Well, occasional and faithful readers (I think there may be about 20 of you out there, but who knows?), I have made the decision to go to Twitter instead of trying (and failing) to maintain this blog.
I will be posting at random but much more regularly, on topics ranging from Unitarian Universalism to New Orleans to whatever of current interest strikes my fancy. My Twitter handle is RevMelanieNOLA -- please follow me!
Posting on this blog has been sometimes fun and sometimes a chore. It has been good to read the occasional comments, and to hear in person from someone that they read the blog. But I think the brevity and immediacy of Twitter is more current, easier to do, and more likely to keep me posting.
For those with religious interests, my sermons will still be posted on the First Church website: firstuuno.org.
Thanks for your interest over these years and I hope to stay in touch via this new medium.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Hamp Fest at St. Aug
NOTE: I read recently that the most frequent post in a blog is the apology, "I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while" -- so I'm NOT going to say that! Life happens, is all.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was such an honor to be at the St. Augustine fundraiser, the Hamp Fest (appropriately named for the late great St. Aug Music Director Mr. Edwin Hampton), a 2-day festival of food & music held on the St. Augustine campus in the 7th Ward.
Big Man was booked to play in one of the bands opening for Morris Day & the Time on the second day of the festival, which just happened to be my birthday. We arrived early, and just managed to find a legal and free parking space within a reasonable walking distance. (I understand that St. Aug arranges for a distant parking lot somewhere in the neighborhood and shuttles for the folks who use it, but that is not the best option for musicians carrying a lot of gear.)
The artists' green room was like Old Home Week -- there were lots of called greetings and pointing and hugging and kissing back and forth. The Free Agents Brass Band and their family members were there, and Elaine Foster and her bandmates in ELS (doing their fabulous Whitney Houston tribute), the guys in Big Man's band (which is the same band he plays with on Bourbon Street several nights a week), plus assorted liaison folks from St. Augustine and various other people. The green room had food set out for the musicians, and it was, predictably, delicious: fried chicken, fried catfish, barbecued chicken, greens, and a wonderful concoction that was like barbecued shrimp with sausage and potatoes in it (OMG). There also was sliced cake, but when I saw it was store-bought, I decided to skip the calories and see what would be on offer later at the fest. (Turned out to be a great decision, see below.)
I came in for more than my share of positive attention, as Big Man made sure to tell everyone it was my 60th birthday. People said -- trying to be kind -- "You don't look 60!" thus giving me the chance to say, "This is what 60 looks like!" I gathered hugs and kisses and compliments and was quite the happy woman.
First up on the stage was the brass band, with adults, young adults, and one or two youth players, plus a full Grand Marshall in a tan suit with matching decorated sash and umbrella. At one point during their set, the marshall came off the stage to dance in and with the crowd, choosing the requisite number of pretty women and a couple of grandmothers -- one of whom "got jiggy with it" to the delight of the rest of the crowd, watching on the big screen set up next to the stage (and another one, as I found out, out by the food booths).
Once again I am reminded of Why New Orleans Is Different. Watching little bitty kids and elderly folks dancing intricate steps and doing The Butt with the Grand Marshal, I was just overwhelmed with the feeling that such an age-diverse crowd would be unusual elsewhere, and then to have the range of folks not only dancing, but dancing HOT -- where else but here? One lil boy was just barely out of toddlerhood, and he was killing the steps, as if he had exited the womb knowing how to dance like that. What can I say? I love this town.
Big Man and the band were terrific onstage, with a nonstop line-up of beloved R&B and Motown hits, the 3 lead singers doing great elaborate synchronized steps, and Big Man and the sax player doing some steps of their own. (No spins, though.) It was a tight set, well played, lots of dancing by the crowd, and a standing O afterward.
Most of the band took this night as just another gig, and left soon after the set, but Big Man and I were very much aware of the honor and opportunity this was -- like here we are, at *St. Augustine*! So we stayed, which made us conspicuous, since with the exception of a couple of sound techs working the stage and the sound booth, we were the ONLY white people there. I'm not exaggerating -- there were no other white folks. We stuck out, believe you me.
Folks were very, very welcoming. People came up to Big Man, complimenting him on his playing, and some of the men saying that back in the day they used to play trumpet in the St. Aug band, the mighty Marching 100. Folks passed us in the crowd, nodding and smiling. Some said, "How y'all doing?" and some asked warmly, "Y'all having fun?" Big Man look he detected a few "WTF" looks from some folks but everyone without exception was friendly and welcoming and nice to us. I did think it strange though -- for isn't the St. Aug Band one of THE highlights of the Carnival season? Doesn't everyone on the parade route, whatever their color, get a thrill when the word passes down, "It's St. Aug!"? Why wouldn't white folks want to support St. Aug? Why were we the only white people there?
Because we stuck out so much, it was easy to find folks we know, or who know us. Miss Loretta of Loretta's Cafe and Pralines in the Marigny had to come running over in her booth to kiss Big Man on the cheek (he's a regular at her place), and she insisted on me taking a praline cupcake for my birthday. (Boy, was I glad I didn't eat the junk grocery-store cake earlier in the green room! The cupcake with the rich creamy praline icing was off the hook!) The folks at the Vaucresson Sausage booth passed some time with us, talking about their post-K business (they are actually leasing space and time in a *competitor's sausage factory! I think I wrote about this back in 2007 or 2008), and "forced" me to taste a small piece of their signature Creole hot sausage, the traditional chaurice, which was totally amazing. All the food there looked great and there was a wide variety.
The way it works is, tickets to the Fest are $40 per person per night. This gets you inside, and enables you to set up your own chair to watch all the music, and both nights the line-up of bands and musicians is well worth the price. There are both inside air-conditioned and clean portalets available. Then, all your drinks and food are separate. It could total up pretty high if you were hungry and thirsty, but since it's all for a good cause, it's not too onerous.
Morris Day & The Time were late coming onstage (Big Man joked that when they did their well-known call-and-response, "What time is it?" we should shout back, "It's LATE!"), but we managed to stay for a good part of the set. They were great, the beat had the crowd rockin', Morris Day kept admiring himself in the gold-framed mirror (I couldn't believe he was still doing that shtick), we danced in the crowd, and a good time was had by all.
We got home about 1 am, which is normal for Big Man but a big night for me (because I'm 60, don't you know).
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was such an honor to be at the St. Augustine fundraiser, the Hamp Fest (appropriately named for the late great St. Aug Music Director Mr. Edwin Hampton), a 2-day festival of food & music held on the St. Augustine campus in the 7th Ward.
Big Man was booked to play in one of the bands opening for Morris Day & the Time on the second day of the festival, which just happened to be my birthday. We arrived early, and just managed to find a legal and free parking space within a reasonable walking distance. (I understand that St. Aug arranges for a distant parking lot somewhere in the neighborhood and shuttles for the folks who use it, but that is not the best option for musicians carrying a lot of gear.)
The artists' green room was like Old Home Week -- there were lots of called greetings and pointing and hugging and kissing back and forth. The Free Agents Brass Band and their family members were there, and Elaine Foster and her bandmates in ELS (doing their fabulous Whitney Houston tribute), the guys in Big Man's band (which is the same band he plays with on Bourbon Street several nights a week), plus assorted liaison folks from St. Augustine and various other people. The green room had food set out for the musicians, and it was, predictably, delicious: fried chicken, fried catfish, barbecued chicken, greens, and a wonderful concoction that was like barbecued shrimp with sausage and potatoes in it (OMG). There also was sliced cake, but when I saw it was store-bought, I decided to skip the calories and see what would be on offer later at the fest. (Turned out to be a great decision, see below.)
I came in for more than my share of positive attention, as Big Man made sure to tell everyone it was my 60th birthday. People said -- trying to be kind -- "You don't look 60!" thus giving me the chance to say, "This is what 60 looks like!" I gathered hugs and kisses and compliments and was quite the happy woman.
First up on the stage was the brass band, with adults, young adults, and one or two youth players, plus a full Grand Marshall in a tan suit with matching decorated sash and umbrella. At one point during their set, the marshall came off the stage to dance in and with the crowd, choosing the requisite number of pretty women and a couple of grandmothers -- one of whom "got jiggy with it" to the delight of the rest of the crowd, watching on the big screen set up next to the stage (and another one, as I found out, out by the food booths).
