That's all there was to it. Nothing to learn or memorize or cheat sheets to print out and keep handy.
That was the computer that S as a toddler first played with, and countless seminary and legal papers were completed on it. From there we graduated to even better computers, and later to iBooks and PowerBooks and the great colored iMacs and then the big screen iMac, and even the Mac Mini at the church office. When I got my first iPhone, Big Man gave me hell, telling people they would remove the iPhone from my "cold, dead hand." When he later got his own iPhone, I discreetly refrained from saying, "Told ya!" (Do not even ask me how many iPhone apps I have, I'd be embarrassed to say.) The iPad is so amazing we fight over it. ("Gimme! It's my turn!" "No, I'm not done!" Give it back!") Can't wait to get my own.
I read in the New York Times on Sunday -- and sent to my son S -- an essay about how Apple products fire up the same area of the brain as beloved family members or partners. It's like we LOVE our Apples stuff. The writer also said that as an experiment, he gave Blackberries to a group of babies between the ages of 14 and 22 months, and every single one of them tried to scrape their little fingers across the screens, like an iPhone, instead of trying to use those stupid teensy keys. Steve Jobs has changed everything.
We send our sympathy to the Jobs family and to the Apple family as well, which includes my son S at the Apple Store in Atlanta. Steve Jobs changed the lives of all of us, even those benighted people who haven't yet purchased an Apple product. (Although, please, what the heck are they waiting for??) Because of his innovations and creativity, every single tech company in the world had to change what they did and how they did it. Deny it all they want, all the other computer companies attempt to copy Apple's ease of use, intuitive processes, and try -- and fail -- to copy Apple's elegance and design savvy. We're all changed now.
I am grateful for how Apple products have improved my life, made lots of things more enjoyable, connected me with family and friends near and far, helped me do all my work better, brought more creativity and fun into my life, helped me to hold onto and savor precious memories, and gave me my favorite music to bring wherever I go.
Thank you, Steve Jobs, for everything, and I can't wait for my new iPhone and iPad.
My second thought was of that damn Tandy computer that was the first computer I ever had to deal with. It was grossly ugly -- and I know that shouldn't have mattered, but it was offensively unattractive -- and there was no way a normal person could memorize all the commands to get it to do anything with a word processor or a database. I had to keep a 8x11 "cheat sheet" under the keyboard -- well, actually, while I was using the computer, the sheet had to be out on the desk all the time -- with every single gobbledy-gook command on it. Computers would have gone nowhere without Steve Jobs. Do you really think people would want them in their homes and carry them everywhere if they stayed like that?
I remember the very first Mac I bought. We brought the box home in the afternoon, and I had a paper due in a seminary class that evening. We unpacked it and set it up, using the clear line drawing diagram, no directions or special instructions or anything. We hooked it up, plugged it in, turned it on, loaded in the application disks that came with it, and there it was. I sat down -- again, no instructions of any kind -- and wrote the paper from my notes, edited it, and printed it out. Slam-bang, it was done. That's all there was to it. Nothing to learn or memorize or cheat sheets to print out and keep handy.
That was the computer that S as a toddler first played with, and countless seminary and legal papers were completed on it. From there we graduated to even better computers, and later to iBooks and PowerBooks and the great colored iMacs and then the big screen iMac, and even the Mac Mini at the church office. When I got my first iPhone, Big Man gave me hell, telling people they would remove the iPhone from my "cold, dead hand." When he later got his own iPhone, I discreetly refrained from saying, "Told ya!" (Do not even ask me how many iPhone apps I have, I'd be embarrassed to say.) The iPad is so amazing we fight over it. ("Gimme! It's my turn!" "No, I'm not done!" Give it back!") Can't wait to get my own.
I read in the New York Times on Sunday -- and sent to my son S -- an essay about how Apple products fire up the same area of the brain as beloved family members or partners. It's like we LOVE our Apples stuff. The writer also said that as an experiment, he gave Blackberries to a group of babies between the ages of 14 and 22 months, and every single one of them tried to scrape their little fingers across the screens, like an iPhone, instead of trying to use those stupid teensy keys. Steve Jobs has changed everything.
We send our sympathy to the Jobs family and to the Apple family as well, which includes my son S at the Apple Store in Atlanta. Steve Jobs changed the lives of all of us, even those benighted people who haven't yet purchased an Apple product. (Although, please, what the heck are they waiting for??) Because of his innovations and creativity, every single tech company in the world had to change what they did and how they did it. Deny it all they want, all the other computer companies attempt to copy Apple's ease of use, intuitive processes, and try -- and fail -- to copy Apple's elegance and design savvy. We're all changed now.
I am grateful for how Apple products have improved my life, made lots of things more enjoyable, connected me with family and friends near and far, helped me do all my work better, brought more creativity and fun into my life, helped me to hold onto and savor precious memories, and gave me my favorite music to bring wherever I go.
Thank you, Steve Jobs, for everything, and I can't wait for my new iPhone and iPad.
Festival Season Arrives
Finally, the weather has turned in belle NOLA and it is Fall and the festival season is full upon us. Thank God for both!
Of course, fall weather is relative. When we New Orleanians say that, we mean the high temperature only goes up to maybe 80 degrees (only!), and it cools down at night to the low 60s (high 50s across the Lake). Don't even write in to tell me -- we already know that it would not be considered fall anywhere else, but for us it's a sweet relief. You get to lower your air conditioning usage or even turn it off altogether. You get to walk around without sweltering. You get to break out of storage your long-sleeved clothing. (Although the young person in line in front of me this morning at Village Coffee on Freret Street (recommended!) made quite a contrast to me, with their long-sleeved sweater-hoddie pulled up over their head -- and me in a sleeveless dress! C'mon, it's not cold yet! (I do have a light shawl on hand for tonight's Harvest the Music concert with Soul Queen Irma Thomas at Lafayette Square. It's reasonable to expect a slight chill after the sun goes down, but a hoodie?? That young person must have been born in equatorial realms to find this morning cold.)
Just as the barometer and thermometer turned to Fall, so did the festival calendar. We have entered the crazy season of competing festivals. Towards the end of September, folks had to choose between the Downtown Music Festival at Lafayette Square, the Alligator Festival (in Luling, under the bridge -- see the post from 2008 and just *double it*), the Magnolia Mound Cajun Festival (in Baton Rouge), the Swamp Pop Festival in Covington, the annual St. Augustine High School Fair, and various church fairs with fabulous food and entertainment. Big Man and I made the decision to go to the Gator Fest, 'cause we love it and adore the food (and they've done a great job upgrading the festival grounds and simplifying the parking); we tried to squeeze in the Gospel Soul Children at the Downtown Fest the same day but didn't have the energy (the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak). And may the Force of the Universe please forgive me for eating the absolutely fabulous and sinful chicken-fried bacon sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with spicy home-made pear chutney. OMG.
As October came upon us, there was Art for Art's Sake up and down Magazine Street (with free shuttles!), and several festivals worth driving to in small Cajun towns. This upcoming weekend is another jam-up. Every fall Wednesday is Harvest the Music at Lafayette Square to benefit Second Harvest for local hungry and homeless people. (And if you're thinking that Lafayette Square is becoming free music central, you'd be right!) Then starting on Friday, there's the Gretna Heritage Festival, this year with actual ethnic categories for music (in a good way, y'all!), the Bridge City Gumbo Festival (OMG), Voice of the Wetlands in Houma, Japan Fest at the Museum (they didn't have much food last year, hope that changes), Carnaval Latino at Mardi Gras World, and Gentilly Fest. Plus, the new Oktoberfest in the Deutshes Haus temporary location starts up. I'm exhausted just looking at the list.
Nothing to be done about it, except get enough sleep, eat lightly when you're not festing, and get out there and pass yourself a good time, yeah!
Of course, fall weather is relative. When we New Orleanians say that, we mean the high temperature only goes up to maybe 80 degrees (only!), and it cools down at night to the low 60s (high 50s across the Lake). Don't even write in to tell me -- we already know that it would not be considered fall anywhere else, but for us it's a sweet relief. You get to lower your air conditioning usage or even turn it off altogether. You get to walk around without sweltering. You get to break out of storage your long-sleeved clothing. (Although the young person in line in front of me this morning at Village Coffee on Freret Street (recommended!) made quite a contrast to me, with their long-sleeved sweater-hoddie pulled up over their head -- and me in a sleeveless dress! C'mon, it's not cold yet! (I do have a light shawl on hand for tonight's Harvest the Music concert with Soul Queen Irma Thomas at Lafayette Square. It's reasonable to expect a slight chill after the sun goes down, but a hoodie?? That young person must have been born in equatorial realms to find this morning cold.)
Just as the barometer and thermometer turned to Fall, so did the festival calendar. We have entered the crazy season of competing festivals. Towards the end of September, folks had to choose between the Downtown Music Festival at Lafayette Square, the Alligator Festival (in Luling, under the bridge -- see the post from 2008 and just *double it*), the Magnolia Mound Cajun Festival (in Baton Rouge), the Swamp Pop Festival in Covington, the annual St. Augustine High School Fair, and various church fairs with fabulous food and entertainment. Big Man and I made the decision to go to the Gator Fest, 'cause we love it and adore the food (and they've done a great job upgrading the festival grounds and simplifying the parking); we tried to squeeze in the Gospel Soul Children at the Downtown Fest the same day but didn't have the energy (the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak). And may the Force of the Universe please forgive me for eating the absolutely fabulous and sinful chicken-fried bacon sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with spicy home-made pear chutney. OMG.
As October came upon us, there was Art for Art's Sake up and down Magazine Street (with free shuttles!), and several festivals worth driving to in small Cajun towns. This upcoming weekend is another jam-up. Every fall Wednesday is Harvest the Music at Lafayette Square to benefit Second Harvest for local hungry and homeless people. (And if you're thinking that Lafayette Square is becoming free music central, you'd be right!) Then starting on Friday, there's the Gretna Heritage Festival, this year with actual ethnic categories for music (in a good way, y'all!), the Bridge City Gumbo Festival (OMG), Voice of the Wetlands in Houma, Japan Fest at the Museum (they didn't have much food last year, hope that changes), Carnaval Latino at Mardi Gras World, and Gentilly Fest. Plus, the new Oktoberfest in the Deutshes Haus temporary location starts up. I'm exhausted just looking at the list.
Nothing to be done about it, except get enough sleep, eat lightly when you're not festing, and get out there and pass yourself a good time, yeah!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Remembering Wardell Quezergue
I tried several times to write about the great Wardell Quezergue (and nobody should EVER say or write his name ever again without putting "the great" in front of it) after learning of his death on September 6, but found myself stymied by having far too much to say. Let's just stipulate that if you love New Orleans rhythm & blues of the 1940s, '50s, and '60s, especially the slew of hits churned out by Cosimo Matassa's J & M Studios, then you already are a fan of Wardell Quezergue (pronounced, for you outlanders, as "kuh-zhair") and you didn't even know it. If truth is told in the history of rock'n'roll, then someday Wardell will get credit for putting horns in rock.
Whenever some musician or other artist dies, people always say, "This was a genius" but it was really true in Wardell's case. He started off on trumpet, and played his first professional gigs as a teenager, but his real talents lay elsewhere. He was a composer and arranger par excellence, and apparently he heard music in his head all the time. Here's the kicker: he wrote all his songs and his Creole Mass and his horn charts and song arrangements using a tuning fork. I kid you not, he used a tuning fork, it's well known. Amazing.
If you seek a list of his credits, that won't be possible, because so many times back in the day he wasn't credited. But even what is available to be marveled at is more than impressive. One online discography put his output (albums, singles, and compilations) at over 200; for comparison, the list for another famous "Q" Quincy Jones is 157. The list of great bands and vocalist who worked with him sounds like a who's who of New Orleans -- and national -- music. (Indeed, at his funeral at Corpus Christi Catholic Church on September 12th, Big Man whispered to me that if anything untoward happened, music would be wiped out in the city and much of the country.)
Of the famous non-family members who were present at his service, Dr. John seemed the most choked up. Deacon John offered a sweet and funny remembrance. Many of us felt that the Neville Brothers and Allen Toussaint were conspicuous by their absence. (However, Cyrille Neville and his nephew Ivan Neville were there.) Since Big Man and I were sitting (with songwriter and poet Ron Cuccia, my son's parain, and the immortal author of "My Darlin' New Orleans") about the middle of the church, I couldn't see everyone, since it would have been rude for me to turn all the around and see who's sitting behind me, here's a partial list of the talent present at the service:
It was a beautiful, moving service, and we were glad to be there. (Big Man has all kinds of regrets that he never got a chance to work with Wardell.) Wardell's final opus will be released later this year, and I recommend everyone go out and buy it.
A nephew of Wardell's wrote a poem about his uncle, who in later years lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. It was called, "Close your eyes and see." So close your eyes, listen to some of Wardell's great recordings, and see what real genius sounds like.
We miss you already, Wardell.
Whenever some musician or other artist dies, people always say, "This was a genius" but it was really true in Wardell's case. He started off on trumpet, and played his first professional gigs as a teenager, but his real talents lay elsewhere. He was a composer and arranger par excellence, and apparently he heard music in his head all the time. Here's the kicker: he wrote all his songs and his Creole Mass and his horn charts and song arrangements using a tuning fork. I kid you not, he used a tuning fork, it's well known. Amazing.
If you seek a list of his credits, that won't be possible, because so many times back in the day he wasn't credited. But even what is available to be marveled at is more than impressive. One online discography put his output (albums, singles, and compilations) at over 200; for comparison, the list for another famous "Q" Quincy Jones is 157. The list of great bands and vocalist who worked with him sounds like a who's who of New Orleans -- and national -- music. (Indeed, at his funeral at Corpus Christi Catholic Church on September 12th, Big Man whispered to me that if anything untoward happened, music would be wiped out in the city and much of the country.)
Of the famous non-family members who were present at his service, Dr. John seemed the most choked up. Deacon John offered a sweet and funny remembrance. Many of us felt that the Neville Brothers and Allen Toussaint were conspicuous by their absence. (However, Cyrille Neville and his nephew Ivan Neville were there.) Since Big Man and I were sitting (with songwriter and poet Ron Cuccia, my son's parain, and the immortal author of "My Darlin' New Orleans") about the middle of the church, I couldn't see everyone, since it would have been rude for me to turn all the around and see who's sitting behind me, here's a partial list of the talent present at the service:
Dave Bartholemew (older even than Wardell and from his wheelchair, he actually played his trumpet for one tribute song)
Coco Robichaux (who performed some kind of voodoo ritual over the casket with an eagle wing)
Dave Torchinowski
Amasa Miller
Holley Bendtsen of the Pfister Sisters
Davell Crawford
Jo "Cool" Davis (who contributed several gospel tunes to the musical tribute)
Kermit Ruffins
Jean Knight
Dorothy Moore
Doc Paulin
Dooky Chase
Dooky Chase Jr.
Greg Kline of Bonerama
It was a beautiful, moving service, and we were glad to be there. (Big Man has all kinds of regrets that he never got a chance to work with Wardell.) Wardell's final opus will be released later this year, and I recommend everyone go out and buy it.
A nephew of Wardell's wrote a poem about his uncle, who in later years lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. It was called, "Close your eyes and see." So close your eyes, listen to some of Wardell's great recordings, and see what real genius sounds like.
We miss you already, Wardell.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
After the Storm
Today is second day after Tropical Storm Lee blew through here, in a ragged series of bands that left open spaces of hours at a time when you could see sunshine and a bit of blue sky through all the grey clouds. Today, like yesterday, is a beautiful day, clear blue skies, no clouds, low humidity, sunshine, and temperatures in the 70s. Everyone is saying if every storm brought this kind of weather, we'd gladly have more storms. (Not really, but it's the kind of thing that folks say.)
It started raining on Thursday morning. I thought the rain and the coming storm would mean the cancellation -- once again -- of the Army Corps of Engineers New Orleans clergy tour of the improved flood system, but apparently the Corps was just as tired of canceling and rescheduling as clergy were. So we all climbed into the bus in the drizzle, and were driven first way out into New Orleans East, to view the new fortifications on Bayou Bienvenu. This involved climbing up a steep new levee, so new it had only grass seeds and no grass and, with all the rain, it was basically a mud levee. Everyone got back on the bus with caked-on river mud on their shoes. And if you've ever dealt with river mud, you know that stuff's not coming off, not any time soon, not without a LOT of effort. Pretty soon, that bus was looking pretty sorry.
The next stop was the gigantic hole in the waterway being worked on under the Seabrook Bridge. They evidently had to pump out millions and millions of gallons of water to get down under there. When they are finished constructing the underwater gate system, they will let the water back in by pulling up the temporary metal wall they sank in to hold it back while the work was going on. I sure would like to be there *that* day!
