I guess we could call this our Literary Day at the Fest; you'll see why.
A gorgeous day, we couldn't have asked for better. Blue skies decorated with fluffy white clouds, a steady cooling breeze -- just what you want for hanging out at the Fairgrounds for 4 or 5 or 6 hours. On our way to the Fest, we stopped at Walgreen's to drop off some prescriptions, and noting our apparel (straw hats, tropical clothing), the young woman behind the drop-off window asked, "On your way to the Fest?" She wished us a happy one and we thanked her.
The Fairgrounds neighborhood was filled with pedestrians who had decided to do public transportation and save the parking hassle. (You can always tell Fest-goers by their clothing -- backpacks or large bags, foldable chairs slung over shoulders, sun hats of all kinds, shorts for men and shorts or sundresses for women.) Big Man said that taking the bus was a good option for folks who did not have to get to work on Bourbon Street within 2 hours after the Fest was over.
We expected to have trouble finding decent parking within a short-as-possible walking distance to the Fest, but 2 blocks off Esplanade on Lopez, a nice-looking red-haired guy was holding a sign up in his driveway saying, "Parking-Bathroom-Soda-$20." A great location, a great deal. We took him up on it. The side and back parking areas of his house allowed for quite a few cars, if packed in, and the guy said you had to leave your keys so he could shuffle the cars as necessary. He was very organized, asking us to sign a form giving him permission to move our car (he filled in make, model, and license plate); then he presented us with a full-color Google map, clearly showing the route between his house and the Fairgrounds, giving his name, address, and cell phone number. We were very impressed and felt confident about leaving the car with him. (His bathroom was clean and well-stocked, with foaming anti-bacterial soap at the sink, and a big roll of paper towels. All very nice.)
[Yeah, yeah, you're saying, why is she going on and on about the guy's bathroom? You'd know if you were a dedicated Fest-goer. Believe you me, bathroom facilities are a BIG deal at the Fest.]
The walk over was short and sweet -- literally so, since the air was perfumed with jasmine and roses. Folks on Lopez are house-proud, and their gardens are lush and beautiful. One yard was a symphony in reds -- roses, amaryllis, some flowering shrub I don't know the name of, and even blood-red poppies! Lovely. Everyone walking to the Fest was in a good mood, wishing each other Happy Fest and smiling with anticipation of a great time.
Our first stop was the Congo Square Stage, where a young trumpeter, K, sort of a protegé of Big Man's, was playing with a band called Water Seed. (Water Seed? Yeah, the lead singer, a lovely young African-American woman, explained the name from the stage but I won't bother -- it was way too corny.) They had a good groove going. Along with the lead singer and the trumpeter, there was a drummer, and another woman on flute and percussion. They were pretty good; we stayed for 2 tunes. At one point right after a trumpet solo, K looked right at Big Man, as if for his approbation. Big Man smiled, nodded, and gave a big thumbs-up. K gave a giant grin back, apparently happy to receive approval from his mentor. Big Man gave K a wave as we left, so he would know we were going.
From Congo Square we wandered through the Fest, enjoying the crafts and art on display and all the amazing people-watching. As we passed through the Indian/Native American area, we made the obligatory stop at the Houma Tribe booth where they sell 2 kinds of maque choux and traditional fry bread. We got shrimp maque choux this time and promised we'd be back for the sausage later in the Fest. We made our way to the Gentilly Stage, where we planned to set up for Amanda Shaw and Trombone Shorty later in the day. As we were considering which spot, we were hailed by T-P columnist and author and Pulitzer Prize-winner Chris Rose (our first literary contact of the day), and decided to set up near him. As we left that area to cruise the food, a band called Benjy Davis Project was playing. I'd never heard of 'em, but they sounded good.
I got us a gorgeous combo plate consisting of a crawfish sack, oyster patty, and crawfish beignets in remoulade sauce ($13) and we headed to the Jazz Tent to eat and hear trumpeter Marlon Jordan. As soon as we sat on the metal bleachers (in the back, but with a good view of the stage), a woman leaned over eagerly to ask where we got that plate. Big Man said later that as we walked up, the woman's jaw dropped when she got a glimpse of that plate. The Jazz Tent was pretty well filled, but there were still lots of places to sit, and not just the bleachers. They had the misters going in the middle of the tent, but we were too far away for them to have an effect. But we were comfortable with the breeze coming in the open entrances to the tent.
Marlon was very good, as was Jason Marsalis on drums. We left just as they started their final tune. Our next stop was the Blues Tent, where for whatever weird reason Jazz Fest had scheduled the Ladysmith Red Lions (who clearly belonged at Congo Square). Moving in that direction brought us past Baquet's booth, where we decided to get a plate of Trout Baquet (sauteed trout with a topping of lump crabmeat in a lemon butter sauce -- oh my god!) to share. The Blues Tent was more crowded than the Jazz Tent, but we were still able to find 2 seats together, pretty close up.
The Red Lions are from the same township in South Africa as Ladysmith Black Mambazo (who were featured on Paul Simon's Graceland album) and do similar music -- intricate African vocal harmonies, punctuated with whoops and clicks, and coordinated with smooth unison dance moves, reminiscent of the Temptations (leading to a discussion between Big Man and me about the "chicken and the egg" relationship between the Motown moves of the Temps and the African moves of the Lions). We enjoyed the Lions very much, but we didn't want to miss too much of Amanda Shaw, so we left. (On our way out, we ran into a parishioner of mine who greeted Big Man as Big Man, thus letting me know I had another reader of this blog!)
As we were walking back to our spot at the Gentilly Stage, fantastic trad sounds from the Economy Hall Tent drew us in. This band sounded amazingly like a 1920s recording. We went in, past the dancers on the little dance floor, and saw a group of men with dark hair and hawklike profiles, dressed all alike, just playing their hearts out, in this old-time, traditional groove, great musicianship. We later learned that they were from Bordeaux, France. I figured they had devoted themselves to memorizing and internalizing old recordings. They were fabulous, a real Jazz Fest find.
At the Gentilly Stage, Amanda Shaw was tearing the place up, just as cute as she could possibly be, playing and singing, bouncing around the stage with her able and talented band, the Cute Guys. We stayed for almost all of her set, getting a real kick out of her. (At one point, she covered that old chestnut "Devil Went Down to Georgia" and when she got to the end, she wouldn't sing the original lyric and called the Devil "You ol' son of a bleep" -- we all laughed and loved her for it, the sweet thing.)
From there, we went back to Congo Square to catch some of Henry Butler's set on keyboard. (We were surprised he was using an electric keyboard instead of a grand piano.) Henry's hands flew over the keys like magic, making you think maybe there were more than 2 hands involved. While we were there, we bumped into Geraldine Wyckoff, a well-known local music critic whose work has appeared in Jazz Times, The Gambit, OffBeat magazine, Louisiana Weekly, and many other places. She said Henry was a particular favorite of hers. She and Big Man exchanged some musical observations for a while. (Making this our second literary run-in of the day.) Also while there, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could include me in her Internet "hat montage" of Jazz Fest; but of course I agreed and she snapped me and my pink-flower trimmed straw hat from the back. How cool!
Both for the air conditioning and for the content, our next stop was the Grandstands, where we sat in for the last half of the interview with New Orleans drummer extraordinaire Johnny Vidacovich. Johnny was a trip, his answers were amusing and entertaining, and he gave a little performance on the kit he was sitting behind. A good reminder that not only is the Grandstand a good refuge from too much sun, it's also a hidden gem for good stuff to see and hear. (The security guard on the second floor inside the Grandstand was friendly almost to a fault, asking us, "Are y'all havin' a good time, darlins?")
We had to pass the Book Tent on our way back to Gentilly, and we could not pass it up, especially since Big Man had noticed an ad for a book in the OffBeat magazine that intrigued him. It was a local book enticingly titled "The Sound of Building Coffins;" the blurb said it was about New Orleans in the early 20th century -- well, that's like catnip to us and we had determined to buy it. So we walked in and Big Man turned to me and said, "The title was something like 'The Sound of Coffins' Building' " and a man said, "No, it's 'The Sound of Building Coffins' and it so happens I wrote it," and Louis Maistros introduced himself to us and handed us a copy. We got into a conversation about how supremely interesting that period of New Orleans history is, and how much we love reading about it and learning about it. Of course we bought the book and of course he kindly inscribed it for us, making him our third literary happening of the day.
