Meet Scott McClellan, Rat (or A Little Despotism Goes a Long Way)

I'm not mad, I'm proud of you. You took your first pinch like a man and you learned two great things in your life. Look at me, never rat on your friends and always keep your mouth shut.

Jimmy Conway, Goodfellas

You see -- all our people are business men, their loyalty is based on that.

Michael Corleone, Godfather II

You could pretty much teach an entire course just based on organized crime mob business models illustrated in those two movies. Well, at least at somewhere like Nebraska. Ultimately the mob is a business; the bottom line is making money. But because it faces such overwhelming opposition from so many quarters, it relies heavily on group discipline to survive and prosper. Everyone from top to bottom has to be working toward the same end. Members going their own way detract from that single purpose and the discipline needed to achieve the mob's audacious ends. The organization's success has to be every member's overriding objective. Only such discipline has allowed organized crime to succeed. It is no coincidence that the feds only began to make serious inroads against organized crime when the RICO act federalized racketeering crimes and made it possible for prosecutors to turn lower mob members against the bosses. This seriously eroded the discipline the mafia relied upon to prosper. Yet, because the mob is also a business, it is comprised of businessmen who inherently are most interested in making money for themselves. Thus, the mob has always been racked with assasinations by lower echelon members wanting to advance, and by rats looking to reduce their own prison sentences. The ruthlessness with which the mob attacks rats reflects the threat that promotion of self-interest poses for the entire organization.

Yawn. Why the dissertation on organized crime in a posting about the former Presidential press secretary? Because politics, and a political organization, is a lot like the mob. Parties depend on organizational discipline to prosper. One candidate on his or her own might get elected on personal strength, but it takes a disciplined party organization to get candidates elected to Congress, state legislatures, county and city posts, and judgeships. After the top of the ticket, most people vote either "R" or "D", and most of the people inclined to knock on doors, stuff envelopes, make calls to voters, and do the grunt work needed to win those down ballot elections are party members, the "true believers." Candidates have an interest in sticking with the party and each other, and preserving the value of the brand name, even if they may not be totally comfortable with the party's official position. Going your own way may be fine for someone like a John McCain or a Ross Perot who can raise money, but it would never work for someone running for the Texas House from Dripping Springs. Thus, one of Ronald Reagan's most famous quotes is that the 11th commandment for Republicans should be no Republican should speak ill of another Republican. Like the mob, a political party must ruthlessly enforce discipline to ensure all oars are rowing in the same direction. With everyone working toward the same goals, the resulting success should benefit everyone. But, like the mob, a party (particularly its candidates) generally consists of people most interested in their own success. So we often witness the spectacle of a politician's fellow party members supporting them in a principled way during times of trouble, right up until they perceive they can get more votes by dumping the besieged official.

You will have by now heard how Scott McClellan, former Presidential press secretary, now professes his shock and outrage at numerous Bush decisions, and those of fellow staffers. He waited to express this principled shock and outrage, of course, for nearly two years after leaving his position, and not until being paid a huge advance to write the book. Now undoubtedly he will embark upon his publisher-sponsored book tour, and resume his new career of speaking engagements, expounding upon these "tell all" themes.

There's some real problems here. The past couple of administrations have witnessed the new phenomenon of this sort of book. It can go either way: a defense of decisions made, or criticism of and attempt to get even with fellow staffers (or even the President). To cash in to the greatest possible advantage, these people don't wait until the President's term has ended, so we are treated to the usual recriminations and counter-charges as the President tries to maintain his position and standing. From the President's perspective, this trend must make him (or her) more and more suspicious of the advice the aides offer, and more reluctant to confide in the aides. What President will speak candidly with an aide if he fears that a year or two from now the conversation will be splashed all over the news? It also means that each administration has to endure criticism not just from its natural opponents, but from disgruntled or disillusioned or score-settling aides. The public spectacle of former aides and their replacements squabbling in public over administration policies like ferrets in a sack is no way to govern.

The 24 hour news cycle and proliferation of news media has already contributed to destroying the historic tradition of Presidents (and top Cabinet secretaries) soliciting candid advice from Congress members of the opposition party, and non-government citizens such as former officials. Why would a Bill Clinton, for example, have a truly candid and searching discussion about an issue with a Newt Gingrich? Certainly Newt (or a Nancy Pelosi or a Warren Buffet) would immediately run find Anderson Cooper or Sean Hannity to give an exclusive. Yet, LBJ routinely consulted with the top Republicans over important policies. Reagan and Tip O'Neill were actually friends. This new order only makes Presidents and other top officials rely on an ever-shrinking number of "trusted" associates, something the Bush family has been particularly known for. Generally we want Presidents to receive a wide variety of advice and consult a broad spectrum of sources in making important decisions. The trend toward reliance on only the trustworthy aides is making our leaders more insulated, less available, and clearly has damaged government decision-making. It also means that leaders must fend off not only their political rivals, but their former aides.

Now, politicians used to be able to handle this sort of thing, which is why this is a relatively modern phenomenon. Bob Bullock or LBJ or Nixon or Richard Daley would have crushed someone like McClellan. By "crushed," I mean would have made it impossible for a McClellan ever to get another job, arranged for an IRS audit, maybe found it necessary to prosecute him for some conjured offense, or the like. Not pretty to see it happen, and modern-day democratic sensibilities recoil at such heavy-handedness, but you can't dispute success. Those guys kept party discipline. They didn't have to worry about some former deputy assistant secretary of the interior going on MSNBC and bitching about some recent decision. Instead of telling on the President like a 5th grade girl upset someone else is wearing the same dress, former officials would become lobbyists with ongoing incentives not to burn their former employers, or would run for a lower office with their official service as their main credential. But all the recent ethics laws have made that much more difficult, so a quick and easy way for some of these people to make money off their experience is to write a book. Reforms in Presidential nomination rules, and other restrictions on Presidential power, mirrored in states, cities, and counties, have made it more difficult for the leader to deter such back-stabbing. Bush is forced to issue feeble "angry denunciations" of McClellan's accusations, while Nixon would have had this guy in Leavenworth within two months (or worse). Now, this "old school" way is admittedly somewhat dictatorial, but look at what these politicians were able to accomplish with their ability to enforce party loyalty. The pathetic in-fighting, sniping and passive aggressiveness among current and former government officials free to spout off about anything that suits them just reinforces the overall inertia gripping government at all levels.

No one voted for staff members. Before George Bush came along, Scott McClellan was most successful at having been born to the right family-his mom was Texas Comptroller and his grandfather had been the longtime dean of the UT Law School. McClellan went from deputy communications director for the Governor to Press Secretary to the President of the United States, all due to the patronage of George Bush. Say what you want about the 2000 election, but Bush got a whole lot more votes than Scott McClellan. A staff member should advise his boss. If he (or she) disagrees with their policies, or anything else about the job, then quit. If their boss is doing something outrageous, the staffer should tell his boss and quit if there's no change. One of the more admirable things about the British political system is the principled resignation. Several Cabinet members resigned from Tony Blair's government over disagreement with the Iraq war. They did it immediately, left government, but otherwise supported the government and their party. But keeping quiet about it for two years, then getting a big payday to rat out the man who lifted you out of obscurity is plain and simple being a rat.

Sweet Videos

Have a great Memorial Day holiday! Relax with some sweet videos.