As the tour went on, the rain kept on coming down. At 4:30 pm, when they dropped us off back at the Lakeview Community Center, it was still lightly raining. (Not enough to clean off my shoes, I can tell you that.) That evening I attended an event for the Human Rights Coalition at Tulane University, and the story was the same -- steady, if somewhat light, rain fell the whole time. While I was there, I got an alert on my phone about Tropical Storm Lee and went home to discuss with Big Man our possible preparations.
Friday morning, it was raining pretty hard, and had rained all Thursday night. Big Man declined to move the patio furniture, thinking it wasn't that big of a deal wind-wise, but agreed to get emergency groceries to supplement our supplies. Yeah, us, and the rest of New Orleans. The Walmart parking lot was packed; it looked like they were giving stuff away, which of course they weren't. We continued on to Rouse's where the scene was somewhat better, but we found out why when we entered, dripping wet from the soaking we got.
Many of the shelves of storm-staples were already picked clean. White bread was nearly all gone -- luckily, we don't eat white bread, so there was still plenty of the whole-wheat, heavy-fiber stuff we eat. The battery aisle was picked clean; good thing I had already stocked up, mainly because our new battery storage cabinet makes me feel bad if there are too many empty spaces. Rouse's had just restocked the gallon water jugs, so we were OK there too, picking up another 3 to go with the one left over from the last storm stock-up. To get to the tuna fish cans that were left you had to reach back into the shelf, but we did find some there. We decided on 2 big bags of ice in case electricity went out and we needed to keep things cold. We also got some rawhide chews to help calm Keely our dog. (Storms make her nervous and nervous makes her chewy.)
It rained all of Friday, sometimes very hard indeed. Church leaders began discussions of whether or not to cancel services on Sunday. After all, our corner floods during heavy regular rains, let alone days and days of tropical storm. It rained all Friday night and was raining when we woke up on Saturday. Big Man made some phone calls as soon as he was up, fearing that the shrimp boil he was scheduled to pay for had been cancelled, but no, the house owner had decided it was Tropical Storm Lee and Labor Day Weekend Shrimp Boil, so it was still on. (Maybe he figured he had already bought the shrimp and all, so...) Meanwhile, I frantically made phone calls and emails, to alert church members and the public that the Sunday service was definitely cancelled.
The party was a strange affair. It was held in a recently renovated shotgun off Freret Street, with a makeshift deck covered with a tarp. The renovation was clearly done by a man, for men. For one thing, there were not enough electric outlets, the floor had been highly polyurethaned, like a gym floor (which I guess was helpful, because they had all the windows on the yard house open, and the floor was soaking wet), and the kitchen had a high eat-on counter made of recycled wood that had 2 things wrong with it: it was too high to prep on and it was unfinished on the underside (I know, 'cause I got a nasty splinter from it). Another sign of careless masculine-flavored renovation was the bathroom, with its shiny corrugated metal wall on one side, the multi-toned slate tile on the other walls and floor, the fancy bowl-type sink -- and the plain old regulation rub. And there was no lock on the bathroom door, really. (Really?)
The resident(s), whoever they were (it was never clear to me), had moved nearly all the living room furniture into the back bedroom to make room for the band, and so that's where they set up. It rained on and off all day (with the sun weirdly breaking through at one point as another one of the bands of Lee made it was across the city), but folks kept coming in and out, the windows wide open. The band got a break just as the first batch was done, and I have to say they were some of the biggest boiled shrimp I've ever had, even in a restaurant. They were well-seasoned too, and the boil included Manda's hot sausage (LOVE Manda's!), giant heads of garlic, lots of halved onions, stalks of celery, lemon halves, and corn on the cob (no new potatoes, though).
The band played from about 12:30 to a little after 5 pm (Big Man said that the horn was REALLY going to need cleaning after that, and it was TMI for me, UGH). The rain went back to hard teeming rain that evening, and pretty much rained all night, and all the next day, Sunday. Good thing we cancelled church. It then proceeded to rain all day Labor Day Monday as well.
We did not suffer. Except for a little blown rain around the upstairs dormer window, nothing leaked; our street didn't even flood as it sometimes does, and our electricity never went off. We were well-stocked, safe, and cozy, and we sure ate well. (I made stuffed merliton casserole with hot sausage, a meaty spaghetti sauce over angel hair pasta, and a beef and turkey meatloaf to try to work on that full freezer.) Some folks had more trouble than we did -- water on first floors in parts of Jefferson and Plaquemines Parishes, as well as on Madeville's lakefront; street flooding around the city in low-lying neighborhoods, and lots and lots of trees got "trimmed"by the storm, and some trees got knocked over. But all in all, all of us were lucky. Could've been a lot worse.
When Tuesday came up cool and beautiful, it was like a gift. And then today as well.
It started raining on Thursday morning. I thought the rain and the coming storm would mean the cancellation -- once again -- of the Army Corps of Engineers New Orleans clergy tour of the improved flood system, but apparently the Corps was just as tired of canceling and rescheduling as clergy were. So we all climbed into the bus in the drizzle, and were driven first way out into New Orleans East, to view the new fortifications on Bayou Bienvenu. This involved climbing up a steep new levee, so new it had only grass seeds and no grass and, with all the rain, it was basically a mud levee. Everyone got back on the bus with caked-on river mud on their shoes. And if you've ever dealt with river mud, you know that stuff's not coming off, not any time soon, not without a LOT of effort. Pretty soon, that bus was looking pretty sorry.
The next stop was the gigantic hole in the waterway being worked on under the Seabrook Bridge. They evidently had to pump out millions and millions of gallons of water to get down under there. When they are finished constructing the underwater gate system, they will let the water back in by pulling up the temporary metal wall they sank in to hold it back while the work was going on. I sure would like to be there *that* day!
As the tour went on, the rain kept on coming down. At 4:30 pm, when they dropped us off back at the Lakeview Community Center, it was still lightly raining. (Not enough to clean off my shoes, I can tell you that.) That evening I attended an event for the Human Rights Coalition at Tulane University, and the story was the same -- steady, if somewhat light, rain fell the whole time. While I was there, I got an alert on my phone about Tropical Storm Lee and went home to discuss with Big Man our possible preparations.
Friday morning, it was raining pretty hard, and had rained all Thursday night. Big Man declined to move the patio furniture, thinking it wasn't that big of a deal wind-wise, but agreed to get emergency groceries to supplement our supplies. Yeah, us, and the rest of New Orleans. The Walmart parking lot was packed; it looked like they were giving stuff away, which of course they weren't. We continued on to Rouse's where the scene was somewhat better, but we found out why when we entered, dripping wet from the soaking we got.
Many of the shelves of storm-staples were already picked clean. White bread was nearly all gone -- luckily, we don't eat white bread, so there was still plenty of the whole-wheat, heavy-fiber stuff we eat. The battery aisle was picked clean; good thing I had already stocked up, mainly because our new battery storage cabinet makes me feel bad if there are too many empty spaces. Rouse's had just restocked the gallon water jugs, so we were OK there too, picking up another 3 to go with the one left over from the last storm stock-up. To get to the tuna fish cans that were left you had to reach back into the shelf, but we did find some there. We decided on 2 big bags of ice in case electricity went out and we needed to keep things cold. We also got some rawhide chews to help calm Keely our dog. (Storms make her nervous and nervous makes her chewy.)
It rained all of Friday, sometimes very hard indeed. Church leaders began discussions of whether or not to cancel services on Sunday. After all, our corner floods during heavy regular rains, let alone days and days of tropical storm. It rained all Friday night and was raining when we woke up on Saturday. Big Man made some phone calls as soon as he was up, fearing that the shrimp boil he was scheduled to pay for had been cancelled, but no, the house owner had decided it was Tropical Storm Lee and Labor Day Weekend Shrimp Boil, so it was still on. (Maybe he figured he had already bought the shrimp and all, so...) Meanwhile, I frantically made phone calls and emails, to alert church members and the public that the Sunday service was definitely cancelled.
The party was a strange affair. It was held in a recently renovated shotgun off Freret Street, with a makeshift deck covered with a tarp. The renovation was clearly done by a man, for men. For one thing, there were not enough electric outlets, the floor had been highly polyurethaned, like a gym floor (which I guess was helpful, because they had all the windows on the yard house open, and the floor was soaking wet), and the kitchen had a high eat-on counter made of recycled wood that had 2 things wrong with it: it was too high to prep on and it was unfinished on the underside (I know, 'cause I got a nasty splinter from it). Another sign of careless masculine-flavored renovation was the bathroom, with its shiny corrugated metal wall on one side, the multi-toned slate tile on the other walls and floor, the fancy bowl-type sink -- and the plain old regulation rub. And there was no lock on the bathroom door, really. (Really?)
The resident(s), whoever they were (it was never clear to me), had moved nearly all the living room furniture into the back bedroom to make room for the band, and so that's where they set up. It rained on and off all day (with the sun weirdly breaking through at one point as another one of the bands of Lee made it was across the city), but folks kept coming in and out, the windows wide open. The band got a break just as the first batch was done, and I have to say they were some of the biggest boiled shrimp I've ever had, even in a restaurant. They were well-seasoned too, and the boil included Manda's hot sausage (LOVE Manda's!), giant heads of garlic, lots of halved onions, stalks of celery, lemon halves, and corn on the cob (no new potatoes, though).
The band played from about 12:30 to a little after 5 pm (Big Man said that the horn was REALLY going to need cleaning after that, and it was TMI for me, UGH). The rain went back to hard teeming rain that evening, and pretty much rained all night, and all the next day, Sunday. Good thing we cancelled church. It then proceeded to rain all day Labor Day Monday as well.
We did not suffer. Except for a little blown rain around the upstairs dormer window, nothing leaked; our street didn't even flood as it sometimes does, and our electricity never went off. We were well-stocked, safe, and cozy, and we sure ate well. (I made stuffed merliton casserole with hot sausage, a meaty spaghetti sauce over angel hair pasta, and a beef and turkey meatloaf to try to work on that full freezer.) Some folks had more trouble than we did -- water on first floors in parts of Jefferson and Plaquemines Parishes, as well as on Madeville's lakefront; street flooding around the city in low-lying neighborhoods, and lots and lots of trees got "trimmed"by the storm, and some trees got knocked over. But all in all, all of us were lucky. Could've been a lot worse.
When Tuesday came up cool and beautiful, it was like a gift. And then today as well.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Fire in the Marshes
For several days now, everyone in the greater New Orleans area has been dealing with the smoke from the marsh fire way out in New Orleans East. Several things are working against us here -- one, it has been a drier than normal August; it seems like it's hardly rained at all since July (when it rained nearly every day). Two, the wind, whether influenced by Hurricane Irene or not, has been out of the northeast or east. And three, there's been a so-called "cold front" (don't you believe it) that has been pressing down on the city.
Thus, even though the brush fires (sparked, it is said, by lightning deep in the marsh) are far into the undeveloped area of New Orleans East, the smoke is being pushed over the whole city. In fact, Big Man and I went shopping on Monday out near Elmwood, which you might call New Orleans West, and the smoke was as dense and thick as if there were fires in Metairie. A parishioner of mine who went out on Tuesday morning to get her newspaper in her Uptown neighborhood (far to the south and west of the fires), at first thought one of her neighbors on Magazine Street might be burning, til she realized what it was.
Yesterday, it was so pervasive that I got a headache from working inside the church building. Several of my parishioners are coping with aggravated allergies, coughing and hacking. The local news media are full of stories urging all those respiratory ailments, the elderly and the very young to stay indoors for the duration. And the mayor called out the Air National Guard to water-bomb the fires, since downtown New Orleans had the visibility of like a foot in front of your face.
It's a little better today. We're all hoping for a big rainstorm, which they're predicting for this weekend. Keep your fingers crossed!
Thus, even though the brush fires (sparked, it is said, by lightning deep in the marsh) are far into the undeveloped area of New Orleans East, the smoke is being pushed over the whole city. In fact, Big Man and I went shopping on Monday out near Elmwood, which you might call New Orleans West, and the smoke was as dense and thick as if there were fires in Metairie. A parishioner of mine who went out on Tuesday morning to get her newspaper in her Uptown neighborhood (far to the south and west of the fires), at first thought one of her neighbors on Magazine Street might be burning, til she realized what it was.
Yesterday, it was so pervasive that I got a headache from working inside the church building. Several of my parishioners are coping with aggravated allergies, coughing and hacking. The local news media are full of stories urging all those respiratory ailments, the elderly and the very young to stay indoors for the duration. And the mayor called out the Air National Guard to water-bomb the fires, since downtown New Orleans had the visibility of like a foot in front of your face.
It's a little better today. We're all hoping for a big rainstorm, which they're predicting for this weekend. Keep your fingers crossed!
Kermit vs. Irwin
Last week Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street hosted a series of trumpet challenges to benefit local charities. The one to raise money for UNITY, the local umbrella organization for the homeless, was held on Wednesday evening. I promoted the event within the two congregations I serve, and Big Man and I made plans to attend, along with my sister L and her husband B.
We found free parking (with Big Man in the car, natch) only a few blocks away, though in the heat and humidity even just from Chartres to Bourbon seemed like a hike. We arrived in the lobby of the Sonesta at or near the time that had been advertised as when the doors would open, but of course everything was late. This is the kind of thing that used to drive Big Man absolutely nuts about New Orleans. (Once on his very first visit to the city, we waited more than an hour past the stated start time at Irma Thomas's old club in the pre-Katrina days. What really got to him was how nobody at the club seemed especially exercised about being so late.) My brother-in-law kept asking, 'Didn't they SAY they'd be open by now?" Well, yes, B, they did, but it doesn't mean anything.
About a half-hour past the "doors open" time, the doors did actually open. I asked the young man at the door about the seating policy, and he told me it was first-come, first-served for the available seating behind the reserved-only section in the very front that was for the folks who had paid $350 for the VIP tickets. I gave him my ticket and scooted past him to snag seats at the back corner banquette that faced the stage. The four of us ensconced ourselves there quite comfortably. As I've said before, I'm too old to stand the *the whole time* for a musical event.
We ordered drinks and B and L ordered from the surprisingly extensive and inexpensive (for the venue) menu (who knew?). L got the alligator sliders with thin onion rings and B got the bananas foster cheesecake. They shared these goodies with Big Man and I, and we all gave 'em a big thumbs-up.
Well, we're sitting there and sitting there and of course the show doesn't start at 8 pm. The place is really filling up, which is a good thing for UNITY, but it is tiresome waiting and not knowing when things will begin. (For those of you reading this, this is not meant to be representative of everything that goes on at Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse -- for all I know, they start strictly on time every single evening except for this one night. I don't really know, this was my first time there.)
Around 8:30 pm, Irvin and his band came out and they played a good set. If there were folks who thought it was simply going to be a trumpet battle, with Irvin and Kermit duking it out at the same time on the stage, then those folks were disappointed. Irvin and his combo did what seemed like a full set, with fast numbers and some ballads and some fine playing by Irvin, and also with Irvin doing some vocals. He seemed very relaxed and comfortable, which it seems he has gained over time, since there were certainly times in years past when he seemed technically great but very stiff and uncomfortable interacting with audiences.
Somewhere close to hour into Irvin's set, we saw from our vantage point near the door Kermit arriving, so obviously he hadn't been there earlier. Irvin called Troy Andrews, better known as Trombone Shorty, to the stage, and Shorty blew soulfully for a tune or two. Then Irvin came back on, and the set ended without Kermit taking the stage, and Irvin announcing there would be a break before Kermit came on. That just about did it for L and B, who are not late-night people, and who had thought they'd be seeing both trumpeters on-stage together from the git-go. (Plus, they said they would have enjoyed it more if Irvin had just blew and not sung. I enjoyed Irvin's vocals myself. Different strokes...) So they started calling for the check and asking me directions back to their car. (Geez, you go out the door of the Sonesta, turn left, take the first left, and go 2 blocks to Chartres and there you are. How hard is that?)
Big Man excused himself and came back a few minutes later from the Men's Room with a full report -- he had run into Kermit in there, and had asked him if he was still playing a Jupiter. (Jupiter was a company that used to make student horns almost exclusively, but had recently been manufacturing professional models. We had seen Kermit playing one in the recent past.) Kermit told Big Man someone had stolen his Jupiter, and that he had just gotten this new trumpet -- which he held out to Big Man to look at. To Big Man's utter amazement, it was a Harrelson trumpet. This is a super custom-made horn, with extra-heavy brackets and supposedly "ergonomic" finger rings. Damn things cost a veritable fortune, though not as much as a Monette (which custom brand both Irvin and Trombone Shorty usually play). Big Man said that Kermit was acting like he didn't know what he had, but who knows? Maybe he was just putting on a show for the trumpet groupie in the men's room. In any case, Kermit told Big Man he'd had it for all of like a half-hour, and had just had about 5 minutes worth of practice on it.
As a side light, just as a weird coincidence, Big Man ran into Tom Harrelson in the French Quarter during the Louis Armstrong Trumpet Fest, who told him he was delivering a trumpet to "some guy." Could it be??