We made it back to Gentilly just as Trombone Shorty hit the stage, to an adoring and gigantic crowd. He ripped through some funk, added in some Lennie Kravitz-inspired rock ("American Woman"), and did some R&B standards. He blew some stuff on the 'bone that *really* impressed Big Man -- he said few in the crowd except horn players would know exactly how difficult those slides from deep and low up to high notes were. Shorty switched to his beautiful Monette trumpet for crowd-pleasing versions of "Let's Stay Together" and a funky complaint about an unfaithful lover, "You Got the Same Thang On." It was hard to leave, but we had wanted to catch at least a little of the Lincoln Center Jazz Ensemble with Winton Marsalis, so we packed it all up and made a slow circuit back to Congo, passing Fais Do Do on the way, where yet another pretty girl fiddler was performing. (Big Man said, "That girl probably wakes up every day thinking, 'I could have been a star if it weren't for Amanda Shaw!'.") We almost passed the sweet potato pie booth, but stopped ourselves in time for just one. Yum!
Well, we could have predicted it, but Congo Square was having logistical problems setting up for such a giant band and they were running a few minutes behind. We stood around for a while, but it was hot and we were dry, so we went to get more iced tea. Having walked that far away from the stage, we started a conversation about whether we really wanted to walk back. Upshot: this being the first day and all, with 6 more to go, and with Big Man having to blow on Bourbon Street tonight, we decided to bag it for the day, but not to rush out.
We took the long way to the exit gate, taking us first past the booth where they sell the bodacious cracklins -- I know, I know, we shouldn't eat that stuff, but we couldn't resist! Then, happily munching cracklins, we strolled past the Acura Stage to hear the last of the set for the Drive-By Truckers with the incredible Booker T -- a good decision! As we made our way to the exit, we called the guy where our car was parked, and asked him to get our car ready to go.
When we approached the block, our guy was standing on the sidewalk waiting for us. We waved and he waved back. He called to us, "Ice water, diet Barq's, or beer?" Big Man took the Barq's and I the water. We used his clean and well-stocked bathroom and hung out in his kitchen, drinking the drinks he provided and shooting the breeze. Of course, it turned out we knew folks in common. Eventually, we went outside and got our car, and told our new friend M we'd likely be back.
And so ended our first day of Jazz Fest., with 3 interesting literary highlights.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
French Quarter Festival 09
It was difficult for me to attend as much of this year's French Quarter Festival as I would have liked. I had a wedding to perform in the French Quarter on Saturday that also had several "attendant" events that took up my time, albeit pleasantly (a Thursday night "Ladies Dinner," a Friday afternoon Crawfish Boil, the Friday evening rehearsal and Rehearsal Dinner, then the wedding itself on Saturday evening). The three churches of my denomination in the New Orleans area were planning their 4th Annual Shared Earth Day Service and Picnic in Audubon Park and this also required time and effort on my part. When all was said and done, I did not get to the festival at all on Friday, only briefly on Saturday, and just for a few hours on Sunday. And even though I LOVE the food at the French Quarter Festival, this year I did not get to eat there at all! (Luckily, there's always next year!)
With my being so tied up the weekend of the festival, I actually had to miss two of Big Man's three FQF gigs -- his first, but surely not his last. Friday night he played with Walter "Wolfman" Washington, and Saturday night he appeared with Renard Poché's band, both times (interestingly enough) on the Abita Beer Stage at Woldenburg Park on the river. This is considered to be one of the biggest stages of the fest, and Big Man reported crowds of about 10,000 people each night -- other than his television appearances, just about the biggest live audience he's ever played for. He said it was very exciting, and somewhat gratifying to look into the crowd and be able to recognize people he knew, friends, relatives, Friends of Bill W. and so on. I HATED having to miss those two sets, but I'm assured that Big Man played his heart out and delighted both band leaders as well as the crowds watching and dancing.
The weather was strange FQF weekend. Temperatures hovered in the high 60s and low 70s, aided by strong winds which sometimes made it feel almost chilly (OK, not really chilly, just chilly to New Orleanians). TV weather guys kept on predicting rain for every day of the fest, but amazingly enough, the only time it rained was very early Sunday morning (or late Saturday night, depending on how you looked at it), which was very convenient for all concerned. It wasn't even a lot of rain, even thought the clouds had been dark gray and threatening both Friday and Saturday.
Sunday dawned cloudy, but then spent the morning clearing up, until by afternoon, it was like, "What clouds? What rain?" The lovely and talented Anaîs St. John had asked Big Man to come play for her FQF set at the small and intimate Whitney Bank and Windsor Court Hotel Stage in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court on Royal Street, and so we arrived about an hour or so before the start time. Crowds were heavy, but navigable and friendly, mixed as to age, race, orientation, and certainly as to dress. (What different folks think is appropriate festival attire is a blog post in itself!) We cruised and listened to the Jazz Vipers (great!), David & Roselyn (always a crowd-pleaser, though not necessarily the greatest musicians), a mixed group of musicians under a canopy, earnestly pleading with the crowd for tips, and a young magician plying people with sleight of hand.
Anaîs's set was terrific, and not just because Big Man played most of it with her. She's such a beauty, and such an entertainer, really knows how to work a crowd, and play with them, interact with them. She did her justly-famous torch songs, added a tribute to Eartha Kitt ("I Wanna Be Ee-vill"), and of course had to do some of her notorious double-entendre numbers, like "Man O'War." (I'm not even gonna quote lyrics here, just take it from me, it was hot!)
Big Man really enjoyed the non-scripted, loose playing with Anaîs and the talented musicians (like Michael Skinkus on percussion and Harry Mayronne on piano), and the back-and-forthing between the trumpet or flugelhorn and the vocalist was well done. And who couldn't play hot and nasty with Anaîs draped provocatively on top the piano, right in front of your face? Big Man was well up to that onerous task, and blew it away.
It was funny, though, right after the set, I ran into a male acquaintance and asked him how he had liked Big Man's trumpet playing with Anaîs. My friend stared at me blankly and asked, "There was a trumpet?" Apparently, for much of the audience, they only had eyes for Anaîs, and who can blame them? (But really, I swear, Big Man was there!)
With my being so tied up the weekend of the festival, I actually had to miss two of Big Man's three FQF gigs -- his first, but surely not his last. Friday night he played with Walter "Wolfman" Washington, and Saturday night he appeared with Renard Poché's band, both times (interestingly enough) on the Abita Beer Stage at Woldenburg Park on the river. This is considered to be one of the biggest stages of the fest, and Big Man reported crowds of about 10,000 people each night -- other than his television appearances, just about the biggest live audience he's ever played for. He said it was very exciting, and somewhat gratifying to look into the crowd and be able to recognize people he knew, friends, relatives, Friends of Bill W. and so on. I HATED having to miss those two sets, but I'm assured that Big Man played his heart out and delighted both band leaders as well as the crowds watching and dancing.
The weather was strange FQF weekend. Temperatures hovered in the high 60s and low 70s, aided by strong winds which sometimes made it feel almost chilly (OK, not really chilly, just chilly to New Orleanians). TV weather guys kept on predicting rain for every day of the fest, but amazingly enough, the only time it rained was very early Sunday morning (or late Saturday night, depending on how you looked at it), which was very convenient for all concerned. It wasn't even a lot of rain, even thought the clouds had been dark gray and threatening both Friday and Saturday.