Once again I am reminded of Why New Orleans Is Different. Watching little bitty kids and elderly folks dancing intricate steps and doing The Butt with the Grand Marshal, I was just overwhelmed with the feeling that such an age-diverse crowd would be unusual elsewhere, and then to have the range of folks not only dancing, but dancing HOT -- where else but here? One lil boy was just barely out of toddlerhood, and he was killing the steps, as if he had exited the womb knowing how to dance like that. What can I say? I love this town.
Big Man and the band were terrific onstage, with a nonstop line-up of beloved R&B and Motown hits, the 3 lead singers doing great elaborate synchronized steps, and Big Man and the sax player doing some steps of their own. (No spins, though.) It was a tight set, well played, lots of dancing by the crowd, and a standing O afterward.
Most of the band took this night as just another gig, and left soon after the set, but Big Man and I were very much aware of the honor and opportunity this was -- like here we are, at *St. Augustine*! So we stayed, which made us conspicuous, since with the exception of a couple of sound techs working the stage and the sound booth, we were the ONLY white people there. I'm not exaggerating -- there were no other white folks. We stuck out, believe you me.
Folks were very, very welcoming. People came up to Big Man, complimenting him on his playing, and some of the men saying that back in the day they used to play trumpet in the St. Aug band, the mighty Marching 100. Folks passed us in the crowd, nodding and smiling. Some said, "How y'all doing?" and some asked warmly, "Y'all having fun?" Big Man look he detected a few "WTF" looks from some folks but everyone without exception was friendly and welcoming and nice to us. I did think it strange though -- for isn't the St. Aug Band one of THE highlights of the Carnival season? Doesn't everyone on the parade route, whatever their color, get a thrill when the word passes down, "It's St. Aug!"? Why wouldn't white folks want to support St. Aug? Why were we the only white people there?
Because we stuck out so much, it was easy to find folks we know, or who know us. Miss Loretta of Loretta's Cafe and Pralines in the Marigny had to come running over in her booth to kiss Big Man on the cheek (he's a regular at her place), and she insisted on me taking a praline cupcake for my birthday. (Boy, was I glad I didn't eat the junk grocery-store cake earlier in the green room! The cupcake with the rich creamy praline icing was off the hook!) The folks at the Vaucresson Sausage booth passed some time with us, talking about their post-K business (they are actually leasing space and time in a *competitor's sausage factory! I think I wrote about this back in 2007 or 2008), and "forced" me to taste a small piece of their signature Creole hot sausage, the traditional chaurice, which was totally amazing. All the food there looked great and there was a wide variety.
The way it works is, tickets to the Fest are $40 per person per night. This gets you inside, and enables you to set up your own chair to watch all the music, and both nights the line-up of bands and musicians is well worth the price. There are both inside air-conditioned and clean portalets available. Then, all your drinks and food are separate. It could total up pretty high if you were hungry and thirsty, but since it's all for a good cause, it's not too onerous.
Morris Day & The Time were late coming onstage (Big Man joked that when they did their well-known call-and-response, "What time is it?" we should shout back, "It's LATE!"), but we managed to stay for a good part of the set. They were great, the beat had the crowd rockin', Morris Day kept admiring himself in the gold-framed mirror (I couldn't believe he was still doing that shtick), we danced in the crowd, and a good time was had by all.
We got home about 1 am, which is normal for Big Man but a big night for me (because I'm 60, don't you know).
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Jazz Fest 2012 Second Weekend
Well, another Jazz Fest has come and gone, and we're a little sun-struck, a little over-fed, a little tired from a lot of walking -- but we are well-satisfied in every way.
We made the sensible but still difficult decision to give up on the traditional biggest-attendance day, the second Saturday, both to avoid the crush and to give our niece from Pennsylvania a one-day tour of the city, which we had never done before. (Poor thing! On all her previous visits, she barely got to see anything other than what you can see on the route from our house to the Fest!) So that means our highlights of this final weekend will not include any of the acts on Saturday, May 5 -- and believe me, one of the hardest things in the world for me was to make the choice NOT to see Allen Toussaint!
Here's a recap of our Fest days:
Thursday, May 3 -- J. Monque'D (nostaligic hot New Orleans R&B), The Mighty Supremes Gospel Quintet, the incredible Native American musician Bill Miller (kickin' the tradition to the 21st century!), George Porter and his Runnin' Pardners (like everyone else, we believe in George), the sweet'n'naughty Rosie Ledet & her Zydeco Playboys (what a set!!), the Roots of Music Parade (love-love-love those kids!), the Black Seminoles Mardi Gras Indians (I can almost never pass up Indians), Ivan Neville's Dumpsta Funk, the wonderful Joint's Jumpin' (really hot set! love the horns!), the Raymond Myles Tribute at the Gospel Tent (very faithful to his arrangements, you could almost picture him being there), and wanted to end with the super-wonderful Esperanza Spaulding and her Radio Music Society, but she had for some reason requested the Congo Square Stage over the more natural Jazz Tent, where she appeared before, but the sound techs at Congo completely screwed up on sound, resulting in a late show of *over an hour* (unconscionable!!) and then when she went on, poor darlin, they *still* couldn't mike her standing bass. She was a trouper, and tried to carry on, but an enormous amount of energy was lost, not to mention time, and there were tunes she had to recast for her strap-on bass, and the whole thing was SUCH a tremendous disappointment. I couldn't believe that Congo Square messed her up like that, and if I had had Quint Davis's email or phone number, he would've heard from me! In disappointment, we walked away and caught the end of Jimmy Buffet's acoustic set, which wasn't what I had planned for but was, as you'd expect, very enjoyable and personal and aimed at a local crowd. Couldn't let one thing ruin the whole day.
Friday, May 4 (Big Man's birthday) -- Theresa Anderson and her new big band while lying on a blanket and the sun behind many clouds -- absolute perfection!, John Lawrence & the Ven Pa'Ca Flamenco troupe with their incredibly supple and sexy dancer as we enjoyed dozens of raw oysters, Marcia Ball on Acura ("Louisiana 1927" used to make me tear up before the katrina, and now it just wipes me out), Wanda Rouzan's hot and fun set in the Blues Tent, the fabulous street performer Doreen and her trad band (with her lil daughter Dorian on drums occasionally!) knocked the crowd out in the Economy Hall Tent, folks just yellin' out, "We love you, Dorren!" and she coming back with, "And I love y'all too." That woman plays clarinet like nobody's business!, Bonerama at Gentilly, caught a little of Mavis Staples in the Gospel Tent, though you couldn't have gotten in there the crowd was so giant, and ending with Little Anthony & the Imperials with their pipes intact & the songs everyone loves in the Blues Tent (what great seats we had!).
Sunday, May 6 -- Big Man was scheduled to play at 1:30 pm on the Congo Square Stage and he was anxious enough about being on time that we were early. Setting ourselves up in the performers' trailer, we happened to see 2 sax players we know, also backstage, and we waved and called out to them. They were like, "OMG so relieved to see you!" at Big Man and bore him away to their trailer. Turns out they wanted and needed a good trumpet player and didn't have one. Big Man was drafted to go on with them at 12:30 pm with Mem Shannon and the Membership (apparently it's a *loose* membership), so we were in the backstage stands for that set and Big Man's real gig with ELS right after. We enjoyed it all, and so did the crowd. After that, we dumped the horn case at the car (LOVE that musician parking!!), and headed for the Funky Meters at Gentilly. (Part of me, tho', was sorry to miss the Sissy Bounce Shakedown at Congo Square -- it got great reivews.) Then Los Hombres Calientes at Jazz & Heritage (seemed a strange choice of venue for the great Irvin Mayfiend, but whatever) and caught their homage to the orisha Ogun as well as a couple of other tunes. Ed Volker, late of the Radiators, at Lagniappe, gave us another excuse to do raw oysters and continue to make friends with the staff from Smitty's Seafood in Kenner (hey, didja know they do 50 cent oysters on Mondays and Wednesdays??), then the Boutté Family in the Gospel Tent (terrific!), Rebirth at Congo Square, and the totally great Bonnie Raitt at Gentilly (her intimate rendition of "I Can't Make You Love Me" was heart-breaking and personal, like she was in your living room). And then we were off to be Neville-ized for the last Jazz Fest with all the Neville Brothers. Ivan was there! Jason was there! Ian was there! But Aaron's voice was sadly compromised and we all pretended not to notice how it was a full register lower; he kept to occasional back-up singing for the most part, only giving us his personal version of "Amazing Grace" as the very very end. They did not announce this as their last Fest, but some of us knew it through the grapevine, but even not knowing, folks had to realize there was something seriously wrong with Aaron. It was wonderful, really it was, but it was so so sad, I just cradled my head in my hands and began to sob and Big Man held me tight. I can't remember how we used to end Jazz Fest before it became the Nevilles' spot, and I don't know how I will feel about some other group or person doing it next year and all the next years to come. I just know this hurt like hell.
