We invited a few friends who are without HBO over for Sunday evening's premiere of HBO's new series set in New Orleans post-Katrina, the long-awaited "Tremé." Scenes and episodes have been shot all over town, including our own neighborhood, and most New Orleanians are only a degree or two (or less) separated from locals who've been given parts of varying sizes in the series. Excitement ran really, really high -- "Tremé" was pretty much all anyone could talk about round town last week, and the local TV channels and radio talk shows, from NPR to 'OZ to Rush Radio was all over it. The Sunday Times-Picayune had a grand total of *6* different articles, stories, reviews, and blurbs about it.
There were 6 of us squeezed around our TV at 9 pm on Sunday, and we were all antsy with anticipation. At various points in the first episode, we sang along, "I feel like funkin' it up, feel like funkin' it up," we laughed (mostly at Steve Zahn's character), we argued ("Is that a real Indian chant?" "Was that Central City or Seventh Ward?"), we shouted "Hey!" (when the on-screen band played the familiar bars of "Secondline"), we equivocated ("Maybe that was the world's oldest and stalest Hubig pie"), cheered and yelled "AMEN!" (when John Goodman's character threw the microphone into the Industrial Canal after an interviewer as good as said New Orleans should not be rebuilt), and we collectively caught our breaths and tried not to cry (when the Indian chief put on his suit and cried out, "Won't bow -- don't know how!").
Afterwards, probably like all the other New Orleans viewers, we traded our own Katrina stories. I'm pretty sure that those scenes in "Tremé" brought those memories back to everyone watching from New Orleans. One of our guests, a nurse at Charity Hospital during the Storm, recalled how the sound of helicopters was pervasive in the city immediately after Katrina, how the sound invaded her dreams and that even today she couldn't stand to hear it. We recounted how much water we had had, and how horrible our first glimpses of the city were. All over the city, and in those places of the diaspora, these conversations were repeated over and over. We talked and talked (I thought folks would never leave) until we were talked out.
We give the show a big thumbs up. It gets us right, and gives us our props. We can't wait for episode 2 -- same time, same group, potluck this time.
Heard today (Tuesday) that HBO has already ordered another season. Good on 'em.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
French Quarter Festival
What a gorgeous French Quarter Festival we just had! Perfect weather, happy crowds of lively people, terrific music, and delicious food -- what more could you want?
Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.
The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.
I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!
Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")
Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.
The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)
When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.
Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.
The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.
I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!
Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")
Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.
The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)
When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Not-So-Big Sam & the Funky Nation at Wednesday at the Square
Overcast and windy, very likely threatening rain, Wednesday was not exactly promising for a late afternoon outdoor concert. However, it was going to be Big Sam & the Funky Nation, so it was appropriate to brave the elements. Luckily, the cloudy sky and friendly breeze lowered the temperature and made it very comfortable -- not sweltering like it will be later (for example, for Marcia Ball later in the season).
Big Man and I enjoyed dinner at home (our favorite post-Easter dinner of hard-boiled egg curry) and then parked the car at a lot on Magazine, walking through the pedestrian mall between the federal courthouse and the federal building to the square. I can never be in that neighborhood without remembering that where the Hale Boggs Federal Building now stands was where my father's Steelworkers' Union office used to be (interestingly enough, it was also where Lee Harvey Oswald's "Fair Play for Cuba" office was back in the day), and that our family used to spend Mardi Gras Day in Lafayette Square, with 2 long aluminum folding picnic tables set up together, laden with food, and lined with folding aluminum lawn chairs. Those few blocks are filled with memories for me.
Lafayette Square was pretty crowded, but not as packed as it had been for Trombone Shorty a few weeks ago. As always, the dress code was extremely diverse: law firm denizens in conservative business suits, menfolk in the New Orleans "uptown uniform" of Haspel seersucker and white buck shoes, long and short sundresses on the young women, lots of Jazz Fest shirts and T-shirts, bikers, old folks in their comfy clothes, little kids, lots of dogs, and one giant colorful parrot on this guy's shoulder.
We spotted one tall Creole-looking woman with long brunette hair in tight white jeans and a midriff-baring white embroidered top; we were admiring her when we realized we were practically ogling our friend Anaîs St. John. We called to her, and she walked over quickly, gathering glances and stares the whole way. She hugged us both and complimented me on my recent haircut. "So becoming," she cooed and I preened.