Sunday dawned cloudy, but then spent the morning clearing up, until by afternoon, it was like, "What clouds? What rain?" The lovely and talented Anaîs St. John had asked Big Man to come play for her FQF set at the small and intimate Whitney Bank and Windsor Court Hotel Stage in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court on Royal Street, and so we arrived about an hour or so before the start time. Crowds were heavy, but navigable and friendly, mixed as to age, race, orientation, and certainly as to dress. (What different folks think is appropriate festival attire is a blog post in itself!) We cruised and listened to the Jazz Vipers (great!), David & Roselyn (always a crowd-pleaser, though not necessarily the greatest musicians), a mixed group of musicians under a canopy, earnestly pleading with the crowd for tips, and a young magician plying people with sleight of hand.
Anaîs's set was terrific, and not just because Big Man played most of it with her. She's such a beauty, and such an entertainer, really knows how to work a crowd, and play with them, interact with them. She did her justly-famous torch songs, added a tribute to Eartha Kitt ("I Wanna Be Ee-vill"), and of course had to do some of her notorious double-entendre numbers, like "Man O'War." (I'm not even gonna quote lyrics here, just take it from me, it was hot!)
Big Man really enjoyed the non-scripted, loose playing with Anaîs and the talented musicians (like Michael Skinkus on percussion and Harry Mayronne on piano), and the back-and-forthing between the trumpet or flugelhorn and the vocalist was well done. And who couldn't play hot and nasty with Anaîs draped provocatively on top the piano, right in front of your face? Big Man was well up to that onerous task, and blew it away.
It was funny, though, right after the set, I ran into a male acquaintance and asked him how he had liked Big Man's trumpet playing with Anaîs. My friend stared at me blankly and asked, "There was a trumpet?" Apparently, for much of the audience, they only had eyes for Anaîs, and who can blame them? (But really, I swear, Big Man was there!)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Maundy Thursday Green Gumbo
I'm late reporting on the annual tradition of gumbo z'herbes on Maundy Thursday at Dooky Chase Restaurant. An old-time Creole custom with a long history, this hearty green gumbo is supposed to be served on Holy Thursday (old-fashioned liturgical term, Maundy Thursday) to prepare yourself for the rigors of fasting all day on Good Friday. And just because most folks have given up the idea of fasting completely on Good Friday does not negate the importance of gumbo z'herbes!
The traditional recipe for the gumbo, which of course varied a little from family to family, contains a number of greens -- the exact number of which and consisting of what could ignite heated controversy amongst passionate New Orleanians -- plus a heckuva lot of MEAT, from chicken to pork to veal to beef. Mrs. Leah Chase uses 9 different greens, and it is said that a person will make the same number of new friends in the year to come as the umber of greens in the gumbo, so I guess I'm primed now for those 9 new friends.
Several times I have labored over Miss Leah's recipe in my own kitchen, sometimes having to visit more than one market to obtain the requisite variety of greens. Most memorable to me was the spring I made it in Chattanooga, Tennessee. As I was checking out at the local grocery store with turnip greens, mustard greens, carrot tops, spinach, beet tops, dark kale, and dandelion greens (a real coup, I thought) in my cart, the clerk, a young light-skinned African-American woman looked sharply at me and said (to my complete and utter amazement!), "Are you making that special gumbo?" "How did you know that?" I stammered out and she explained that her "Ma-Maw" was from Louisiana and always made this special green gumbo before Easter.
Russell, a long-time friend of mine, a local politico and lobbyist for progressive causes, always reserves a private dining room at Dooky's for this occasion, and has been doing this every year, going all the way back to the days when Dutch Morial was first running for mayor. One of the hardships of living "in exile" all those years I lived away was knowing that back home in New Orleans, Dooky's was serving gumbo z'herbes, hot politics were being hotly discussed, and I had to miss it. (Russell used to make me even more homesick by sending me photos of the event that had appeared in the New Orleans media.) Now that we are home for good, there's no reason to miss it and every reason to go.
When Big Man and I arrived a little after 12 noon, Dooky's was already packed. You couldn't park in the parking lot, or anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the building. We had to park a block away, on the side of the empty space where the Tremé Housing Project used to be, and make our way back to the front door. Folks were lined up from the door to the dining room all the way down to the bar and then along the bar. Big Man hesitated -- he doesn't like to cut ahead of people -- but I knew this wasn't a line for the folks going to the Gold Room.
We "'scused us" through all the people waiting and made our way to the French doors at the entrance to the Gold Room (so hard to remind yourself that this was once the ONLY dining room at Dooky's, before they added the 2 other next-door buildings and renovated them into more space). The usual assortment of Russell's relatives, elected officials (a smattering of local judges, a former state representative, a candidate or two), lawyers, ministers, journalists, and what-have you were already seated around an L-shaped arrangement of tables. The noise level was pretty high, what with the conversations at our L-table, and the cacophony in the main dining room, packed to the rafters with happy folks spooning down green gumbo.
Russell is an excellent host and he took us round the table, introducing us to those we might not have met before, and may not have remembered from previous Maundy Thursdays. Russ likes to split up couples if he can, so that conversation is more lively, so Big Man was seated near Sybil Morial, Dutch's widow, and I got a place on the other end of the table, near some folks I had met before.
Despite the hordes of people, service was swift -- I guess it's relatively easy to serve even the biggest crowd when you don't have to worry about menus! Platters of hot fried chicken were spaced conveniently around the table, needfully replenished often, and each person got a large bowl with a generous portion of gumbo z'herbes, with liberal amounts of various meats. Topping things off were baskets of hot sweet corn muffins that served (to me, at least) as dessert. It goes without saying (ça va sans dire) that everything that touched our lips was sublime.
Of course, politics was a common topic, with the current mayor coming in for well-deserved drubbing; the city council did not escape their share of the criticism. (Many of us, black and white across the table, agreed that the city had not been so racially polarized since the 1960s.) We shared ways that things had gotten better, and worse, in our lives and in the city since Katrina. We fondly recalled that the year before, the Holy Thursday that had marked the first time that Dooky's was opened for a seated public luncheon since Katrina. We remembered individuals who used to share this luch with us, but who were now in the Great Beyond. We talked about our children and our grandchildren. In short, it was a grand time.
With more hungry folks arriving, Big Man and I did not linger *too* long and left after eating and doing a little table-hopping to talk with more folks there. As we left, we passed another long line of folks still waiting to get in. I heard later from Miss Leah and a Dooky's waiter that they hadn't been able to close until after 6 pm!
The traditional recipe for the gumbo, which of course varied a little from family to family, contains a number of greens -- the exact number of which and consisting of what could ignite heated controversy amongst passionate New Orleanians -- plus a heckuva lot of MEAT, from chicken to pork to veal to beef. Mrs. Leah Chase uses 9 different greens, and it is said that a person will make the same number of new friends in the year to come as the umber of greens in the gumbo, so I guess I'm primed now for those 9 new friends.
Several times I have labored over Miss Leah's recipe in my own kitchen, sometimes having to visit more than one market to obtain the requisite variety of greens. Most memorable to me was the spring I made it in Chattanooga, Tennessee. As I was checking out at the local grocery store with turnip greens, mustard greens, carrot tops, spinach, beet tops, dark kale, and dandelion greens (a real coup, I thought) in my cart, the clerk, a young light-skinned African-American woman looked sharply at me and said (to my complete and utter amazement!), "Are you making that special gumbo?" "How did you know that?" I stammered out and she explained that her "Ma-Maw" was from Louisiana and always made this special green gumbo before Easter.
Russell, a long-time friend of mine, a local politico and lobbyist for progressive causes, always reserves a private dining room at Dooky's for this occasion, and has been doing this every year, going all the way back to the days when Dutch Morial was first running for mayor. One of the hardships of living "in exile" all those years I lived away was knowing that back home in New Orleans, Dooky's was serving gumbo z'herbes, hot politics were being hotly discussed, and I had to miss it. (Russell used to make me even more homesick by sending me photos of the event that had appeared in the New Orleans media.) Now that we are home for good, there's no reason to miss it and every reason to go.
When Big Man and I arrived a little after 12 noon, Dooky's was already packed. You couldn't park in the parking lot, or anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the building. We had to park a block away, on the side of the empty space where the Tremé Housing Project used to be, and make our way back to the front door. Folks were lined up from the door to the dining room all the way down to the bar and then along the bar. Big Man hesitated -- he doesn't like to cut ahead of people -- but I knew this wasn't a line for the folks going to the Gold Room.