And then Quint Davis came back out and pronounced us all Nevilles, and thanked us for a great Fest, and bud us come back next year, which of course we will, and we walked away full of emotion and Jazz Fest was over for 2012.
We made the sensible but still difficult decision to give up on the traditional biggest-attendance day, the second Saturday, both to avoid the crush and to give our niece from Pennsylvania a one-day tour of the city, which we had never done before. (Poor thing! On all her previous visits, she barely got to see anything other than what you can see on the route from our house to the Fest!) So that means our highlights of this final weekend will not include any of the acts on Saturday, May 5 -- and believe me, one of the hardest things in the world for me was to make the choice NOT to see Allen Toussaint!
Here's a recap of our Fest days:
Thursday, May 3 -- J. Monque'D (nostaligic hot New Orleans R&B), The Mighty Supremes Gospel Quintet, the incredible Native American musician Bill Miller (kickin' the tradition to the 21st century!), George Porter and his Runnin' Pardners (like everyone else, we believe in George), the sweet'n'naughty Rosie Ledet & her Zydeco Playboys (what a set!!), the Roots of Music Parade (love-love-love those kids!), the Black Seminoles Mardi Gras Indians (I can almost never pass up Indians), Ivan Neville's Dumpsta Funk, the wonderful Joint's Jumpin' (really hot set! love the horns!), the Raymond Myles Tribute at the Gospel Tent (very faithful to his arrangements, you could almost picture him being there), and wanted to end with the super-wonderful Esperanza Spaulding and her Radio Music Society, but she had for some reason requested the Congo Square Stage over the more natural Jazz Tent, where she appeared before, but the sound techs at Congo completely screwed up on sound, resulting in a late show of *over an hour* (unconscionable!!) and then when she went on, poor darlin, they *still* couldn't mike her standing bass. She was a trouper, and tried to carry on, but an enormous amount of energy was lost, not to mention time, and there were tunes she had to recast for her strap-on bass, and the whole thing was SUCH a tremendous disappointment. I couldn't believe that Congo Square messed her up like that, and if I had had Quint Davis's email or phone number, he would've heard from me! In disappointment, we walked away and caught the end of Jimmy Buffet's acoustic set, which wasn't what I had planned for but was, as you'd expect, very enjoyable and personal and aimed at a local crowd. Couldn't let one thing ruin the whole day.
Friday, May 4 (Big Man's birthday) -- Theresa Anderson and her new big band while lying on a blanket and the sun behind many clouds -- absolute perfection!, John Lawrence & the Ven Pa'Ca Flamenco troupe with their incredibly supple and sexy dancer as we enjoyed dozens of raw oysters, Marcia Ball on Acura ("Louisiana 1927" used to make me tear up before the katrina, and now it just wipes me out), Wanda Rouzan's hot and fun set in the Blues Tent, the fabulous street performer Doreen and her trad band (with her lil daughter Dorian on drums occasionally!) knocked the crowd out in the Economy Hall Tent, folks just yellin' out, "We love you, Dorren!" and she coming back with, "And I love y'all too." That woman plays clarinet like nobody's business!, Bonerama at Gentilly, caught a little of Mavis Staples in the Gospel Tent, though you couldn't have gotten in there the crowd was so giant, and ending with Little Anthony & the Imperials with their pipes intact & the songs everyone loves in the Blues Tent (what great seats we had!).
Sunday, May 6 -- Big Man was scheduled to play at 1:30 pm on the Congo Square Stage and he was anxious enough about being on time that we were early. Setting ourselves up in the performers' trailer, we happened to see 2 sax players we know, also backstage, and we waved and called out to them. They were like, "OMG so relieved to see you!" at Big Man and bore him away to their trailer. Turns out they wanted and needed a good trumpet player and didn't have one. Big Man was drafted to go on with them at 12:30 pm with Mem Shannon and the Membership (apparently it's a *loose* membership), so we were in the backstage stands for that set and Big Man's real gig with ELS right after. We enjoyed it all, and so did the crowd. After that, we dumped the horn case at the car (LOVE that musician parking!!), and headed for the Funky Meters at Gentilly. (Part of me, tho', was sorry to miss the Sissy Bounce Shakedown at Congo Square -- it got great reivews.) Then Los Hombres Calientes at Jazz & Heritage (seemed a strange choice of venue for the great Irvin Mayfiend, but whatever) and caught their homage to the orisha Ogun as well as a couple of other tunes. Ed Volker, late of the Radiators, at Lagniappe, gave us another excuse to do raw oysters and continue to make friends with the staff from Smitty's Seafood in Kenner (hey, didja know they do 50 cent oysters on Mondays and Wednesdays??), then the Boutté Family in the Gospel Tent (terrific!), Rebirth at Congo Square, and the totally great Bonnie Raitt at Gentilly (her intimate rendition of "I Can't Make You Love Me" was heart-breaking and personal, like she was in your living room). And then we were off to be Neville-ized for the last Jazz Fest with all the Neville Brothers. Ivan was there! Jason was there! Ian was there! But Aaron's voice was sadly compromised and we all pretended not to notice how it was a full register lower; he kept to occasional back-up singing for the most part, only giving us his personal version of "Amazing Grace" as the very very end. They did not announce this as their last Fest, but some of us knew it through the grapevine, but even not knowing, folks had to realize there was something seriously wrong with Aaron. It was wonderful, really it was, but it was so so sad, I just cradled my head in my hands and began to sob and Big Man held me tight. I can't remember how we used to end Jazz Fest before it became the Nevilles' spot, and I don't know how I will feel about some other group or person doing it next year and all the next years to come. I just know this hurt like hell.
And then Quint Davis came back out and pronounced us all Nevilles, and thanked us for a great Fest, and bud us come back next year, which of course we will, and we walked away full of emotion and Jazz Fest was over for 2012.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Delayed post (sorry, misfiled it!): French Quarter Festival
The weather could not have been better -- sunshine, cool river breezes (even gusty at times), reasonable temperatures (getting kind of cool in the shade).
The festival crowds were in a festival mood: enthusiastic and friendly, and decked out in bright, colorful, imaginative festival clothes! We saw some very cute and creative outfits, along with the bizarre and the hot season normal (hat, bandanna, T-shirt and shorts). I wonder what folks wear at festivals in other places? Couldn't be as inspired as our folks!
Both of Big Man's festival gigs went well. On Friday he was part of the Renard Poche Big Band on the Abita Stage, which had a gigantic appreciative crowd of dancing fans. Big Man played very well, despite the wind gusts trying to steal the music sheets off the music stands.
On Saturday Big Man performed with the affable John Lisi and his Delta Funk band to a smaller but just as energized crowd at the lil House of Blues stage on Decatur, in the deep shade of the old Customs House (now home to the Bug Museum).
While the French Quarter Fest crowds grow and grow, it still hasn't reached Jazz Fest levels and is still an enjoyable laid-back experience.
The festival crowds were in a festival mood: enthusiastic and friendly, and decked out in bright, colorful, imaginative festival clothes! We saw some very cute and creative outfits, along with the bizarre and the hot season normal (hat, bandanna, T-shirt and shorts). I wonder what folks wear at festivals in other places? Couldn't be as inspired as our folks!
Both of Big Man's festival gigs went well. On Friday he was part of the Renard Poche Big Band on the Abita Stage, which had a gigantic appreciative crowd of dancing fans. Big Man played very well, despite the wind gusts trying to steal the music sheets off the music stands.
On Saturday Big Man performed with the affable John Lisi and his Delta Funk band to a smaller but just as energized crowd at the lil House of Blues stage on Decatur, in the deep shade of the old Customs House (now home to the Bug Museum).