Big Man and Anaîs talked music for a while and compared notes on the New Orleans music biz and their upcoming gigs for the French Quarter Festival this weekend. Unfortunately, Anaîs's set on Saturday afternoon is too close to the ordination ceremony I am obligated to go to, so I told her I'd have to miss it. She waved her hand at me, tant pis ("no matter"). She told us her husband and toddler daughter were over near the food booths, but as we had already eaten, we weren't going that way. We wrapped up our conversation (the cynosure of all eyes the whole time!), kissed again, and parted.
Big Sam and his group the Funky Nation took the stage -- you can't mistake that loud beat-insistent sound! But as we approached the stage, something was very different. It didn't at first look like Big Sam was onstage, even though there was a guy waving a 'bone around. He was much too thin to be Big Sam. But as we got closer to the stage, we could see it was indeed Big Sam, "big" no longer -- he was positively slender! Full of energy and good spirits, he skipped, danced, ran, jumped, and moonwalked the stage; Big Man said maybe all this stage energy had helped him to lose the weight. But whether the hijinks were the *cause* or the *result* of the weight loss, it was still quite impressive. He looked GOOD, y'all. (Whatever you did or are doing, Sam, you just keep it up now.)
Songs bled into one another with interesting musical linkages. Each of the musicians on the stage were given ample opportunity to shine in solos, sometimes with Sam and his trumpet player often coming over to highlight the player and tease him with their mimicry and stage antics. Favorites for me were the classics "Liza Jane" and "Sissy Strut" (that song always did need horns!) and Sam's own "Ba-dooey-dooey."
We left earlier than we wanted to due to Big Man having to make his regular Bourbon Street gig, but we had a good time nonetheless. Props to Big Sam for getting so healthy, and for putting on a great show!
Big Man and I enjoyed dinner at home (our favorite post-Easter dinner of hard-boiled egg curry) and then parked the car at a lot on Magazine, walking through the pedestrian mall between the federal courthouse and the federal building to the square. I can never be in that neighborhood without remembering that where the Hale Boggs Federal Building now stands was where my father's Steelworkers' Union office used to be (interestingly enough, it was also where Lee Harvey Oswald's "Fair Play for Cuba" office was back in the day), and that our family used to spend Mardi Gras Day in Lafayette Square, with 2 long aluminum folding picnic tables set up together, laden with food, and lined with folding aluminum lawn chairs. Those few blocks are filled with memories for me.
Lafayette Square was pretty crowded, but not as packed as it had been for Trombone Shorty a few weeks ago. As always, the dress code was extremely diverse: law firm denizens in conservative business suits, menfolk in the New Orleans "uptown uniform" of Haspel seersucker and white buck shoes, long and short sundresses on the young women, lots of Jazz Fest shirts and T-shirts, bikers, old folks in their comfy clothes, little kids, lots of dogs, and one giant colorful parrot on this guy's shoulder.
We spotted one tall Creole-looking woman with long brunette hair in tight white jeans and a midriff-baring white embroidered top; we were admiring her when we realized we were practically ogling our friend Anaîs St. John. We called to her, and she walked over quickly, gathering glances and stares the whole way. She hugged us both and complimented me on my recent haircut. "So becoming," she cooed and I preened.
Big Man and Anaîs talked music for a while and compared notes on the New Orleans music biz and their upcoming gigs for the French Quarter Festival this weekend. Unfortunately, Anaîs's set on Saturday afternoon is too close to the ordination ceremony I am obligated to go to, so I told her I'd have to miss it. She waved her hand at me, tant pis ("no matter"). She told us her husband and toddler daughter were over near the food booths, but as we had already eaten, we weren't going that way. We wrapped up our conversation (the cynosure of all eyes the whole time!), kissed again, and parted.
Big Sam and his group the Funky Nation took the stage -- you can't mistake that loud beat-insistent sound! But as we approached the stage, something was very different. It didn't at first look like Big Sam was onstage, even though there was a guy waving a 'bone around. He was much too thin to be Big Sam. But as we got closer to the stage, we could see it was indeed Big Sam, "big" no longer -- he was positively slender! Full of energy and good spirits, he skipped, danced, ran, jumped, and moonwalked the stage; Big Man said maybe all this stage energy had helped him to lose the weight. But whether the hijinks were the *cause* or the *result* of the weight loss, it was still quite impressive. He looked GOOD, y'all. (Whatever you did or are doing, Sam, you just keep it up now.)