Quentin Tarantino pitches Muppet Wizard of Oz




While we're at it, QT explains Top Gun for you



Courtesy of Kimberly, The Ten Commandments, high schooler movie version



Will Farrell schools Matthew "No Deodorant" McConaughey on the Rose Bowl



Even Matt "Streisand" Damon thinks McConaughey takes his shirt off too much



Hey Charles Barkley, Ron Burgundy called, he wants his teleprompter back



Believe it or not, Andy Kaufman had the best Elvis impersonation of them all




Three really is a magic number. Signed Paris Hilton



Now, I would actually stay awake for this opera

Paramount Theatre Summer Movie Series

Back in the 1930s and 40s, going to the movies was a real experience. Not only would you see the feature movie, but you'd also see a cartoon, a serial (such as Batman or Superman), and a newsreel before the main feature. People didn't have much money then, so the movies were a real bargain, and an event. People would dress up for the movies. Often they were shown in palaces. Usually the local movie theatre was the first building in town with air conditioning. Seats were plush, ushers wore uniforms, the food was actually...edible. Radio City Music Hall, Graumann's Chinese Theatre, the Chicago Theatre, the Fox Theatre (Atlanta), the Saenger Theatre (New Orleans). The list goes on. It includes the 100 year old Paramount Theatre in Austin. Located in the center of town on Congress Avenue, everyone who's anyone (including Kimberly, and Katharine Hepburn) has played there at some point, and movies have shown there its entire existence.

The longer I live in Austin, the more the things that made it unique are fading away. Liberty Lunch, Steamboat, Les Amis, Inner Sanctum Records, the Varsity Theatre, Les Amis, Quack's, Raul's, the Night Hawk, the Uranium Savages, the Leroi Brothers, Doug Sahm, the Judy's, Joe King Carrasco, available parking, affordable housing, lack of traffic, and going out without being surrounded by hipster douchebags and fake breasted bleached blonde stick figure women.

But one thing that still remains, and makes life in Austin more livable, is the annual Paramount Theatre Summer Movie Festival, which began tonight. I don't spend much time talking about things I like, but this is something I really like. Started in the mid-70s, every summer the Paramount plays classic movies. Since the theatre restoration in the late 70s, the building is exquisite. Uniformed ushers direct you to your seats. Where else can you sit in the balcony? Nearly every night, they have a double feature of classic movies, preceded by a cartoon (usually Bugs Bunny), and a serial episode (last summer it was the original Shadow serial from the 1940s). In the years I've been going, I've seen so many classics for the first time, such as My Fair Lady, Sabrina, The Godfather, the Godfather Part II, Lawrence of Arabia, Citizen Kane, The Way We Were, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Blade Runner, Duck Soup, Annie Hall, All About Eve, The Last Picture Show, Vertigo, and An American In Paris. I know summer is when Hollywood releases its "blockbusters," but frankly, I'd rather see Casablanca for the 100th time at the Paramount than see senior citizen Harrison Ford creak around in the new Indiana Jones movie while surrounded by people talking on their cell phones and while dodging sticky substances on the floor and seats for the first.

Highlights this year include: Casablanca, Gone With the Wind, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Chinatown, Moonstruck, Hud, Planet of the Apes, 2001, Bridge on the River Kwai, and Lawrence of Arabia.

I'll see you at the Paramount. Just wave though; no talking at the movies.

Ron Reeder Stars in One Flea Spare

Going to New Orleans in the next couple of weeks? Be sure to check out my brother Ron's triumphant debut on the New Orleans theatre scene, as he dominates the Cripple Creek Theatre Company's new production of One Flea Spare. Take a trip back to those wacky days of the Great Plague of London. Join those loony Cripple Creekers as they romp and revel their way through the hilarious days when bubonic plague killed more than a third of the population of London. Follow the side-splitting hijinks of an aristocratic couple confined to their home along with two "stowaway" peasants, guarded by that Puckish scamp of a jailer, played by Ron.

Yeah, not so much.

This is sort of like the "bring out your dead" scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, only without the funny, and lasting two hours. Its pretty much grim, grimmer, and grimmest, notwithstanding that Ron's character sucks the toes of a 12 year old girl, struts about with his shirt off half the show, and wears a hat with smoking charcoal, and two other characters have sex with an orange. Pretty normal stuff (although I am from Austin so my perspective may be skewed). But I have to say its the finest plague-related dramatic work since Camus' "The Plague," or "The Omega Man" (a really overboard '70s Charlton Heston movie where he's the last man on earth except for the zombie survivors of a biological war-very deep).

I heartily recommend you check it out. It got a fairly good review in the Gambit. Ron's by far the best performer, resisting the natural inclination to bring any humor to the role e.g. Dogberry in "Much Ado About Nothing" or Officer Krupke (or Sergeant Schultz in Hogan's Heroes). And he gets to dance a jig. And has the last line in the show.

It ends May 31. Check it out!

Jazz Fest Sunday: Politics, Family Tension, Hot Tamales, and Amazing Grace (three times)

Today is clear and sunny, and in the lower 70s, which made for a perfect Jazz Fest day. Though the mud was still present and still an annoyance (particularly in the food serving areas-good call deciding not to put down sawdust or wood shavings as had been done in the crafts areas), it had dried considerably overnight. The paper said that John C. Reilly was at the festival yesterday. Shake and bake! Too bad I didn’t see Cal Naughton Jr. in person. Arriving at the now-usual 10:30, I found it a lot more difficult to find the good parking spots I’d found the previous three days. That was clearly an omen, confirmed when I arrived before 11:00 and found the joint packed literally from the word go. The combination of a perfect day, the Neville Brothers’ first New Orleans performance since the storm, and the last day of Jazz Fest created a sort of perfect storm (OK, bad metaphor) leading to every stage overflowing with sunburned, dirty, dancing people.

As now usual, I first arrived at the Gospel Tent for the morning devotional song ("What a Mighty God We Serve”) and opening prayer. This led into the New Orleans Spiritualettes, seven mostly older women clad in cardinal red suits and rocking it hard. I caught the first three songs, including Amazing Grace (the first of three times I would hear the song today), and If I had a Hammer. While the tent crowd was somewhat sparse at first, that didn’t last long.

From there I went over to the Jazz Tent for the Thelonious Monk Jazz Insititute Septet. This group is comprised of musician/students studying in a two year advanced ensemble program sponsored by prominent local musicians like Terence Blanchard. They intensively study all aspects of jazz, including style, theory, and arranging. This is real jazz, evoking post-bop groups of the 50s and 60s. Songs are structured, but with lots of room for solos. I’m certainly no jazz or musical expert, but its always struck me that jazz is undoubtedly the hardest music to play. It’s the only music that combines rigorous scale and accompanying structures and improvisation. The soloist may have an idea what he’s going to play before the song starts, but its certainly not written out in advance. The drummer is a full member of the group, not just a timekeeper as in most other musical forms. Ironically, while it requires the greatest musical skills, jazz probably has the least financial payoff. Its truly a tragedy that even now Britney Spears sells records, but Duke Ellington had to play high school auditoriums late into his career. Also, soul, and now rap music has long replaced jazz as the preferred music of blacks. Whites far outnumbered blacks at the Jazz Tent all weekend long. I’ve heard Wynton Marsalis bemoan this point virtually his entire career, and this weekend provided further evidence.