While the French Quarter Fest crowds grow and grow, it still hasn't reached Jazz Fest levels and is still an enjoyable laid-back experience.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
First Weekend of Jazz Fest 2012
First of all, a shout-out to the Gods of Weather. Temperatures were slightly below normal, there were blessed clouds all three days (we want clouds, because they mitigate the sun beating down on us), and there was a brisk breeze, like natural air conditioning, felt especially in some of the tents.
Some of our favorite highlights:
Women's Day on Friday, April 27. We started in the Jazz Tent with our friend, the delightful Cindy Scott and segued into Leah Chase (yes, Ms. Leah of Dooky Chase Restaurant's daughter), who also had Cindy Scott come back up to duet with her. Cindy was fabulous, her scatting so smooth and natural, you'd think she spoke in scat! She called Shamarr Allen up at one point to guest with her and he knocked the crowd out, trading riffs with Cindy. And Leah's powerful voice and presence really puts a tune across power. Later that same day, we also caught Stephanie Jordan doing her tribute to Lena Horne with a big band -- and a guest song or two with her brother trumpeter Marlon Jordan. We also thrilled to the young and fearsomely talented Sasha Masakowski (who had both her dad and her brother on stage with her) at the Lagniappe Stage -- a small enough venue to be intimate, which we think Sasha needs to be appreciated. Her Brazilian bossa nova song really impressed us, since we often have trouble remembering English lyrics, let alone Portugese! We managed to squeeze into the back of the Gospel Tent for part of Irma Thomas's annual tribute to Mahalia Jackson and were blown away by a medley of "I Believe" and "How Great Thou Art." Big Man and I looked at each other, and we both had tears in our eyes! We also strolled down Memory Lane with the Dixie Cups, but we have to say that the Acura Stage is not the best place to enjoy them (but more on that later).
In addition to all the great women, we also caught part of James Andrews set in the Blues Tent. It was packed in there, and James was putting on a great show, very lively. (It's not his fault he's not the trumpet player his brother is, and it's almost not fair at all to compare them. If his last name wasn't Andrews, you'd be raving about him.) We also made to Congo Square for Kirk Joseph's Backyard Groove, and were surprised to find Big Man's colleague in Rénard Poché's band, Leslie Smith, onstage singing a double-entendre laced tune supposedly about food. So I guess that counts towards another great woman for the day. We relaxed in the shade and the breeze for the Swedish band, Butch Thompson, for their tribute to Jelly Roll Morton. Wow! Really brought back what a genius Jelly was, even if he did have to say so himself. By accident while catching some food, we saw a bit of the set of the totally crazy Slavic Soul Party! and they knocked us out. I don't even know how to describe them, but it was high energy and infectious in a really good way.
We ended the day with all the other aging Baby Boomers at the Beach Boys and sang along and tried not to think about how it was their *50th* Reunion. God, we're all old! was what we were thinking (and likely most of the crowd as well), but it was good stuff and we loved reliving it all. We walked back to the car singing "Be True to Your School."
Saturday, April 28. We started at Gentilly for part of Gal Holiday's set. That kind of old fashioned country-swing is not Big Man's cup of tea, but he indulged me. I thought she was great and her band was really tight. What they do may not be for everybody, but they sure are terrific at it. Then we hustled ourselves to the Economy Hall Tent for our dear friends the Paulin Brothers. When we arrived, the tent was rockin' -- almost everybody was on their feet, secondlining around the tent, waving handkerchieves and umbrellas (and I saw one of the First Church secondline umbrellas that I had decorated!). We joined in with feeling, and afterwards got sweaty hugs from Doc and his brothers as we congratulated them on a wonderful set.
After that, we went into the Grandstand for air conditioning, clean restrooms and the interview with Meschiya Lake (did you know that when she first came to town, she lived in Jelly Roll Morton's old house? or that her trumpeter is also a great keyboard player?). Then over to the Blues Tent for Luther Kent and his big band (we kept seeing Big Man's trumpet friend Barney, who apparently has like something like 20 Jazz Fest gigs). We managed to walk fast enough to catch part of Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen on Acura doing their covers of Allen Toussaint tunes. (Now, there's my pick for the Jazz Fest best album!) Back across the whole racetrack to Gentilly for Amanda Shaw, who only gets cuter and more talented with every passing year. (Despite her theme song, for her, apparently pretty DOES last.) We heard part of Irvin Mayfield and NOJO's set in the Jazz tent only from the outside, because there was no way to get there, also caught part of Walter "Wolfman" Washington in the Blues Tent with several of Big Man's band mates up on stage.
Then it was over to the Lagniappe Stage for Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns, plus a pair of excellent swing dancers onstage with her, just like at her sets at the Spotted Cat. Just a marvelous set, and Meschiya really relaxed and happy-looking (sometimes at the Spotted Cat she hardly smiles). For some people I spoke to, this set was a real Jazz Fest moment. (A Jazz Fest moment is when something unexpected and totally wonderful, almost magical, happens. More on that later.)
We went back to Acura for Voices of the Wetlands and really enjoyed the unusual mash-up of styles and voices, what with Dr. John, Tab Benoit, Anders Osborne, Johnny V (Vidacovich), Jumpin' Johnny Sansone, Cyril Neville, and Big Chief Monk Boudreaux (in full suit). All this and concern for our wetlands too -- gotta love it.
Acura was becoming crowded after that with the folks who wanted to hear Tom Petty, but he wasn't on our list. We wanted to hear the tribute to the late great Wardell Querzergue in the Blues Tent, and my strategy was to get there early and get a great spot. So we went to the Blues Tent to hear the group before that, which was the Bobby Rush revue, and boy, did we get our socks knocked off! That's a real Jazz Fest moment, when you think you're just going to get food, or take a break from the sun in a tent, or line yourself up for an act coming on later, and instead, you are knocked for a loop by someone you never heard of!
Bobby Rush is like 79 years old -- but you'd never know it. His set was action packed, with costume changes, lots of dancing (Big Man was really envying those moves on that old guy), two extremely hot young back-up singer/dancers (who changed costumes even more times than Bobby and who had outrageous sexy figures), a tight, well-rehearsed band, and a routine that goes back to the heyday of the old black nightclubs like the Dew Drop Inn. This was a complete show -- music, dancing, enjoyable stage patter, good-hearted raunchy talk, good rocking blues singing, and terrific music. Big Man and I kept exchanging looks. Why had we never heard of this guy? He was absolutely wonderful, we'd hardly ever been so entertained, titillated, and amused. And if we hadn't had to be there for the Wardell tribute, we'd've missed it. Unbelievable.
Well, when they finally got Bobby Rush off the stage and out of the tent (he was starved apparently for audience contact, and spent a good 15 minutes, shaking hands and giving hugs all around the tent, to the chagrin of the Jazz Fest security people), they set up for the tribute. Doc Paulin, looking much more relaxed in shorts and a golf shirt was back on hand to contribute trombone to his old boss, and the stage filled with veterans of the various bands and studio ensembles Wardell had put together over the years. And then it was a joyous romp through Wardell's hits, with most of the audience singing every single lyric along with the vocalists. "Groove Me," "Trick Bag," "Barefootin'," "Big Chief" -- they ran through them all, with Wardell's son conducting. Then they brought out the Dixie Cups, who emotionally thanked Wardell for being their mentor and giving them their first big break. They went into "Chapel of Love" and a couple of others and of course ended with "Iko Iko"-- the crowd on its feet screaming and singing, and the Cups throwing personalized Dixie Cups Mardi Gras cups (I got one!!) and personalized napkins for secondlining. We realized in this setting that the Acura Stage is completely wrong for the Dixie Cups -- they need to be in the Blues Tent where they can interact with people and see us and us interact with them. They are lost up on Acura, they can't do anything with the crowd, it's all too far away. (Big Man has played Acura and says the giant crowd doesn't even make you nervous, because they're so far removed from the performers, they may as well not be there.) Jazz Fest bigwigs, take note.
It was wonderful to remember all that we have Wardell to thank for, all those songs, as a friend of mine said as we walked out of the tent when it was over, "the sound track of our childhood." Yes yes. Thank you so much, Wardell. You will live forever.