Songs bled into one another with interesting musical linkages. Each of the musicians on the stage were given ample opportunity to shine in solos, sometimes with Sam and his trumpet player often coming over to highlight the player and tease him with their mimicry and stage antics. Favorites for me were the classics "Liza Jane" and "Sissy Strut" (that song always did need horns!) and Sam's own "Ba-dooey-dooey."
We left earlier than we wanted to due to Big Man having to make his regular Bourbon Street gig, but we had a good time nonetheless. Props to Big Sam for getting so healthy, and for putting on a great show!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase
Maundy, or Holy, Thursday arrived as a gorgeous spring day, with cloudless skies, and temperatures expected to go to the high 70s. First thing I heard was the sound of a brass marching band, and I went out the house dressed in only a caftan to see what was going on. A school band was marching pretty sharply, in school uniforms, NOT band uniforms, with adults and children marching behind them, carrying signs which I was too far away to read. (And clad only in a caftan, I was not about to get any closer!) Not sure which school it was, but I suspect it was the International School and not St. Michael's Special School. As I walked back to the house, I thought, "Thank God I live in New Orleans, where a neighborhood parade is a fairly normal thing."
Another part of the day to give thanks for living in New Orleans is Ms. Leah Chase's annual serving of green gumbo or "gumbo dezherbes" for Holy Thursday. An old Creole tradition for the end of Lent, it involves 7 meats and 7 different kinds of greens to form a thick, rich gumbo served over rice. Dooky Chase Restaurant in the Tremé is always packed for this event, and today was no exception.
With a little difficulty navigating the construction on Orleans Avenue, and an even bigger challenge in finding parking, we made it shortly before 12 noon. Of course, there was a line waiting for a table, but we were "privilege characters" (as my Mama used to say) with an invitation to a private party hosted by my old friend RJH in the old Dooky's dining room, now called the Gold Room.
All of the servers were hopping, overtaxed by the huge crowd. In the far room, I could get glimpses of Ms. Leah, in a bright green "Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase" T-shirt. (I want one, and I hardly ever wear T-shirts!) There was so many people wanting to speak to her, she moved through the packed dining rooms like a politician or celebrity, or like a saint! touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, bussing a cheek, exchanging snippets of conversation as she made her slow way around.
There was supposed to be 20 people at RJH's green gumbo party, but of course more showed up, so Ms. Leah's twin grandsons, who work as waiters, carried in 2 more tables and settings. I was seated between Mrs. Sybil Morial, widow of one former mayor and mother of another, and local civil rights activist attorney BR. Others in the room included local judges, candidates for office, civil servants, and political operatives, as well as RJH family members.
We were served "Arnold Palmers" -- a mix of half lemonade and half iced tea -- and soon the gumbo dezherbes arrived, each bowl seemingly carefully apportioned with bits of the 7 meats: hot sausage, smoked sausage, andouille, chicken, veal, beef, and ham. We kvetched that we wanted bread (or more bread, as one end of the long table had gotten hot garlic bread slices and promptly scarfed it all up), and young Dooky patted me on the shoulder as he flew by, "Coming, it's coming!"
Soon he and another server were back with platters of corn bread squares, which we fell on with gusto. They were warm and rich and sweet, needing no butter (although I bet Big Man wanted some but was too polite to say so!). This would have been good enough -- more than good enough -- but then young Dooky swept back in, carrying 2 heavy platters of hot fried chicken. "I had to sneak this outa the kitchen," he grinned. We squealed and oohed and aahed, grabbing at the hot chicken, dropping it quickly on our plates, our fingers nearly burned.
What sublime chicken! I mean, it was perfect! The skin golden brown and as crispy as hot popcorn, the meat inside tender and juicy. I know the New York Times calls the fried chicken at Willa Mae's (around the corner from Dooky's) the best in the country, but Big Man and I can see only a hairbreadth's difference between them. I'm sorry to confess that I had *2* pieces of that exquisite chicken, and ended with a piece of garlic bread.
We made our farewells around the table, and then came out into the main dining room -- where who do we see but the current Mayor of New Orleans, in the very worst table in the place, a tiny TV-tray sized thing, barely big enough for one but with the mayor and guest squeezed at it, up against the wall. (That table is so small that normally it is only used as a station for water pitchers.) What better indication could you have of the estimation of Ms. Leah, that this is where the outgoing mayor ended up??
Another part of the day to give thanks for living in New Orleans is Ms. Leah Chase's annual serving of green gumbo or "gumbo dezherbes" for Holy Thursday. An old Creole tradition for the end of Lent, it involves 7 meats and 7 different kinds of greens to form a thick, rich gumbo served over rice. Dooky Chase Restaurant in the Tremé is always packed for this event, and today was no exception.