After leaving the Jazz Tent, I went towards the Fais-Do-Do Stage to check out the Lost Bayou Ramblers. While en route, I went through the Louisiana Folklife vendors and exhibitions, noticing that they had spread sawdust on the muddy spots in their area. Obviously they’d read my blog post from the day before to get that idea. What I can’t figure out is how the individual vendors were resourceful enough to come with sawdust, yet a supposedly slick operation like Jazz Fest, where the rains have become legendary, wouldn’t provide anything like this for the remainder of the festival grounds. Surprise! It can get muddy at the fair grounds after it rains. Jamie Lynn Spears thinks these people don’t plan ahead.

The Lost Bayou Ramblers also are a younger group, heavier on fiddle and mandolin. Not exactly Jazz Fest favorites the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars, but they’ll do. They have a bit of a rockabilly sensitivity; the acoustic bass player looks a bit Brian Setzer-ish, and even apes Bill Black’s old trick of straddling the bass on its side and thumping it. The Fais-Do-Do area is packed to the gills at noon, not a great harbinger of the ability to gain premium viewing for later shows. People are dancing up a storm; the dance area has dried a bit, but still has that delightful hint of raw sewage fragrance. Kind of like downtown Houston after it rains. Or Bourbon Street any time of day or night.

From there I head to the Gentilly Stage to listen, for the first time ever, to the legendary Sonny Landreth. I say legendary as in, a guy I’ve always heard of, but never actually heard any of his music. Like Les Paul, or Ry Cooder, or Gram Parsons. Actually I have heard Gram Parsons-Sweethearts of the Rodeo is quite good. Anyway, Landreth drew a big crowd as well, to hear his slow blues rock. A bit like Eric Clapton but with rock and roll, and some swamp, thrown in. Landreth played a loud, slow nasty slide guitar on the three songs I stick around for. This is funny, because he looks a lot like Austin icon Jimmie Dale Gilmore (Smokey in The Big Lebowski), except not two dimensionally skinny.

This is not exactly my scene-too much like Antones circa 1983-so I hit the food stands again for creole tamales. These were overly bready but otherwise good. Still, the food this year overall has been something of a disappointment. The first day’s food was exceptional, but otherwise this year has not lived up to standards. Perhaps its because I’m desperately trying to keep my new 12 year old girl figure intact during Jazz Festival, an admitted mistake but now that I’ve sunk the money into getting my suits altered, my inherent cheapness is winning out over my gluttony.

Mmm, where was I? Johnathan Batiste is next up in the Jazz Tent. Batiste’s dad, Alvin, was a true New Orleans jazz legend, clarinetist supreme, and mentor to most every famous New Orleans musician in the last 30-40 years. The son has a four piece group, featuring himself on piano, along with bass, drums, and saxophone. Batiste’s ragtime-influenced piano solos dominated the music while I was there, and again, that’s not my bag baby, so I moved on.

On to something that, daring the risk of hyperbole, is truly one of those things that makes life worth living. Sherman Washington and the Zion Harmonizers. These guys would make that Girls Gone Wild guy follow Jesus. The Gospel Tent was absolutely packed, with about people standing outside the tent about 10 deep just listening. Washington, at 89, had given an interview to the Times-Picayune saying he thought he’d join the group for about a couple of songs, but he stayed on stage the entire 50 minute performance (in his wheelchair, singing every song). He soloed on “I Want to Be At the Meeting.” Truly one of the most moving things I’ve ever witnessed at Jazz Fest, or any concert, was when he sang the lyric “When I get to Heaven, I'll meet my mother there, she'll say God Almighty, here comes my child, he musta got here by prayer.” After singing that lyric, he started crying and couldn’t finish the song, and the rest of the group finished the song in his place. I thought of my own mother at that point, and wondered that an 89 year old man, whose mother must have died many years ago and who has lived such a full life, could still feel her loss so many years later.

After the Zion Harmonizers show, I went to the Acura stage to watch Ivan Neville’s Dumpstaphunk. As the name subtly implies, this is a really funky, soul, bass and horn-dominated band. Lots of energy and dancing crowds. Good, but kind of a come-down after the last show, so I headed out for more food.

While I had some non-descript chicken, I did run across an enormously overweight guy wearing a t-shirt that said “I Beat Anorexia.” Would have made a great photo, but I was too slow on the trigger.

Next I returned to the Gospel Tent for the Mahalia Jackson tribute, starring New Orleans soul legends Marva Wright and Irma Thomas. Unfortunately, I literally could not get into the tent it was so full. So I stood outside for a bit listening to Irma Thomas sing some old spirituals, then, sadly, moved on to get to Santana before the crowd got too bad.

Now, I’ve got a lot to say about Santana, so apologies in advance. The show itself was pretty good, about what you might expect. The band was nimble, and Carlos Santana’s guitar playing remains sharp, and the sound is actually an improved version of what you’ve heard on record. He played most of the hits, including Supernatural from a couple of years ago. You know, its amazing that someone who first built their popularity in the 1960s can have such a big hit. The Rolling Stones, for example, keep coming out with new records, but never score any big hits. Dylan would be about the closest there is to someone from that era that can continue to sell new records, but that’s largely a by-product of them appearing on movie soundtracks. I’m still waiting for the new Moby Grape single. Anyway, the music itself was good, with long guitar solos in many of the songs. The video screen’s frequent depiction of music-video-like scenes featuring hot Latina babes seemingly brought to sexual ecstasy from Santana music were a bit jarring, particularly after Carlos launched into some random diatribe about this concert being a “holy moment” and how “we are the opposite of George W. Bush” in our concern for all those downtrodden folks. Guess that won’t stand in the way of some good old fashioned female objectifying. Santana had another of those fake “goodbyes” about 20 minutes before the scheduled end of the show, after which the video screen showed clips from their Woodstock performance, segueing into the band returning to play Soul Sacrifice (which, of course, was the song they played in the movie). Let me get back to the harangue I mentioned earlier. Lets put it this way-lots of the acts at the Festival would make gratuitous sideswipes at George W. Bush, but none were as insufferable about it as Carlos Santana and his three or four rambling, fairly non-sensical spews about this being a “holy moment,” introducing each of his band members as “Brother” so and so, and how “we stand with Barack Obama to usher in a new era” and decrying the fact that “we as a nation have never apologized” to a long list of every ethnic, racial and religious pigeonhole…essentially everyone who’s not a white, anglo-saxon male that owns property. He often implored the crowd to support Barack Obama. This is not why I spent so much money to get here. Call me crazy, but how much of a holy moment can it be when everyone paid at least $50 a pop to get in, and half the crowd is either smoking pot or drinking beer. Not exactly church-like. And I’ll apologize to, oh, say, the oppressed albino Greek Orthodox Hawaiian women our country has been oppressing when someone actually convinces me that I’ve been oppressing any of them. It’s a little tough swallowing this kind of sermonizing about how I’m so vicious to the poor from a guy who’s made millions for Columbia Records, playing to a sea of guilty white people who paid a small fortune to get in. I might also have been a little more receptive if this wasn’t one of the ‘60s rock stars who glorified drugs, which have taken an incredibly harsh toll on the same poor people he now berates only whites for abandoning. At the very end of the show, the video screen showed a white dove landing. I thought it had come to attack.

OK, coming off that mixed bag, I went to the Loretta’s Praline booth, and in visiting with the workers there found out that the correct way to pronounce the word is “prah-leen.” They assured me that only northerners (defined as anyone north of Opelousas) would say “pray-leen.” That knowledge alone was worth coming to this year’s Jazz Festival.