Sunday, April 29. Well, there was a decision to make about this day. You could either decide to completely ignore the fact that Bruce Springsteen was gonna close the Fest with an unprecedented 2 1/2 hour set, or you could resign yourself to what hearing The Boss would entail. We chose the latter course, although it must be admitted that this was somewhat against Big Man's judgment. We arrived in time for Trombone Shorty's set (he of the youngest subject of a Jazz Fest official poster ever) and it was great, but your pleasure in it was mitigated by the fact you couldn't extend your arms or legs in any direction and had about 3 feet as your personal space. Apparently the die-hard Bruce Springsteen fans lined up at the Jazz Fest gates *before 10 am* to snag spots and then never moved all day.
The press of the crowd got a little tighter for Dr. John's set (loved it) and by the time Bruce took the stage at about 4:35 pm or so, your personal space had shrunk to about 2.5 feet. But The Boss put on a show that was emotional, spiritual, sexy, funny, and totally rockin'. He had Dr. John come back up for one number -- clash of worlds! -- but otherwise was on stage or on the specially built runway out into the crowd for the whole time. We boogied, we laughed, we cried, we held each other, we swayed and waved our arms. It was amazing. It was worth every single bit of hassle and discomfort and reduced square footage to be there for that whole set. It was once in a lifetime -- especially for us, as Big Man says he's NEVER doing that again.
And so ended our first weekend of Jazz Fest 2012.
Some of our favorite highlights:
Women's Day on Friday, April 27. We started in the Jazz Tent with our friend, the delightful Cindy Scott and segued into Leah Chase (yes, Ms. Leah of Dooky Chase Restaurant's daughter), who also had Cindy Scott come back up to duet with her. Cindy was fabulous, her scatting so smooth and natural, you'd think she spoke in scat! She called Shamarr Allen up at one point to guest with her and he knocked the crowd out, trading riffs with Cindy. And Leah's powerful voice and presence really puts a tune across power. Later that same day, we also caught Stephanie Jordan doing her tribute to Lena Horne with a big band -- and a guest song or two with her brother trumpeter Marlon Jordan. We also thrilled to the young and fearsomely talented Sasha Masakowski (who had both her dad and her brother on stage with her) at the Lagniappe Stage -- a small enough venue to be intimate, which we think Sasha needs to be appreciated. Her Brazilian bossa nova song really impressed us, since we often have trouble remembering English lyrics, let alone Portugese! We managed to squeeze into the back of the Gospel Tent for part of Irma Thomas's annual tribute to Mahalia Jackson and were blown away by a medley of "I Believe" and "How Great Thou Art." Big Man and I looked at each other, and we both had tears in our eyes! We also strolled down Memory Lane with the Dixie Cups, but we have to say that the Acura Stage is not the best place to enjoy them (but more on that later).
In addition to all the great women, we also caught part of James Andrews set in the Blues Tent. It was packed in there, and James was putting on a great show, very lively. (It's not his fault he's not the trumpet player his brother is, and it's almost not fair at all to compare them. If his last name wasn't Andrews, you'd be raving about him.) We also made to Congo Square for Kirk Joseph's Backyard Groove, and were surprised to find Big Man's colleague in Rénard Poché's band, Leslie Smith, onstage singing a double-entendre laced tune supposedly about food. So I guess that counts towards another great woman for the day. We relaxed in the shade and the breeze for the Swedish band, Butch Thompson, for their tribute to Jelly Roll Morton. Wow! Really brought back what a genius Jelly was, even if he did have to say so himself. By accident while catching some food, we saw a bit of the set of the totally crazy Slavic Soul Party! and they knocked us out. I don't even know how to describe them, but it was high energy and infectious in a really good way.
We ended the day with all the other aging Baby Boomers at the Beach Boys and sang along and tried not to think about how it was their *50th* Reunion. God, we're all old! was what we were thinking (and likely most of the crowd as well), but it was good stuff and we loved reliving it all. We walked back to the car singing "Be True to Your School."
Saturday, April 28. We started at Gentilly for part of Gal Holiday's set. That kind of old fashioned country-swing is not Big Man's cup of tea, but he indulged me. I thought she was great and her band was really tight. What they do may not be for everybody, but they sure are terrific at it. Then we hustled ourselves to the Economy Hall Tent for our dear friends the Paulin Brothers. When we arrived, the tent was rockin' -- almost everybody was on their feet, secondlining around the tent, waving handkerchieves and umbrellas (and I saw one of the First Church secondline umbrellas that I had decorated!). We joined in with feeling, and afterwards got sweaty hugs from Doc and his brothers as we congratulated them on a wonderful set.
After that, we went into the Grandstand for air conditioning, clean restrooms and the interview with Meschiya Lake (did you know that when she first came to town, she lived in Jelly Roll Morton's old house? or that her trumpeter is also a great keyboard player?). Then over to the Blues Tent for Luther Kent and his big band (we kept seeing Big Man's trumpet friend Barney, who apparently has like something like 20 Jazz Fest gigs). We managed to walk fast enough to catch part of Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen on Acura doing their covers of Allen Toussaint tunes. (Now, there's my pick for the Jazz Fest best album!) Back across the whole racetrack to Gentilly for Amanda Shaw, who only gets cuter and more talented with every passing year. (Despite her theme song, for her, apparently pretty DOES last.) We heard part of Irvin Mayfield and NOJO's set in the Jazz tent only from the outside, because there was no way to get there, also caught part of Walter "Wolfman" Washington in the Blues Tent with several of Big Man's band mates up on stage.
Then it was over to the Lagniappe Stage for Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns, plus a pair of excellent swing dancers onstage with her, just like at her sets at the Spotted Cat. Just a marvelous set, and Meschiya really relaxed and happy-looking (sometimes at the Spotted Cat she hardly smiles). For some people I spoke to, this set was a real Jazz Fest moment. (A Jazz Fest moment is when something unexpected and totally wonderful, almost magical, happens. More on that later.)
We went back to Acura for Voices of the Wetlands and really enjoyed the unusual mash-up of styles and voices, what with Dr. John, Tab Benoit, Anders Osborne, Johnny V (Vidacovich), Jumpin' Johnny Sansone, Cyril Neville, and Big Chief Monk Boudreaux (in full suit). All this and concern for our wetlands too -- gotta love it.
Acura was becoming crowded after that with the folks who wanted to hear Tom Petty, but he wasn't on our list. We wanted to hear the tribute to the late great Wardell Querzergue in the Blues Tent, and my strategy was to get there early and get a great spot. So we went to the Blues Tent to hear the group before that, which was the Bobby Rush revue, and boy, did we get our socks knocked off! That's a real Jazz Fest moment, when you think you're just going to get food, or take a break from the sun in a tent, or line yourself up for an act coming on later, and instead, you are knocked for a loop by someone you never heard of!
Bobby Rush is like 79 years old -- but you'd never know it. His set was action packed, with costume changes, lots of dancing (Big Man was really envying those moves on that old guy), two extremely hot young back-up singer/dancers (who changed costumes even more times than Bobby and who had outrageous sexy figures), a tight, well-rehearsed band, and a routine that goes back to the heyday of the old black nightclubs like the Dew Drop Inn. This was a complete show -- music, dancing, enjoyable stage patter, good-hearted raunchy talk, good rocking blues singing, and terrific music. Big Man and I kept exchanging looks. Why had we never heard of this guy? He was absolutely wonderful, we'd hardly ever been so entertained, titillated, and amused. And if we hadn't had to be there for the Wardell tribute, we'd've missed it. Unbelievable.
Well, when they finally got Bobby Rush off the stage and out of the tent (he was starved apparently for audience contact, and spent a good 15 minutes, shaking hands and giving hugs all around the tent, to the chagrin of the Jazz Fest security people), they set up for the tribute. Doc Paulin, looking much more relaxed in shorts and a golf shirt was back on hand to contribute trombone to his old boss, and the stage filled with veterans of the various bands and studio ensembles Wardell had put together over the years. And then it was a joyous romp through Wardell's hits, with most of the audience singing every single lyric along with the vocalists. "Groove Me," "Trick Bag," "Barefootin'," "Big Chief" -- they ran through them all, with Wardell's son conducting. Then they brought out the Dixie Cups, who emotionally thanked Wardell for being their mentor and giving them their first big break. They went into "Chapel of Love" and a couple of others and of course ended with "Iko Iko"-- the crowd on its feet screaming and singing, and the Cups throwing personalized Dixie Cups Mardi Gras cups (I got one!!) and personalized napkins for secondlining. We realized in this setting that the Acura Stage is completely wrong for the Dixie Cups -- they need to be in the Blues Tent where they can interact with people and see us and us interact with them. They are lost up on Acura, they can't do anything with the crowd, it's all too far away. (Big Man has played Acura and says the giant crowd doesn't even make you nervous, because they're so far removed from the performers, they may as well not be there.) Jazz Fest bigwigs, take note.