With a little difficulty navigating the construction on Orleans Avenue, and an even bigger challenge in finding parking, we made it shortly before 12 noon. Of course, there was a line waiting for a table, but we were "privilege characters" (as my Mama used to say) with an invitation to a private party hosted by my old friend RJH in the old Dooky's dining room, now called the Gold Room.
All of the servers were hopping, overtaxed by the huge crowd. In the far room, I could get glimpses of Ms. Leah, in a bright green "Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase" T-shirt. (I want one, and I hardly ever wear T-shirts!) There was so many people wanting to speak to her, she moved through the packed dining rooms like a politician or celebrity, or like a saint! touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, bussing a cheek, exchanging snippets of conversation as she made her slow way around.
There was supposed to be 20 people at RJH's green gumbo party, but of course more showed up, so Ms. Leah's twin grandsons, who work as waiters, carried in 2 more tables and settings. I was seated between Mrs. Sybil Morial, widow of one former mayor and mother of another, and local civil rights activist attorney BR. Others in the room included local judges, candidates for office, civil servants, and political operatives, as well as RJH family members.
We were served "Arnold Palmers" -- a mix of half lemonade and half iced tea -- and soon the gumbo dezherbes arrived, each bowl seemingly carefully apportioned with bits of the 7 meats: hot sausage, smoked sausage, andouille, chicken, veal, beef, and ham. We kvetched that we wanted bread (or more bread, as one end of the long table had gotten hot garlic bread slices and promptly scarfed it all up), and young Dooky patted me on the shoulder as he flew by, "Coming, it's coming!"
Soon he and another server were back with platters of corn bread squares, which we fell on with gusto. They were warm and rich and sweet, needing no butter (although I bet Big Man wanted some but was too polite to say so!). This would have been good enough -- more than good enough -- but then young Dooky swept back in, carrying 2 heavy platters of hot fried chicken. "I had to sneak this outa the kitchen," he grinned. We squealed and oohed and aahed, grabbing at the hot chicken, dropping it quickly on our plates, our fingers nearly burned.
What sublime chicken! I mean, it was perfect! The skin golden brown and as crispy as hot popcorn, the meat inside tender and juicy. I know the New York Times calls the fried chicken at Willa Mae's (around the corner from Dooky's) the best in the country, but Big Man and I can see only a hairbreadth's difference between them. I'm sorry to confess that I had *2* pieces of that exquisite chicken, and ended with a piece of garlic bread.
We made our farewells around the table, and then came out into the main dining room -- where who do we see but the current Mayor of New Orleans, in the very worst table in the place, a tiny TV-tray sized thing, barely big enough for one but with the mayor and guest squeezed at it, up against the wall. (That table is so small that normally it is only used as a station for water pitchers.) What better indication could you have of the estimation of Ms. Leah, that this is where the outgoing mayor ended up??
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Farewell to Marva Wright
On Tuesday, March 23, Marva Wright, blues belter extraordinaire, died from complications of two strokes suffered earlier. She was only 62 years old. Her "real job" was elementary school secretary and thousands of New Orleans schoolkids revered "Miss Marva" as the secretary whose wonderful singing voice could make you happy (or at least almost happy) you were called to the principal's office.
Late in life she took up singing full time, after consulting with her friend Jo "Cool" Davis about the propriety of moving from church singing to blues singing. Since that had been Jo's path as well, he encouraged her. In no time at all, she was shouting and screaming into microphones all over the city, meeting (and impressing) national celebrities. She was a hard-working woman with a strict work ethic, requiring her band to be on time and always giving 100%. (Indeed, there are some -- and Big Man is among them -- who feel that Marva's second stroke was brought on at least in part by her returning to work so soon after the first one.)
Those of us who reveled in her performances will never forget her inimitable style, her wardrobe of wigs, her professionalism, her complete dedication to putting a song across. Her long-time gig was in a club on Bourbon Street just down from where Big Man plays 5 nights a week. Often when he got off from his regular gig, Big Man would walk over and sit in with Marva. "Hey, Horn Man!" she would call to him as he entered the club, and call him up to the stage. She enjoyed his playing, though I'm sure she could not call his name. She was some lady, believe you me.