If completely true, then Kermit's performance in the next few minutes was astounding. He blew that thing like he had had it for years, and put on a great show. The fact is, as any true New Orleans trumpet buff knows, in any trumpet contest between them, Irvin is going to be the better technical player, with triple-tonguing and trills and so on and so forth, and Kermit is going to be -- by far and away -- the better entertainer and crowd-pleaser. And so it was this evening. Kermit drew us like iron filings to a magnet, off our comfortable seats in the back, to come stand by the bar in the crowd and gawk at the stage. The man is a born entertainer. He just makes you happy, make you smile, makes you sing along -- which we all did, on the chorus of his famous Pops-tribute tune "The Viper."
Kermit called up a young woman singer from NOCCA (New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, a public school that one has to test to get into), who did a bang-up job on several standards. I wish I remembered her name, because I'm sure we'll all be hearing from her in the future. Judging from this girl and Sasha Masachowski, a recent grad, NOCCA does a helluva job on teaching jazz vocals.
Big Man and I stayed til about midnight, and Kermit was still going on, razzing Irvin occasionally where he was sitting stageside, but we still had not seen them both onstage at the same time. Dunno if they got to that later.
In terms of the contest, we give to Irvin on trumpet points, and to Kermit for giving us a good time. And we hope lots and lots of money was raised for UNITY.
We found free parking (with Big Man in the car, natch) only a few blocks away, though in the heat and humidity even just from Chartres to Bourbon seemed like a hike. We arrived in the lobby of the Sonesta at or near the time that had been advertised as when the doors would open, but of course everything was late. This is the kind of thing that used to drive Big Man absolutely nuts about New Orleans. (Once on his very first visit to the city, we waited more than an hour past the stated start time at Irma Thomas's old club in the pre-Katrina days. What really got to him was how nobody at the club seemed especially exercised about being so late.) My brother-in-law kept asking, 'Didn't they SAY they'd be open by now?" Well, yes, B, they did, but it doesn't mean anything.
About a half-hour past the "doors open" time, the doors did actually open. I asked the young man at the door about the seating policy, and he told me it was first-come, first-served for the available seating behind the reserved-only section in the very front that was for the folks who had paid $350 for the VIP tickets. I gave him my ticket and scooted past him to snag seats at the back corner banquette that faced the stage. The four of us ensconced ourselves there quite comfortably. As I've said before, I'm too old to stand the *the whole time* for a musical event.
We ordered drinks and B and L ordered from the surprisingly extensive and inexpensive (for the venue) menu (who knew?). L got the alligator sliders with thin onion rings and B got the bananas foster cheesecake. They shared these goodies with Big Man and I, and we all gave 'em a big thumbs-up.
Well, we're sitting there and sitting there and of course the show doesn't start at 8 pm. The place is really filling up, which is a good thing for UNITY, but it is tiresome waiting and not knowing when things will begin. (For those of you reading this, this is not meant to be representative of everything that goes on at Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse -- for all I know, they start strictly on time every single evening except for this one night. I don't really know, this was my first time there.)
Around 8:30 pm, Irvin and his band came out and they played a good set. If there were folks who thought it was simply going to be a trumpet battle, with Irvin and Kermit duking it out at the same time on the stage, then those folks were disappointed. Irvin and his combo did what seemed like a full set, with fast numbers and some ballads and some fine playing by Irvin, and also with Irvin doing some vocals. He seemed very relaxed and comfortable, which it seems he has gained over time, since there were certainly times in years past when he seemed technically great but very stiff and uncomfortable interacting with audiences.
Somewhere close to hour into Irvin's set, we saw from our vantage point near the door Kermit arriving, so obviously he hadn't been there earlier. Irvin called Troy Andrews, better known as Trombone Shorty, to the stage, and Shorty blew soulfully for a tune or two. Then Irvin came back on, and the set ended without Kermit taking the stage, and Irvin announcing there would be a break before Kermit came on. That just about did it for L and B, who are not late-night people, and who had thought they'd be seeing both trumpeters on-stage together from the git-go. (Plus, they said they would have enjoyed it more if Irvin had just blew and not sung. I enjoyed Irvin's vocals myself. Different strokes...) So they started calling for the check and asking me directions back to their car. (Geez, you go out the door of the Sonesta, turn left, take the first left, and go 2 blocks to Chartres and there you are. How hard is that?)
Big Man excused himself and came back a few minutes later from the Men's Room with a full report -- he had run into Kermit in there, and had asked him if he was still playing a Jupiter. (Jupiter was a company that used to make student horns almost exclusively, but had recently been manufacturing professional models. We had seen Kermit playing one in the recent past.) Kermit told Big Man someone had stolen his Jupiter, and that he had just gotten this new trumpet -- which he held out to Big Man to look at. To Big Man's utter amazement, it was a Harrelson trumpet. This is a super custom-made horn, with extra-heavy brackets and supposedly "ergonomic" finger rings. Damn things cost a veritable fortune, though not as much as a Monette (which custom brand both Irvin and Trombone Shorty usually play). Big Man said that Kermit was acting like he didn't know what he had, but who knows? Maybe he was just putting on a show for the trumpet groupie in the men's room. In any case, Kermit told Big Man he'd had it for all of like a half-hour, and had just had about 5 minutes worth of practice on it.
As a side light, just as a weird coincidence, Big Man ran into Tom Harrelson in the French Quarter during the Louis Armstrong Trumpet Fest, who told him he was delivering a trumpet to "some guy." Could it be??
If completely true, then Kermit's performance in the next few minutes was astounding. He blew that thing like he had had it for years, and put on a great show. The fact is, as any true New Orleans trumpet buff knows, in any trumpet contest between them, Irvin is going to be the better technical player, with triple-tonguing and trills and so on and so forth, and Kermit is going to be -- by far and away -- the better entertainer and crowd-pleaser. And so it was this evening. Kermit drew us like iron filings to a magnet, off our comfortable seats in the back, to come stand by the bar in the crowd and gawk at the stage. The man is a born entertainer. He just makes you happy, make you smile, makes you sing along -- which we all did, on the chorus of his famous Pops-tribute tune "The Viper."
Kermit called up a young woman singer from NOCCA (New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, a public school that one has to test to get into), who did a bang-up job on several standards. I wish I remembered her name, because I'm sure we'll all be hearing from her in the future. Judging from this girl and Sasha Masachowski, a recent grad, NOCCA does a helluva job on teaching jazz vocals.
Big Man and I stayed til about midnight, and Kermit was still going on, razzing Irvin occasionally where he was sitting stageside, but we still had not seen them both onstage at the same time. Dunno if they got to that later.
In terms of the contest, we give to Irvin on trumpet points, and to Kermit for giving us a good time. And we hope lots and lots of money was raised for UNITY.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Mayor Mitch on 60 Minutes
We New Orleanians have had a hard time over the past few years with television viewing. First it was all the Katrina news reports in 2005-6, then it was the Katrina follow-ups in 2006-7. Then there was Spike Lee's "When The Levees Broke" and its sequel, "God Willing and The Creek Don't Rise." Then there was the first season of HBO's locally-set "Tremé" series, which had us tearing up and crying almost every episode. (And you couldn't even leave town to get away from it -- in Wyoming, Big Man and I had to comfort a woman in an art gallery, sobbing over John Goodman's character's suicide).
Now, just when you thought it was safe to watch TV without tears, there's this emotional interview with New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu on CBS's "60 Minutes." Mayor Mitch stoutly took up for us, his city, in the face of outside criticism, declared he couldn't do his job without the people of the city doing theirs, and was filmed doing a creditable secondline dance.
Near the end of the interview, the reporter commented, "It sounds like you almost feel, well, like romantic about New Orleans..." and Mitch interrupted him. "Of course I do," he said, "it IS romantic!" Try watching your mayor declare his unashamed romantic love for his (lost, wounded, recovering, beautiful, fascinating) city, and not tear up.
Here it is on the "60 Minutes" website:
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-20075126-10391709.html?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1
Now, just when you thought it was safe to watch TV without tears, there's this emotional interview with New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu on CBS's "60 Minutes." Mayor Mitch stoutly took up for us, his city, in the face of outside criticism, declared he couldn't do his job without the people of the city doing theirs, and was filmed doing a creditable secondline dance.
Near the end of the interview, the reporter commented, "It sounds like you almost feel, well, like romantic about New Orleans..." and Mitch interrupted him. "Of course I do," he said, "it IS romantic!" Try watching your mayor declare his unashamed romantic love for his (lost, wounded, recovering, beautiful, fascinating) city, and not tear up.
Here it is on the "60 Minutes" website:
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-20075126-10391709.html?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Braxton's Restaurant in Gretna
Wow! Big Man and I want to urge everyone to make an extra effort, cross the river to Franklin Street in Gretna, and eat at this fabulous Creole restaurant, Braxton's. Located at 636 Franklin, in this converted and expanded shotgun house that has been transformed into a spacious double dining room and large elegant bar.
On the outside, there is a large covered front and side porch with ceiling fans, which I'm sure will be more usable and more used when the weather breaks sometime in the fall. Inside, the dining rooms go off to the left as you enter, and have comfortable chairs, white tablecloths, and attractive African-American-themed poster art hung on the walls. In one corner, there's a small stage where we were told they had a DJ once a week (but Big Man has certainly played on stages smaller than that). The bar is large and L-shaped, with a nice seating area in one corner, more of the art (I spotted a Josephine Baker art poster hung near the entrance), and lots and lots of padded bar stools. Playing at a comfortable audio level was some classic R&B from the 1960's ("Precious Baby, You're Mine" played while we were there).
We had read about their special, the Stormy Monday Blues Buffet, in the Gambit. It was advertised at $7.95 -- so we figured, not much to lose if we weren't crazy about it. So we drove over. It's easy to find, and there is some off-street parking available outside, including a reserved handicapped space. An attractive hostess seated us, offered us a menu, and when we said we wanted the buffet, took our drink order. We were a late for the regular lunch hour, and so there were only a few other tables with people eating, folks both black and white.
Braxton's uses stylish rectangular white plates, generously sized for a buffet -- which is both a good and bad thing, since their food is delicious. This past Monday, there was red beans and rice with *lots* of meat (just the way Big Man likes 'em!), turnip greens cooked with little ham hocks and big chunks of sweet turnips, perfectly fried chicken, slow-roasted chicken falling off the bone in an incredible sauce made of lemon, garlic, herbs, and I think olive oil, sweet white cornbread, and home-made bread pudding. We tried everything except the bread pudding (we were *trying* to be good!), and everything was wonderful. Despite skipping dessert, we still ate too much, and we loved everything we ate.
Braxton's has only been open for about 2 years, and they seem to be trying to find that all-important steady regular customer base. They have Monday through Friday drink specials with free food, and a steak special on Thursdays (when they also have a DJ). They would also be great for private parties.
Big Man and I say: cross the Bridge, get over to Franklin Street, and eat yourself happy at Braxton's. You won't be sorry you did.
On the outside, there is a large covered front and side porch with ceiling fans, which I'm sure will be more usable and more used when the weather breaks sometime in the fall. Inside, the dining rooms go off to the left as you enter, and have comfortable chairs, white tablecloths, and attractive African-American-themed poster art hung on the walls. In one corner, there's a small stage where we were told they had a DJ once a week (but Big Man has certainly played on stages smaller than that). The bar is large and L-shaped, with a nice seating area in one corner, more of the art (I spotted a Josephine Baker art poster hung near the entrance), and lots and lots of padded bar stools. Playing at a comfortable audio level was some classic R&B from the 1960's ("Precious Baby, You're Mine" played while we were there).
We had read about their special, the Stormy Monday Blues Buffet, in the Gambit. It was advertised at $7.95 -- so we figured, not much to lose if we weren't crazy about it. So we drove over. It's easy to find, and there is some off-street parking available outside, including a reserved handicapped space. An attractive hostess seated us, offered us a menu, and when we said we wanted the buffet, took our drink order. We were a late for the regular lunch hour, and so there were only a few other tables with people eating, folks both black and white.
Braxton's uses stylish rectangular white plates, generously sized for a buffet -- which is both a good and bad thing, since their food is delicious. This past Monday, there was red beans and rice with *lots* of meat (just the way Big Man likes 'em!), turnip greens cooked with little ham hocks and big chunks of sweet turnips, perfectly fried chicken, slow-roasted chicken falling off the bone in an incredible sauce made of lemon, garlic, herbs, and I think olive oil, sweet white cornbread, and home-made bread pudding. We tried everything except the bread pudding (we were *trying* to be good!), and everything was wonderful. Despite skipping dessert, we still ate too much, and we loved everything we ate.
Braxton's has only been open for about 2 years, and they seem to be trying to find that all-important steady regular customer base. They have Monday through Friday drink specials with free food, and a steak special on Thursdays (when they also have a DJ). They would also be great for private parties.
Big Man and I say: cross the Bridge, get over to Franklin Street, and eat yourself happy at Braxton's. You won't be sorry you did.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Catfish Festival in Des Allemands
Big Man has been very busy this hot summer, piecing together different gigs in different places to make up for the regular nightclub gig he lost when the club closed this spring. But it also means that he has nights off that he otherwise might have had to work, and so we very happily made plans to attend the annual Catfish Festival in Des Allemands, about 35 miles from our house, in a small spit of land set among swamps and lakes and bayous that eventually make their way to the Gulf.
Des Allemands boldly bills itself as the Catfish Capital of the Universe, and they may well be. As the name suggests, the little Cajun village was first settled by German immigrants, who nestled themselves among the French Acadians/Cajuns already there. The area now has black and white French Cajuns and German Cajuns, and a goodly number of Vietnamese fisherfolk as well. They are mostly Catholic, with some Baptists and Evangelicals. In addition to the ubiquitous oil field jobs that it seems no Cajun community can escape, folks there make their living shrimping, crawfishing, hunting, and of course, catfishing.
Every year, on the same weekend of July, on the extensive grounds of St. Gertrude the Great Catholic Church and elementary school, they throw the Catfish Festival. The fest has tons of food -- more ways to eat catfish than you might've thought (more on that later), hamburger and hot dogs for the unadventurous (though I have it on good authority that the homemade chili on the 'dogs was outasight), fried shrimp and softshell crab po boys, gumbo, and sauce piquante. There's also snow balls and funnel cakes and beer and soft drinks and frozen daiquiris. Off to the side, there are numerous crafts booths, including 2 in the name of small Cajun children who, sadly, have contracted some very rare, incurable, genetic diseases (all that intermarriage in small Cajun towns has led to a significant uptick in these kinds of illnesses and conditions that physicians almost never see), and one staffed by prisoners from the local St. Charles Parish prison, who learn leather-working as a craft while incarcerated. To the back of the grounds, near the railroad tracks (a train went by that night while we were there), giant carnival rides were set up.
Behind the school's frosty air-conditioned gym/cafeteria, a giant steel-framed, concrete floored pavilion has been set up, apparently for this and other festivals on the grounds. The pavilion is named in honor of a St. Gertrude priest, and, significantly, he had a Vietnamese surname. I liked the way the pavilion had been set up, with the floor painted to show clearly demarcated areas to put folding chairs, allowing for aisles, and leaving a giant dance floor in the center. There were enormous electric fans set up around the edges, facing the dance floor. Which was a good idea, because couples of all ages crowded in there, dancing up a storm. It's the kind of thing that makes me so happy to be a Louisianian -- all those people, old and young and middle-aged, black and white and Vietnamese, dancing together to the same music.
And the music was terrific! A guy we had never heard of before, Al "Lil Fats" Jackson, with a band of 3 saxes, bass, guitars, drummer, with him on keys, doing absolutely wonderful, swinging, versions of Fats Domino songs. Everyone was diggin' it like crazy. The band was really tight and they played like they had been playing this stuff like forever (even though they were all, of course, considerably younger than Fats himself). Al was quite the showman too, teasing the appreciative crowd several times by starting out, "I found my...." but then NOT going into "Blueberry Hill." By the time he deigned to do it, everyone was all hyped up and cheering. Big Man and I joined the dancers in the pavilion and a great moment. (Amazingly, the band played from the time we got there -- a little after 8 pm -- and was still playing with no break when we left, around 10 pm. When I mentioned this to Big Man, he burst out, "Are you kidding? South Louisiana is the No-Break Capital of the Universe!")
The three Catfish Queens were brought onstage to much applause and appreciation. There are three of them because there are three age divisions. They were all three sweet-faced, pretty girls, with towering rhinestone tiaras on their heads, but otherwise dressed in what was apparently the festival uniform of T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. It made quite a contrast, I can tell you. Inside the gym/cafeteria, air-conditioned to a fare-thee-well, there were framed photos on all four walls of Catfish Queens going back to the early 1970s. They start off conventionally enough, with blondes in bouffant hairdos and standard Cajun surnames, but as the years and decades and eras go by, the pictures show girls with dark hair and swarthy skin, and even some Vietnamese girls. It was wonderful to see the Catfish Queens tradition evolve like that, like a sweet Cajun fairy tale.