It was wonderful to remember all that we have Wardell to thank for, all those songs, as a friend of mine said as we walked out of the tent when it was over, "the sound track of our childhood." Yes yes. Thank you so much, Wardell. You will live forever.
Sunday, April 29. Well, there was a decision to make about this day. You could either decide to completely ignore the fact that Bruce Springsteen was gonna close the Fest with an unprecedented 2 1/2 hour set, or you could resign yourself to what hearing The Boss would entail. We chose the latter course, although it must be admitted that this was somewhat against Big Man's judgment. We arrived in time for Trombone Shorty's set (he of the youngest subject of a Jazz Fest official poster ever) and it was great, but your pleasure in it was mitigated by the fact you couldn't extend your arms or legs in any direction and had about 3 feet as your personal space. Apparently the die-hard Bruce Springsteen fans lined up at the Jazz Fest gates *before 10 am* to snag spots and then never moved all day.
The press of the crowd got a little tighter for Dr. John's set (loved it) and by the time Bruce took the stage at about 4:35 pm or so, your personal space had shrunk to about 2.5 feet. But The Boss put on a show that was emotional, spiritual, sexy, funny, and totally rockin'. He had Dr. John come back up for one number -- clash of worlds! -- but otherwise was on stage or on the specially built runway out into the crowd for the whole time. We boogied, we laughed, we cried, we held each other, we swayed and waved our arms. It was amazing. It was worth every single bit of hassle and discomfort and reduced square footage to be there for that whole set. It was once in a lifetime -- especially for us, as Big Man says he's NEVER doing that again.
And so ended our first weekend of Jazz Fest 2012.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Easter 2012
READING BEFORE SERMON, EASTER SUNDAY 2012
taken from an essay by the late Rev. Suzanne Meyer, from when she was serving First UU Church, New Orleans
This Easter I encourage you to practice resurrection. Note, I did not say, “believe in resurrection,” I said practice it! For the poet Wendell Berry, practicing resurrection doesn't refer to a metaphysical act or a theological proposition. For Berry, the art and science of resurrection is found in those countless disciplined acts of resistance to all of the forces in modern life that dehumanize, oppress, and reduce precious individuals to robots. Don’t let your mind be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer -- wage a guerilla campaign on behalf of love, justice, and joy. Practice resurrection!
In the springtime, in the greening time, as life is renewed, we must renew our opposition to all the forces that crush the spirit, erode the soul, stifle freedom. We must place our hope in the things that endure. For this is eternal life. Berry says: “Invest in the millennium -- plant sequoias.” In what he calls his “Manifesto,” Berry encourages us to
Practicing resurrection means expanding the sense of self outward from the rather arbitrary borders of our own skins, becoming so large and expansive that death no longer has any dominion. Buddhist Joanna Macy writes: “The way we define and delimit the self is arbitrary.”
Berry shares Macy’s expanded sense of the self. His theology is juicy, erotic, rebellious, some would say mad. He is a heretic because he refuses to believe that resurrection was a one time only, one-person only event. We are the living dead buried under all of the flotsam and jetsam of modern living, seduced by the false promises of secular materialism. We are cut off from the earth, the soil, the humus, the natural cycles of life and death. Life is an innately spiritual experience; and we have lost touch with that. Much of Western religion has been necrophilic -- death loving, world renouncing. But we have it within ourselves to rise, to become biophilic -- life loving, world embracing. Resist! Refuse! Recycle! Resurrection happens! So practice resurrection. So ends the reading.
“Coming Back from the Dead” A Homily for Easter
by the Rev. Melanie Morel-Ensminger
First Unitarian Universalist Church of New Orleans
Sunday, April 8, 2012
There is a rather famous Easter story that is supposed to have occurred in a New England Universalist church some 60-odd years ago. One Easter Sunday, the choir was processing down the center aisle, singing an old Universalist hymn entitled, “Up From the Grave He Rose.” There was a hot air register in the middle of the aisle and the last soprano got her high heel caught in the grating. She kept on singing, stepped out of her shoe, and kept on walking. The man behind her, thinking he was doing her a favor, picked up the shoe -- and the whole grate came with it.
Nobody missed a beat. The man walked on with the shoe and the grate in his hand, and, still in tune and still in step, the man right behind him fell into the open register and dropped from sight. As the choir sang the final “Allelulia! He arose!” the congregation was startled -- to say the least -- when a shout came from the hole in the floor: “You'd better all be out of the way, because I'm coming up!”
I’m told that the man emerged from the netherworld of the crawl space, as the choir burst into the second Easter hymn, and the whole congregation cheered. Resurrection took place in a Universalist church that Easter, and everyone shared in it.
One of the biggest differences between Unitarian Universalists and our sisters and brothers of more traditional faiths, as Suzanne Meyer points out, is that most of them believe that resurrection was a one-time-only event for one-person-only, with the rest of us promised resurrection only after we die and only if we're good enough, while we religious liberals realize how often such events as rebirth and resurrection occur in each and every one of our lives. We all share in them.
The story of Jesus is not the earliest one we have of a godlike figure dying and rising again. It seems that humans have always needed to be reminded of the possibility and hope of renewal and that is why Easter-type stories of rebirth and resurrection are part of human religious history. (Interestingly, the majority of these early figures are female.) The first deity to die, enter the underworld, and return to the living was the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who was seeking answers and more power. The second was likely the Egyptian goddess Isis, who was seeking her lost love, Osiris. The ancient Greeks had Persephone, who either went willingly or was kidnapped, depending on which version of the myth you choose to go by. Our own name for this holiday, Easter, comes from the name of the Indo-European dawn goddess of the east whose special celebrations always took place at the vernal equinox. In different regions, she was known as Eostre, Astarte, Ashera, Aurora. (Another item of interest is the fact that many scholars believe the Jewish heroine-queen Esther whose holiday, Purim, is also celebrated at the spring equinox, is a manifestation of the Canaanite version of this same goddess.)
The rituals of the springtime dawn goddess varied with the culture and region, but usually included baskets of flowers and spring greenery, a dawn service, and baby animals such as lambs, goats, rabbits. Eggs, symbols of the goddess's sacred womb of rebirth and of the fertility of the spring season, were also part of the holiday in many places. Children were honored as embodiments of new life. (Stop me if any of this sounds familiar.)
Whether ancient peoples believed in the stories told about their various goddesses literally or metaphorically we will never really know, and it doesn't matter. We religious liberals in the 21st century are free to view them as useful and beautiful symbols, without fretting over historic or scientific accuracy, which is not the point anyway. Rebirth and resurrection are necessary to being human; they are needs from deep within us. We especially seem to feel it at this time of year.
Spring itself feels like a rebirth and resurrection of our earth, the Japanese magnolias and redbuds and forsythias and all the soft new green, lifting our spirits with their beauty and their scent (even when they also irritate our sinuses).
In Rev. Suzanne’s essay, poet Wendell Berry reminds us that the forces of the tomb are always out there, ready to lay to rest all the mystery and juice and beauty of life in exchange for the mess of pottage that is secular materialism. Believing in rebirth and resurrection means placing our hopes in what endures: love, compassion, the things of the earth, the natural cycles of loss and return.
My colleague Maureen Killoran of our church in Asheville, North Carolina, writes that
For us as religious liberals, coming back from the dead does not occur when an angel, or some other supernatural being, appears after 3 days or 3 weeks or 3 years to roll away the stones upon our hearts. We come back from the dead when courage and hope reach through our despair and pain; we come back from the dead when we engage the world not as a threat, not as a monster, not even as a necessary evil, but as a delightful challenge. We come back from the dead when we are realistic about what we can accomplish and yet let our sense of mirth and play help us to determine where to draw the line.
On this beautiful Easter day, I invite you to take a moment to reflect on the times in your life when you have been in the dark of the tomb of the soul. It may have been a disappointment so great that you tried to insulate yourself from the world. Or it may have been a loss of someone or something so beloved that you felt abandoned and alone. Whatever it was, each one of us has felt it -- that feeling of fear, dark and cold, like being shut away in a tomb.