My sister L and I talked about it, the loss, and how "young" she was. (Hey, you get to be in your late 50s and suddenly early 60s seems REAL young to you!) L worried that memorial tributes to Marva might occur after she and her husband left on Wednesday to see their grandchild in Austin, Texas. When WWOZ announced that Marva Wright would lie "in state" in historic Gallier Hall on Tuesday afternoon, we were glad and made our plans.
Big Man, L, and I drove downtown around 3:30 pm and found a legal parking space on the street (probably because Big Man was with us -- he generally has excellent parkma). In the afternoon light, we strolled through Lafayette Square to the gray granite steps of the old ornate city hall, passing the open pocket doors past the life-size bronze sculptures of male and female figures into the front hallway. Tables filled the entrance way, staffed by 4 elegant Creole ladies who greeted us and offered us guestbooks to sign. To the right, we could see one of the reception rooms set up with chairs in rows and a stage with a drum set and bristling with microphones, where I guess the actual service was to be that evening.
Then we went to our left into the main double parlors of the Hall, where Miss Marva was laid out in a shiny mahogany and brass casket. There were floral arrangements aplenty, including a tall microphone and stand made of chrysanthemums from the Jazz and Heritage Foundation, a lovely arrangement of hot pink lilies from Marva's long-time guitarist Benny, a giant bunch of white roses and white and green baby orchids from Marva's husband and children, an NOPD badge formed of flowers from the department's Sex Abuse Division (??), a stand of roses from Harrah's, and another arrangement from the Ritz Carlton. There was also a mystery arrangement with a card that simply said, "From a Friend."
Marva looked GOOD. Whoever the undertaker was had done a terrific job on her makeup, very lifelike. She was wearing a spangly silver and white dress that she used to perform in, and was completely accessorized with bling -- tiara-like headband, necklace, bracelets, earrings and rings. In her hands was tucked an immaculate white linen and lace handkerchief. She was sporting one of her characteristic wigs -- but not the one she's often pictured in, the one with the big fat Shirley-Temple corkscrew curls.
Around the casket on easels were poster collages of photographs of Marva on stage, Marva in concert, Marva with John Goodman, Marva being kissed by Paul Shaeffer, Marva at Jazz Fest, Marva with her band, Marva with her husband and her children, and on and on. We looked carefully at all the pictures, remembering. We were glad we had come, and L was especially glad it happened before she left town.
Rest in peace, Marva, we love you.
Late in life she took up singing full time, after consulting with her friend Jo "Cool" Davis about the propriety of moving from church singing to blues singing. Since that had been Jo's path as well, he encouraged her. In no time at all, she was shouting and screaming into microphones all over the city, meeting (and impressing) national celebrities. She was a hard-working woman with a strict work ethic, requiring her band to be on time and always giving 100%. (Indeed, there are some -- and Big Man is among them -- who feel that Marva's second stroke was brought on at least in part by her returning to work so soon after the first one.)
Those of us who reveled in her performances will never forget her inimitable style, her wardrobe of wigs, her professionalism, her complete dedication to putting a song across. Her long-time gig was in a club on Bourbon Street just down from where Big Man plays 5 nights a week. Often when he got off from his regular gig, Big Man would walk over and sit in with Marva. "Hey, Horn Man!" she would call to him as he entered the club, and call him up to the stage. She enjoyed his playing, though I'm sure she could not call his name. She was some lady, believe you me.
My sister L and I talked about it, the loss, and how "young" she was. (Hey, you get to be in your late 50s and suddenly early 60s seems REAL young to you!) L worried that memorial tributes to Marva might occur after she and her husband left on Wednesday to see their grandchild in Austin, Texas. When WWOZ announced that Marva Wright would lie "in state" in historic Gallier Hall on Tuesday afternoon, we were glad and made our plans.
Big Man, L, and I drove downtown around 3:30 pm and found a legal parking space on the street (probably because Big Man was with us -- he generally has excellent parkma). In the afternoon light, we strolled through Lafayette Square to the gray granite steps of the old ornate city hall, passing the open pocket doors past the life-size bronze sculptures of male and female figures into the front hallway. Tables filled the entrance way, staffed by 4 elegant Creole ladies who greeted us and offered us guestbooks to sign. To the right, we could see one of the reception rooms set up with chairs in rows and a stage with a drum set and bristling with microphones, where I guess the actual service was to be that evening.