After a brief detour to enjoy the Wild Magnolias at the Jazz and Heritage Stage, and a spell at the Kids’ Tent watching an African drum outfit, I started feeling kind of bad. The heat and lack of enough food had combined to take a toll, so I went to the Grandstand to enjoy some of the cultural displays. These are photos of New Orleans scenes, kids’ art, Mardi Gras Indians displays, the Zatarain’s food stage, and the Lagniappe Stage. I caught just the last song by the Hackberry Ramblers, a cajun band fronted by its 95 year old fiddle player whose name I failed to catch.

This spell out of the heat, combined with some more crawfish bread, helped me revive a bit so it was on to the Neville Brothers. Jazz Festival head Quint Davis, with whom the Nevilles have feuded through the years, made an exceptionally extravagant introduction, basically along the lines of “we are all a family in New Orleans, all of us left and then came back in our own time, and we all come together as a family, and none of us are back until all of us are back.” He was obliged to do this because, quite frankly, the Neville Brothers gave up on New Orleans after Katrina. They left for Memphis and never looked back, having not done one show in the town where they are the reputed first family of music since Katrina hit in August 2005 (I think the Marsalis family might dispute Quint Davis’ assertion that the title belongs to the Nevilles). At times the Nevilles blamed their absence on Aaron’s asthma, Aaron’s wife’s cancer, and at other times criticizing local music fans and the city for conspiring to keep black residents from returning. Locals wondered why everyone else could come back to play Jazz Festival but the so-called “first family.” So there was obviously a bit of a tension in the air. But the crowd immediately seemed to get into it, and after the first song Cyril said “we never left y’all.” Well, OK. Aaron looked somewhat Transformerish-really incredibly muscular, much more so than I had recalled, and with an extremely short buzz cut. Oh, and sporting tattoos on his face, kids. The show started out with the Nevilles bringing the Wild Tchoupitoulas on stage for their song Meet the Boys on the Battlefront, then moving into Fire on the Bayou, Voodoo, and Aaron soloing on the old Sam Cooke song “A Change is Gonna Come.”

Truth be told, I’ve never been a huge Neville Brothers fan, so I moved on first to the Fais-Do-Do Stage to watch Amanda Shaw, then to the Gentilly Stage for New Orleans party band, The Radiators. Amanda Shaw had packed them in, quite a feat when competing with both the Nevilles and the Radiators in New Orleans. Shaw, who is 17, is something of a whirling dervish on the fiddle. Shaw looks a lot like Isla Fisher, the crazy sister in Wedding Crashers, and we all know I have a thing for crazy chicks. This is not cajun or zydeco music. Its more modern country music with a slight trace of Louisiana thrown in. But the crowd loves it and Shaw’s impersonation of Angus Young playing fiddle. Note to self, I really need to see AC/DC in concert. Shaw’s first song, Hank Jr.’s “The South’s Gonna Do It Again” really sets the tone. No one is dancing, until later in the set.

I had not seen The Radiators in 17 years, when I lived in New Orleans. They’ve aged, but the songs remain fun and energetic. This is a quintessential party band, and this crowd was definitely having more fun than the Nevilles’ crowd. They finished right on time at 7:00, and so I thought had my Jazz Fest. But I decided toleave via the Acura stage, to find out that the Nevilles had gone over time (all Jazz Festival days are scheduled to end at 7:00). The Nevilles, however, played til 7:30, giving me a chance to hear Aaron sing Amazing Grace (to a somewhat thinned out crowd), One Love (the old Bob Marley song), and a funked up Big Chief (with Trombone Shorty on trumpet) with Cyril dancing all over the stage.

That was it, except for the enormously huge and drunk lady wandering all over the grounds, who of course found me and kept telling me “this is the greatest day ever.” And the kid I ran into leaving the fair grounds who said he got fired for coming to the Festival, which allowed me to drop a “what do you need a job for” on him from Raising Arizona. But, there was a fantastic sunset, which allowed me to catch some great photos around City Park on the way back to my car.

This is already excessively long, so I’ll devote a separate posting to some Festival bests and worsts.

Wait For It

I'd planned to do my Sunday show posting tonight, but am absolutely dead tired and still not feeling well after another day in the sun, and need to pack. So I'm going to postpone the final posting until I get back to Austin. Photos from today will be on flickr shortly, however.

As a brief capsule, today I saw: New Orleans Spiritualettes, Lost Bayou Ramblers, Thelonious Monk Institute Jazz Septet, Sonny Landreth, Johnathon Batiste, Zion Harmonizers, Dumpstaphunk, Mahalia Jackson Tribute with Irma Thomas, Santana, Amanda Shaw, Radiators, and the Neville Brothers.

Will try to get something out soon.

Jazz Fest Saturday: Waiting for the Sun

A bit reduced tonight as I’m not feeling so great and its very late.

Today was all about the rain, the mud, and the sun. Intense thunderstorms swept through the area, complete with tornadoes and hail, early this morning. I awoke to some of the heaviest rain I’ve ever seen. But the weather forecast called for it to clear up later in the morning, which it did. Unfortunately, it created seas of mud at the festival which played havoc for virtually everything. Check out some of the mud pictures on flickr. Now, I’m not an expert, but I’m not sure why the organizers couldn’t have had some hay in reserve to put down in those spots. I’ve been to more organized Humble Rodeos before. As it was, everyone had to slosh, dance, and sit in the mud all day. And when the sun came out and start cooking all the standing water, the place got really steamy as well.

At first, not many people were at the festival. It was kind of spooky with the first set of bands playing to virtually no one. But at around noon or so, as the sun came out, people starting pouring in and filled the place about as much as I’ve ever seen. Probably the majority of the crowd was wearing boots, which means they were smarter than me wearing my old running shoes. As I packed I thought about taking my hiking boots but then thought better of it. After all, its not like it rains very often in New Orleans, right? Good call.

The first act at the Gospel Tent, the Archdiocese of New Orleans Mass Choir, actually started about 15 minutes early, and by my recollection, before the gates actually opened. So I missed the morning prayer, or else it didn’t happen. The Choir was huge-three rows deep all across the stage. They were really powerful and rocking for a gospel choir. Very few people were in the tent at that point, but they were really getting into it.

Next I went to Economy Hall for the New Leviathon Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra. This is a bunch of Captain Steubing look-alikes playing music from nearly every Woody Allen movie soundtrack (except Manhattan and Hannah and Her Sisters; Gershwin and Bobby Short singing Cole Porter is pretty much perfection). I left as they were concluding with Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

Oh, and did I mention that everything started to smell like ass when the sun came out. Sun, mud, portapotties, and piled up trash is a pretty noxious combination-where’s the Sierra Club when you really need them?

From Economy Hall I ventured over to the Fais-Do-Do stage to enjoy Feufollet, a group of young guns (no one looked to be over 25) from Carencro, Louisiana (late home of Enola Prudhomme’s old restaurant). No decrepit oldsters in this band, but some young kids having a lot of fun, playing with energy, and breathing life into some Cajun standards, and with a touch of western swing. The “dance floor” is a sea of mud, but that hasn’t stopped people from dancing. Boy, you’ve got to hand it to the Cajuns. Put them anywhere in the world, in any climate or condition, and they’re going to find a way to dance (and boil crawfish and make jambalaya). Now that’s what I call the right kind of initiative.