We "'scused us" through all the people waiting and made our way to the French doors at the entrance to the Gold Room (so hard to remind yourself that this was once the ONLY dining room at Dooky's, before they added the 2 other next-door buildings and renovated them into more space). The usual assortment of Russell's relatives, elected officials (a smattering of local judges, a former state representative, a candidate or two), lawyers, ministers, journalists, and what-have you were already seated around an L-shaped arrangement of tables. The noise level was pretty high, what with the conversations at our L-table, and the cacophony in the main dining room, packed to the rafters with happy folks spooning down green gumbo.
Russell is an excellent host and he took us round the table, introducing us to those we might not have met before, and may not have remembered from previous Maundy Thursdays. Russ likes to split up couples if he can, so that conversation is more lively, so Big Man was seated near Sybil Morial, Dutch's widow, and I got a place on the other end of the table, near some folks I had met before.
Despite the hordes of people, service was swift -- I guess it's relatively easy to serve even the biggest crowd when you don't have to worry about menus! Platters of hot fried chicken were spaced conveniently around the table, needfully replenished often, and each person got a large bowl with a generous portion of gumbo z'herbes, with liberal amounts of various meats. Topping things off were baskets of hot sweet corn muffins that served (to me, at least) as dessert. It goes without saying (ça va sans dire) that everything that touched our lips was sublime.
Of course, politics was a common topic, with the current mayor coming in for well-deserved drubbing; the city council did not escape their share of the criticism. (Many of us, black and white across the table, agreed that the city had not been so racially polarized since the 1960s.) We shared ways that things had gotten better, and worse, in our lives and in the city since Katrina. We fondly recalled that the year before, the Holy Thursday that had marked the first time that Dooky's was opened for a seated public luncheon since Katrina. We remembered individuals who used to share this luch with us, but who were now in the Great Beyond. We talked about our children and our grandchildren. In short, it was a grand time.
With more hungry folks arriving, Big Man and I did not linger *too* long and left after eating and doing a little table-hopping to talk with more folks there. As we left, we passed another long line of folks still waiting to get in. I heard later from Miss Leah and a Dooky's waiter that they hadn't been able to close until after 6 pm!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Pork & Beads Benefit
I'd never been to it before -- indeed, I'd never even heard of it before, but there's an annual fundraiser for Bridge House called the Cochon Cotillion or the Pork and Beads Ball. held at Blaine Ken's Mardi Gras World across the river. (Bridge House is a resident facility that works with alcoholics and drug abusers to gain sobriety and productive lives. Since the 1950s, they have only had men as clients, but now with the new multilevel place they're in the process of building on Earhart, they will be adding a floor for women.) It's an extremely worthy cause, one dear to Big Man's heart, with his 19 years of sobriety. So we were pleased that a band he works with told him this was their regular gig, and even more pleased to learn that band members could bring spouses and partners to the event.
I went online to see what one wears to this event and learned that "costumes or tacky clothing" was the suggested attire. For those still at sea, there were helpful photos of participants at past Cotillions. Colored wigs, feather boas, and funny hats seemed common choices. Big Man had it easy -- the band members were to dress in black -- big deal. I was the one with decisions to make. My selections were complicated by the fact that the benefit featured all you could eat food from some premier New Orleans restaurants, so I didn't want to put on anything too binding. Eventually, I settled on kind of a Pirate Queen thing with a mask but no wig or hat.
I always enjoy going to Mardi Gras World, seeing up close and at rest the fancy floats and figures that usually go by too quickly at Carnival. But most of the time I'm there for MOMs, which is a completely different milieu than the Cochon Cotillion (enough said about that!). Inside the main room, different tables were up around the periphery, each table representing a different restaurant or caterer, with selections like shrimp remoulade, Cajun pasta, alligator burgers, Creole Country Store sausages, spinach salad with pecans, potatoes au gratin, fruit salad, even pizza and hot dogs (I didn't waste calories on that, believe you me!)
For dessert, there were several varieties of bread pudding, cupcakes, and an unbelievable array of jewel-like tiny pastries by a new pastry chef Uptown, a young woman who looked Philippine-American. They were AMAZING! I had to physically restrain myself from just hanging out there and eating like a, well, like a little cochon.
One thing that might seem strange (MIGHT??) was that this was an open-bar event. I mean, only in New Orleans, right? would there be a benefit for an institution promoting sobriety where there'd be so much drinking. It was weird enough, even for us, that two of the emcees mentioned it from the stage. ("Where else but New Orleans could you get this drunk in the name of staying sober?")
A prominent feature of the Cotillion is the annual parade, leading of course to its other nickname, Pork & Beads. There's a king and queen and court, there's an actual high school marching band, and lots of bead throwing, even dubloons (but these were actually chocolate coins from the Magazine Street chocolate shop, Blue Frog. Yum!) I couldn't get myself interested in more beads -- which I'd only have to drop off at Sophie Gumbel anyway -- but I did enjoy watching the parade and seeing the costumes people came up with. (Lots of pig themes, natch, and lots of references to current events.)
Then I saw someone I thought I knew, and in a flash I realized I only thought I knew him because his famous face was so familiar. It was James Carville, and then I saw his wife Mary Matalin as well. Wow! I wanted to run up to them and say, "Y'all helped inspire my marriage!" because Big Man is a Republican and I'm a congenital Democrat. When we'd get into verbal scuffles over politics when we were dating, we'd say, "I wonder how Carville and Matalin handle this?" and we eventually figured out that they probably decide not to keep on talking when they have an impasse. (We don't know that for sure, we just made it up. But it does work for us.) I didn't interrupt the parade to tell that, and later I couldn't find them. Oh well. Next time I run into them in this small town, I'll tell them.
Since Big Man and I had to arrive before the Patron Party at 7 pm, and I was so sun-struck from the Riverfest earlier in the day, I conked out pretty early and retreated to the van until Big Man was free to leave. Next year, I'll devise an even more comfortable costume, and maybe invite a sister or a friend to go with me so I'd have somebody to talk to while Big Man is on stage.
But it's a terrific good time in a great cause -- not to mention the irony!
I went online to see what one wears to this event and learned that "costumes or tacky clothing" was the suggested attire. For those still at sea, there were helpful photos of participants at past Cotillions. Colored wigs, feather boas, and funny hats seemed common choices. Big Man had it easy -- the band members were to dress in black -- big deal. I was the one with decisions to make. My selections were complicated by the fact that the benefit featured all you could eat food from some premier New Orleans restaurants, so I didn't want to put on anything too binding. Eventually, I settled on kind of a Pirate Queen thing with a mask but no wig or hat.
I always enjoy going to Mardi Gras World, seeing up close and at rest the fancy floats and figures that usually go by too quickly at Carnival. But most of the time I'm there for MOMs, which is a completely different milieu than the Cochon Cotillion (enough said about that!). Inside the main room, different tables were up around the periphery, each table representing a different restaurant or caterer, with selections like shrimp remoulade, Cajun pasta, alligator burgers, Creole Country Store sausages, spinach salad with pecans, potatoes au gratin, fruit salad, even pizza and hot dogs (I didn't waste calories on that, believe you me!)
For dessert, there were several varieties of bread pudding, cupcakes, and an unbelievable array of jewel-like tiny pastries by a new pastry chef Uptown, a young woman who looked Philippine-American. They were AMAZING! I had to physically restrain myself from just hanging out there and eating like a, well, like a little cochon.
One thing that might seem strange (MIGHT??) was that this was an open-bar event. I mean, only in New Orleans, right? would there be a benefit for an institution promoting sobriety where there'd be so much drinking. It was weird enough, even for us, that two of the emcees mentioned it from the stage. ("Where else but New Orleans could you get this drunk in the name of staying sober?")