Then we went to our left into the main double parlors of the Hall, where Miss Marva was laid out in a shiny mahogany and brass casket. There were floral arrangements aplenty, including a tall microphone and stand made of chrysanthemums from the Jazz and Heritage Foundation, a lovely arrangement of hot pink lilies from Marva's long-time guitarist Benny, a giant bunch of white roses and white and green baby orchids from Marva's husband and children, an NOPD badge formed of flowers from the department's Sex Abuse Division (??), a stand of roses from Harrah's, and another arrangement from the Ritz Carlton. There was also a mystery arrangement with a card that simply said, "From a Friend."
Marva looked GOOD. Whoever the undertaker was had done a terrific job on her makeup, very lifelike. She was wearing a spangly silver and white dress that she used to perform in, and was completely accessorized with bling -- tiara-like headband, necklace, bracelets, earrings and rings. In her hands was tucked an immaculate white linen and lace handkerchief. She was sporting one of her characteristic wigs -- but not the one she's often pictured in, the one with the big fat Shirley-Temple corkscrew curls.
Around the casket on easels were poster collages of photographs of Marva on stage, Marva in concert, Marva with John Goodman, Marva being kissed by Paul Shaeffer, Marva at Jazz Fest, Marva with her band, Marva with her husband and her children, and on and on. We looked carefully at all the pictures, remembering. We were glad we had come, and L was especially glad it happened before she left town.
Rest in peace, Marva, we love you.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
St. Bernard Crawfish Festival
On Sunday after church, Big Man and I headed to my old stomping grounds of Chalmette for the annual Crawfish Festival. Chalmette, the St. Bernard Parish working-class suburb of New Orleans, is where my parents moved right after World War II, just as tomato fields of that parish were transformed into new housing developments for returning GIs. I grew up there, from kindergarten and elementary school at Our Lady of Prompt Succor, to high school at Andrew Jackson (the year it first opened).
Going back for the Crawfish Festival allows us to see what progress has been made on rebuilding St. Bernard since Katrina, and the truth is, it's not great. While a new Big Lots and new Walmart and new Lowe's have opened, there are still whole swaths of the Parish, residential and commercial, that display destruction and desolation. It's heart-breaking, really. So many people unable or unwilling to come back, generations of neighborhoods left empty where there had been neighbors, connections, relationships. Who knows how long it will take for St. Bernard to return to its pre-Katrina population levels?
Judging from the giant crowd at the festival, it seems clear that lots of St. Bernardians return from wherever they live now on this occasion, as well as drawing at least a few people from other parishes. Hard to judge exactly how many were there on Sunday, but sure seemed like at least ten thousand. A band was set up on the far end of the fest toward the Goodchildren side, and carny rides and booths were on the lake side of the fest grounds, which was the area all around the St. Bernard Civic Center.
How many ways can you fix crawfish? A lot, apparently. There was boiled crawfish, fried crawfish (including my especial favorite, fried *softshell* crawfish), crawfish pie, crawfish etouffé, crawfish creole, crawfish bisque, crawfish bread (giant line there), crawfish sauce poured over catfish, over french fries, over fried eggplant. Crawfish wasn't all there was, either -- any kind of seafood you wanted (including lobster!), sausages made of pork and alligator (and crawfish!), even lamb or beef gyros (I guess this was in case anyone was allergic or something). There were things called "potato ribbons" which were continuous sheer strips of potatoes flash-fried and potatoes fried with onions and potatoes boiled with the crawfish. (Face it, there were no low-calorie options at this fest!)
We ate our fill, enjoyed looking at the people and the crafts. I was sure there were people all around us that I had gone to grade school or high school with, without any of us recognizing each other. The day was really beautiful, sun shining brightly (I was glad to have a sunhat on). We will definitely be back again next year, when we hope to see more progress in recovery for St. Bernard Parish.
Going back for the Crawfish Festival allows us to see what progress has been made on rebuilding St. Bernard since Katrina, and the truth is, it's not great. While a new Big Lots and new Walmart and new Lowe's have opened, there are still whole swaths of the Parish, residential and commercial, that display destruction and desolation. It's heart-breaking, really. So many people unable or unwilling to come back, generations of neighborhoods left empty where there had been neighbors, connections, relationships. Who knows how long it will take for St. Bernard to return to its pre-Katrina population levels?
Judging from the giant crowd at the festival, it seems clear that lots of St. Bernardians return from wherever they live now on this occasion, as well as drawing at least a few people from other parishes. Hard to judge exactly how many were there on Sunday, but sure seemed like at least ten thousand. A band was set up on the far end of the fest toward the Goodchildren side, and carny rides and booths were on the lake side of the fest grounds, which was the area all around the St. Bernard Civic Center.
