Where's my beignet?

Wow, it's hard to get back to work. Just enjoyed a week of music, food, dancing, and, yes, mud, at and around the 39th annual New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Fest. (Yes, it continues this weekend. You can tune in at WWOZ, the great local public station. (I'm listening now.) Check out this slide show.

Despite a baggage handler ramming (and thus disabling) our plane, we got to the Crescent City in time to enjoy dinner at Herbsaint, one of our two favorite Donald Link restaurants (I think he started this one with Susan Spicer). Duck confit w/ dirty rice and an amazing appetizer of spaghetti with house-cured guanciale and a fried, poached egg, along with a kickass burgundy eased the stress of traveling. (The pre-dinner Haitian daiquiri helped, too.)

Friday, the weather was Fest perfect and Jon and I started out in our traditional way, with Mardi Gras indians at the Heritage stage. Semolian Warriors led to the Real Untouchables Brass Band and then into the marvelous Creole Wild West Mardi Gras Indians. Creole Wild West is one of the oldest "gangs," and to my mind, Big Chief Walter Cook looks sort of like Jon. I'll see if I can dig up a picture. Didn't see Tom Morgan - the WWOZ disc jockey who has been our source for all things Indian - at first, which was worrisome (he has had his share of Katrina woes). But he showed and told us he was busy gathering material for the WWOZ Jazz Fest Blog.

After that, wandered a bit - caught some Robert Plant and Alison Kraus, which was fun. (I usually avoid the big stages, but I've loved Kraus since she was a fiddle-playing whiz kid. And Robert Plant, come on!) They did "The Battle of Evermore" as down lonesome country blues. Heard some gospel, some trad jazz in the Economy Hall tent. Ate softshells and gumbo...

Saturday started fine. More Indians (the Black Seminoles) and Bourbon Street survivor Carol Fran (old enough to have Ben Sandmel playing drums), and the kickass Mahogany Brass Band working a groove and telling us, "That's just love raining down." The incomparable Eddie Bo was in fine form, singing and dancing and making us boogie to such indescribable loose funk as "Check Your Bucket" even as the rain got heavier.
Ducked into the grandstand to avoid what we thought would be the heaviest part of the downpour, ended up chatting with Chief Darryl Montana, who was explaining some of his Indian suits (that's him on the left), which were on display. (He's Big Chief "Tootie" Montana's son: check this out.) But the rain continued to fall, so we ditched some of our plans (Warren Storm, NewBirth Brass Band) and sheltered at the blues tent for the Ponderosa Stomp Revue. Lasted until we got to hear Archie Bell "Do the Tighten Up," and dashed for the buses, soaked to the bone.
(Eddie Bo photo/Chris Ryan)

Sunday brought more rain, but fewer footware options. I went for the flipflops as the path of least resistance, but you know what? New Orleans mud is STICKY. Nearly lost a flipflop several times. Nearly got stuck myself and had a moment of wondering just how embarrasing it would be to have to ask a stranger to help me and my boudin get back to the paved path. (That's not a double entendre, I really had ventured into a particularly muddy spot to get a link of boudin.) But hey, we were wet already, right? So we got to hear the trad but grooving Paulin Brothers Brass Band, the Golden Star Hunters (yup, more Indians), some local gospel from Jo "Cool" Davis (with Joe Krown on organ, that man was everywhere), Jambalaya Cajun Band, and Shamarr Allen (a rising star trumpeter who had popped up in a dozen sets earlier). One BIG regret – on a whim, we'd gone to check out the Throw Back Jamm and it was, as I'd hoped, a revue of some of the great originators of New Orleans' "Bounce" style hip hop (think hiphop with that Caribbean syncopation). Wow, we were dancing! But then the skies opened up for real and we took shelter. When the downpour lessened, we caught some Pete Fountain (looking a little shakey but slim and happy on his Fest return after open heart surgery), Hot 8 Brass Band, Al Green, Beausoleil...

Well, that was it for the Fest for us. But Monday night brought us uptown to Tip's, to Instruments a Comin', one of the Tipitina's Foundation's benefits. Little Feat, Radiators, Ivan Neville's Dumpstaphunk, and a smoking set by the incomparable Rebirth Brass Band. (Have I used "incomparable" yet in this blog? Let me just say that any band that can have me bouncing up and down and screaming "REBIRTH GOT FIYA!" in the wee hours of the morning, long after I'd thought I'd hit the wall, is pretty good.) You can hear clips here.

Tuesday, the wierd, wild, and woolly Ponderosa Stomp, a now annual showcase of R&B, rock, rockabilly, and blues antiques, one-hit wonders, and other oddities. Yeah, the revue sucked us in for more. Hey, did anyone else know Mary Weiss of the Shangri-Las was performing again? Granted, her voice isn't what it used to be, but yes, she did sing "Leader of the Pack." Honestly, though, I thought Barbara Lynn and Betty Harris kind of showed her up, with showmanship making up for some of the notes lost over the years.