A prominent feature of the Cotillion is the annual parade, leading of course to its other nickname, Pork & Beads. There's a king and queen and court, there's an actual high school marching band, and lots of bead throwing, even dubloons (but these were actually chocolate coins from the Magazine Street chocolate shop, Blue Frog. Yum!) I couldn't get myself interested in more beads -- which I'd only have to drop off at Sophie Gumbel anyway -- but I did enjoy watching the parade and seeing the costumes people came up with. (Lots of pig themes, natch, and lots of references to current events.)
Then I saw someone I thought I knew, and in a flash I realized I only thought I knew him because his famous face was so familiar. It was James Carville, and then I saw his wife Mary Matalin as well. Wow! I wanted to run up to them and say, "Y'all helped inspire my marriage!" because Big Man is a Republican and I'm a congenital Democrat. When we'd get into verbal scuffles over politics when we were dating, we'd say, "I wonder how Carville and Matalin handle this?" and we eventually figured out that they probably decide not to keep on talking when they have an impasse. (We don't know that for sure, we just made it up. But it does work for us.) I didn't interrupt the parade to tell that, and later I couldn't find them. Oh well. Next time I run into them in this small town, I'll tell them.
Since Big Man and I had to arrive before the Patron Party at 7 pm, and I was so sun-struck from the Riverfest earlier in the day, I conked out pretty early and retreated to the van until Big Man was free to leave. Next year, I'll devise an even more comfortable costume, and maybe invite a sister or a friend to go with me so I'd have somebody to talk to while Big Man is on stage.
But it's a terrific good time in a great cause -- not to mention the irony!
Riverfest 2009
There we were, the weekend of April 4 and 5, and Big Man and I were in a quandary. It's festival time again in the gorgeous Crescent City, and it's a surfeit of choices. There was a Catfish Festival, the Strawberry Festival, the Latino Festival, the Old Algiers Riverfest, and approximately 15 others. (See Julie Posner's terrific Louisiana Festival calendar if you don't believe me -- Saturday and Sunday of the first weekend of April had about 20-odd festivals of various kinds, depending on how far you wanted to drive.) So we were debating which festival we would go to -- and eat at, since this conversation was occurring about 12 noon on Saturday.
At that moment, the phone rang. It was a band leader calling for Big Man, wanting to know if he was busy, and if he was willing to come play with a thrown-together R&B band at the Riverfest. Big Man agreed to do it, and to be there no later than 2 pm. We looked at each other -- the decision was made. We would go to the festival they were paying us to go to. Fine by us. The best fest is always the one they pay you to go to!
It was a bright shiny day, with a strong cool breeze, and a few wispy shreds of clouds in an otherwise clear and dark blue sky. We had time and inclination, so we took the Canal Street ferry over (on the crossing, the breeze was so strong, it was almost cold), and parked in the lot on the batture (for those of you from "away," the batture is the land between the river and the levee). Old Algiers, with its old Victorian houses and little gardens, is like a time capsule, and many of the neighbors took advantage of the Riverfest crowds to hold yard and porch sales.
The festival was set up in front of the old Courthouse, a weird 19th century concoction that sort of looks like a castle. (It has a big ol' clock in a tower, the face of which was damaged by Katirna, but it still works and you can still tell time from it, but there's no markings.) A nice crowd, of all ages and colors, had gathered and was enjoying the music of a klezmer band on the stage. This gave Big Man the opportunity to observe once again that he can't understand why more people don't realize the connection between klezmer and early jazz.
We cruised the food booths and finally purchased some fresh iced tea, a home-made pastrami po-boy (him) and a catfish po-boy (me), along with an indulgent and unnecessary little bag of fresh warm cracklins. (Look, we know we shouldn't've, but we couldn't resist!)
There was a nice selection of crafts booths, and a small tent for the artist who did the Riverfest commemorative poster, Terrance Osborne. Osborne is an African-American artist whose bright-colored renditions of our city became emblems of our recovery after Katrina. (Paintings he did immediately after the Storm broke my heart, with wild colored shotguns resting on trees and neighborhood streets lined with pirougues.) I went over and introduced myself to him and told him how much I admired his work, and what his post-K paintings meant to me. He was very gracious, and to my surprise, said that he and his wife (also sitting there, a lovely woman) had been thinking about visiting my church. I told him about the Super Sunday service we had just done, and asured him they would be welcome ANY Sunday. That was nice.
Soon it was time for Big Man to take the stage with the "New Orleans All-Stars" (apparently a good catch-all name for a pick-up band) featuring Marilyn Barbarin as vocalist (now, there's a New Orleans musical name!). They played a lot of R&B classics and Marilyn really puts a tune across. They were well received by the crowd, and lots of folks got up to dance. I watched from up the slope of the levee, sprawled on the grass along with a hundred or so other good folks. (Including a very pretty long-haired brunette woman in turquoise and white, who with perfect unself-consciousness rolled up her camisole top to expose her midriff to the sun and lay out on the soft levee lawn. She had a neat way of twisting her hair up and making it stay off her neck.)
A little black boy, looking about 5 or maybe 6, danced by himself near the stage. He was darn good and good only be what he was, a native New Orleanian doing what comes naturally. His dancing was energetic and rhythmic and had a wonderful variety -- he moonwalked, he popped the gator, he jogged in place, he twirled. He was so great he attracted partners -- a young white man, an older black man, women of various ages and races. Another notable dancer was Marilyn Barbarin's 75-year-old auntie, a slim woman with a short white Afro wearing a gold lamé shirt as an open jacket over slacks and a top. She was graceful and beautiful and totally confident, and I'm sure nearly every woman there was, like me, vowing to be that lady when we got to be 75.
Another dancer of note was an old man, either much older than Auntie Barbarin or just having lived a much harder life, hunched up in front of the stage doing old-time nasty dances. Not so nasty that he would've scared the many children present, but just borderline lewd enough to get the crowd roaring. He did "the chicken" and did the shakes. People around me were just killing themselves laughing, all in good spirit.
The sun just poured down on us all, and I belatedly realized I was unprotected. I went back to the car and got an umbrella and sheltered beneath it, but I was too late. When we got home that afternoon, I was sunburnt on my arms, neck and cheeks. A good lesson relearned -- sunblock every single day, and a better sunhat. I'm too old for this.
When Big Man left the stage, he was still hungry, so we grabbed a smoked turkey leg for the ride across the river. It was a great time, and just imagine -- they paid us to have that good time!
At that moment, the phone rang. It was a band leader calling for Big Man, wanting to know if he was busy, and if he was willing to come play with a thrown-together R&B band at the Riverfest. Big Man agreed to do it, and to be there no later than 2 pm. We looked at each other -- the decision was made. We would go to the festival they were paying us to go to. Fine by us. The best fest is always the one they pay you to go to!
It was a bright shiny day, with a strong cool breeze, and a few wispy shreds of clouds in an otherwise clear and dark blue sky. We had time and inclination, so we took the Canal Street ferry over (on the crossing, the breeze was so strong, it was almost cold), and parked in the lot on the batture (for those of you from "away," the batture is the land between the river and the levee). Old Algiers, with its old Victorian houses and little gardens, is like a time capsule, and many of the neighbors took advantage of the Riverfest crowds to hold yard and porch sales.
The festival was set up in front of the old Courthouse, a weird 19th century concoction that sort of looks like a castle. (It has a big ol' clock in a tower, the face of which was damaged by Katirna, but it still works and you can still tell time from it, but there's no markings.) A nice crowd, of all ages and colors, had gathered and was enjoying the music of a klezmer band on the stage. This gave Big Man the opportunity to observe once again that he can't understand why more people don't realize the connection between klezmer and early jazz.
We cruised the food booths and finally purchased some fresh iced tea, a home-made pastrami po-boy (him) and a catfish po-boy (me), along with an indulgent and unnecessary little bag of fresh warm cracklins. (Look, we know we shouldn't've, but we couldn't resist!)