So, back to the catfish. There was fried catfish filets served in platters, and on po boys. There was catfish, shrimp, and crawfish gumbo, which, while a little thin, sort of like a courtbouillion, was beautifully seasoned and totally chockfull of the aforementioned seafoods. There was a deep red sauce piquante, studded with big chunks of catfish, and with cute little cocktail onions in it instead of chopped onions; I wondered if the cook had run out of fresh onions and just found the jar of pickled cocktail onions in the fridge and decided on a whim to go in that direction, or if this was an intentional, stylistic choice. Either way, it was fantastic.
There was also something called Catfish Boullettes. Now anywhere else in America they might be called Catfish Fritters or, to be playful, maybe Catfish Balls; in New Orleans, they might be Catfish Beignets. But we're in Cajun Country, so they're Catfish Boullettes (little balls). Chopped up raw catfish is mixed in a thick seasoned batter with little snippets of green onion in it, and then mushed up by hand into balls that are roughly between a golf ball and a tennis ball, and then deep fried (of course). Oh my these were *wonderful*! We ate more of them than we should have, all the time speculating about making them at home and then serving them with home made tartar or remoulade sauce. (The festival was serving them with simple ketchup.)
We saw flyers at the festival for the Des Allemands Catfish Cookbook, which listed an intriguing dish called Catfish Cacciatore on the front. Believe me, if they had had that at the fest, wed've eaten it.
After about 2 hours, we were stuffed. However, we still had food tickets left over, so we scouted for a little while and gave our tickets to a young family with several children on our way out of the fest. It was a lovely if hot night, the people-watching was great fun, the music great and the food fantastic, but we'd had enough. If you haven't been or haven't been in a while, you should go.
Des Allemands boldly bills itself as the Catfish Capital of the Universe, and they may well be. As the name suggests, the little Cajun village was first settled by German immigrants, who nestled themselves among the French Acadians/Cajuns already there. The area now has black and white French Cajuns and German Cajuns, and a goodly number of Vietnamese fisherfolk as well. They are mostly Catholic, with some Baptists and Evangelicals. In addition to the ubiquitous oil field jobs that it seems no Cajun community can escape, folks there make their living shrimping, crawfishing, hunting, and of course, catfishing.
Every year, on the same weekend of July, on the extensive grounds of St. Gertrude the Great Catholic Church and elementary school, they throw the Catfish Festival. The fest has tons of food -- more ways to eat catfish than you might've thought (more on that later), hamburger and hot dogs for the unadventurous (though I have it on good authority that the homemade chili on the 'dogs was outasight), fried shrimp and softshell crab po boys, gumbo, and sauce piquante. There's also snow balls and funnel cakes and beer and soft drinks and frozen daiquiris. Off to the side, there are numerous crafts booths, including 2 in the name of small Cajun children who, sadly, have contracted some very rare, incurable, genetic diseases (all that intermarriage in small Cajun towns has led to a significant uptick in these kinds of illnesses and conditions that physicians almost never see), and one staffed by prisoners from the local St. Charles Parish prison, who learn leather-working as a craft while incarcerated. To the back of the grounds, near the railroad tracks (a train went by that night while we were there), giant carnival rides were set up.
Behind the school's frosty air-conditioned gym/cafeteria, a giant steel-framed, concrete floored pavilion has been set up, apparently for this and other festivals on the grounds. The pavilion is named in honor of a St. Gertrude priest, and, significantly, he had a Vietnamese surname. I liked the way the pavilion had been set up, with the floor painted to show clearly demarcated areas to put folding chairs, allowing for aisles, and leaving a giant dance floor in the center. There were enormous electric fans set up around the edges, facing the dance floor. Which was a good idea, because couples of all ages crowded in there, dancing up a storm. It's the kind of thing that makes me so happy to be a Louisianian -- all those people, old and young and middle-aged, black and white and Vietnamese, dancing together to the same music.
And the music was terrific! A guy we had never heard of before, Al "Lil Fats" Jackson, with a band of 3 saxes, bass, guitars, drummer, with him on keys, doing absolutely wonderful, swinging, versions of Fats Domino songs. Everyone was diggin' it like crazy. The band was really tight and they played like they had been playing this stuff like forever (even though they were all, of course, considerably younger than Fats himself). Al was quite the showman too, teasing the appreciative crowd several times by starting out, "I found my...." but then NOT going into "Blueberry Hill." By the time he deigned to do it, everyone was all hyped up and cheering. Big Man and I joined the dancers in the pavilion and a great moment. (Amazingly, the band played from the time we got there -- a little after 8 pm -- and was still playing with no break when we left, around 10 pm. When I mentioned this to Big Man, he burst out, "Are you kidding? South Louisiana is the No-Break Capital of the Universe!")
The three Catfish Queens were brought onstage to much applause and appreciation. There are three of them because there are three age divisions. They were all three sweet-faced, pretty girls, with towering rhinestone tiaras on their heads, but otherwise dressed in what was apparently the festival uniform of T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. It made quite a contrast, I can tell you. Inside the gym/cafeteria, air-conditioned to a fare-thee-well, there were framed photos on all four walls of Catfish Queens going back to the early 1970s. They start off conventionally enough, with blondes in bouffant hairdos and standard Cajun surnames, but as the years and decades and eras go by, the pictures show girls with dark hair and swarthy skin, and even some Vietnamese girls. It was wonderful to see the Catfish Queens tradition evolve like that, like a sweet Cajun fairy tale.
So, back to the catfish. There was fried catfish filets served in platters, and on po boys. There was catfish, shrimp, and crawfish gumbo, which, while a little thin, sort of like a courtbouillion, was beautifully seasoned and totally chockfull of the aforementioned seafoods. There was a deep red sauce piquante, studded with big chunks of catfish, and with cute little cocktail onions in it instead of chopped onions; I wondered if the cook had run out of fresh onions and just found the jar of pickled cocktail onions in the fridge and decided on a whim to go in that direction, or if this was an intentional, stylistic choice. Either way, it was fantastic.
There was also something called Catfish Boullettes. Now anywhere else in America they might be called Catfish Fritters or, to be playful, maybe Catfish Balls; in New Orleans, they might be Catfish Beignets. But we're in Cajun Country, so they're Catfish Boullettes (little balls). Chopped up raw catfish is mixed in a thick seasoned batter with little snippets of green onion in it, and then mushed up by hand into balls that are roughly between a golf ball and a tennis ball, and then deep fried (of course). Oh my these were *wonderful*! We ate more of them than we should have, all the time speculating about making them at home and then serving them with home made tartar or remoulade sauce. (The festival was serving them with simple ketchup.)
We saw flyers at the festival for the Des Allemands Catfish Cookbook, which listed an intriguing dish called Catfish Cacciatore on the front. Believe me, if they had had that at the fest, wed've eaten it.
After about 2 hours, we were stuffed. However, we still had food tickets left over, so we scouted for a little while and gave our tickets to a young family with several children on our way out of the fest. It was a lovely if hot night, the people-watching was great fun, the music great and the food fantastic, but we'd had enough. If you haven't been or haven't been in a while, you should go.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Rebuilding My Church
People ask me all the time about my church's recovery from Katrina, and it's a hard question to answer succinctly. Our denomination went in a different direction from most, and made the decision early on after the Storm to divide the funds and give away 2/3 of what was donated by generous members of my faith tradition to local community groups, especially those led by people of color. The remaining 1/3, which amounted to a little over $1 million, was dedicated to ALL the churches of our denomination that were damaged, as well as to the Baton Rouge congregation that was coordinating the first volunteer efforts.
The upshot of that decision was that our churches of Greater New Orleans were left largely unrecovered. My church building alone sustained over $1 million worth of damage, so you can imagine that our share of a divided fund did not go far. We have been careful stewards, and diligent in our creative efforts to get things done at the lowest possible cost, but the thing is, here it is, nearing the 6th anniversary of Katrina, and we still are operating on a Temporary Certificate of Occupancy, with large areas of the building with scarred concrete floors, unfinished walls and ceilings, a limping elderly HVAC system, a leaky roof, no working church kitchen, broken and dangerous entryway, and not a handicapped accessible restroom in the place. As if all that were not enough and more than enough, in addition to Storm damage, we're under new building codes that were enacted by the state legislature after the Storm.
For those of you who like details, here's the list I'm bringing to our denominational meeting next week to seek more help from my co-religionists:
Note that the above figures DO NOT include finishing of walls and ceilings and installing new floors -- we'll continue along as we have been, doing that kind of work with volunteers, our own and those wonderful folks coming from out of town. We'll also have to figure out how to afford some kind of post-construction elevator system, so that our second floor is accessible. The list above just gets us a Permanent Certificate of Occupancy, and allows us to open the longed-for Community Kitchen, getting us on the way to wholeness and resuming our full-time urban, "food ministry."
If any of you reading this have funds of any amount to donate, or if you'd like to have the new Fire Pump named after you, be sure to contact me. The church would be exceedingly grateful, and so would I.
The upshot of that decision was that our churches of Greater New Orleans were left largely unrecovered. My church building alone sustained over $1 million worth of damage, so you can imagine that our share of a divided fund did not go far. We have been careful stewards, and diligent in our creative efforts to get things done at the lowest possible cost, but the thing is, here it is, nearing the 6th anniversary of Katrina, and we still are operating on a Temporary Certificate of Occupancy, with large areas of the building with scarred concrete floors, unfinished walls and ceilings, a limping elderly HVAC system, a leaky roof, no working church kitchen, broken and dangerous entryway, and not a handicapped accessible restroom in the place. As if all that were not enough and more than enough, in addition to Storm damage, we're under new building codes that were enacted by the state legislature after the Storm.
For those of you who like details, here's the list I'm bringing to our denominational meeting next week to seek more help from my co-religionists:
Replace/upgrade HVAC system ruined by flood $12,600.00
Fire Alarm for new Community Kitchen 4,000.00
Iron work for new Community Kitchen 3,200.00
Plumbing replace/upgrade 20,000.00
Kitchen vent for new Community Kitchen 7,000.00
Fire Sprinkler System Pump Room (new requirement) 19,000.00
Installation of Fire Pump (new requirement) 48,500.00
Arch Finishes for Fire Exits (new requirement) 35,000.00
Fire Alarm for Building (other than kitchen – new requirement)) 19,000.00
Fire Doors (new requirement) 1,500.00
Fire Damper (new requirement) 3,000.00
Repair of Entranceway Damaged by Flood Waters 6,200.00
Repair of Leak & Plaster Work at Stained Glass Window 2,800.00
FUUNO SUB-TOTAL: $181,800.00
MINUS AMOUNT ON HAND IN FUUNO’s BUILDING FUND: -77,000.00
AMOUNT TO BE RAISED: $104,800.00
Note that the above figures DO NOT include finishing of walls and ceilings and installing new floors -- we'll continue along as we have been, doing that kind of work with volunteers, our own and those wonderful folks coming from out of town. We'll also have to figure out how to afford some kind of post-construction elevator system, so that our second floor is accessible. The list above just gets us a Permanent Certificate of Occupancy, and allows us to open the longed-for Community Kitchen, getting us on the way to wholeness and resuming our full-time urban, "food ministry."
If any of you reading this have funds of any amount to donate, or if you'd like to have the new Fire Pump named after you, be sure to contact me. The church would be exceedingly grateful, and so would I.
Deacon John's 70th Birthday @ Rock'n'Bowl
Here's the thing: If Deac is 70, that means that all of us who danced to Deacon John and the Ivories at our high school proms and sock hops are pretty much old too. What's up with that? Why don't we feel old?
I am writing this on Saturday night, June 11 from Rock'n'Bowl. The place is packed. The Fortier High School graduating class of 1956 (!!) is here, and most of 'em are out on the floor, smoothly dancing. There's a good many of my nostalgic aging Baby Boomer generation here too, singing along with the familiar lyrics.
But if it were only us "old folks" here, it wouldn't be near as crowded. The adult children of the Baby Boomers are also here, some of them bowling but still rockin' out to Deac's patented jump blues. (In case I forget to mention it, Big Man is playing 2nd trumpet in Deac's amazing big 16-piece band. He's loving it.)
Deac sounds terrific, his voice only a little rougher than the old days. The crowd is eating it up, and in some ways the familiar R&B beat and horn lines bring it all back. You can tell some of the old couples are dreamily reliving some good old times as they sway and dance.
Since Rock'n'Bowl is an actual working bowling alley, and serves food beside, unlike a normal nightclub, there's no minimum age. And so on top of -- or underneath -- the 3 generations mentioned above, the place is also full of kids, including Deac's grandchildren/grand-nieces, whatever). But some young parents have actually, god love them, rolled in a couple of strollers (starting 'em young!).
In true Louisiana fashion, people keep gesturing Deac to the edge of the stage so they can pin dollar bills on him for his birthday. (Next to me, a woman nearly panicked, saying plaintively, "I didn't bring a PIN!" so I handed her a safety pin. I'm always prepared, you never know when you're gonna need one.) From where I sit, looks like he's up to about $50 now, and the first set hasn't ended. He and his brother Charlie (it's his birthday week too) should really rake it in tonight.
Black, white, old, young, grands and kids, Uptown and Downtown (and Chalmette and Metry), sharp dressers and slobs, we're all here at Rock'n'Bowl havin' a wonderful time. Only in New Orleans.
Happy Birthday, Deacon John, and many many more!!
I am writing this on Saturday night, June 11 from Rock'n'Bowl. The place is packed. The Fortier High School graduating class of 1956 (!!) is here, and most of 'em are out on the floor, smoothly dancing. There's a good many of my nostalgic aging Baby Boomer generation here too, singing along with the familiar lyrics.
But if it were only us "old folks" here, it wouldn't be near as crowded. The adult children of the Baby Boomers are also here, some of them bowling but still rockin' out to Deac's patented jump blues. (In case I forget to mention it, Big Man is playing 2nd trumpet in Deac's amazing big 16-piece band. He's loving it.)
Deac sounds terrific, his voice only a little rougher than the old days. The crowd is eating it up, and in some ways the familiar R&B beat and horn lines bring it all back. You can tell some of the old couples are dreamily reliving some good old times as they sway and dance.
Since Rock'n'Bowl is an actual working bowling alley, and serves food beside, unlike a normal nightclub, there's no minimum age. And so on top of -- or underneath -- the 3 generations mentioned above, the place is also full of kids, including Deac's grandchildren/grand-nieces, whatever). But some young parents have actually, god love them, rolled in a couple of strollers (starting 'em young!).
In true Louisiana fashion, people keep gesturing Deac to the edge of the stage so they can pin dollar bills on him for his birthday. (Next to me, a woman nearly panicked, saying plaintively, "I didn't bring a PIN!" so I handed her a safety pin. I'm always prepared, you never know when you're gonna need one.) From where I sit, looks like he's up to about $50 now, and the first set hasn't ended. He and his brother Charlie (it's his birthday week too) should really rake it in tonight.
Black, white, old, young, grands and kids, Uptown and Downtown (and Chalmette and Metry), sharp dressers and slobs, we're all here at Rock'n'Bowl havin' a wonderful time. Only in New Orleans.
Happy Birthday, Deacon John, and many many more!!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Heat (redux)
This post is not for tourist or Chamber of Commerce consumption, but it is the truth.
It is hot as hell here, in fact I'm pretty sure hell is cooler, or at least less humid. Termites are swarming, and the other half of the double that Big Man and I live in is infested, requiring TONS of noisy reconstruction, carpenters banging and sawing away starting very early in the morning. Despite the weirdness of it, on our side there's only nasty bothersome flying/swarming termites this and no apparent -- or according to the pest control guy who has a vested interest in finding *something* -- no un-apparent active termites or damage either. How strange and lucky for us. But all the construction work on the other half of the house has our cat Smokey and dog Keely all in a dither.
It's so hot out that really, I can't breathe and I can't think. You sweat just getting your paper or the mail. Walking the dog? Fuggedaboutit -- we wait til after dark. I literally -- I'm not kidding -- sit in the living room with a bag of ice to supplement the air conditioning, because who can afford to lower the thermostat to where you'd really be comfortable? (Big Man and I visited the lovely Latter Library the other day to pile up summer reading, and we were both thrilled at the level of air conditioning there. it reminded me of my childhood summers, when my mother would throw me out of the house, and I would escape to the St. Bernard Parish Library, which was also heavily -- and heavenly! -- air conditioned.)
Both our cars have lost air conditioning (wouldn't you know it?), and the van -- which we hate with a passion -- is too expensive to fix, and while the Mazda *might* be fixable, we're too scared right now to check, since we don't presently have the funds that our wonderful and honest but cash-or-check only mechanic would require to fix. So I rented a car for us to drive to our denominational General Assembly next week. Believe you me, it has air conditioning.
Other than all this complainin', things are fine. No tropical storms in the Gulf, the River level is going down, they're closing the spillways, and we've just celebrated the triple festival of Creole tomatoes, seafood, and Cajun/zydeco music in the French Market, and so life is good (if hot).