How many ways can you fix crawfish? A lot, apparently. There was boiled crawfish, fried crawfish (including my especial favorite, fried *softshell* crawfish), crawfish pie, crawfish etouffé, crawfish creole, crawfish bisque, crawfish bread (giant line there), crawfish sauce poured over catfish, over french fries, over fried eggplant. Crawfish wasn't all there was, either -- any kind of seafood you wanted (including lobster!), sausages made of pork and alligator (and crawfish!), even lamb or beef gyros (I guess this was in case anyone was allergic or something). There were things called "potato ribbons" which were continuous sheer strips of potatoes flash-fried and potatoes fried with onions and potatoes boiled with the crawfish. (Face it, there were no low-calorie options at this fest!)
We ate our fill, enjoyed looking at the people and the crafts. I was sure there were people all around us that I had gone to grade school or high school with, without any of us recognizing each other. The day was really beautiful, sun shining brightly (I was glad to have a sunhat on). We will definitely be back again next year, when we hope to see more progress in recovery for St. Bernard Parish.
Ponchatoula Strawberries & Madisonville Seafood
Saturday was SUCH a gorgeous day -- clear blue sky, temperatures in the low 70s, and a light breeze -- that after my pastoral errands and meetings, which took all morning, Big Man and I decided to take the drive to Ponchatoula to get some strawberries. It wasn't the Strawberry Festival or anything, we just wanted the drive and the berries. So we packed Keely into the car and drove over the Bonne Carré Spillway in the gorgeous weather. Along the way, we saw lots of egrets (but no eagles or pelicans as we have on previous drives). At Pass Manchac, the sun glittered beautifully off both Lake Maurepas and Lake Pontchatrain.
Ponchatoula was sleepy and quiet and quaint (not like it'll be the weekend of the festival!). We went to the very same young man with a truck full of strawberry flats at the junction of the highway and the main street that we bought from last year. Big Man thought we only wanted half a flat but I insisted on a whole one, since I figured we could unload the other half with my sister L (which turned out to be the case). The strawberries looked almost UNREAL, they were so deep red, so perfect in shape, so fresh. We immediately ate several, straight from the box.
We had noticed a produce stand as we came into town, so we put Keely on a leash and walked over there. (I was a little worried about whether they'd let Keely inside, but they were cool about it.) The open-air but covered stand had lots and lots of goodies -- fresh vegetables and fruit, refrigerated perishables like delicate lettuces, rows of home-made preserves, jams, jellies, pickles and sauces, hot items such as several kinds of boudin, boiled peanuts, and crawfish etouffée, an area where they put together gift baskets of produce and stuff, and an alcove with pottery stuff from Mexico. (If you go, this produce stand is just to the left of the main highway into town that you get on from the first Ponchatoula exit off Interstate 55.)
We picked up a beautiful glossy eggplant, a head of lettuce, some nice tomatoes, a package of prepared angel food cake (to have with the strawberries), and a jar of bread-and-butter pickles with pineapple and jalapeno peppers (really, who could resist that??) and a jar of strawberry fig steak sauce (wow!). After giving Keely a quickie little walk-around, we found places for everything in the car, the inside of which already smelled like strawberries. (I said to Big Man, "This smells so good -- they should make a perfume that smells like strawberries." And he says, "They do, it's for 8-year-olds.")
By now, we're both pretty hungry, and get back to the car for another drive. I had picked out a place in Madisonville that I had heard advertised on the radio that was supposed to have good seafood. Madisonville is the next little town over from Ponchatoula, an easy drive along the main street of Ponchatoula that becomes a state highway as it heads east. As we drove, it was interesting to see how much both little towns had grown over the years, with housing developments of McMansions popping up, despite the rural setting. (It always amazes me how far some people are willing to commute, to either New Orleans or Baton Rouge.) The day was fine, and the air smelled sweet, like strawberries and flowers and spring greenery (but we didn't sneeze!).
Friends Coastal Restaurant turns out to be situated right on the Tchefuncte River in Madisonville, in the "main" part of town, along with late 19th and early 20th century houses, many with tin roofs. The parking lots was full and there was clearly a waiting line, but when we walked in (poor Keely in the car in the shade with the windows rolled partly down), we were told if we were willing to eat *inside* we could get a table right away. The hostess led us, past all kinds of nautical décor, to a table that overlooked the deck on the river. It was the next best thing to eating outside, and it was wonderful to view the river, the boats, and the fancy-shmancy houses on the other side of the river (clearly the new construction side). They even had live music on the deck, a guy on guitar who was not bad.