There was a nice selection of crafts booths, and a small tent for the artist who did the Riverfest commemorative poster, Terrance Osborne. Osborne is an African-American artist whose bright-colored renditions of our city became emblems of our recovery after Katrina. (Paintings he did immediately after the Storm broke my heart, with wild colored shotguns resting on trees and neighborhood streets lined with pirougues.) I went over and introduced myself to him and told him how much I admired his work, and what his post-K paintings meant to me. He was very gracious, and to my surprise, said that he and his wife (also sitting there, a lovely woman) had been thinking about visiting my church. I told him about the Super Sunday service we had just done, and asured him they would be welcome ANY Sunday. That was nice.
Soon it was time for Big Man to take the stage with the "New Orleans All-Stars" (apparently a good catch-all name for a pick-up band) featuring Marilyn Barbarin as vocalist (now, there's a New Orleans musical name!). They played a lot of R&B classics and Marilyn really puts a tune across. They were well received by the crowd, and lots of folks got up to dance. I watched from up the slope of the levee, sprawled on the grass along with a hundred or so other good folks. (Including a very pretty long-haired brunette woman in turquoise and white, who with perfect unself-consciousness rolled up her camisole top to expose her midriff to the sun and lay out on the soft levee lawn. She had a neat way of twisting her hair up and making it stay off her neck.)
A little black boy, looking about 5 or maybe 6, danced by himself near the stage. He was darn good and good only be what he was, a native New Orleanian doing what comes naturally. His dancing was energetic and rhythmic and had a wonderful variety -- he moonwalked, he popped the gator, he jogged in place, he twirled. He was so great he attracted partners -- a young white man, an older black man, women of various ages and races. Another notable dancer was Marilyn Barbarin's 75-year-old auntie, a slim woman with a short white Afro wearing a gold lamé shirt as an open jacket over slacks and a top. She was graceful and beautiful and totally confident, and I'm sure nearly every woman there was, like me, vowing to be that lady when we got to be 75.
Another dancer of note was an old man, either much older than Auntie Barbarin or just having lived a much harder life, hunched up in front of the stage doing old-time nasty dances. Not so nasty that he would've scared the many children present, but just borderline lewd enough to get the crowd roaring. He did "the chicken" and did the shakes. People around me were just killing themselves laughing, all in good spirit.
The sun just poured down on us all, and I belatedly realized I was unprotected. I went back to the car and got an umbrella and sheltered beneath it, but I was too late. When we got home that afternoon, I was sunburnt on my arms, neck and cheeks. A good lesson relearned -- sunblock every single day, and a better sunhat. I'm too old for this.
When Big Man left the stage, he was still hungry, so we grabbed a smoked turkey leg for the ride across the river. It was a great time, and just imagine -- they paid us to have that good time!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Super Sunday 2009
No one seems to know what's the connection, but the Sunday closest to St. Joseph's Day (March 19th) is designated "Super Sunday" by many Mardi Gras Indians. (With the exception of the Bayou St. John tribes, who pick a Sunday in another month altogether -- who knows why?) This year, Super Sunday was supposed to be March 15th (when I preached about the Indians), but had to be moved to this Sunday, March 22, due to last week's rain. This Sunday was warm and sunny with clouds and a nice breeze -- perfect for Super Sunday celebrating.
On Super Sunday, the Mardi Gras Indian tribes put on their suits and do their thing through the streets of their neighborhoods ("promenade" seems the wrong verb and so does "parade"), making their way first to the corner of Washington and LaSalle. This is a bow to an old tradition, since for generations the Indians gathered at Shakespeare Park (no, not that Shakespeare, but the one who was once New Orleans' mayor), which is now A.L. Davis Park and which is unusable for a fun purpose since post-Katrina days. (Immediately after the Storm, FEMA chose that location to park a group of trailers, and although the trailers have been removed, the park has not yet been restored as a park. Where are you, FEMA??) Nowadays, the Indians just stop at that corner for the tradition of it, and many people, black and white, are gathered there to watch the Indians arrive and leave.
The real action, however, is now at Taylor Park (also known as Marcus Garvey Park) at the corner of S. Derbigny and Washington Avenue, somewhat behind the Rex den on Claiborne (a delicious coincidence). Super Sunday has become a BIG deal, a giant family event. There are rides and space walks for the kids, Portalets are set up, a stage for live, free music, and there are a few "official" food and drink booths inside the park along the perimeter. Good stuff too -- boiled crawfish with all the trimmings, BBQ, fried turkey sandwiches, fried fish plates with potato salad, and so on.
But the REAL food and drink action goes on just outside the park fence. On the streets and sidewalks, individuals have set up their pick-ups, vans, and fancy rigs to create spots for soft drink and beer sales, hard liquor (one guy had a FULL BAR inside the back of his SUV), grills, and barbeques. It was an amazing array of food and drink choices -- snow-balls, sausages, ribs, chicken, burgers, hot dogs, turkeys frying, giant turkey legs being smoked, and of course, that stand-by New Orleans hangover remedy ya ca mein (what?? you don't know what ya ca mein is? You haven't lived!) One vendor kept hollering, "Col' drinks heah! Col' beah heah! Coochie malé!" "What does 'coochie malé' mean?" whispered Big Man to me, "I dunno," I said, "it's something Indians say."
The Super Sunday festival was announced to start at 1 pm, but anyone who arrived that early had a long wait. Big Man and I arrived about 1:30 pm, because that's what time Jo Cool told him to arrive, but we were still about 45 minutes ahead of the rest of the band.
["The band," you say? Yes! To my great pride and joy, Big Man was set to play at Super Sunday with Jo Cool Davis's group!! I couldn't have been any more swelled up with pride. You should have seen me, pointing him out to Charmaine Neville when she arrived. He played beautifully -- of course! -- and it was, all in all, a great honor.]
People-watching at Taylor Park was terrific. Lots of cute babies being looked after by moms and dads and grandparents and older sibs. Lots of handsome black men in those cool, almost "pajama" like two-piece casual suits in colors like cream and cocoa and coral. Young white kids in what Big Man calls the "waif uniform" (if you've seen if, you know what he's talking about). And scores of black women in creative outfits in many colors, showing off legs and cleavage and midriffs, nearly all with sexy, brightly-colored high-heeled shoes.
The first Mardi Gras Indian, a tired-looking young man in pale peach raiment, arrived at the park about 2:30 pm. While he kept repeating to people who asked that other Indians were "right behind" him, it still took quite a while for more Indians to arrive. The next group to arrive were little Indians -- little-bitty boys (with hearts of steel, naturally) walking with great dignity under the weight of full-fledged feathered suits, so heavy that at least one boy was limping.
Behind them, finally, came the adults in all their glory, strutting through the streets and entering the park, surrounded by photographers and fans. Baby blue and deep ultramarine blue, red, pink, and burgundy, brown, orange, and yellow, lime green, emerald green, and citron, and black with fluorescent brights. The feathers waved in the strong breeze; the glass beads sparkled in the sunlight through the clouds. The crowds -- men, women, and kids who black, white, Latino, and Asian -- were enthusiastic and appreciative.
Big Man and I drank it all in with our eyes and bought two enormous smoked turkey legs to eat at home. On the way home, we were caught in traffic twice: once as more Mardi Gras Indians made their way to Taylor Park, and then at the corner of Felicity and Claiborne, where a LARGE group of black motorcyclists were gathered for their own kind of Super Sunday, complete with vendors, blaring music, and pretty women promenading.
A great day.
On Super Sunday, the Mardi Gras Indian tribes put on their suits and do their thing through the streets of their neighborhoods ("promenade" seems the wrong verb and so does "parade"), making their way first to the corner of Washington and LaSalle. This is a bow to an old tradition, since for generations the Indians gathered at Shakespeare Park (no, not that Shakespeare, but the one who was once New Orleans' mayor), which is now A.L. Davis Park and which is unusable for a fun purpose since post-Katrina days. (Immediately after the Storm, FEMA chose that location to park a group of trailers, and although the trailers have been removed, the park has not yet been restored as a park. Where are you, FEMA??) Nowadays, the Indians just stop at that corner for the tradition of it, and many people, black and white, are gathered there to watch the Indians arrive and leave.