I then headed over to the Acura stage for the second half of the Alejandro Escovedo set. Escovedo has been a staple of the Austin music scene for at least the last 20 years, going back to the old Club Foot days. Now, I’ve got nothing against him, he played a perfectly good set, but he’s a rocker. What’s he doing at a jazz festival? And what’s Quint Davis doing at the end giving the “ending introduction” or whatever its called? This seems to be part of a trend I can see of Jazz Festival paying the bills by having big names play that will really drive up the ticket sales enough to cover costs. Louisiana musical styles are fairly broad and have influenced so much American music that its possible to make credible cases for any variety of musicians having almost nothing to do with Louisiana or Louisiana music. Widespread Panic? Or last year with Ludacris. Not everyone has to be Beausoleil, but there should be some reasonable connection to Louisiana required to play at the Jazz Festival. Oh, and Escovedo stopped his set about 15 minutes early, which is another trend I’ve started noticing. Diana Krall and the Subdudes did the same thing. More time for food, drink, and craft buying I guess.

Ok, next up was the Treme Brass Band at Economy Hall. This band is locally the most famous and accomplished brass band, in a city where the brass band tradition is deeply engrained and revered. They played a varied set, with second lines and funeral marches. Fun was had by all toting their umbrellas and doing that second line.

I then returned to the Fais-Do-Do stage for the Pine Leaf Boys, a more traditional Cajun band, who apparently are the next big thing. Also made up of younger members, they have the now-packed crowd dancing in the mud. By now (around 1:00), the sun is out and the skies are clear. Good thing I decided today was the day to wear my black retro New Orleans Saints shirt.

After paying $5 for one, count ‘em one, crawfish sack (minced crawfish in a fried dough not even the size of a golf ball), I head to the Gentilly Stage for the second half of Charmaine Neville’s performance. A second generation Neville, she’s the jazz singing queen of Snug Harbor in the Faubourg Marigny. It’s a lively set, with that typical Neville swampy, voodoo sensibility applied to some jazz standards. Very intense performance, albeit to a sparsish crowd.

After she finished, I went to Congo Square for the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. This group broke through in the early 80s or so, and has been a Jazz Fest fixture for years. But like Menudo, players come and go from this group, to the point where its really just a brand name and a catalog. There’s not even a dozen players, I counted only eight. They also have some electric instruments, so its not really a brass band as such. Despite my nitpicking, it was an energetic performance that the thick crowds really enjoyed.

Wanting to get out of the sun, I went to the Jazz Tent next for the Max Roach tribute. Roach is one of the most famous of jazz drummers, virtually inventing the style in the 1940s. The tribute was by three of the great contemporary New Orleans drummers-Herlin Riley, Shannon Powell, and Jason Marsalis. They had written several original songs for the performance, the first ones played solely on drums. It was a lot cooler in the Jazz Tent, owing to the shade and nice breeze. This, along with the delicacy of the music and the benadryl I took before leaving the hotel, had me nodding off. That’s a shame, as the music really was superior and unique in so many ways.

From there I got some totally unremarkable barbecued chicken and headed to the Subdudes. If you’ve never heard them, they’re a little challenging to describe. Subdude is a play on subdued, which their music is-you’re not going to hear any Neal Peart drum solos or Ted Nugent guitar work here. Its roots music, but danceable. Sort of in a John Fogarty vein, but more country. Anyway, they’ve long been one of my favorites but this is the first time I’ve gotten to see them. Turns out they sound exactly the same live as on record, so I haven’t missed much. Not a lot of jamming, if you will. The crowd was pretty thick, with more and more Jimmy Buffet parrotheads pouring in (literally, guys with hats that had parrots in various shapes and sizes that they presumably made themselves while their wives must have looked on with shame and regret). Must leave soon.

I then caught the end of Marcia Ball’s set. What is there to say about Ball, Jazz Festival fixture, except she’s the living heir to Professor Longhair’s barrel-piano legacy. R&B, boogie woogie, blues, and cajun all swirling together to make for some really high energy piano-based music. I heard Louisiana 1927, which she’s been singing frequently now post-Katrina, and Play with your Poodle, a Ball standard. I’ve never seen her mail in a performance, and this was no exception. Another winner.

To Diana Krall. Before this festival, I haven’t been a big Diana Krall fan which is somewhat surprising as I really like the style. Jazz ballads and standards-Nat King Cole, Irving Berlin, Gershwin, Porter, etc. I think its her voice; this sounds kind of lame, but I really haven’t enjoyed her voice. She has great timing and phrasing, I just think it’s a little “husky.” Imagine Marlene Dietrich without a German accent singing ‘S Wonderful and see what I mean. Krall is on the bill, presumably, in place of Norah Jones from last year, she with the breathiest voice ever. Where Jones’s performance was far too quiet and nuanced to be heard over Lucradis rapping in Congo Square, Krall and her quartet were pretty lively. Her band had some top musicians, each of whom were prominently featured in solos. The crowd, well lets just say nearly everyone here has a well managed portfolio and a sensible retirement strategy in place. The parrotheads are all elsewhere.

Again, sorry this was so flat tonight. I’ve been really pleased with a lot of the pictures I’ve been taking, so maybe it would be better to check those out instead.

Tomorrow-Neville Brothers, Santana, Sonny Landreth, and the Zion Harmonizers.

Jazz Fest Friday: Love, Hate, Rain and Ducks

The theme for today was “when’s it going to rain”? Dark clouds hovered overhead all day long, and storms were forecasted in the early afternoon, but no rain. Until around 5:00, then it started and stopped and restarted and restopped until the end of the day. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe just the town, but that’s when things started to get a little…unusual. Two couples right next to me got into huge fights (one girl actually hit her boyfriend), then totally made up (which is just how things usually work with my girlfriends, except for the totally making up part). After the shows, I saw three yuppies (two girls and a guy), carrying their nearly passed out fourth yuppie guy friend back to the car, mumbling incoherently as his friends dragged him at top speed across Carrollton Avenue in front of oncoming traffic. Then, I made the questionable call of stopping at McDonalds for a diet coke, and got in line behind a God’s honest tweaker. This guy really noticed my “Tex-Anns” shirt, and wanted to know if the “Tex-Anns” play in Austin or Houston. With your average drunk you can just ignore anything they say, but your tweaker can go berserk and try to pull your thyroid gland out of your body with no provocation, so its best to talk to these people if they confront you. When I told him they’re in Houston, he asked where they play, to which I responded Reliant Stadium. He said that’s where he saw the Astros play in the World Series about eight years ago. When I made what could have been a fatal mistake of correcting him, he asked if they played the Red Sox. No, wrong again. Wrong on everything. When he got to the cashier, he ordered half the menu and seemed to have a whole lot of trouble understanding anything at all she said. When I saw his open wallet it was stuffed with hundreds, which was pretty weird for a guy with a slicked up mullet and dirty looking Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Thank God the NOPD was there, by the window, rocking the Chicken McNuggets. I think they would have finished a little more quickly to help me if they heard me screaming as my thyroid gland got pulled out of my throat. So today was unusual even for New Orleans.

Let’s start with some loose ends from yesterday. Those of you who went to flickr to check out yesterday’s pictures will have seen a couple of duck nest photos, one showing a few untended eggs. According to this morning’s paper, the Jazz Festival construction crews putting together the temporary bleachers for the Acura stage noticed the mallard nesting near the bleachers location. They also noticed that she was tending about eight or so eggs. So, making omelets out of those eggs, err, bad analogy, they just put some police barricades around the nest and let the mallard come and go. The article said the mallard leaves the nest untended during the day and comes back at night. Sounds more like a dad than a mom. Was she at work or something? Happily, no one alerted the Sierra Club or the Environmental Defense Fund, so there was no federal litigation trying to enjoin Jazz Fest until the organizers prepared an environmental impact statement and got the necessary 38 federal agency permits to have a concert near a duck.