From there, I ask you to remember what it was that brought you "back from the dead" -- the person or community that supported, comforted, and encouraged you, who made you feel alive once more. Something or someone came to us when we were locked in a cave in our souls and rolled away the stone, revealing a deeper dimension of hope and connection. This Easter, I encourage you to practice rebirth and resurrection by recalling to mind your own times of hopeful renewal.
Rebirth and resurrection -- they're not unique, legendary, supernatural events, but the stuff of life, your life and mine. And there may be no better time to contemplate all that renews and returns than glorious Springtime. May this Eastertide find us heartened and challenged by our own times of rebirth and resurrection in the midst of the darkness of our times: deception, meaningless, materialism, despair. May we daily find the miracles of hope we need to truly live, instead of merely surviving. So might this be! AMEN –ASHE – SHALOM – SALAAM – NAMASTE – BLESSED BE.
taken from an essay by the late Rev. Suzanne Meyer, from when she was serving First UU Church, New Orleans
Lover of the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
This Easter I encourage you to practice resurrection. Note, I did not say, “believe in resurrection,” I said practice it! For the poet Wendell Berry, practicing resurrection doesn't refer to a metaphysical act or a theological proposition. For Berry, the art and science of resurrection is found in those countless disciplined acts of resistance to all of the forces in modern life that dehumanize, oppress, and reduce precious individuals to robots. Don’t let your mind be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer -- wage a guerilla campaign on behalf of love, justice, and joy. Practice resurrection!
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit, they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
In the springtime, in the greening time, as life is renewed, we must renew our opposition to all the forces that crush the spirit, erode the soul, stifle freedom. We must place our hope in the things that endure. For this is eternal life. Berry says: “Invest in the millennium -- plant sequoias.” In what he calls his “Manifesto,” Berry encourages us to
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Practicing resurrection means expanding the sense of self outward from the rather arbitrary borders of our own skins, becoming so large and expansive that death no longer has any dominion. Buddhist Joanna Macy writes: “The way we define and delimit the self is arbitrary.”
Berry shares Macy’s expanded sense of the self. His theology is juicy, erotic, rebellious, some would say mad. He is a heretic because he refuses to believe that resurrection was a one time only, one-person only event. We are the living dead buried under all of the flotsam and jetsam of modern living, seduced by the false promises of secular materialism. We are cut off from the earth, the soil, the humus, the natural cycles of life and death. Life is an innately spiritual experience; and we have lost touch with that. Much of Western religion has been necrophilic -- death loving, world renouncing. But we have it within ourselves to rise, to become biophilic -- life loving, world embracing. Resist! Refuse! Recycle! Resurrection happens! So practice resurrection. So ends the reading.
“Coming Back from the Dead” A Homily for Easter
by the Rev. Melanie Morel-Ensminger
First Unitarian Universalist Church of New Orleans
Sunday, April 8, 2012
There is a rather famous Easter story that is supposed to have occurred in a New England Universalist church some 60-odd years ago. One Easter Sunday, the choir was processing down the center aisle, singing an old Universalist hymn entitled, “Up From the Grave He Rose.” There was a hot air register in the middle of the aisle and the last soprano got her high heel caught in the grating. She kept on singing, stepped out of her shoe, and kept on walking. The man behind her, thinking he was doing her a favor, picked up the shoe -- and the whole grate came with it.
Nobody missed a beat. The man walked on with the shoe and the grate in his hand, and, still in tune and still in step, the man right behind him fell into the open register and dropped from sight. As the choir sang the final “Allelulia! He arose!” the congregation was startled -- to say the least -- when a shout came from the hole in the floor: “You'd better all be out of the way, because I'm coming up!”
I’m told that the man emerged from the netherworld of the crawl space, as the choir burst into the second Easter hymn, and the whole congregation cheered. Resurrection took place in a Universalist church that Easter, and everyone shared in it.
One of the biggest differences between Unitarian Universalists and our sisters and brothers of more traditional faiths, as Suzanne Meyer points out, is that most of them believe that resurrection was a one-time-only event for one-person-only, with the rest of us promised resurrection only after we die and only if we're good enough, while we religious liberals realize how often such events as rebirth and resurrection occur in each and every one of our lives. We all share in them.
The story of Jesus is not the earliest one we have of a godlike figure dying and rising again. It seems that humans have always needed to be reminded of the possibility and hope of renewal and that is why Easter-type stories of rebirth and resurrection are part of human religious history. (Interestingly, the majority of these early figures are female.) The first deity to die, enter the underworld, and return to the living was the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who was seeking answers and more power. The second was likely the Egyptian goddess Isis, who was seeking her lost love, Osiris. The ancient Greeks had Persephone, who either went willingly or was kidnapped, depending on which version of the myth you choose to go by. Our own name for this holiday, Easter, comes from the name of the Indo-European dawn goddess of the east whose special celebrations always took place at the vernal equinox. In different regions, she was known as Eostre, Astarte, Ashera, Aurora. (Another item of interest is the fact that many scholars believe the Jewish heroine-queen Esther whose holiday, Purim, is also celebrated at the spring equinox, is a manifestation of the Canaanite version of this same goddess.)
The rituals of the springtime dawn goddess varied with the culture and region, but usually included baskets of flowers and spring greenery, a dawn service, and baby animals such as lambs, goats, rabbits. Eggs, symbols of the goddess's sacred womb of rebirth and of the fertility of the spring season, were also part of the holiday in many places. Children were honored as embodiments of new life. (Stop me if any of this sounds familiar.)
Whether ancient peoples believed in the stories told about their various goddesses literally or metaphorically we will never really know, and it doesn't matter. We religious liberals in the 21st century are free to view them as useful and beautiful symbols, without fretting over historic or scientific accuracy, which is not the point anyway. Rebirth and resurrection are necessary to being human; they are needs from deep within us. We especially seem to feel it at this time of year.
Spring itself feels like a rebirth and resurrection of our earth, the Japanese magnolias and redbuds and forsythias and all the soft new green, lifting our spirits with their beauty and their scent (even when they also irritate our sinuses).
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of finding a religious home where you can be yourself, with all your doubts and questions and life experiences, after you had given up hope that there could be a church for you.
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of finding love when you feel you didn't “earn” it or that you don't “deserve” it. (It's lucky for all of us that love isn’t apportioned that way, because so few of us would get any.)
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of rising again after dealing with addictions and substance abuse, and discovering you can go, one day at a time, into a life of sobriety.
•There’s the rebirth and resurrection of finding a way to keep on keeping on after a tragedy or disaster. (Now, there’s a resurrection First Churchers and other New Orleanians know about first-hand!)
•There's the rebirth and resurrection of finding friends when you need them the most, when an illness or a death or a catastrophe has put you in the tomb-like darkness of despair and alienation. All of these rebirths and resurrections can be celebrated as signs that renewal is always possible, even in a world like ours, dominated by death and tragedy and cynicism and pain.
In Rev. Suzanne’s essay, poet Wendell Berry reminds us that the forces of the tomb are always out there, ready to lay to rest all the mystery and juice and beauty of life in exchange for the mess of pottage that is secular materialism. Believing in rebirth and resurrection means placing our hopes in what endures: love, compassion, the things of the earth, the natural cycles of loss and return.
My colleague Maureen Killoran of our church in Asheville, North Carolina, writes that
[r]esurrection literally means "to rise again," to rise up from the ashes of destruction and, like the phoenix, set forth anew upon the path of life. Each of us, by virtue of being alive, has fallen. Resurrection means to come back from those deaths both large and small, our times of imprisonment in the tomb of the soul. Resurrection means to triumph over opposition, and each of us has, at one time or another, faced [our] fear and moved beyond.
For us as religious liberals, coming back from the dead does not occur when an angel, or some other supernatural being, appears after 3 days or 3 weeks or 3 years to roll away the stones upon our hearts. We come back from the dead when courage and hope reach through our despair and pain; we come back from the dead when we engage the world not as a threat, not as a monster, not even as a necessary evil, but as a delightful challenge. We come back from the dead when we are realistic about what we can accomplish and yet let our sense of mirth and play help us to determine where to draw the line.
On this beautiful Easter day, I invite you to take a moment to reflect on the times in your life when you have been in the dark of the tomb of the soul. It may have been a disappointment so great that you tried to insulate yourself from the world. Or it may have been a loss of someone or something so beloved that you felt abandoned and alone. Whatever it was, each one of us has felt it -- that feeling of fear, dark and cold, like being shut away in a tomb.