It is hot as hell here, in fact I'm pretty sure hell is cooler, or at least less humid. Termites are swarming, and the other half of the double that Big Man and I live in is infested, requiring TONS of noisy reconstruction, carpenters banging and sawing away starting very early in the morning. Despite the weirdness of it, on our side there's only nasty bothersome flying/swarming termites this and no apparent -- or according to the pest control guy who has a vested interest in finding *something* -- no un-apparent active termites or damage either. How strange and lucky for us. But all the construction work on the other half of the house has our cat Smokey and dog Keely all in a dither.
It's so hot out that really, I can't breathe and I can't think. You sweat just getting your paper or the mail. Walking the dog? Fuggedaboutit -- we wait til after dark. I literally -- I'm not kidding -- sit in the living room with a bag of ice to supplement the air conditioning, because who can afford to lower the thermostat to where you'd really be comfortable? (Big Man and I visited the lovely Latter Library the other day to pile up summer reading, and we were both thrilled at the level of air conditioning there. it reminded me of my childhood summers, when my mother would throw me out of the house, and I would escape to the St. Bernard Parish Library, which was also heavily -- and heavenly! -- air conditioned.)
Both our cars have lost air conditioning (wouldn't you know it?), and the van -- which we hate with a passion -- is too expensive to fix, and while the Mazda *might* be fixable, we're too scared right now to check, since we don't presently have the funds that our wonderful and honest but cash-or-check only mechanic would require to fix. So I rented a car for us to drive to our denominational General Assembly next week. Believe you me, it has air conditioning.
Other than all this complainin', things are fine. No tropical storms in the Gulf, the River level is going down, they're closing the spillways, and we've just celebrated the triple festival of Creole tomatoes, seafood, and Cajun/zydeco music in the French Market, and so life is good (if hot).
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The River
Since Jazz Fest, like everyone else in South Louisiana, we've been keeping an eye on the River. We go to the Fly at Audubon Park and walk over to the edge, noting how much further the brown water is from the last time we visited. We look over when crossing the River on one of the ferries or the bridge. We've watched as the levels rise and rise.
On the Monday after Jazz Fest, Big Man and I drove to Baton Rouge to shop at our favorite Cajun charcuterie, Bergeron's in West Baton Rouge (don't get me started on them right now! well worth a trip!), and decided to drive home the long way along River Road. We saw behind LSU how the seepage from the levee had formed huge puddles along the road (despite the recent lack of rain). As we drove along, at one point downriver from Baton Rouge, Big Man parked at the foot of the levee and walked up to survey the situation. He hollered to me, back in the car, standing about 5 or 6 feet from the top of the levee, "This is where the water is on the other side!" It was a good 16-17 feet over the car and the road.
Lake Pontchartrain is turning brown from the River water pouring in, chasing the lake fish out and bringing in catfish from the Mississippi -- and once again ruining the oyster beds. (Seems like the poor oystermen just can't catch a break.) Even with all the water pouring through the Bonné Carré Spillway above New Orleans, it wasn't enough, and this week the Morganza Spillway above Baton Rouge was also opened, pouring Mississippi River water into the basin of the Atchafalaya, endangering Morgan City and even smaller villages in Cajun country. God help those people.
A few days ago, Big Man and I took Keely our dog and returned to the Fly, and found there dozens and dozens of other New Orleanians fixated, staring at the swollen river. The brown water was riding high, the current visibly speeding past us to the Gulf, like it was late or something. Barges and tugboats rode unbelievably high in the water, and those traveling upstream had a helluva time of it, making very little headway, as the River strained and pushed in the opposite direction, causing giant wakes. No wonder the Corps of Engineers shut down river traffic for while -- it didn't look safe at all to us.
The city is safe, thank God, barring some unforeseen disaster like a barge breaking free and hitting the levee (the City Council threatened to scuttle any barge not properly tied down). And our hearts go out to all the people and places and farms and businesses in the Atchafalaya Basin. May the flooding not be as bad as predicted for you, and may you all be safe and sound. We thank you for your sacrifice.
On the Monday after Jazz Fest, Big Man and I drove to Baton Rouge to shop at our favorite Cajun charcuterie, Bergeron's in West Baton Rouge (don't get me started on them right now! well worth a trip!), and decided to drive home the long way along River Road. We saw behind LSU how the seepage from the levee had formed huge puddles along the road (despite the recent lack of rain). As we drove along, at one point downriver from Baton Rouge, Big Man parked at the foot of the levee and walked up to survey the situation. He hollered to me, back in the car, standing about 5 or 6 feet from the top of the levee, "This is where the water is on the other side!" It was a good 16-17 feet over the car and the road.
Lake Pontchartrain is turning brown from the River water pouring in, chasing the lake fish out and bringing in catfish from the Mississippi -- and once again ruining the oyster beds. (Seems like the poor oystermen just can't catch a break.) Even with all the water pouring through the Bonné Carré Spillway above New Orleans, it wasn't enough, and this week the Morganza Spillway above Baton Rouge was also opened, pouring Mississippi River water into the basin of the Atchafalaya, endangering Morgan City and even smaller villages in Cajun country. God help those people.
A few days ago, Big Man and I took Keely our dog and returned to the Fly, and found there dozens and dozens of other New Orleanians fixated, staring at the swollen river. The brown water was riding high, the current visibly speeding past us to the Gulf, like it was late or something. Barges and tugboats rode unbelievably high in the water, and those traveling upstream had a helluva time of it, making very little headway, as the River strained and pushed in the opposite direction, causing giant wakes. No wonder the Corps of Engineers shut down river traffic for while -- it didn't look safe at all to us.
The city is safe, thank God, barring some unforeseen disaster like a barge breaking free and hitting the levee (the City Council threatened to scuttle any barge not properly tied down). And our hearts go out to all the people and places and farms and businesses in the Atchafalaya Basin. May the flooding not be as bad as predicted for you, and may you all be safe and sound. We thank you for your sacrifice.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Freedom Riders Make It to New Orleans!
(And only 50 years late!)
Yesterday Big Man and I attended a special rally at the Ashé Cultural Center on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. to mark the 50th anniversary of the Freedom Rides in the Spring of 1961 -- which ended, of course (as the older among you already knew and the younger among you were taught in last night's excellent documentary on PBS), with the Freedom Riders being badly beaten, almost killed and jailed. Only a few ever made it to New Orleans in 1961, and then by plane. (And even so, only after Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy's aide, John Seigenthaler, himself injured in the melee in Jackson, intervened and directly called the airline.)
A large crowd was gathered on this gorgeous sunny and cool day, mostly black but quite a few whites like us (no question that there should have been more, though). Some vendors had set up under the canopy of the Ashé Center's awning, and Big Man and I bought a copy of the book on Congo Square that we had looked at while at Jazz Fest. We were glad we had waited, because we got to have the book signed and dedicated by the author. I told her the story of Bog Man's emotional reaction to Congo Square on his first visit to New Orleans back in 2004, exclaiming, "And he's not even from here!" and she graciously invited him to the drumming circle on Sunday afternoons at 3 pm. (Drumming at Congo Square on Sunday afternoons? You bet we'll be there!)
I also purchased an Ashé handkerchief, correctly surmising that I might need one. I had been feeling teary and tender all day about the anniversary and the event, remembering what I had seen on the TV news back then (when I was about 8 years old) and the conversations I had had with my parents at that time (my parents were local white civil rights activists back in the day), talking about it with Big Man (who, younger than I, remembered none of it), and thinking about the PBS tagline to promote the documentary, "Could you get on the bus?"
Could YOU get on the bus, knowing what those young people knew at the time? That it meant jeopardizing one's chances for graduation from college, the threat of danger, having a police record, possibly being physically hurt, maybe even losing your life? (John Seigenthaler quoted a young and beautiful Diane Nash saying to him on the phone, "Last night we all signed our last will and testaments -- we know what we are up against" and him being struck speechless.) Would you have risked everything to establish the right to travel between states on a bus or train, and to sit and wait or sit and eat in the station? Could you have had the courage to do it all nonviolently, no matter what was said to you, no matter what was done to you? Would you have had the courage to get on the bus?
The crowd was filled with a sense of happy anticipation. A crate of lovely pure white doves was waiting to be released at the right moment, and several people carried signs to welcome the long-delayed Freedom Riders. There were cameras and microphones from various media outlets -- although none seemingly from local news. We saw a representative from the mayor's office who was holding a framed proclamation to give the riders, but we were disappointed the Mayor himself did not attend. Many people had brought small children to witness this historic event.
The crowd roared its approval as the bus, "wrapped" in a graphic that transformed this modern-day conveyance into an old-fashioned Greyhound bus, pulled up in front of the Ashé Center. A young band from Behrman School across the river struck up some tunes, and we all applauded wildly. The elderly Freedom Riders gingerly disembarked into the bright sunshine, blinking in the glare, waving gamely. They were followed by students wearing the bright yellow Freedom Rider T-shirts from WGBH Boston. There was a short little procession down the street, the band in front, the Freedom Riders walking slowly with canes or walkers or holding onto the arms of younger folks, the rest of us falling in behind them, everyone cheering and clapping. My heart just swelled up -- they made it! They finally made it! I really used that handkerchief, believe you me!
There were speeches (not very audible with the terrible sound system being used) and prayers and hymns sung, and the white doves were released, one by one, flying up and over the street and into the setting sun to home. The Freedom Riders were gamely signing autographs onto T-shirts and posters and copies of the Freedom Riders book being sold. They posed for photos by themselves and with others. (I got my picture taken with Ms. Joan Trumpauer Mulholland, whose moving story of her experiences can be found at http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/freedomriders/people/joan-trumpauer-mulholland) "Thank you, thank you!" I said to her, my hands covering hers. All around me in the crowd, I could hear the same thing being said over and over, "Thank you, thank you so much, thank you for what you did."
And all I could think was, it took 50 years, but they made it to their stated destination. All of us involved in social justice work should be inspired, and learn from this. The things you do, the choices you make, all make a difference. Just not right away.
Yesterday Big Man and I attended a special rally at the Ashé Cultural Center on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. to mark the 50th anniversary of the Freedom Rides in the Spring of 1961 -- which ended, of course (as the older among you already knew and the younger among you were taught in last night's excellent documentary on PBS), with the Freedom Riders being badly beaten, almost killed and jailed. Only a few ever made it to New Orleans in 1961, and then by plane. (And even so, only after Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy's aide, John Seigenthaler, himself injured in the melee in Jackson, intervened and directly called the airline.)
A large crowd was gathered on this gorgeous sunny and cool day, mostly black but quite a few whites like us (no question that there should have been more, though). Some vendors had set up under the canopy of the Ashé Center's awning, and Big Man and I bought a copy of the book on Congo Square that we had looked at while at Jazz Fest. We were glad we had waited, because we got to have the book signed and dedicated by the author. I told her the story of Bog Man's emotional reaction to Congo Square on his first visit to New Orleans back in 2004, exclaiming, "And he's not even from here!" and she graciously invited him to the drumming circle on Sunday afternoons at 3 pm. (Drumming at Congo Square on Sunday afternoons? You bet we'll be there!)
I also purchased an Ashé handkerchief, correctly surmising that I might need one. I had been feeling teary and tender all day about the anniversary and the event, remembering what I had seen on the TV news back then (when I was about 8 years old) and the conversations I had had with my parents at that time (my parents were local white civil rights activists back in the day), talking about it with Big Man (who, younger than I, remembered none of it), and thinking about the PBS tagline to promote the documentary, "Could you get on the bus?"
Could YOU get on the bus, knowing what those young people knew at the time? That it meant jeopardizing one's chances for graduation from college, the threat of danger, having a police record, possibly being physically hurt, maybe even losing your life? (John Seigenthaler quoted a young and beautiful Diane Nash saying to him on the phone, "Last night we all signed our last will and testaments -- we know what we are up against" and him being struck speechless.) Would you have risked everything to establish the right to travel between states on a bus or train, and to sit and wait or sit and eat in the station? Could you have had the courage to do it all nonviolently, no matter what was said to you, no matter what was done to you? Would you have had the courage to get on the bus?
The crowd was filled with a sense of happy anticipation. A crate of lovely pure white doves was waiting to be released at the right moment, and several people carried signs to welcome the long-delayed Freedom Riders. There were cameras and microphones from various media outlets -- although none seemingly from local news. We saw a representative from the mayor's office who was holding a framed proclamation to give the riders, but we were disappointed the Mayor himself did not attend. Many people had brought small children to witness this historic event.
The crowd roared its approval as the bus, "wrapped" in a graphic that transformed this modern-day conveyance into an old-fashioned Greyhound bus, pulled up in front of the Ashé Center. A young band from Behrman School across the river struck up some tunes, and we all applauded wildly. The elderly Freedom Riders gingerly disembarked into the bright sunshine, blinking in the glare, waving gamely. They were followed by students wearing the bright yellow Freedom Rider T-shirts from WGBH Boston. There was a short little procession down the street, the band in front, the Freedom Riders walking slowly with canes or walkers or holding onto the arms of younger folks, the rest of us falling in behind them, everyone cheering and clapping. My heart just swelled up -- they made it! They finally made it! I really used that handkerchief, believe you me!
There were speeches (not very audible with the terrible sound system being used) and prayers and hymns sung, and the white doves were released, one by one, flying up and over the street and into the setting sun to home. The Freedom Riders were gamely signing autographs onto T-shirts and posters and copies of the Freedom Riders book being sold. They posed for photos by themselves and with others. (I got my picture taken with Ms. Joan Trumpauer Mulholland, whose moving story of her experiences can be found at http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/freedomriders/people/joan-trumpauer-mulholland) "Thank you, thank you!" I said to her, my hands covering hers. All around me in the crowd, I could hear the same thing being said over and over, "Thank you, thank you so much, thank you for what you did."
And all I could think was, it took 50 years, but they made it to their stated destination. All of us involved in social justice work should be inspired, and learn from this. The things you do, the choices you make, all make a difference. Just not right away.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Our Favorite Jazz Fest Moments
Every year at Jazz Fest, there are moments that surprise you, that stick in your memory, things you'll remember forever for whatever reason. This year was no exception. Here's a few of Big Man's and my favorite Jazz Fest moments:
•Tom Jones singing "Hey Pocky Way" as one of his encores. (See last post.)
•Dr. John calling the 91-year-old Dave Bartholomew onstage, and Dave being brought out in a wheelchair, waving his trumpet to the crowd. We were prepared to cheer him for everything he's done in the past, but the guy proceeded to blow and blow, making the horn talk and squeal and wail. On "The Monkey Speaks His Mind" (one of my favorites), Dave went crazy on the trumpet, wah-wahing behind Mack Rebennack's vocals. It was unbelievable! We screamed our heads off.
•Hearing an unmistakable Louisiana piano sound coming from Fais Do Do as we were walking the track, and feeling drawn to it like a magnet. Thus we got to hear the wonderful Roddie Romero and his fabulous pianist Eddie Adcock play swamp pop-Cajun-Zydeco to an appreciative crowd. Never heard of these guys, but they were terrific. At Jazz Fest, you have to let your ears do the picking sometimes, and just go where you're drawn.
•Kid Rock singing a song on the Acura Stage about growing older, with a lyric referencing a prostate exam -- almost certainly the very first time that's ever been done in a rock song. We were both pleasantly surprised by Kid Rock's set -- he's very talented, playing guitar, piano, and drums during his set, and he was self-deprecating and witty in his song lyrics and in his remarks. If he hadn't been the set right before the Neville Brothers, we might never have seen him, but we really enjoyed him. (He also called Trombone Shorty onstage to play -- we think Shorty might win the prize as the musician with the highest number of guest appearances at the Fest this year.)
•Speaking of Shorty, who can forget the Midnite Disturbers, what another new fan called "the most expensive brass band in history"? And how the Jazz Fest crowds were completely turned form the traffic flow hearing that jazzy, funky, brassy sound from the Jazz & Heritage Stage? OMG. What a memory!
•Yvette Voelker celebrating her birthday near the end of the Pfister Sisters' great set at the Economy Hall Tent, with fans bringing up old-fashioned bundles of a dozen red roses wrapped in cello, so many that she couldn't hold them all, her neck stained bright red with her furious blushes.
•Allen Toussaint's too-short set at Acura, zipping through just a few of his many, many hits, backed up by Rénard Poché on guitar, Big Sam on trombone, and Grace Darling on sax and background vocals, and Elaine from ELS in a fabulous white Voodoo queen outfit also on background vocals. He brought out Trombone Shorty (see above) and Irvin Mayfield, and then, crazily, announced a song called "Hanging With Jimmy Buffet" -- and he brought Buffet out (whose set was to follow) to sing background on it! It was funny and sweet and amazing. (I wanna know. When did Allen write that tune??)
•Meeting a guy at a food tent who said he worked at Ralph's at The Park, who was swearing by the Crawfish Strudel, which somehow Big Man and I had never ever tasted. So I held our seats and Big Man went back for a serving, while our new friend from Ralph's waited to see our reaction. Wow! Heavenly! I will certainly try to reproduce that at home.