Also, it turns out that the food vendors aren’t having such a great year. This apparently has occurred due to torrential rains last weekend, which I gather made people not feel like eating. Its not like they didn’t come (read yesterday’s post-first weekend experienced record crowds). The vendors apparently had to throw out a lot of product, and that along with rising food and fuel costs and higher rental fees, has made it dicey for a lot of the vendors. Their answer-raise prices. A plate of sautéed spinach costs $5. A smallish bowl of gumbo-$5. And so on. The higher prices undoubtedly are making people buy fewer items, including me. Well, at least its high prices for relatively good food. I shudder to think of the Festival having to include the turkey leg/corn on the cob/funnel cake crowd because the good food vendors can’t make money.

Today it’s a lot more crowded, which is somewhat unexpected given the thunderstorms prediction. For once I’m prepared with a poncho, the purchase of which I hope will ward of said storms. Seems like an older crowd too, a really older crowd. Like where were all the RVs when I walked in?

I started again at the Gospel Tent, having found another great parking place (not so quite as good as yesterday though). Again, they began the day with a prayer and devotional song, so I’ll try to carry on that way of starting out tomorrow and Sunday. Then followed the first performers of the day, the Gospel Inspirations from Boutte, Louisiana. It was the standard gospel choir and music, although a bit more R&B than I would have expected. I’d have stayed a bit longer, but I got unexpectedly donutted by a group of punkish high school kids apparently skipping school, replete with their nose rings, teal colored hair, and their sweet Robin Zander/Ric Ocasik Chess King fashions. I’ll see these kids again next year when they serve me my coffee after they move to Austin, but for now I guess they’ll be using Daddy’s credit card to get even with him.

That simply hastened my eventual move to check out the Bluerunners at the Fais-Do-Do stage. More rock than zydeco, but really entertaining. The area was packed by 11:30 with lots of dancers, and more than a fair share of very odd looking characters, and keep in mind I live in Austin. Despite that, the Fais-Do-Do stage had a sea of portable chair sitters today, quite a difference from yesterday and past years. These are the older, slower fans, looking to stay put and listen to music while they, I don’t know, talk to each other.

When the Bluerunners concluded, I went to the folklife area and watched some native dancers from the North Carolina coast, the “Tuscarora Stompers.” I learned they don’t live in teepees and their dances are all named after animals the Great Creator made. Which is weird because lots of ‘60s dances were too (the fly, the monkey, the funky chicken, the penguin, the pony….). The small crowd watching seemed to get into it, and many accepted the invitation to join in the dance line (although this was not line dancing, actually, technically it was, sort of like the “locomotion”).

After watching the second line, I went to Congo Square to sample Theryl “Houseman” deClouet. The one from Louisiana, not Wisconsin. He’s a straight up soul vocalist, sounding a lot like George Benson but with a Memphis groove.

First lunch consisted of pecan catfish menieure. Thoroughly unremarkable, it didn’t even taste like catfish.

I ventured to the Economy Hall tent for a bit, surprised to find it absolutely packed. But I have found what would appear to be an ongoing AARP meeting. This is where the oldsters are hanging out, fitting because Economy Hall focuses on 1900-1930 jazz music. Lots of 10 piece brass bands and people trying to do the Charleston. Its also where parents take their little kids; I saw one very cute little girl literally dragging her mother to the dance floor to dance (pictures on flickr).

From there I went to the Gentilly Stage to hear Brent Dennen. I guess this guy is supposed to be a rocker, but couldn’t really focus on his music because his looking like the bastard love child of Michael Moore and Jack Osbourne with requisite 10 degree hat tilt and 1974 ABA afro had me so distracted I just couldn’t concentrate. As best I could tell, it was some sort of loud, semi-obnoxious pop sounding swill. The sad thing is knowing this guy gets chicks he has no business getting (which is to say, any woman at all) just because he plays guitar. Sort of.

On to the long-awaited D.L. Menard performance, but not before watching a live blacksmithing demonstration. These two guys were making a long, sharp pointed tool of an unknown variety. One guy pumped air into the forge, while the other Saint Nicholas looking guy was beating the tip against the anvil. Kind of weird having people gather around to watch you work. Somehow I doubt I’d draw that big a crowd just by setting up my desk and a computer at Jazz Fest. Can’t see people lining up to watch me write my usual 50,000 daily e-mails and take phone calls.

Then D.L. Menard took the Fais-Do-Do stage. The pride of Erath, Louisiana, Menard was encouraged to pursue a career by no less than Hank Williams. Now THIS is the real Cajun, and this is what every Cajun group should be. Everyone was dancing and having a good time. Menard is the real deal, with such a thick Cajun accent I could barely understand his cries of “hot diggity dog,” or his other crowd raps. He and his band had a lot of fun, with Menard calling out to people in the crowd he recognized. At one point, his keyboard player called him a living legend, and Menard said “I’m just happy to still be living.” Menard turned 76 yesterday.

But he was scheduled against another living legend, Richard Thompson, founding member of the British folk group Fairport Convention, and whom Rolling Stone has called one of the top 25 guitarists in the world. Thompson played several happy-go-lucky, upbeat pop ballads. Uh, not so much. This guy makes Townes VanZandt seem cheery. Pretty much this is music to sweep a girl back on to her feet. Oh, and every guy in this facility over 50 and with a dirty goatee is here too, focused on Thompson like a laser beam and not wearing shirts either God save us.

Thompson having been a major wash out, I instead head on to Joseph “Zigaboo” Modeliste, who was just finishing. Straight ahead R&B at Congo Square. Check the lead guitar player’s photo. That’s one stylin’ mo fo (signed Rick Perry).

After some $5 jama jama (I like saying “jama jama”), I looked forward to a long Art Neville set. Review: “meh.” He mailed it in. I thought the guy was asleep, except that he kept talking between songs, which at first I thought was him talking in his sleep, but apparently others around me seemed to understand what he was saying. Even Aaron’s guest appearance on a couple of songs couldn’t save the day. It pretty much sounded like a taped loop muzak performance of Fats Domino’s “I Hear You Knocking But You Can’t Come In.”

As I write this at my hotel, the Fawn Lebowitz scene from Animal House is coming on TV. This is one of the greatest scenes ever filmed and I will pause to watch it for the millionth time before continuing. “She was going to make a pot for me!”

I’m back. OK, after waking up from the Art Neville show, I went over to enjoy the last couple of songs from Ingrid Lucia at the Lagniappe stage. Much better show. She’s a vocalist singing standards in a jazz vein. She got a recommendation from Gambit Weekly, the local weekly alternative paper. Another Jazz Fest find.

Out to get my third lunch of the day, and I decide to go overboard and get both crawfish enchiladas AND crabmeat stuffed enchiladas. Something of a disappointment. I think at the restaurant its probably better, but its not so great in mass production.

Then I went to the Blues Tent to check out John Hammond Quartet. Pretty much a white guy sitting on a stool playing blues guitar, old style blues. The place was packed, so without anywhere to sit and without getting much from the show, I headed to the mostly empty Jazz Tent to sit around and get ready for Stevie Wonder. Just as I sit down, the skies open and the rains pour. In comes hundreds without any rain gear looking to get out of the rain. Talk about your great timing-for once I’m exactly where I need to be. It stops raining around 5:10, right before I head over to Stevie Wonder.