Oh, what else? Jon Cleary at the Louisiana Music Factory turning "Tipitina's" into a Caribbean jam. Finding a 1924 edition of two John Galsworthy short stories at the wonderful Beckham's Bookstore. Marcia sitting in with Irma Thomas. Dinner at Cochon, Donald Link's more country-style outlet (house-made boucherie sampler!). Did cruise through the Lower 9th again. It's shameful. Except for a few houses built by church groups, there's nothing. Just empty space going back to nature. Living in one of those six or eight houses must be like living on the prairie in the 1800s. Nothing from the government. Nothing. On a happier note, the Habitat for Humanity Musicians' Village that Jon and I volunteered on is now a real neighborhood! Lots of houses, at least one new street. Gardens. Bikes on the porches. Wind chimes. And, yeah, the rest of the Upper Ninth Ward seems to be on its way. Every third house still looks empty, the rescue markings still spray-painted on the front. But others are coming back - construction everywhere. Again, all private charities, churches, and personal initiative. Nothing from the government.

Not to end on a sad note, we did sneak in a brunch at the Court of Two Sisters before we took off. And, yes, took a muffaletta on the plane for a late dinner back home.


PS. The trade paperback of Cries and Whiskers came out. Sweet!

Happy Mardi Gras!

Tune in, turn on, and drop out! If you've done your time and sewed, sewed, sewed, this is the day to put on your new suit! Don't bow down on that dirty round! And make a donation, why don't you!

Guest blog: Brett Milano

Brett Milano has done a lot of things in his life, many of which have to do with rock and roll and some with cats. So when I saw this stellar review of his new book, The Sound of Our Town: A History of Boston Rock, I knew I had to ask him to blog.

Take it away, Brett!

In the 1920s, there existed an over-the-counter alcoholic tonic, beloved by certain blues artists, known as Hadacol. According to legend, that medical-sounding name came about because they hadda call it somethin’.

I kept a lot of the same logic in mind when I chose names for my cats…After a few days being able to settle on a name, you wind up punting because “Hey, cat!” isn’t working anymore. Being of a musical persuasion, I tend to name my cats after musicians. Though those names don’t always suit the character. During the ’80s I loved the Ramones, so it made sense that I named my cat—a big, floppy black Persian—after the bass player, Dee Dee. But it must be said that he bore no resemblance to the band’s scrawny, wired-up bassist. If anything, I heard often that he looked more like James Brown. There were times when he vocalized like him too, though his moves, bless his heart, were a whole lot clumsier. And he’d never wear a cape, no matter how many times you tried to drape it round him.

The dilemma turned up when I recently came to own a big, grand, silver Maine coon. Musical names in fact run in his family: His dad, the most prolific stud cat of his neighborhood, had earned the name Led Zeppelin—not just for the sexual connotation, but because he did resemble that silver blimp on the band’s album covers. My guy had been christened Mick, as in Jagger. While the name seemed appropriate swagger-wise, it didn’t sit well with either of us: the name doesn’t roll off the tongue (a good cat name should be at least two syllables), and seemed a bit generic—while my cat was anything but. Given my love for New Orleans music, I started going through the musicians’ names in search of an appropriate monicker.

Mac (as in Rebennack, a/k/a Dr. John) was an early contender, but had the same problem as Mick: Not enough resonance, though my cat does share some of the Doctor’s imposing character. Fess, as in Professor Longhair, was also briefly considered. Finally I went down the list of Neville Brothers. Art and Charles were too common to be good cat names. Aaron? Getting closer, though how can you give that name to a doesn’t like to meow? (This, I have to say, was strictly a phase: He now meows in three languages and sings gospel). So I went with the fourth brother, Cyril. Not only is it a fine-sounding name—the Cy sound is perfect for calling cats across the room—but it suits him; Cyril being the most fiery of the four Nevilles and the percussionist (my Cyril mainly plays percussion by knocking bottles off shelves). He began responding to the name almost immediately, emitting a little chirrup whenever he’s called, so it must be working. Besides, I hadda call him something.

Rembering Katrina

Hi folks,
It's a gorgeous, sunny, not-too-hot day here. But I'm listening to the New Orleans community radio station WWOZ online, and with the wonderful music they are playing, they are commemorating the hurricane and subsequent flood of two years ago. As a New Englander, I can only imagine what they're all still going through, but as a frequent visitor I know that the city is vibrant, strong spirited -- and still struggling. New Orleans needs our help more than ever, and if you don't know why, check out these books or Chris Rose's incredibly moving "1 Dead in Attic." Or even, to repeat myself, James Lee Burke's beautiful and furious latest mystery, "The Tin Roof Blowdown."

(and if you want to help, this link to the Tipitina's foundation makes it easy. Or... for the cat tie in, Animal Rescue New Orleans)

Be well, all.

1 cat, 1 three-legged raccoon, lots of crime...

I love crime fiction and I love Louisiana music, so it makes sense that I'd love James Lee Burke's Dave Robicheaux series, right? Therefore, it should be no surprise that I've been blown away by Burke's latest,"The Tin Roof Blowdown." What did surprise me is how many serious issues he raises in this smart, atmospheric mystery set during and immediately after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita played havoc with New Orleans and Southern Louisiana. Corruption and neglect, both local and national. He brings it all in. Read it for the story, for the writing, for Tripod the raccoon and Snuggs the cat. Read it for the politics. A wonderful book.