The real action, however, is now at Taylor Park (also known as Marcus Garvey Park) at the corner of S. Derbigny and Washington Avenue, somewhat behind the Rex den on Claiborne (a delicious coincidence). Super Sunday has become a BIG deal, a giant family event. There are rides and space walks for the kids, Portalets are set up, a stage for live, free music, and there are a few "official" food and drink booths inside the park along the perimeter. Good stuff too -- boiled crawfish with all the trimmings, BBQ, fried turkey sandwiches, fried fish plates with potato salad, and so on.
But the REAL food and drink action goes on just outside the park fence. On the streets and sidewalks, individuals have set up their pick-ups, vans, and fancy rigs to create spots for soft drink and beer sales, hard liquor (one guy had a FULL BAR inside the back of his SUV), grills, and barbeques. It was an amazing array of food and drink choices -- snow-balls, sausages, ribs, chicken, burgers, hot dogs, turkeys frying, giant turkey legs being smoked, and of course, that stand-by New Orleans hangover remedy ya ca mein (what?? you don't know what ya ca mein is? You haven't lived!) One vendor kept hollering, "Col' drinks heah! Col' beah heah! Coochie malé!" "What does 'coochie malé' mean?" whispered Big Man to me, "I dunno," I said, "it's something Indians say."
The Super Sunday festival was announced to start at 1 pm, but anyone who arrived that early had a long wait. Big Man and I arrived about 1:30 pm, because that's what time Jo Cool told him to arrive, but we were still about 45 minutes ahead of the rest of the band.
["The band," you say? Yes! To my great pride and joy, Big Man was set to play at Super Sunday with Jo Cool Davis's group!! I couldn't have been any more swelled up with pride. You should have seen me, pointing him out to Charmaine Neville when she arrived. He played beautifully -- of course! -- and it was, all in all, a great honor.]
People-watching at Taylor Park was terrific. Lots of cute babies being looked after by moms and dads and grandparents and older sibs. Lots of handsome black men in those cool, almost "pajama" like two-piece casual suits in colors like cream and cocoa and coral. Young white kids in what Big Man calls the "waif uniform" (if you've seen if, you know what he's talking about). And scores of black women in creative outfits in many colors, showing off legs and cleavage and midriffs, nearly all with sexy, brightly-colored high-heeled shoes.
The first Mardi Gras Indian, a tired-looking young man in pale peach raiment, arrived at the park about 2:30 pm. While he kept repeating to people who asked that other Indians were "right behind" him, it still took quite a while for more Indians to arrive. The next group to arrive were little Indians -- little-bitty boys (with hearts of steel, naturally) walking with great dignity under the weight of full-fledged feathered suits, so heavy that at least one boy was limping.
Behind them, finally, came the adults in all their glory, strutting through the streets and entering the park, surrounded by photographers and fans. Baby blue and deep ultramarine blue, red, pink, and burgundy, brown, orange, and yellow, lime green, emerald green, and citron, and black with fluorescent brights. The feathers waved in the strong breeze; the glass beads sparkled in the sunlight through the clouds. The crowds -- men, women, and kids who black, white, Latino, and Asian -- were enthusiastic and appreciative.
Big Man and I drank it all in with our eyes and bought two enormous smoked turkey legs to eat at home. On the way home, we were caught in traffic twice: once as more Mardi Gras Indians made their way to Taylor Park, and then at the corner of Felicity and Claiborne, where a LARGE group of black motorcyclists were gathered for their own kind of Super Sunday, complete with vendors, blaring music, and pretty women promenading.
A great day.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Storyland Wedding
On Friday evening I was part of something historic, a first in New Orleans history (albeit a small one): a wedding ceremony in Storyland in City Park. The couple, young New Orleanians who are performers of one kind or another (comedian/clown and aerialist/clown, apparently), had their hearts set on getting married in this special place, beloved to generations of New Orleans children.
And not just Storyland -- they had centered their wedding plans on the Peter Pan pirate ship, which was even featured in their wedding invitations. The event coordinator at City Park initially turned down their request, there never having been a wedding in Storyland, but the couple persisted (I believe the bride-to-be actually cried) and City Park relented. The Park did insist that the date of the wedding be moved to a Friday instead of a Saturday, there being much less demand from the general public to be inside Storyland on a Friday afternoon than a weekend.
I found the couple sweet and charming, though a bit outré in appearance. (The bride, a pretty girl with a striking face, sported deep emerald green hair.) Planning the ceremony with them was a trip. When asked for the names of the extensive bridal party -- every close friend of theirs had to be honored by being included and thus there were 18 attendants total -- often they only knew their professional or stage names. Thus, the printed copy of the wedding service contained names such as "Miz Led," "Sticks," and "Stumps." Nearly all are show folk of one kind or another -- burlesque dancers, acrobats, clowns, comedians, musicians, aerialists, mimes, what-have-you. (Even the groom's father is in show business -- the justly-famous band leader and entertainer Vince Vance, of Vince Vance and the Valiants. When I found that out, it was all I could do not to squeal like a schoolgirl.)
The rehearsal on Thursday went well; the young show folk took my directions in good spirits. We figured out the logistics of the pirate ship (there was a brief moment when the City Park event coordinator and I tried to gently suggest that the Storyland fairytale castle was a better venue as far as sight lines and practicality were concerned, but emotions trumped practicality and we were back at the ship in no time). We decided that I as minister would stand on the poop deck, the couple would stand on the step before the mast (where, above our heads in the crow's nest, Captain Hook battled it out with Peter Pan in the climatic sword fight), and the Best Man and Matron of Honor would stand at the prow. One of the bridal party, a young man wearing a giant gorilla paw, reminded me of an old sailor's superstition about "splitting the mast" being bad luck and so we were careful at the rehearsal to always have the couple walk round the same side of the mast. (Trust show business people to know every possible superstition pertaining to a given situation.)
The evening of the wedding, it should not have been a surprise to note that the straight people, guests and family, were vastly outnumbered. The range of hair colors could not have been bested in any paint store in the city; the array of artfully thrown-together, torn-apart, aesthetically-ripped, over-layered outfits let me know that there couldn't have been a petticoat, old prom dress, or used corset left in any of the city's many used clothing stores. There were girls dressed as boys and boys dressed as girls (impossible to think of such playful, willfully childlike creatures as "men" and "women"), and individuals of indeterminate or blended or newly-invented genders. A few young men wore shoes of such size that although they appeared to be regular men's shoes, they could only be clown footwear. One young woman, with a shaved head and a great deal of tattoos (indeed, people without tattoos must have felt under-dressed), wore only strategically placed 1950's vintage scarves around her bosom and hips. Many of the young men who were in a version of straight men's clothes wore vintage suits, with personal touches of some kind (rips, tears, no pants, sequins, lamé trim, etc.). The only place you would have seen more fishnet tights with holes on people of all sexes would have been the MOMs Ball.
Many people, guests and bridal party, wore circus-style face paint -- decorations of dots and diamonds and lines and stars in various colors. A group of six young people were nearly hidden behind giant red heart sandwich boards tied on their shoulders in extravagant red satin bows. Many of the young women, guests and bridal party, wore creative headgear in which peacock feathers were a dominant motif.
The ceremony was a trifle late getting started, but much less so than many "regular" weddings over which I've presided. I suspected that the show folk had a strong ethic of getting the show to start relatively on time. The groom was suitably and charmingly keyed up and nervous. The numerous groomsmen did exactly as we had rehearsed the day before, and I mounted my place on the elevated stern of the pirate ship. From this vantage point, I had an excellent view of the procession -- or rather, the parade -- as the bridesmaids, flowergirls, and bride escorted by her dad followed a raucous klezmer band from Austin, Texas, down the road from the direction of the Botanical Gardens (where many straighter couples hold their ceremonies) toward the gate to Storyland.
The bridesmaids all wore teal, with varying interpretations of what a "bridesmaid's dress" should look like, and all had headdresses of flowers and peacock feathers. The bride wore a formal gown of taupe taffeta, with poufy layers and a dark teal silk bustle in the back. Her shiny emerald hair was arranged in lovely ringlets and curls on top her head and surmounted by an elaborate and elegant orchid and peacock feather headpiece. She was beautifully made up and looked like move star -- although one with lovely green hair. The ceremony went well, without a hitch, and both bride and groom cried and tenderly wiped the tears from each other's faces.