Friends has a great menu, full of stuff you want to eat, and it took us a while to choose. In the end, we ordered the king crab as our shared appetizer, I got the puppy drum-fresh spinach wrap with a balsamic vinaigrette sauce (yum!), and Big Man got the lobster-andouille pasta (very high on the OMG scale). We also ordered little cups of their crawfish-corn chowder -- mmm, rich! Everything was fantastic, and while we hadn't actually intended to go out and have a $50 lunch, we were not at all sorry.
After lunch, we walked Keely around the little marina, admiring the gorgeous old boats (Madisonville is the home of the Wooden Boat Festival every October). We took that same highway back to the Causeway. Corrugated clouds had gathered over the lake but it was still beautiful and sunny. We agreed that Friends Coastal was well worth the drive and vowed to return soon.
Ponchatoula was sleepy and quiet and quaint (not like it'll be the weekend of the festival!). We went to the very same young man with a truck full of strawberry flats at the junction of the highway and the main street that we bought from last year. Big Man thought we only wanted half a flat but I insisted on a whole one, since I figured we could unload the other half with my sister L (which turned out to be the case). The strawberries looked almost UNREAL, they were so deep red, so perfect in shape, so fresh. We immediately ate several, straight from the box.
We had noticed a produce stand as we came into town, so we put Keely on a leash and walked over there. (I was a little worried about whether they'd let Keely inside, but they were cool about it.) The open-air but covered stand had lots and lots of goodies -- fresh vegetables and fruit, refrigerated perishables like delicate lettuces, rows of home-made preserves, jams, jellies, pickles and sauces, hot items such as several kinds of boudin, boiled peanuts, and crawfish etouffée, an area where they put together gift baskets of produce and stuff, and an alcove with pottery stuff from Mexico. (If you go, this produce stand is just to the left of the main highway into town that you get on from the first Ponchatoula exit off Interstate 55.)
We picked up a beautiful glossy eggplant, a head of lettuce, some nice tomatoes, a package of prepared angel food cake (to have with the strawberries), and a jar of bread-and-butter pickles with pineapple and jalapeno peppers (really, who could resist that??) and a jar of strawberry fig steak sauce (wow!). After giving Keely a quickie little walk-around, we found places for everything in the car, the inside of which already smelled like strawberries. (I said to Big Man, "This smells so good -- they should make a perfume that smells like strawberries." And he says, "They do, it's for 8-year-olds.")
By now, we're both pretty hungry, and get back to the car for another drive. I had picked out a place in Madisonville that I had heard advertised on the radio that was supposed to have good seafood. Madisonville is the next little town over from Ponchatoula, an easy drive along the main street of Ponchatoula that becomes a state highway as it heads east. As we drove, it was interesting to see how much both little towns had grown over the years, with housing developments of McMansions popping up, despite the rural setting. (It always amazes me how far some people are willing to commute, to either New Orleans or Baton Rouge.) The day was fine, and the air smelled sweet, like strawberries and flowers and spring greenery (but we didn't sneeze!).
Friends Coastal Restaurant turns out to be situated right on the Tchefuncte River in Madisonville, in the "main" part of town, along with late 19th and early 20th century houses, many with tin roofs. The parking lots was full and there was clearly a waiting line, but when we walked in (poor Keely in the car in the shade with the windows rolled partly down), we were told if we were willing to eat *inside* we could get a table right away. The hostess led us, past all kinds of nautical décor, to a table that overlooked the deck on the river. It was the next best thing to eating outside, and it was wonderful to view the river, the boats, and the fancy-shmancy houses on the other side of the river (clearly the new construction side). They even had live music on the deck, a guy on guitar who was not bad.
Friends has a great menu, full of stuff you want to eat, and it took us a while to choose. In the end, we ordered the king crab as our shared appetizer, I got the puppy drum-fresh spinach wrap with a balsamic vinaigrette sauce (yum!), and Big Man got the lobster-andouille pasta (very high on the OMG scale). We also ordered little cups of their crawfish-corn chowder -- mmm, rich! Everything was fantastic, and while we hadn't actually intended to go out and have a $50 lunch, we were not at all sorry.
After lunch, we walked Keely around the little marina, admiring the gorgeous old boats (Madisonville is the home of the Wooden Boat Festival every October). We took that same highway back to the Causeway. Corrugated clouds had gathered over the lake but it was still beautiful and sunny. We agreed that Friends Coastal was well worth the drive and vowed to return soon.
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