•The final-final set of Jazz Fest with the Neville Brothers bringing up nearly every one of the nephews and grandsons as guests, with the ubiquitous Troy Andrews and Irvin Mayfield as well. We hate to think about it, but some day in the future (the FAR future, we hope), it'll be The Neville Family and not the Brothers. They ran through all the favorites, showed us some new stuff the younger generation is working on, and at the end, after we hollered ourselves hoarse, came back out for the traditional encore of Aaron singing "Amazing Grace" a capella. A group of young people behind us began harmonizing sweetly with Aaron as Big Man and I held each other, trying not to cry. And then Cyril "Nevillized" us all and it was time to go home and Jazz Fest was over for another year.
•Tom Jones singing "Hey Pocky Way" as one of his encores. (See last post.)
•Dr. John calling the 91-year-old Dave Bartholomew onstage, and Dave being brought out in a wheelchair, waving his trumpet to the crowd. We were prepared to cheer him for everything he's done in the past, but the guy proceeded to blow and blow, making the horn talk and squeal and wail. On "The Monkey Speaks His Mind" (one of my favorites), Dave went crazy on the trumpet, wah-wahing behind Mack Rebennack's vocals. It was unbelievable! We screamed our heads off.
•Hearing an unmistakable Louisiana piano sound coming from Fais Do Do as we were walking the track, and feeling drawn to it like a magnet. Thus we got to hear the wonderful Roddie Romero and his fabulous pianist Eddie Adcock play swamp pop-Cajun-Zydeco to an appreciative crowd. Never heard of these guys, but they were terrific. At Jazz Fest, you have to let your ears do the picking sometimes, and just go where you're drawn.
•Kid Rock singing a song on the Acura Stage about growing older, with a lyric referencing a prostate exam -- almost certainly the very first time that's ever been done in a rock song. We were both pleasantly surprised by Kid Rock's set -- he's very talented, playing guitar, piano, and drums during his set, and he was self-deprecating and witty in his song lyrics and in his remarks. If he hadn't been the set right before the Neville Brothers, we might never have seen him, but we really enjoyed him. (He also called Trombone Shorty onstage to play -- we think Shorty might win the prize as the musician with the highest number of guest appearances at the Fest this year.)
•Speaking of Shorty, who can forget the Midnite Disturbers, what another new fan called "the most expensive brass band in history"? And how the Jazz Fest crowds were completely turned form the traffic flow hearing that jazzy, funky, brassy sound from the Jazz & Heritage Stage? OMG. What a memory!
•Yvette Voelker celebrating her birthday near the end of the Pfister Sisters' great set at the Economy Hall Tent, with fans bringing up old-fashioned bundles of a dozen red roses wrapped in cello, so many that she couldn't hold them all, her neck stained bright red with her furious blushes.
•Allen Toussaint's too-short set at Acura, zipping through just a few of his many, many hits, backed up by Rénard Poché on guitar, Big Sam on trombone, and Grace Darling on sax and background vocals, and Elaine from ELS in a fabulous white Voodoo queen outfit also on background vocals. He brought out Trombone Shorty (see above) and Irvin Mayfield, and then, crazily, announced a song called "Hanging With Jimmy Buffet" -- and he brought Buffet out (whose set was to follow) to sing background on it! It was funny and sweet and amazing. (I wanna know. When did Allen write that tune??)
•Meeting a guy at a food tent who said he worked at Ralph's at The Park, who was swearing by the Crawfish Strudel, which somehow Big Man and I had never ever tasted. So I held our seats and Big Man went back for a serving, while our new friend from Ralph's waited to see our reaction. Wow! Heavenly! I will certainly try to reproduce that at home.
•The final-final set of Jazz Fest with the Neville Brothers bringing up nearly every one of the nephews and grandsons as guests, with the ubiquitous Troy Andrews and Irvin Mayfield as well. We hate to think about it, but some day in the future (the FAR future, we hope), it'll be The Neville Family and not the Brothers. They ran through all the favorites, showed us some new stuff the younger generation is working on, and at the end, after we hollered ourselves hoarse, came back out for the traditional encore of Aaron singing "Amazing Grace" a capella. A group of young people behind us began harmonizing sweetly with Aaron as Big Man and I held each other, trying not to cry. And then Cyril "Nevillized" us all and it was time to go home and Jazz Fest was over for another year.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
First Weekend of Jazz Fest 2011
Well, it was a terrific start to this year's Jazz Fest! We enjoyed beautiful weather with sunshine: Friday was a perfect clear blue sky, Saturday and Sunday both had some clouds, which we like because it grants some occasional shade. Temperatures stayed mild, climbing to the mid-80s by Sunday, but with cooling breezes all 3 days. Humidity stayed fairly low throughout. We had Big Man's niece with us from Pennsylvania, her second Jazz Fest, and together we had a wonderful time.
Here are some highlights of the first weekend:
Friday, April 29
The very first thing we had to do was get us some Trout Bacquet -- *now* we're festing!! Then it was off to the Acura Stage, where we planned to set up our chairs, to hear the ever-reliable George Porter & his Runnin' Pardners. There is no better bass guitar player in the world than George, and we got funky for several tunes before leaving our chairs in the good spot we found, and walking over to the Blues Tent to catch some of the Joe Krown Trio (Joe, Russell Batiste on drums, and Walter "Wolfman" Washington on bass guitar). This is a group Big Man has sat in with at the Maple Leaf lots of times, and we like them a lot. Apparently so do a lot of folks, because the guys had totally *packed* the tent, but to enjoy the music, we strolled around a while as though looking for a seat. They were really hot, and the crowd was more than appreciative.
At the far back of the Gentilly Stage, which was as close as we could get, we laid down the wool Army blanket to groove on the subdudes with my old friend Johnny Magnie. The crowd was so tight along the left side of the stage that it took real skill to get through it. (Won't make that mistake again during Fest, and will take the track from here on in.) I do so love the harmonies of the 'dudes and we stayed for close to half the set, but there was the usual Jazz Fest scheduling of act upon act, and we had to move on to catch more bands on our list.
We walked through the Native American area so Big Man could get his annual Maque Choux fix on our way to listen to Donald Harrison at the Congo Square Stage. Donald was some smooth in his white suit, almost *glowing* on stage, his playing just as smooth and sophisticated. We passed a couple tunes in bliss here, and then we were on to Acura to catch us some great Jon Cleary on piano. Despite his lingering English accent, Jon could pass as a New Orleans-born piano man, and he's just as good as a raconteur. Totally enjoyable.
We got more food on our way to the Economy Hall Tent, to hear trad trumpeter Connie Jones, but we were early, and so caught Doreen's Jazz New Orleans band. We hadn't know who she is, until we saw her -- she's the black woman who play incredible clarinet on the street in the French Quarter. Every single time we've ever seen and heard her, we've been blown away by this woman's talent and musicality. So *that's* Doreen! We were delighted and cheered our heads off after every single solo.
We stayed for only a couple tunes with Connie Jones & his Crescent City Allstars -- the sound was awful, Connie's mike needed amplifying, and we were so replete after Doreen's hot set, that we ended up leaving. We had a destination in mind: the little Lagniappe Stage in the middle of the Grandstand, where Miss Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns were holding court and wowing the crowd. We had been going on and on about Meschiya to our niece -- her tattoos, her retro dress and hairdos, her amazing voice, her band's faithful and loving and lively recreation of jazz from the 1920s and 30s. They are *such* an experience, it's like you've gotten into a time machine and are actually experiencing the music of that era. They really belong in Economy Hall, but I suspect that the Jazz Fest powers-that-be fear that the older folks in that tent wouldn't appreciate all those "tats." Maybe next year they'll put her where she deserves to be.
We walked across the fest to get us some funk over at Congo Square with Ivan Neville & Dumpstaphunk. We spread out the Army blanket again and laid ourselves down under the sun, the sky like blue dome over us, and the music fell down on us from above, and I swear, felt like it was rising up from the earth itself, the vibrations entering our bodies from the ground. Especially loved "Put It in the Dumpster" and "Fight the Power."
Of course, it was useless to try to get into the Blues Tent to see Keb' Mo' -- the ushers were stopping people from entering, saying there were absolutely no seats at all left. But we stayed outside and got glimpses through the tent flaps. Wow! Keb' Mo' and his band were amazing, and seemed to be totally enjoying himself, grinning and dancing across the stage. We were glued to the spot, along with hundreds of other fans who couldn't get in, but we left satisfied.
We returned to our seats at Acura in time for former Led Zeppelin lead singer Robert Plant & this Band of Joy. Let's face it, Robert Plant does not have the voice he used to have, but now and again you heard a glimpse of it. He sure looks like an advertisement for how NOT to live -- as my sister L would say, he looked rode hard and put up wet. He had a good band with him -- one band member played acoustic, electric, dobro, and mandolin -- but we were somewhat sunstruck, and mindful of the days ahead. So we headed back to our car to party another day.
Saturday, April 30
A *very* early start on this day, as Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band as the opening act on the Acura Stage. (The Jazz fest shuttle driver who picked us up in the musicians' parking lot said, all impressed, "Oh, the big stage!") Rénard is something of a stickler, so he required his band members to arrive a full hour or more before the scheduled start. The backstage trailers were VERY nice, with comfortable furniture, like white leather sofas and chairs, and glass-topped coffee tables, with a good spread of catering sandwiches and an ice chest filled with water, cold drinks and beer (!). Unfortunately, since Bon Jovi and his band were closing out the Fest later in the day, they were not giving out ANY Acura guest passes, for fear folks would try to use them later to get backstage. Bummer.
It was a great set -- Rénard is *crazy* talented, playing trombone, drums, recorder (actually, TWO recorders at one time!!), flute, and guitar, and his arrangements of familiar tunes (like "Eleanor Rigby") are totally amazing. Unlike many New Orleans musicians, the band had had several rehearsals in the run-up to the fest, and they were *tight* and hot (if I do say so myself, prejudiced as I am with Big Man playing). Keiko on keyboards all ladylike while her hands went crazy across the keys; Leslie Smith's voice all husky and sexy, her stage moves confident. The horns were great, everything went well. The crowd grew and grew as the set wore on, and they cheered and jumped and waved.
After the great set, the band headed back to the trailer and the Jazz Fest staff went out of their way to make us comfortable, maybe feeling guilty that we had to clear out by 1 pm, and not getting our backstage passes. They made us coffee and we ate ore of the catered sandwiches. Big Man got paid, Rénard congratulated and thanked everyone and we took the shuttle back to the car to get rid of all the horns (Big Man played both trombone and trumpet for the show), and Big Man changed out of the required black to a more fest-appropriate garb.
It was well into the set when we got back to the Acura Stage for the Dixie Cups, so we missed "Chapel of Love" (featured on our wedding invitations), but we did enjoy the rest of it. (Except for that part when they brought *Councilwoman Jackie Clarkson* onstage to sing with them -- ew.) Interestingly, the gals sang "America the Beautiful" and nearly the whole crowd stood up and some of the men took their hats off, as if it were the national anthem! We left our chairs there for later and took a walk.
As we walked by the Blues Tent J. Monque'D was holding forth, and once again, it was too full to get in. We kept on going, and were drawn into the Gospel Tent where the Gospel Soul Children were totally rocking out. We managed to find 3 seats, pretty close to the front, and man, did we get the spirit!! A lot of gospel groups will do something with high energy and then will alternate it with something slower, so they (and the audience) can catch their breath, but not the GSC. They went from one rockin' number to the next, and when you thought things couldn't get any more excited or high spirited, they topped it. I tell you the truth, we were almost exhausted when we left.
Needing to hear something much more mellow, we ambled over to Economy Hall and caught jazz banjoist Don Vappie & his Creole Jazz Serenaders. Great classics of the trad style, including tunes associated with Don, like "Salé Dame" (which could loosely translated as "Dirty Girl"). As always, the Economy Hall crowd was well and truly into it, getting into spontaneous secondlines and strutting around the tent. (Note: you can;t hardly go to Economy Hall if you don't have an umbrella, decorated or not, or at the very least a handkerchief to wave as you secondline through the tent.) The dance floor had couples gracefully going through their paces, and a very good time was had by all.
We were hungry again, and made our way to the middle food area, so that Big Man could get his second favorite dish, the absolutely fabulous Quail, Pheasant, and Andouille Gumbo from Prejean's. (That stuff is off-the-charts good!) While sitting on the soft green grass to savor the food, I could hear an almost unearthly good trumpet blowing from the direction of the Jazz & Heritage Stage. "Who is that?," I wondered.
I scanned my iPhone Jazz Fest app, and found an unknown band (to me) called the Midnite Disturbers was there. Big Man came back from the food booth, laughing, and sat down next to me. "Just had a funny trumpet player conversation," he reported. He said he was standing by the gumbo booth when two other older New Orleans trumpeters came over, and they were all grousing, in a friendly fashion, about the trumpeter I was admiring -- who was none other than Trombone Shorty!!! (Of course I loved that trumpet!) The older guys were saying stuff like, "How old were you when you first hit that high note?" and "Good thing he's not good-looking too -- oh wait, he is" and "Can you believe he's that good on 'bone AND trumpet?" and "Does he have to play keyboard too?" and "At least he's a nice guy, we can't even hate him." Funny.
So we rushed over to the Jazz & Heritage Stage, drawn like iron filings to a magnet, and caught the rest of *the completely fantastic and off-the-hook* set by the nearly-secret Midnite Disturbers. This crazy-good band had Shamarr Allen, as well as Troy Andrews, otherwise known as Trombone Shorty, on trumpet, three trombonists, including Cory Henry AND Big Sam of the Funky Nation, two or three saxes, and two funky tubas. Wowee-zowie! It was fantastic, completely and utterly fantastic. (I later discovered that the OffBeat had alerted fans that Shorty would likely be there, but I only read that afterwards.) It was a real, major Jazz Fest moment that I'll remember for a long long time. Wish you could have all been there. (Note to Jazz Fest: next year, the Midnite Disturbers need to be on a much bigger stage.)
Feeling all tingly with the Midnite Disturbers music -- and the roaring cheers of the fans -- still in our ears, we went back to our chairs at Acura for Irma Thomas. Irma's voice has deepened and roughened over the years, but in a really good way, and she puts on a great show with her big band. (Since it was Jazz Fest, they skipped that part where the band plays the first tune without her and then calls her up, and she just came on right away.) She sang some of her new stuff from the two post-K albums, brought up Marcia Ball as her guest for one duet (calling her "my sister from another mother"), and then ran through the golden oldies like "It's Raining," "Time Is My Side," "Breakaway," and of course "You Can Have My Husband But Please Don't Mess With My Man." She ended as she always does, with all of us with our "backfield in motion" for "Pocky-Way." Great satisfying set.
We stayed put as they finished setting up the stage for Bon Jovi (they had actually begun the preparations for Bon Jovi during *Rénard's set* at the beginning of the day!). The crowd grew and grew, but did not get as bad as it had been 2 years ago when Bon Jovi came to Jazz Fest (see my old Blog post from JF 2009). We stayed for several of Jon Bon Jovi's big hits, "Dead or Alive," "You Give Love a Bad Name" and a couple more, then we packed up our chairs and walked over to Gentilly to catch our niece's pick, Jason Mraz, who Big Man and I had never heard of (we don't listen to commercial radio, just 'OZ). Turns out he's a handsome young man playing Latin-tinged pop to a giant appreciative crowd. Very good, but we were tired from getting there so very early, and so we began the trek back to the musicians' lot. On the way, we paused at the Jazz Tent to hear some of Ahmad Jamal's set among the hundreds of fans listening from the outside. Great stuff, lots of passion and energy.
Sunday, May 1
Our last day of the first weekend of Jazz Fest also began early, as Big Man was playing the opening act at the Gospel Tent with Jo "Cool" Davis (who back in the day was the bouncer/doorman at Tipitinia's but who now is a double amputee in a wheelchair). Jo always does his own personal versions of traditional gospel tunes, with a horn line of 2 saxes and Big Man on trumpet. The tent filled quickly, Jo being a long-time local favorite, and things were going along swimmingly, when Jo called up his guest vocalist. The crowd really went wild when James "Sugarboy" Crawford was introduced, all slender and dapper in a natty sport coat and straw fedora. The man who in his salad days gave us the original definitive version of "Jockomo" now sings only gospel but is remembered and revered for his place in the New Orleans musical pantheon. He did a gospel number that was sung to the tune of "Danny Boy" with Big Man doing some really sweet blowing behind him. When the set was over, the crowd stood and stamped and hollered.
As soon as Big Man got paid and congratulated for the gig (and after I had the honor of meeting Sugarboy Crawford and conveying my long-time admiration), we went straightaway to Economy Hall to get good seat for New Leviathan, a perennial favorite beloved by many. This gave us the unexpected chance to hear The Last Straws trad jazz band celebrate their 50th anniversary playing together. These old guys (and they were all, believe you me, old guys) in their old-fashioned striped rep ties and straw boaters played exactly like musicians who'd been playing with each other for a half-century -- that is, almost like they could read each other's minds. They were terrific in their way, and they had lots of fans in the tent.