From there, I ask you to remember what it was that brought you "back from the dead" -- the person or community that supported, comforted, and encouraged you, who made you feel alive once more. Something or someone came to us when we were locked in a cave in our souls and rolled away the stone, revealing a deeper dimension of hope and connection. This Easter, I encourage you to practice rebirth and resurrection by recalling to mind your own times of hopeful renewal.
Rebirth and resurrection -- they're not unique, legendary, supernatural events, but the stuff of life, your life and mine. And there may be no better time to contemplate all that renews and returns than glorious Springtime. May this Eastertide find us heartened and challenged by our own times of rebirth and resurrection in the midst of the darkness of our times: deception, meaningless, materialism, despair. May we daily find the miracles of hope we need to truly live, instead of merely surviving. So might this be! AMEN –ASHE – SHALOM – SALAAM – NAMASTE – BLESSED BE.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Saints
I hardly know what to write about the Saints right now. The recent revelations about defense coordinator Gregg Williams setting up a bounty program, not just for Saints defense players to hard hit opposition players, but actually with bonuses to *hurt* them and them carted off the field. Something like 27 players were involved and of course Sean Payton had to have known and just turned a blind eye to it. What with the rumors swirling around town about Payton's possibly having had a child with a Saintsations cheerleader (thus prompting Mrs. Payton to decamp back to Houston, in a pricey neighborhood), it's almost enough, just about enough, to make one lose faith in the Coach's probity.
As a pastor, of course I deplore this whole thing. Good hard legal hits are one thing, but I cannot condone hurting other players *on purpose.* That players who were already being paid more than the average -- or even the above-average -- worker needed added incentives to do what was, after all, only their job (the legal part anyway) is especially disheartening. That Jonathan Vilma, the "quarterback" of the defense, was deeply involved is just about heart-breaking, we had such respect and affection for him.
I also cannot agree with those near-rabid Saints fans who claim that "everyone does it" or that it's why we watch football and thus it's all "no big deal." I for one was not watching and cheering for and crying for the Saints because I thought they were just like all the other teams, doing whatever it is all the other teams do. We were supposed to be special, different, *above* all that. If that is innocent to the point of naîve, then I am guilty.
As a Saints fan, my other problem is that this ridiculous, sad, disgusting affair didn't even get us in the Superbowl. It's not like I *want* the Saints to cheat or act like thugs in order to win, but there is something in me that says, dang, we went through all that and they STILL didn't win.
To put the big ol' cherry on top of the sundae, now the Saints front office -- Mickey Loomis and the Bensons -- can't close the deal with Drew Brees. They had to slap a franchise tag on him, for heaven's sake, since they couldn't close the deal with e long-term contract. The local media say he's mad, and who can blame him? His team, that he has performed so wonderfully for, is just about falling apart around his ears, and they were so short-sighted and stupid, they couldn't even see that they needed to change the agenda and make the news stories be about Drew and his big long-term contract, and NOT about the bounty for injury stories. But they had to go and mess that up too. If we lose Drew, you'll know who to blame.
The coming season does not look good. The league wants to make an example of some team to show that the NFL is serious about protecting the health and safety of players, and they're none too happy about all the "I support the Coach and the GM completely" statements coming from Tom Benson. They are very likely going to slap the Saints with all kinds of penalties, suspending Loomis and probably Payton too, big whopping fines, and snatching draft choices.
It's an ugly story, an ugly scene, all the way around. No heroes to cheer for.
I kind of feel the way I used to when I was younger when I was betrayed by a boyfriend, and I'm not looking forward to next season.
As a pastor, of course I deplore this whole thing. Good hard legal hits are one thing, but I cannot condone hurting other players *on purpose.* That players who were already being paid more than the average -- or even the above-average -- worker needed added incentives to do what was, after all, only their job (the legal part anyway) is especially disheartening. That Jonathan Vilma, the "quarterback" of the defense, was deeply involved is just about heart-breaking, we had such respect and affection for him.
I also cannot agree with those near-rabid Saints fans who claim that "everyone does it" or that it's why we watch football and thus it's all "no big deal." I for one was not watching and cheering for and crying for the Saints because I thought they were just like all the other teams, doing whatever it is all the other teams do. We were supposed to be special, different, *above* all that. If that is innocent to the point of naîve, then I am guilty.
As a Saints fan, my other problem is that this ridiculous, sad, disgusting affair didn't even get us in the Superbowl. It's not like I *want* the Saints to cheat or act like thugs in order to win, but there is something in me that says, dang, we went through all that and they STILL didn't win.
To put the big ol' cherry on top of the sundae, now the Saints front office -- Mickey Loomis and the Bensons -- can't close the deal with Drew Brees. They had to slap a franchise tag on him, for heaven's sake, since they couldn't close the deal with e long-term contract. The local media say he's mad, and who can blame him? His team, that he has performed so wonderfully for, is just about falling apart around his ears, and they were so short-sighted and stupid, they couldn't even see that they needed to change the agenda and make the news stories be about Drew and his big long-term contract, and NOT about the bounty for injury stories. But they had to go and mess that up too. If we lose Drew, you'll know who to blame.
The coming season does not look good. The league wants to make an example of some team to show that the NFL is serious about protecting the health and safety of players, and they're none too happy about all the "I support the Coach and the GM completely" statements coming from Tom Benson. They are very likely going to slap the Saints with all kinds of penalties, suspending Loomis and probably Payton too, big whopping fines, and snatching draft choices.
It's an ugly story, an ugly scene, all the way around. No heroes to cheer for.
I kind of feel the way I used to when I was younger when I was betrayed by a boyfriend, and I'm not looking forward to next season.
Springtime Makes Me Happy
Since the end of February, it's been spring in belle NOLA. As March has come in, spring has just gotten stronger and stronger. The weather is mild, tending toward the warm side, with some March breezes to blow things around. It's gotten so hot that a couple of times, Big Man and I have had to turn on the air conditioning just to be comfortable.
The old oak trees are touched with feathery pale green, the Japanese magnolias are past blooming and coming out with full leaf. The red buds and forsythia are glowing, each in their own spectrum. Flowers of all kinds are showing their colors -- tropical hibiscus, gorgeous snap dragons, azaleas in every shade and hue, tulips and daffodils bobbing their heads. petunias, phlox, flowers I don't even know the names of. From the most formal expensive gardens on St. Charles Avenue and Prytania Street to unexpected empty lots turned gardens in Central City, to window boxes at apartment complexes, to lovingly cared-for gardens in Lakeview, flowers are in riotous bloom, and when I drive by, no matter how I'm feeling, I smile.
Springtime makes me happy, and I love springtime best when it arrives in late February and early March.
The old oak trees are touched with feathery pale green, the Japanese magnolias are past blooming and coming out with full leaf. The red buds and forsythia are glowing, each in their own spectrum. Flowers of all kinds are showing their colors -- tropical hibiscus, gorgeous snap dragons, azaleas in every shade and hue, tulips and daffodils bobbing their heads. petunias, phlox, flowers I don't even know the names of. From the most formal expensive gardens on St. Charles Avenue and Prytania Street to unexpected empty lots turned gardens in Central City, to window boxes at apartment complexes, to lovingly cared-for gardens in Lakeview, flowers are in riotous bloom, and when I drive by, no matter how I'm feeling, I smile.
Springtime makes me happy, and I love springtime best when it arrives in late February and early March.
Another Wonderful Carnival
I didn't write any detailed descriptions of parades and events this past Carnival season -- mostly because I just didn't want to, didn't want to take time off from parades and parties and costume-making to write. I also didn't want to clean house, cook, wash dishes, clean out the cat litter, do laundry, pay bills, balance bank statements, work on IRS, or anything else. Just couldn't make myself do anything but enjoy Carnival -- and enjoy it I did!
Now I really understand why Al "Carnival Time" Johnson sings, "Throw my baby out the window, let the joint burn down -- all because it's Carnival time!"
Maybe I'll do better next Mardi Gras, but I doubt it.
Now I really understand why Al "Carnival Time" Johnson sings, "Throw my baby out the window, let the joint burn down -- all because it's Carnival time!"
Maybe I'll do better next Mardi Gras, but I doubt it.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tour of Truth with the Congreso de Jornaleros
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.
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.
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.
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