Where its absolutely packed. And muddy. Nonetheless, I plunge into the crowd. Jazz Fest head Quint Davis handled the introduction (a rare honor). Stevie started by saying his mother died two years ago last May 31st, which kind of brought me down, then asked everyone to observe a moment of silence for Katrina victims. Then he started talking about how exciting Barack Obama’s candidacy is, which sort of wrong-footed it for me. Then came about four “smooth jazz” style songs, one of which was a protest smooth jazz song, if there can be such a thing. Then he played what seemed like a 20 minute version of “Ribbons In the Sky,” complete with an odd sing-a-long. So far, not so good. You know, it seems to me that if Stevie Wonder wants to change the world, he can do it a lot more effectively through the pure joy of lyrics like "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" or "Isn't She Lovely" than through another tired harangue against the goverment. But then he launched into “Higher Ground,” at which point (ironically) it resumed storming. The rest of the show had off and on rain, creating more and more mud. But the music kept improving. After “Overjoyed” came “Don’t You Worry About a Thing,” “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” “Sir Duke,” “I Wish,” “My Cherie Amour” (my favorite Stevie Wonder song-the crowd sang the first verse), “Isn’t She Lovely” (with the crowd singing the la, la, la, la, la, la parts), Boogie On Reggae Woman” (during which said woman smacked her boyfriend), and “Superstitious/I Love You More Today than Yesterday” with Irma Thomas accompanying. Oh, and the old Eddie Murphy impression of Stevie Wonder is dead on accurate. That’s exactly how he plays, with a big smile and head rocking back and forth the entire time. Stevie said pretty much the following at the end, which I think is a good place to end this. He said that he loves each and every person in the crowd, but that as much as he loves us, God loves us even more. And that whatever problems and challenges we face, we shouldn’t be afraid to win.

Tomorrow-Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Ruthie Foster, Diana Krall, Subdudes, Marcia Ball.

Jazz Fest Thursday: I Triumph At Parking

They say that money can't buy love in this world
But it'll get you a half-pound of cocaine
And a nineteen-year old girl
And a great big long limousine
On a hot September night
Now that may not be love
But it is all right

Randy Newman, "Its Money That I Love"

Apologies in advance for the "and then I coughed" style of writing.

Well so far the highlight is today I got the best parking place I’ve ever had since coming to Jazz Festival. That’s not to downplay the music, but to swoon over the parking place. Like George Costanza really excited about the great spot on the front row at the hospital, I got a spot right next to the Bayou St. John pedestrian bridge in front of Cabrini High, which is the River Oaks of Jazz Fest parking places. Parking can be very tricky here. Its always tricky trying to park in New Orleans. Half the NOPD may leave town at the first sign of public distress, and they may be utterly incapable of putting a dent in the murder rate, but by God they sure have the whole towing cars from ill- or non-marked no parking zones down pat. Then, in a fit of killing the golden goose, it seems like all the residents have decided they can appropriate the street in front of their homes by putting trash cans and other barriers in front to prevent people from parking in the street, which after all is public property and a perfectly legal place to park. Now I understand it may be annoying to have someone parked in front of your house all weekend (especially since I live near Zilker Park and therefore have people parking in front of my house all the time), but honestly, tolerating this sort of anti-tourist maneuver may be ok somewhere not dependent on tourism, but New Orleans needs every dollar it can get its mildewed hands on and this kind of thing can’t help.

Getting here was fairly non-eventful, given recent airport/airline atrocities. Express Jet, which I understand is losing money jet over fist, got me here on time which makes it my new favorite company (I can probably take further advantage of reliable non-stop service b/t Austin and New Orleans). Arriving in New Orleans I was spooked a bit to learn that they had record post-Katrina crowds for the first Jazz Fest weekend, which was only heightened when one of the airport security screeners cracked out of his shell enough to tell me that a lot of people were leaving Austin to go to the Jazz Festival. Awesome. BTW-Southwest Airlines had people, and by people I mean young women in cutoffs, wearing bandanas and handing out cake and coupons to celebrate Willie Nelson’s birthday. Texas has a lot of famous people, but look at the ones that nationally spring to mind-Willie Nelson, Matthew McConaughey, Roger Clemens, W. Is there anyone normal around here?

When I arrived, I turned it around to run 5 miles on the St. Charles streetcar line. As previously advertised, the streetcars are running the entire line now, so I was dodging the cars the entire run. It was actually a cool night after a brilliant sunset, and I got a bit chilly, which was disconcerting for the last day of April in New Orleans. Seems like everytime I’m here, I’m either freezing my ass off, or feeling steamed like a Maine lobster. The run on St. Charles brought back some great memories, of the awe over the mansions I experienced the first time I ever rode down the street, of driving back to work with Lawson Wilder in his Mustang convertible at 55 mph, of Mardi Gras parades, of Becky’s old apartment, and actually riding the streetcar. On the way there, however, I passed Lafayette Square where Marcia Ball was playing a free concert, and about eight cops were arresting some hoodie punk pushing his head onto the police car hood as his 80s Madonna styled girlfriend looked on crying. In true city worker fashion, seven of them stood around while the eighth was making the arrest. But having seen Marcia Ball hundreds of times, and because she’ll be playing at the festival, I pass. Wound up the evening having an incredible dinner at Palace Café, consisting of Pontchatoula strawberry salad with goat cheese and pecans, and blackened shrimp and grits with crawfish and tasso. Afterwards the bartenders got into what I imagine passes for a philosophical debate, concerning the merits of strip clubs. The younger guy’s take was “I’ve got a fiancée so I’ll just go home if I want some of that.” Hmmm, I’d like to know how that goes once she gets the wedding ring. The other older guy told me about the best club ever, the “Lollipop Club,” apparently staffed exclusively by Korean women who “really give a lot of bang for the buck.” Amazingly I was able to finish dinner, probably by focusing on the Cleveland-Washington game. I walked off the meal by walking down Bourbon Street (and not going in anywhere). This made me remember Judge Bob Shannon, the ultimate Southern gentleman, telling me how he once walked his young teenage daughters on Bourbon Street, arm in arm, so they would know what it was. Didn’t see anything like that, but I did see appeared to be every legal secretary and aluminum siding salesman in Albany, NY.

After waking up unreasonably early and planning the day over breakfast, I made it out to the festival in time to get the aforementioned parking space. I picked up my tickets and will call and headed in. It was a really beautiful day, so nice I didn’t know what I would do not dying of heat all day. I first went to the Gospel Tent, where they had a prayer to dedicate the day, followed by Charles Jackson and the Jackson Travelers. Pretty standard gospel duo, along with a little kid in a white suit whose sole job appeared to be to stand between the two singers and clap. Made me remember when I had to wear a suit to be the ring bearer at one of my cousin’s weddings. I was six but still knew enough to be embarrassed (oh, and get carsick just about anytime I had to drive anywhere with Mom or Dad). It didn’t help that it was a white suit with short pants. Excellent. My cousin wound up supporting the guy and paying for him to graduate from architecture school at UH, and then my dad helped him get a job at the phone company, upon which time he ran off from my cousin thus plunging her into a bitter spiral that has lasted the better part of thirty years. Good times. The crowds at the Gospel Tent are interesting. Just like today, its usually about one-third blacks most of whom are members of the local churches from which most of the performers come, and two-thirds whites. Of the whites, half appear to be locals as well, and the other half are a bunch of nimrods running around with ants in their pants like they just saw the light. Most of them of course have only been in a church for a funeral or wedding.