(Interestingly, the couple had no problem whatsoever with my traditional ban on photography during the ceremony, which, frankly, I had been prepared to compromise on, given the setting and the circumstances. But, as show business professionals, they understood how photography could affect a performance, and also got the idea that a photographer trying for the best shots could be distracting. They were happy to spend about 40 minutes after the ceremony was over and the recessional done, to pose lots and lots of photographs, complete with professional lighting and reflectors and so on. The bride said to me that as an aerialist, who often performs on trapezes and silks, that flash photography can actually be dangerous to her during her act, so she understood why I might dislike photography during my "act.")
The reception was held at the Deutches Haus on Galvez, with the bride and groom being delivered in a bicycle-riven rickshaw (thus, they were the last to arrive). I stayed only a little while, and was treated with exquisite courtesy by the show folks, who complimented me on my skills as a "performer," bought me a German black beer, and passed me ahead of them in the food line. I thought it quite a compliment to get kudos from professional show folk. (I was even more thrilled when the great Vince Vance, the groom's father, kissed my lips and my hand, calling me a "goddess" and insisting he owed me one. Wow!)
When I visited the Ladies Room, prior to taking my leave, I found the bride, now dressed in a bridal-looking leotard, doing the splits on the floor, stretching her muscles prior to doing a silks performance in the Haus's courtyard. Others in the bridal party and among the guests had also stripped to leotards, so I guess there was going to be a LOT of performing going on, but, sadly, I had a sore throat and a sermon to finish, and so I made my polite good-byes. As I left, I told the groom I hoped they would think of me in the future when they needed a Baby Dedication (and one can only wonder how that would go!).
And not just Storyland -- they had centered their wedding plans on the Peter Pan pirate ship, which was even featured in their wedding invitations. The event coordinator at City Park initially turned down their request, there never having been a wedding in Storyland, but the couple persisted (I believe the bride-to-be actually cried) and City Park relented. The Park did insist that the date of the wedding be moved to a Friday instead of a Saturday, there being much less demand from the general public to be inside Storyland on a Friday afternoon than a weekend.
I found the couple sweet and charming, though a bit outré in appearance. (The bride, a pretty girl with a striking face, sported deep emerald green hair.) Planning the ceremony with them was a trip. When asked for the names of the extensive bridal party -- every close friend of theirs had to be honored by being included and thus there were 18 attendants total -- often they only knew their professional or stage names. Thus, the printed copy of the wedding service contained names such as "Miz Led," "Sticks," and "Stumps." Nearly all are show folk of one kind or another -- burlesque dancers, acrobats, clowns, comedians, musicians, aerialists, mimes, what-have-you. (Even the groom's father is in show business -- the justly-famous band leader and entertainer Vince Vance, of Vince Vance and the Valiants. When I found that out, it was all I could do not to squeal like a schoolgirl.)
The rehearsal on Thursday went well; the young show folk took my directions in good spirits. We figured out the logistics of the pirate ship (there was a brief moment when the City Park event coordinator and I tried to gently suggest that the Storyland fairytale castle was a better venue as far as sight lines and practicality were concerned, but emotions trumped practicality and we were back at the ship in no time). We decided that I as minister would stand on the poop deck, the couple would stand on the step before the mast (where, above our heads in the crow's nest, Captain Hook battled it out with Peter Pan in the climatic sword fight), and the Best Man and Matron of Honor would stand at the prow. One of the bridal party, a young man wearing a giant gorilla paw, reminded me of an old sailor's superstition about "splitting the mast" being bad luck and so we were careful at the rehearsal to always have the couple walk round the same side of the mast. (Trust show business people to know every possible superstition pertaining to a given situation.)
The evening of the wedding, it should not have been a surprise to note that the straight people, guests and family, were vastly outnumbered. The range of hair colors could not have been bested in any paint store in the city; the array of artfully thrown-together, torn-apart, aesthetically-ripped, over-layered outfits let me know that there couldn't have been a petticoat, old prom dress, or used corset left in any of the city's many used clothing stores. There were girls dressed as boys and boys dressed as girls (impossible to think of such playful, willfully childlike creatures as "men" and "women"), and individuals of indeterminate or blended or newly-invented genders. A few young men wore shoes of such size that although they appeared to be regular men's shoes, they could only be clown footwear. One young woman, with a shaved head and a great deal of tattoos (indeed, people without tattoos must have felt under-dressed), wore only strategically placed 1950's vintage scarves around her bosom and hips. Many of the young men who were in a version of straight men's clothes wore vintage suits, with personal touches of some kind (rips, tears, no pants, sequins, lamé trim, etc.). The only place you would have seen more fishnet tights with holes on people of all sexes would have been the MOMs Ball.
Many people, guests and bridal party, wore circus-style face paint -- decorations of dots and diamonds and lines and stars in various colors. A group of six young people were nearly hidden behind giant red heart sandwich boards tied on their shoulders in extravagant red satin bows. Many of the young women, guests and bridal party, wore creative headgear in which peacock feathers were a dominant motif.
The ceremony was a trifle late getting started, but much less so than many "regular" weddings over which I've presided. I suspected that the show folk had a strong ethic of getting the show to start relatively on time. The groom was suitably and charmingly keyed up and nervous. The numerous groomsmen did exactly as we had rehearsed the day before, and I mounted my place on the elevated stern of the pirate ship. From this vantage point, I had an excellent view of the procession -- or rather, the parade -- as the bridesmaids, flowergirls, and bride escorted by her dad followed a raucous klezmer band from Austin, Texas, down the road from the direction of the Botanical Gardens (where many straighter couples hold their ceremonies) toward the gate to Storyland.
The bridesmaids all wore teal, with varying interpretations of what a "bridesmaid's dress" should look like, and all had headdresses of flowers and peacock feathers. The bride wore a formal gown of taupe taffeta, with poufy layers and a dark teal silk bustle in the back. Her shiny emerald hair was arranged in lovely ringlets and curls on top her head and surmounted by an elaborate and elegant orchid and peacock feather headpiece. She was beautifully made up and looked like move star -- although one with lovely green hair. The ceremony went well, without a hitch, and both bride and groom cried and tenderly wiped the tears from each other's faces.
(Interestingly, the couple had no problem whatsoever with my traditional ban on photography during the ceremony, which, frankly, I had been prepared to compromise on, given the setting and the circumstances. But, as show business professionals, they understood how photography could affect a performance, and also got the idea that a photographer trying for the best shots could be distracting. They were happy to spend about 40 minutes after the ceremony was over and the recessional done, to pose lots and lots of photographs, complete with professional lighting and reflectors and so on. The bride said to me that as an aerialist, who often performs on trapezes and silks, that flash photography can actually be dangerous to her during her act, so she understood why I might dislike photography during my "act.")
The reception was held at the Deutches Haus on Galvez, with the bride and groom being delivered in a bicycle-riven rickshaw (thus, they were the last to arrive). I stayed only a little while, and was treated with exquisite courtesy by the show folks, who complimented me on my skills as a "performer," bought me a German black beer, and passed me ahead of them in the food line. I thought it quite a compliment to get kudos from professional show folk. (I was even more thrilled when the great Vince Vance, the groom's father, kissed my lips and my hand, calling me a "goddess" and insisting he owed me one. Wow!)
When I visited the Ladies Room, prior to taking my leave, I found the bride, now dressed in a bridal-looking leotard, doing the splits on the floor, stretching her muscles prior to doing a silks performance in the Haus's courtyard. Others in the bridal party and among the guests had also stripped to leotards, so I guess there was going to be a LOT of performing going on, but, sadly, I had a sore throat and a sermon to finish, and so I made my polite good-byes. As I left, I told the groom I hoped they would think of me in the future when they needed a Baby Dedication (and one can only wonder how that would go!).
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