Almost no one left (and in fact, members of The Last Straws eagerly took seats saved for them in the audience) anticipating the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra. After a long set-up (they're a BIG group), they launched into some of their treasure-trove of novelty songs from the early 20th century (my personal fave this set: "My Mariucci Does the Hoochie-Ma-Cooch"). What's so wonderful about New Leviathan is that the musicians take the music VERY seriously and don't make fun of it, no matter how silly the lyrics or premise of the songs (another good one was titled "You Heifer"!). And you gotta absolutely love the modern-day theremin they always wait to play at the end of the set, with its crazy, other-worldly sound. I've loved NLOFO since the old days in the atrium lobby of the old Hyatt Hotel, when they used to play the Friday Tea Dances, and it's great to get to hear them every year at Jazz Fest. (And thank god George Schmidt has returned to NOLA from his painting days in Italy!)
We took the long way back to our chairs at Gentilly, and caught a hot set by Li'l Malcolm & the House Rockers at the Fais Do-Do Stage (and yes, Big Man could not go past the Maque Choux booth without getting another bowlful!). We sat down in time to hear the end part of the Classic New Orleans R&B Revue with Frankie Ford & Jeanie Knight & the Blue-Eyed Soul Band. Big Man had been referred to the Fais Do-Do Stage to check out the Honey Island Swamp Band (they might want/need a trumpet player who can also do trombone), and we strolled over there to watch. They were great -- and they do need a trumpet, if I do say so myself -- but the sun was beating down mercilessly, and so we headed to the Grandstand for some relief. On the way, we watched some of the Storyville Stompers brass band on the Jazz & Heritage Stage; they must've invited everyone who'd ever played with them, for the stage was crowded with horns, must've been 16 guys on stage. Sounded great, though.
It had to be about 20 degrees cooler, no kidding, inside the Grandstand, and we were delighted by the set of pianist Tom McDermott with clarinetist Evan Christopher. Who knew those 2 pieces could be so satisfying and sweet? Very enjoyable and unexpected.
Once we were cooled off, we went back to the chairs at Gentilly for the end of Deacon John's Big Band's set. (They had old-fashioned bandstands and everything!). Wish we could've seen the whole set. We ran into Deac later on at Fest and told how great we thought he had been (and secretly said to ourselves that Deac needs to give Big Man a chance in his band -- Big Man is a natural for R&B-type playing).
Carrying the Army blanket for seating, we rushed over across the field to Acura for Dr. John & the Lower 911. The crowd was of course gynormous, but I spotted a parishioner sitting on the grass by herself, and offered a spot on the blanket. We all sat together and had a great time as Mack went through all my favorite tunes, just as though he had taken my requests. His medley of "Golden Splinters" with "Night Tripper" was terrific. Then he called out for his guest, the great trumpeter/arranger/ composer/producer Dave Bartholomew, who rolled out in a wheelchair. The main next to me checked his iPhone and announced, "91 on his next birthday!" and we all aahed and oohed. (And I told Big Man, whose birthday is next week, "See, darlin, 40 more years of blowing trumpet!") To our absolute amazement, Dave did indeed have his horn and not only blew it, he tore the place up, making his trumpet talk and squeal with a mute, and soaring notes heavenward. Good Lord, that was incredible! Another Jazz Fest moment to be savored and treasured.
Even though we knew the tent would packed like a sardine can, we hurried over to Economy Hall to at least listen from the outside to Pete Fountain's set, for who knows how many sets the old guy has in him. Tim Laughlin was sort of backing him up, but Pete was really playing his "licorice stick" and doing a helluva job. Among the mob massed outside we ran into and exchanged hugs and kisses with several friends, including the lovely Yvette Voelker of the Pfister Sisters (they play the Fest next wekeend). She and Bog Man had to spend some time praising the Finale music app for Macs and iPads. We left after Peter blew the tent down with "Basin Street Blues."
We returned to our chairs and waited for Tom Jones to come to the Gentilly Stage. Big Man and I talked, and we agreed that if all he did was a Vegas-type revue of all or most of his hits, it would be a satisfying show. We sat back and enjoyed the breeze, and blessedly the sun went behind some clouds and it was more than comfortable. Without our noticing, the band must have taken the stage, and suddenly our chairs began to vibrate with a heavy bass beat. We looked up, and there was nothing but a trio -- bass, guitar, and drums -- on the stage, hitting a heavy blues beat, and then Tom Jones (looking fabulous) took the stage to cheers and screams. He proceeded to do 3 old-time gospel songs in a row, including a shiver-inducing "God Almighty Gonna Cut "Em Down." Big Man and I exchanged looks. This was not at al what we expected, but this was *terrific."
Then, Tom introduced another song, and 2 really attractive (no, HOT) female back-up singers came out and they did a couple numbers with him. And then, a pianist came out and they did more tunes. We finally got it -- he was slowly and dramatically building up the band onstage, and at each point, you were completely happy, not thinking anything was missing. And then a full horn line came out and they blasted into a classic version of "Delilah" with the whole crowd joining in on the familiar chorus ("Why, why, why, Delilah...").
Each tune was introduced by Tom telling a story about how he got the tune, his conversations with the writer or with someone who had recorded it before him (like Elvis!). He was informative and interesting and gracious. His voice was fine, almost as if no time had passed. He had also grown into his looks and was, if anything, even better looking than he was when younger. There was hardly a woman of any age or orientation who wouldn't given him some. (And yes, if you have to ask, there was indeed underwear thrown up on stage!)
When the horn line broke into the familiar intro to Randy Newman's salty "You Can Leave Your Hat On" we screamed our approval. Tom's cover was so smoking hot it was surprising that any clothes remained on in the audience at all. The set was over before we knew it, the sun hanging low to our left, the sky turning all rosy, the crowd shouting and screaming for more. After we were almost hoarse, they came back out and to our gobsmacked surprise, they launched into "Pocky-Way"! (Really, I'm serious!!) Tom said, "I sing this lots of places, and people just don't get it -- they don't understand this song. But I know you will and I hope you'll join me in singing it." Well, who could stop us?? So we all backed up Tom Jones in singing our very own Mardi Gras Indian song. Amazing and wonderful.
Just as I was losing hope, Tom went into Prince's "Kiss" as his final encore, and while I have a beef with the Jazz Fest cameraman (and I KNOW it was a man, and straight at that!) who focused on the gorgeous back-up instead of Tom, for pete's sake, it was a completely satisfying end to an incredibly satisfying and unexpected set.
As the sun went down, we walked to our car, satiated, tired, excited, and happy. And thus ended the first weekend of Jazz Festival 2011.
Here are some highlights of the first weekend:
Friday, April 29
The very first thing we had to do was get us some Trout Bacquet -- *now* we're festing!! Then it was off to the Acura Stage, where we planned to set up our chairs, to hear the ever-reliable George Porter & his Runnin' Pardners. There is no better bass guitar player in the world than George, and we got funky for several tunes before leaving our chairs in the good spot we found, and walking over to the Blues Tent to catch some of the Joe Krown Trio (Joe, Russell Batiste on drums, and Walter "Wolfman" Washington on bass guitar). This is a group Big Man has sat in with at the Maple Leaf lots of times, and we like them a lot. Apparently so do a lot of folks, because the guys had totally *packed* the tent, but to enjoy the music, we strolled around a while as though looking for a seat. They were really hot, and the crowd was more than appreciative.
At the far back of the Gentilly Stage, which was as close as we could get, we laid down the wool Army blanket to groove on the subdudes with my old friend Johnny Magnie. The crowd was so tight along the left side of the stage that it took real skill to get through it. (Won't make that mistake again during Fest, and will take the track from here on in.) I do so love the harmonies of the 'dudes and we stayed for close to half the set, but there was the usual Jazz Fest scheduling of act upon act, and we had to move on to catch more bands on our list.
We walked through the Native American area so Big Man could get his annual Maque Choux fix on our way to listen to Donald Harrison at the Congo Square Stage. Donald was some smooth in his white suit, almost *glowing* on stage, his playing just as smooth and sophisticated. We passed a couple tunes in bliss here, and then we were on to Acura to catch us some great Jon Cleary on piano. Despite his lingering English accent, Jon could pass as a New Orleans-born piano man, and he's just as good as a raconteur. Totally enjoyable.
We got more food on our way to the Economy Hall Tent, to hear trad trumpeter Connie Jones, but we were early, and so caught Doreen's Jazz New Orleans band. We hadn't know who she is, until we saw her -- she's the black woman who play incredible clarinet on the street in the French Quarter. Every single time we've ever seen and heard her, we've been blown away by this woman's talent and musicality. So *that's* Doreen! We were delighted and cheered our heads off after every single solo.
We stayed for only a couple tunes with Connie Jones & his Crescent City Allstars -- the sound was awful, Connie's mike needed amplifying, and we were so replete after Doreen's hot set, that we ended up leaving. We had a destination in mind: the little Lagniappe Stage in the middle of the Grandstand, where Miss Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns were holding court and wowing the crowd. We had been going on and on about Meschiya to our niece -- her tattoos, her retro dress and hairdos, her amazing voice, her band's faithful and loving and lively recreation of jazz from the 1920s and 30s. They are *such* an experience, it's like you've gotten into a time machine and are actually experiencing the music of that era. They really belong in Economy Hall, but I suspect that the Jazz Fest powers-that-be fear that the older folks in that tent wouldn't appreciate all those "tats." Maybe next year they'll put her where she deserves to be.
We walked across the fest to get us some funk over at Congo Square with Ivan Neville & Dumpstaphunk. We spread out the Army blanket again and laid ourselves down under the sun, the sky like blue dome over us, and the music fell down on us from above, and I swear, felt like it was rising up from the earth itself, the vibrations entering our bodies from the ground. Especially loved "Put It in the Dumpster" and "Fight the Power."
Of course, it was useless to try to get into the Blues Tent to see Keb' Mo' -- the ushers were stopping people from entering, saying there were absolutely no seats at all left. But we stayed outside and got glimpses through the tent flaps. Wow! Keb' Mo' and his band were amazing, and seemed to be totally enjoying himself, grinning and dancing across the stage. We were glued to the spot, along with hundreds of other fans who couldn't get in, but we left satisfied.
We returned to our seats at Acura in time for former Led Zeppelin lead singer Robert Plant & this Band of Joy. Let's face it, Robert Plant does not have the voice he used to have, but now and again you heard a glimpse of it. He sure looks like an advertisement for how NOT to live -- as my sister L would say, he looked rode hard and put up wet. He had a good band with him -- one band member played acoustic, electric, dobro, and mandolin -- but we were somewhat sunstruck, and mindful of the days ahead. So we headed back to our car to party another day.
Saturday, April 30
A *very* early start on this day, as Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band as the opening act on the Acura Stage. (The Jazz fest shuttle driver who picked us up in the musicians' parking lot said, all impressed, "Oh, the big stage!") Rénard is something of a stickler, so he required his band members to arrive a full hour or more before the scheduled start. The backstage trailers were VERY nice, with comfortable furniture, like white leather sofas and chairs, and glass-topped coffee tables, with a good spread of catering sandwiches and an ice chest filled with water, cold drinks and beer (!). Unfortunately, since Bon Jovi and his band were closing out the Fest later in the day, they were not giving out ANY Acura guest passes, for fear folks would try to use them later to get backstage. Bummer.
It was a great set -- Rénard is *crazy* talented, playing trombone, drums, recorder (actually, TWO recorders at one time!!), flute, and guitar, and his arrangements of familiar tunes (like "Eleanor Rigby") are totally amazing. Unlike many New Orleans musicians, the band had had several rehearsals in the run-up to the fest, and they were *tight* and hot (if I do say so myself, prejudiced as I am with Big Man playing). Keiko on keyboards all ladylike while her hands went crazy across the keys; Leslie Smith's voice all husky and sexy, her stage moves confident. The horns were great, everything went well. The crowd grew and grew as the set wore on, and they cheered and jumped and waved.
After the great set, the band headed back to the trailer and the Jazz Fest staff went out of their way to make us comfortable, maybe feeling guilty that we had to clear out by 1 pm, and not getting our backstage passes. They made us coffee and we ate ore of the catered sandwiches. Big Man got paid, Rénard congratulated and thanked everyone and we took the shuttle back to the car to get rid of all the horns (Big Man played both trombone and trumpet for the show), and Big Man changed out of the required black to a more fest-appropriate garb.
It was well into the set when we got back to the Acura Stage for the Dixie Cups, so we missed "Chapel of Love" (featured on our wedding invitations), but we did enjoy the rest of it. (Except for that part when they brought *Councilwoman Jackie Clarkson* onstage to sing with them -- ew.) Interestingly, the gals sang "America the Beautiful" and nearly the whole crowd stood up and some of the men took their hats off, as if it were the national anthem! We left our chairs there for later and took a walk.
As we walked by the Blues Tent J. Monque'D was holding forth, and once again, it was too full to get in. We kept on going, and were drawn into the Gospel Tent where the Gospel Soul Children were totally rocking out. We managed to find 3 seats, pretty close to the front, and man, did we get the spirit!! A lot of gospel groups will do something with high energy and then will alternate it with something slower, so they (and the audience) can catch their breath, but not the GSC. They went from one rockin' number to the next, and when you thought things couldn't get any more excited or high spirited, they topped it. I tell you the truth, we were almost exhausted when we left.
Needing to hear something much more mellow, we ambled over to Economy Hall and caught jazz banjoist Don Vappie & his Creole Jazz Serenaders. Great classics of the trad style, including tunes associated with Don, like "Salé Dame" (which could loosely translated as "Dirty Girl"). As always, the Economy Hall crowd was well and truly into it, getting into spontaneous secondlines and strutting around the tent. (Note: you can;t hardly go to Economy Hall if you don't have an umbrella, decorated or not, or at the very least a handkerchief to wave as you secondline through the tent.) The dance floor had couples gracefully going through their paces, and a very good time was had by all.
We were hungry again, and made our way to the middle food area, so that Big Man could get his second favorite dish, the absolutely fabulous Quail, Pheasant, and Andouille Gumbo from Prejean's. (That stuff is off-the-charts good!) While sitting on the soft green grass to savor the food, I could hear an almost unearthly good trumpet blowing from the direction of the Jazz & Heritage Stage. "Who is that?," I wondered.
I scanned my iPhone Jazz Fest app, and found an unknown band (to me) called the Midnite Disturbers was there. Big Man came back from the food booth, laughing, and sat down next to me. "Just had a funny trumpet player conversation," he reported. He said he was standing by the gumbo booth when two other older New Orleans trumpeters came over, and they were all grousing, in a friendly fashion, about the trumpeter I was admiring -- who was none other than Trombone Shorty!!! (Of course I loved that trumpet!) The older guys were saying stuff like, "How old were you when you first hit that high note?" and "Good thing he's not good-looking too -- oh wait, he is" and "Can you believe he's that good on 'bone AND trumpet?" and "Does he have to play keyboard too?" and "At least he's a nice guy, we can't even hate him." Funny.
So we rushed over to the Jazz & Heritage Stage, drawn like iron filings to a magnet, and caught the rest of *the completely fantastic and off-the-hook* set by the nearly-secret Midnite Disturbers. This crazy-good band had Shamarr Allen, as well as Troy Andrews, otherwise known as Trombone Shorty, on trumpet, three trombonists, including Cory Henry AND Big Sam of the Funky Nation, two or three saxes, and two funky tubas. Wowee-zowie! It was fantastic, completely and utterly fantastic. (I later discovered that the OffBeat had alerted fans that Shorty would likely be there, but I only read that afterwards.) It was a real, major Jazz Fest moment that I'll remember for a long long time. Wish you could have all been there. (Note to Jazz Fest: next year, the Midnite Disturbers need to be on a much bigger stage.)
Feeling all tingly with the Midnite Disturbers music -- and the roaring cheers of the fans -- still in our ears, we went back to our chairs at Acura for Irma Thomas. Irma's voice has deepened and roughened over the years, but in a really good way, and she puts on a great show with her big band. (Since it was Jazz Fest, they skipped that part where the band plays the first tune without her and then calls her up, and she just came on right away.) She sang some of her new stuff from the two post-K albums, brought up Marcia Ball as her guest for one duet (calling her "my sister from another mother"), and then ran through the golden oldies like "It's Raining," "Time Is My Side," "Breakaway," and of course "You Can Have My Husband But Please Don't Mess With My Man." She ended as she always does, with all of us with our "backfield in motion" for "Pocky-Way." Great satisfying set.