Shocked to find that Pepsi got the concession from Coke this year. That should solve my problem of drinking too many diet cokes at Jazz Festival.

Next I head to the Fais-Do-Do stage to see the Lafayette Rhythm Devils, a pretty good chanky chank band. The grounds are still somewhat muddy from last week’s rains, but appear to have been largely resodded. Already lots of couples are dancing and drinking beer, and its not even noon on Thursday. Lassez les bon ton rouler!

I next went to the Heritage Stage and spent a couple of minutes listening to the Red Hawk Hunters, a Mardi Gras Indian group, sing Little Liza Jane. The Heritage Stage is where some of the older local groups play, as well as Mardi Gras Indians. New Orleans has any number of Mardi Gras Indians, such as the Wild Magnolias or Wild Tchopitoulas. These groups began in the black neighborhoods during slavery and Jim Crow, as these groups wanted to celebrate Mardi Gras too, but in a secretive way. The tradition evolved into a number of groups, each named for an Indian tribe. Today they are an integral part of Mardi Gras, and while they do not parade as such, they will have processionals in which they wear elaborate costumes they may spend all year designing and making, and singing call and response-type songs. Several of the groups perform at Jazz Fest.

After passing by, I headed to the Jazz Tent for John Ellis and Double-Wide. This is something of an all-star group, with Jason Marsalis on drums. They also had a Hammond B3 organ. What’s next, Chick Corea, Keith Emerson? Did I miss out on where its still 1971? Kind of an odd configuration-organ, drums, tenor sax, and tuba. Oh, and the guy on organ looked exactly like Levon Helm in 1976. But skinnier.

A brief run to Congo Square to check out the New Orleans Rhythm Conspiracy, which were Mardi Gras Indians with a better band. Congo Square focuses exclusively on African and Carribean music. I’ve seen some great acts there (Isaac Hayes, Ohio Players), and some downright crappy ones (Michael Franti and Spearhead). The usual crowd is a mix between over-50 blacks and the usual suburban “rasta” crowd. An odd combination as well. Most of the rastas haven’t made it yet. Guess they’re still trying to figure out where they woke up so they can get back to where they’re staying to pick up their stash and head to the Festival.

Its “first lunch” time (I eat lunch in three phases at Jazz Fest-sort of like Tolkien's hobbits that were always eating), which consists of Prejean’s quail, pheasant and andouille sausage gumbo. Now, say you could take the best gumbo you’ve ever had and make it about 20 times better, and that’s close to how this stuff tastes. The Times-Picayune Jazz Festival guide gave it three stars.

I ate it on the way to the Acura Stage, the biggest of all the stages, to hear Bonerama. Four trombones, one tuba, one electric guitar and drums. These guys were fun. They came on stage as Elvis Presley’s “Wonder of You” was playing. The first song was the Star-Spangled Banner, followed by Hendrix’ Crosstown Traffic. Quite the songlist. Most of the songs were originals, but I really enjoyed Led Zeppelin’s “The Ocean” (the crowd sang all the na, na, nas toward the end). Oh, its only 1:35 and already the floating beach ball has reared its miserable head.

Lots of guys are smoking cigars around here. Looks like the crowd isn’t as heavy as I remember from last year, but this is Thursday which usually is the lightest day.

Next its time for my second lunch, which is crawfish bread. Totally off my normal cancer patient diet, but well worth the French bread with cheese, crawfish, and green peppers that I dream of in weak moments.

Now here’s a riddle. How do you know that your band sucks? First, your song lyrics are just a string of cajun references (like “red beans and rice” or “pirogues”) rather than actual lyrics. Second, you purport to be from Louisiana but no one is dancing to your songs. Third, your name is Kenny Bill Stinson and the ARK-LA-Mystics. This guy should go back to West Monroe, open a hardware store and settle down with some nice, over 30 former Folklife Festival Queen (preferably one not on parole, or pregnant).

Happily, to rid the stench of that hideous event from my memory, Phillip Manuel’s tribute to Nat King Cole followed at the Jazz Tent. I’ve been a huge NKC fan most of my life, and Manuel had the same inflection (albeit a much sharper vocal quality). He and his trio had a great set list in their 50 minutes (Mona Lisa [sung while standing in the crowd], Sweet Lorraine, Smile, Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, Red Sails in the Sunset, Nature boy, Unforgettable, Straighten Up and Fly Right, L-O-V-E, Answer Me, and Route 66). First class.

Randy Newman followed. I’ve seen him at Jazz Festival several times, and have always wondered why he couldn’t part with some of his millions from scoring movies to hire a band. Instead he plays solo at the piano, which really doesn’t go over that well in a festival setting. He also has an irritating style of not ever looking at the crowd when talking between songs. The performance was pretty typical, with all the old favorites (Political Science, I Love LA, Short People, You Can Leave Your Hat On, Kingfish), and a couple of new ones (Potholes in Memory Lane). He closed with Louisiana 1927.

My third lunch followed-“jama jama,” which is sautéed spinach and spices. Need some fiber you know.

Sadly, the last music spot had multiple groups I wanted to see, forcing me to split time between Widespread Panic, Tower of Power, CJ Chenier, and Deacon John. First I went to Widespread Panic. This is one of the “jam bands” that have popped up in recent years, starting in the 90s when the Grateful Dead was racking up record tour gate receipts. Lets put it this way, I’ve heard the Dead’s songs, I’ve seen the Dead, the Dead meant a lot to me. Widespread Panic, you’re no Grateful Dead. And your lame, idiotic fans aren’t Dead fans either. Deadheads could get from one side of the country to the other with a book of matches, a box of band aids, three quarters, and 18 tapes of Dead recordings from last year’s tour. Panic fans are just soft. Sonny Barger would stomp them just on principle alone. Carrot Top thinks they're ridiculous. The music—ponderous, loud, and irritating. Like a first date.

On to Oakland’s own Tower of Power in Congo Square. This is a first class old school funky horn band. Its like 1970 again, and the lead singer was wearing absolutely the greatest red shirt/bullfighter cape of all time.

Next to the Fais-Do-Do stage for CJ Chenier. CJ’s father Clifton was the first really successful zydeco musician. CJ carries on in that tradition. Unlike a group noted above, half the people there were dancing, and his songs have actual French words in them. CJ sure rocked out.

Closing the day was Deacon John, whom I’d never heard of but who got a good review in the Times-Picayune. Turns out it was close to the Blues Brothers. At first it seemed like ‘40s standards, but then turned into loud, nasty blues standards, like Shake Your Moneymaker, ending with the Jimmy Cliff song Many Rivers to Cross, and Stagger Lee. This guy was over 60 but broke out a vicious blues guitar, complete with an authentic Chuck Berry duckwalk you just know he’s been using for the last 50 years. Unfortunately it was a sparse crowd, but those who were there really had a treat. Every year it seems like I “discover” someone new, and this year its Deacon John.

I closed the day by coming back to the hotel, blowing off running, and going to the Dickie Brennan Steakhouse for an overpriced filet. Man I need to not have any dependents so that I can keep financing my rock and roll lifestyle.

Tomorrow-Stevie Wonder, John Hammond, Art Neville, John Boutte and Terence Blanchard.