We stayed put as they finished setting up the stage for Bon Jovi (they had actually begun the preparations for Bon Jovi during *Rénard's set* at the beginning of the day!). The crowd grew and grew, but did not get as bad as it had been 2 years ago when Bon Jovi came to Jazz Fest (see my old Blog post from JF 2009). We stayed for several of Jon Bon Jovi's big hits, "Dead or Alive," "You Give Love a Bad Name" and a couple more, then we packed up our chairs and walked over to Gentilly to catch our niece's pick, Jason Mraz, who Big Man and I had never heard of (we don't listen to commercial radio, just 'OZ). Turns out he's a handsome young man playing Latin-tinged pop to a giant appreciative crowd. Very good, but we were tired from getting there so very early, and so we began the trek back to the musicians' lot. On the way, we paused at the Jazz Tent to hear some of Ahmad Jamal's set among the hundreds of fans listening from the outside. Great stuff, lots of passion and energy.
Sunday, May 1
Our last day of the first weekend of Jazz Fest also began early, as Big Man was playing the opening act at the Gospel Tent with Jo "Cool" Davis (who back in the day was the bouncer/doorman at Tipitinia's but who now is a double amputee in a wheelchair). Jo always does his own personal versions of traditional gospel tunes, with a horn line of 2 saxes and Big Man on trumpet. The tent filled quickly, Jo being a long-time local favorite, and things were going along swimmingly, when Jo called up his guest vocalist. The crowd really went wild when James "Sugarboy" Crawford was introduced, all slender and dapper in a natty sport coat and straw fedora. The man who in his salad days gave us the original definitive version of "Jockomo" now sings only gospel but is remembered and revered for his place in the New Orleans musical pantheon. He did a gospel number that was sung to the tune of "Danny Boy" with Big Man doing some really sweet blowing behind him. When the set was over, the crowd stood and stamped and hollered.
As soon as Big Man got paid and congratulated for the gig (and after I had the honor of meeting Sugarboy Crawford and conveying my long-time admiration), we went straightaway to Economy Hall to get good seat for New Leviathan, a perennial favorite beloved by many. This gave us the unexpected chance to hear The Last Straws trad jazz band celebrate their 50th anniversary playing together. These old guys (and they were all, believe you me, old guys) in their old-fashioned striped rep ties and straw boaters played exactly like musicians who'd been playing with each other for a half-century -- that is, almost like they could read each other's minds. They were terrific in their way, and they had lots of fans in the tent.
Almost no one left (and in fact, members of The Last Straws eagerly took seats saved for them in the audience) anticipating the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra. After a long set-up (they're a BIG group), they launched into some of their treasure-trove of novelty songs from the early 20th century (my personal fave this set: "My Mariucci Does the Hoochie-Ma-Cooch"). What's so wonderful about New Leviathan is that the musicians take the music VERY seriously and don't make fun of it, no matter how silly the lyrics or premise of the songs (another good one was titled "You Heifer"!). And you gotta absolutely love the modern-day theremin they always wait to play at the end of the set, with its crazy, other-worldly sound. I've loved NLOFO since the old days in the atrium lobby of the old Hyatt Hotel, when they used to play the Friday Tea Dances, and it's great to get to hear them every year at Jazz Fest. (And thank god George Schmidt has returned to NOLA from his painting days in Italy!)
We took the long way back to our chairs at Gentilly, and caught a hot set by Li'l Malcolm & the House Rockers at the Fais Do-Do Stage (and yes, Big Man could not go past the Maque Choux booth without getting another bowlful!). We sat down in time to hear the end part of the Classic New Orleans R&B Revue with Frankie Ford & Jeanie Knight & the Blue-Eyed Soul Band. Big Man had been referred to the Fais Do-Do Stage to check out the Honey Island Swamp Band (they might want/need a trumpet player who can also do trombone), and we strolled over there to watch. They were great -- and they do need a trumpet, if I do say so myself -- but the sun was beating down mercilessly, and so we headed to the Grandstand for some relief. On the way, we watched some of the Storyville Stompers brass band on the Jazz & Heritage Stage; they must've invited everyone who'd ever played with them, for the stage was crowded with horns, must've been 16 guys on stage. Sounded great, though.
It had to be about 20 degrees cooler, no kidding, inside the Grandstand, and we were delighted by the set of pianist Tom McDermott with clarinetist Evan Christopher. Who knew those 2 pieces could be so satisfying and sweet? Very enjoyable and unexpected.
Once we were cooled off, we went back to the chairs at Gentilly for the end of Deacon John's Big Band's set. (They had old-fashioned bandstands and everything!). Wish we could've seen the whole set. We ran into Deac later on at Fest and told how great we thought he had been (and secretly said to ourselves that Deac needs to give Big Man a chance in his band -- Big Man is a natural for R&B-type playing).
Carrying the Army blanket for seating, we rushed over across the field to Acura for Dr. John & the Lower 911. The crowd was of course gynormous, but I spotted a parishioner sitting on the grass by herself, and offered a spot on the blanket. We all sat together and had a great time as Mack went through all my favorite tunes, just as though he had taken my requests. His medley of "Golden Splinters" with "Night Tripper" was terrific. Then he called out for his guest, the great trumpeter/arranger/ composer/producer Dave Bartholomew, who rolled out in a wheelchair. The main next to me checked his iPhone and announced, "91 on his next birthday!" and we all aahed and oohed. (And I told Big Man, whose birthday is next week, "See, darlin, 40 more years of blowing trumpet!") To our absolute amazement, Dave did indeed have his horn and not only blew it, he tore the place up, making his trumpet talk and squeal with a mute, and soaring notes heavenward. Good Lord, that was incredible! Another Jazz Fest moment to be savored and treasured.
Even though we knew the tent would packed like a sardine can, we hurried over to Economy Hall to at least listen from the outside to Pete Fountain's set, for who knows how many sets the old guy has in him. Tim Laughlin was sort of backing him up, but Pete was really playing his "licorice stick" and doing a helluva job. Among the mob massed outside we ran into and exchanged hugs and kisses with several friends, including the lovely Yvette Voelker of the Pfister Sisters (they play the Fest next wekeend). She and Bog Man had to spend some time praising the Finale music app for Macs and iPads. We left after Peter blew the tent down with "Basin Street Blues."
We returned to our chairs and waited for Tom Jones to come to the Gentilly Stage. Big Man and I talked, and we agreed that if all he did was a Vegas-type revue of all or most of his hits, it would be a satisfying show. We sat back and enjoyed the breeze, and blessedly the sun went behind some clouds and it was more than comfortable. Without our noticing, the band must have taken the stage, and suddenly our chairs began to vibrate with a heavy bass beat. We looked up, and there was nothing but a trio -- bass, guitar, and drums -- on the stage, hitting a heavy blues beat, and then Tom Jones (looking fabulous) took the stage to cheers and screams. He proceeded to do 3 old-time gospel songs in a row, including a shiver-inducing "God Almighty Gonna Cut "Em Down." Big Man and I exchanged looks. This was not at al what we expected, but this was *terrific."
Then, Tom introduced another song, and 2 really attractive (no, HOT) female back-up singers came out and they did a couple numbers with him. And then, a pianist came out and they did more tunes. We finally got it -- he was slowly and dramatically building up the band onstage, and at each point, you were completely happy, not thinking anything was missing. And then a full horn line came out and they blasted into a classic version of "Delilah" with the whole crowd joining in on the familiar chorus ("Why, why, why, Delilah...").
Each tune was introduced by Tom telling a story about how he got the tune, his conversations with the writer or with someone who had recorded it before him (like Elvis!). He was informative and interesting and gracious. His voice was fine, almost as if no time had passed. He had also grown into his looks and was, if anything, even better looking than he was when younger. There was hardly a woman of any age or orientation who wouldn't given him some. (And yes, if you have to ask, there was indeed underwear thrown up on stage!)
When the horn line broke into the familiar intro to Randy Newman's salty "You Can Leave Your Hat On" we screamed our approval. Tom's cover was so smoking hot it was surprising that any clothes remained on in the audience at all. The set was over before we knew it, the sun hanging low to our left, the sky turning all rosy, the crowd shouting and screaming for more. After we were almost hoarse, they came back out and to our gobsmacked surprise, they launched into "Pocky-Way"! (Really, I'm serious!!) Tom said, "I sing this lots of places, and people just don't get it -- they don't understand this song. But I know you will and I hope you'll join me in singing it." Well, who could stop us?? So we all backed up Tom Jones in singing our very own Mardi Gras Indian song. Amazing and wonderful.
Just as I was losing hope, Tom went into Prince's "Kiss" as his final encore, and while I have a beef with the Jazz Fest cameraman (and I KNOW it was a man, and straight at that!) who focused on the gorgeous back-up instead of Tom, for pete's sake, it was a completely satisfying end to an incredibly satisfying and unexpected set.
As the sun went down, we walked to our car, satiated, tired, excited, and happy. And thus ended the first weekend of Jazz Festival 2011.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Irvin Mayfield at Wednesday at the Square
Despite tremendous winds -- so strong that nearly all the booths at the Lafayette Square concert were NOT set up, for fear of blowing away, so strong that every gust brought handfuls of dust and grit from all over into your face and eyes and mouth -- the Wednesday at the Square Concert went on as scheduled. Big Man and I met up with my sister D and we three found a good spot in front of what would have been the sound booth but was this week just a sound table. I do believe the crowd was dampened a bit by the extreme wind, so it wasn't as packed as one might have expected. But that just means it as easier to find a good spot to sit, and there were no lines for food (which also was just tables, and not booths, due to the wind).
Irvin Mayfield needed no warm-up group, and just took over the whole two hours. A big band, with Kid Chocolate Brown as the second trumpet, Shannon Powell on drums, David Torkanowsky on the piano, a sax player, and a bassist. Big surprise: Creole jazz banjoist Don Vappie -- nice! They started with some classics, and frankly, I've never seen Irvin so relaxed and comfortable onstage. His playing was smooth and sharp at the same time, and he gave lots of encouragement to his bandmates.
Sitting in the back of the stage were three young women dressed in burlesque-type outfits, and we could not figure out why they were there (though they did seem to be enjoying themselves to the music). Big Man commented, "I think Irvin's been on Bourbon Street too long!" But it became clear in the second half of the show.
The second set began with a tune by some kids that Irvin's is teaching music to, what he called his "Saddy students." (Didja ever notice that working class New Orleanians try to drop and compress syllables, and upper crust New Orleanians stretch them out?) These kids were absolutely terrific, especially this tiny trumpeter, who couldn't have been any more than 8 years old, if he was that, who totally blew us all away with his skillful jazz solo. Irvin said into the mike, "Y'all give him a big hand, this boy tryin' to steal my gig!" We screamed and hollered. I wish I had caught his name, 'cause I feel like years from now, we will want to say, "Oh yeah, I first saw him when he was just a little kid, one of Irvin's students, playing at a Wednesday at the Square concert, back in the day."
After the students left, Irvin led the band through some local favorite tunes, and then called up his next guest -- who was none other than "Trombone Shorty" Troy Andrews!! Wow! Irvin handed Troy his horn, and Troy blew a great version of "Do What You Wanna." With no horn to blow, Irvin was left to vocalize, and to our amazement, he began exhorting the crowd to "shake what yo' mama gave ya" and "c'mon, mama, shake yo' ass." He doesn't sound like THAT when he plays up North!
Irvin himself seemed to emphasize his at-homeness, telling the crowd, "You don't find THIS in Houston, you don't find this in Los Angeles, you don't find this in New York, you don't find this in Chicago" and so on, the crowd appropriately hollering, "NO!" to each iteration of another city.
After Shorty left -- with the crowds screams and applause in his ears, no doubt -- leaving the fancy matte Monette horn to Irvin, Irvin called up another guest, this time Sasha Masakowski. Little Sasha, daughter of jazz guitarist Steve Masakowski, who I last saw opening for Aaron Neville at the House of Blues last December, has really grown into her voice and persona -- she was hot as fire, doing an incredible smoky version of "St. James Infirmary." Whew.
And then when SHE left, Irvin called up Miss Trixie Minx, of the burlesque troupe that appears every Friday night at midnight at Irvin's Bourbon Street club, and one of the three burly-Q ladies that had been adorning the stage all during the first set. Trixie preened and pranced and flirted with giant white feather fans to Vappie's rendition of Blue Lu Barker's steamy classic "Don't You Feel My Leg." It was pretty hot, though, as such things go, it was pretty tame. I mean, you can see more skin on most beaches. It's not like she was actually stripping and showing body parts or anything. Still and all, it's hard to believe this would be public-park, family-friendly fare anywhere but New Orleans. (And indeed, Irvin started up again with his, "They're not doing THAT in Houston, etc." You bet they're not.)
The party was still going on, with Irvin threatening to hold a second line from Lafayette Square to his club on Bourbon as Big Man and I left to see if we had gotten a parking ticket. (Our luck held -- we hadn't.) As we walked, we tried to decide why Irvin seemed so different tonight than the ways we had seen him in Philadelphia and Cape May and Wilmington when we lived up North. Part of it might be just the passage of years -- Irvin has matured as a man and as a player, and that surely contributes to it. But it was not just maturity and confidence that we noticed -- it was also the looseness, the sense of playfulness that Irvin brought to this show. (And all those shout-outs to the crowd.) It has to be his feeling so at home in this special place -- it was New Orleans helping him to be that way. A wonderful thing. Probably the best Wednesday at the Square we've ever attended.
Irvin Mayfield needed no warm-up group, and just took over the whole two hours. A big band, with Kid Chocolate Brown as the second trumpet, Shannon Powell on drums, David Torkanowsky on the piano, a sax player, and a bassist. Big surprise: Creole jazz banjoist Don Vappie -- nice! They started with some classics, and frankly, I've never seen Irvin so relaxed and comfortable onstage. His playing was smooth and sharp at the same time, and he gave lots of encouragement to his bandmates.
Sitting in the back of the stage were three young women dressed in burlesque-type outfits, and we could not figure out why they were there (though they did seem to be enjoying themselves to the music). Big Man commented, "I think Irvin's been on Bourbon Street too long!" But it became clear in the second half of the show.
The second set began with a tune by some kids that Irvin's is teaching music to, what he called his "Saddy students." (Didja ever notice that working class New Orleanians try to drop and compress syllables, and upper crust New Orleanians stretch them out?) These kids were absolutely terrific, especially this tiny trumpeter, who couldn't have been any more than 8 years old, if he was that, who totally blew us all away with his skillful jazz solo. Irvin said into the mike, "Y'all give him a big hand, this boy tryin' to steal my gig!" We screamed and hollered. I wish I had caught his name, 'cause I feel like years from now, we will want to say, "Oh yeah, I first saw him when he was just a little kid, one of Irvin's students, playing at a Wednesday at the Square concert, back in the day."
After the students left, Irvin led the band through some local favorite tunes, and then called up his next guest -- who was none other than "Trombone Shorty" Troy Andrews!! Wow! Irvin handed Troy his horn, and Troy blew a great version of "Do What You Wanna." With no horn to blow, Irvin was left to vocalize, and to our amazement, he began exhorting the crowd to "shake what yo' mama gave ya" and "c'mon, mama, shake yo' ass." He doesn't sound like THAT when he plays up North!
Irvin himself seemed to emphasize his at-homeness, telling the crowd, "You don't find THIS in Houston, you don't find this in Los Angeles, you don't find this in New York, you don't find this in Chicago" and so on, the crowd appropriately hollering, "NO!" to each iteration of another city.
After Shorty left -- with the crowds screams and applause in his ears, no doubt -- leaving the fancy matte Monette horn to Irvin, Irvin called up another guest, this time Sasha Masakowski. Little Sasha, daughter of jazz guitarist Steve Masakowski, who I last saw opening for Aaron Neville at the House of Blues last December, has really grown into her voice and persona -- she was hot as fire, doing an incredible smoky version of "St. James Infirmary." Whew.
And then when SHE left, Irvin called up Miss Trixie Minx, of the burlesque troupe that appears every Friday night at midnight at Irvin's Bourbon Street club, and one of the three burly-Q ladies that had been adorning the stage all during the first set. Trixie preened and pranced and flirted with giant white feather fans to Vappie's rendition of Blue Lu Barker's steamy classic "Don't You Feel My Leg." It was pretty hot, though, as such things go, it was pretty tame. I mean, you can see more skin on most beaches. It's not like she was actually stripping and showing body parts or anything. Still and all, it's hard to believe this would be public-park, family-friendly fare anywhere but New Orleans. (And indeed, Irvin started up again with his, "They're not doing THAT in Houston, etc." You bet they're not.)
The party was still going on, with Irvin threatening to hold a second line from Lafayette Square to his club on Bourbon as Big Man and I left to see if we had gotten a parking ticket. (Our luck held -- we hadn't.) As we walked, we tried to decide why Irvin seemed so different tonight than the ways we had seen him in Philadelphia and Cape May and Wilmington when we lived up North. Part of it might be just the passage of years -- Irvin has matured as a man and as a player, and that surely contributes to it. But it was not just maturity and confidence that we noticed -- it was also the looseness, the sense of playfulness that Irvin brought to this show. (And all those shout-outs to the crowd.) It has to be his feeling so at home in this special place -- it was New Orleans helping him to be that way. A wonderful thing. Probably the best Wednesday at the Square we've ever attended.
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