Another year, another Jazz Festival.
This year marks the second year of a new tradition, hitting the YLC Wednesdays at the Square on the Wednesday night before Jazz Festival resumes on Thursday. The Lafayette Square Conservancy hosts this, in one of the most historic areas of town, the second New Orleans park (founded in 1788, about 40 years before Stephen F. Austin secured his first Texas colony charter). Last year I saw Marcia Ball and Marva Wright in a Jazz Fest warmup. This year was the Vinton Vixen herself, Marcia Ball. Wednesdays at the Square is something of a curiosity. Its not quite Jazz Festival because its downtown (across the street from the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals and Gallier Hall, the original City Hall), and it gets an odd mix of downtown workers just getting off work, tourists in for the Festival, and locals that happen to be in the area. So its not all about the music, as is the Festival. A good third of Lafayette Square consists of under-30s professionals having a happy hour with really excellent music in the background. About another third is given over to a number of arts and crafts vendors and local restaurants with booths. The final third consists of the actual concert stage. Just as whenever three Baptists get together a meal must be served, whenever three New Orleaneans gather there must be dancing. And dancing there was, throughout the square. The cutest little girl was dancing just in front of us for the longest time, running to her daddy only occasionally when the music stopped. She’d have fit right in on the Peanuts Christmas special, when they all danced. Lots of little kids were there, which seemed somewhat strange, taking your kids downtown for an evening event with lots of crowds. Marcia performed her usual bayou gumbo of music, a little rock and roll, a little Professor Longhair, a little Austin, and a pinch of blues.
The Square was just a short walk from our hotel, the Courtyard by Marriott, at St. Charles and Common. Usually I try not to stay so close to the Quarter; valet parking bills rival the actual room rates, and its harder getting in an out of the hotel. But it was available, convenient, and close to some good restaurants. My last hotel stay was in the Ritz Carlton in Chicago off Michigan Avenue. This place is…not that. Later that night we dined at Mila Restaurant, in the CBD. Mila promotes fresh local food sources, and we had an excellent meal among extremely high backed, Whoville-style furniture and a painted blue ceiling. I had “deconstructed” oysters Rockefeller (spinach, lightly poached oysters, applewood smoked bacon in a liquorice cream, and then smoked pepper tuna with broccoli rabe and balsamic sauce. Mila is in the Pere Marquette hotel, a fairly upscale local establishment with a pretty cool futuristic bar area. Imagine the lounge in the space station in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
The next morning, after getting almost no sleep (I haven’t been getting any sleep for awhile, since…oh…1994), I stumbled out onto the streets and ran very slowly for about half an hour in the Warehouse District. Its an often overlooked portion of town, with some really incredible non-French architecture. Many of the old warehouses now host loft homes, shops, offices and restaurants. Its become a really vibrant area, a far cry from back in 1991 when I lived here and the first homesteaders were moving in to reclaim the area from the urban detritus. Today dawned as a really pleasant day, with sun and cool breezes, and the weather held up all day. Though somewhat hot, the breeze stayed with us all day and picked up in the evening.
After a thoroughly forgettable breakfast we endured an intolerable wait for my rented soccer mom-mobile (trick it out with McDonaldland toys, a two inch layer of organic residue, and two video screens showing The Little Mermaid and The Lion King non-stop, and I’d be rolling down the road in a ride pretty much indistinguishable from ¾ of Kingwood). So much for image. But we did persevere and made it to my secret parking spot. Like the location of the Bat Cave, or Dr. Evil’s underground lair, I’m afraid my super-secret, maximum convenience parking spot must remain confidential. Let’s just say, doing something over and over and over does tend to instill some knowledge about the best approach. After a pleasant walk across Bayou St. John and into the Festival, we stopped at the Gospel Tent to renew yet another new Jazz Fest tradition (or habit?) of attending the Gospel Tent’s opening prayer.
It turns out that today really didn’t feature any blockbusters or anyone who really knocked it out of the park. Today was a day for catching 20-30 minutes of lots of different acts to get a handle on who might be worth more time later on after this Jazz Festival goes in the books.
The McMains High School followed the prayer. This uptown group really could belt it out, with instrumentalists or a capella. Their soloist, a young man of about 17 or 18, really had some presence.
From there it was on to Economy Hall for the Hot Club of New Orleans. Immediately they lost points for having stolen their name from the Hot Club of Cowtown, a highly regarded trio out of Dallas that plays western Swing and jazz. This Hot Club, however, plays more straight up swing with an early jazz flavor. Clarinets rather than saxophones. They have a little Django Reinhardt thrown in as well. And they wore suits, albeit suits that look like they originally came from J. Crew (and probably had been purchased at a “vintage” store, guaranteeing they wouldn’t “quite” fit). Oh, dressing tip. If your collar isn’t comfortable when its buttoned, then it doesn’t fit. Either you need to eat fewer twinkies every day, or you need another shirt. I mean, really. Hot Club really entertained the growing crowd of prospective retirement condo purchasers, mothers with 3 year old kids, and recent hip replacement recipients, obviously passing the time until the bingo hall opens. At the end, they played When the Saints Go Marching In (the first of two times we’d hear that battle hymn) and the second line broke out. Lots of folks with incredibly finely detailed parasols, sashaying up and down the aisles. Yeah. Let’s just say, that was about the whitest thing I’ve ever seen (or at least the whitest thing since watching Animal House at the Alamo Villlage the other night).
From there it was on to the Prejean’s booth for quail, pheasant and andouille gumbo and crabmeat stuffed mushrooms. The gumbo didn’t disappoint; the deep, smoky flavor and sweet meat revealed its oakness on first sip. The mushrooms, however, were not great. Bready, stale, and cold…reminds me of a date I had once. A rare miss by one of Cajun country’s premiere restaurants.
Next up was the Jazz Tent for one of the town’s young jazz guns, Mario Abney. For some reason it was billed as the Mario Abney Sextet, but there were only five guys on stage. Was there an imaginary member? Does one of them have multiple personalities? Maybe the sixth guy was off-stage, kind of like Rod Stewart in his early days singing for Jeff Beck, when stage fright kept him in the dark shadows off stage. Anyway, Abney was a polished, competent professional, playing mainline jazz of his own composition and backed with a strong band. He plays a precise trumpet, hitting rapid fire notes in succession right on the beat. Unfortunately, he also insists on stomping around the stage exhorting the other players, like a more dictatorial Bob Wills, and on wearing unnecessary sunglasses, no doubt evoking past-his-prime Miles. But I see good things happening for Mario Abney.
Catching more snippets than shows this day, it was next to catch the tail end of Joe Hall and the Cane Cutters over at the Fais-do-do stage. This was your proto-typical Cajun band: accordion, fiddle, washboard, guitar, etc. At Joe Hall, the third of four people for the day gave me their “double rods” or otherwise remarked on my 1560 The Game t-shirt. It’s a small thing, but I do love that locally owned Houston sports talk radio station and stream it every morning (and many afternoons). Two words: “SEC Guy.” Anyway, all four for the day were very enthusiastic. One guy insisted on high fiving me he was so fired up about my shirt. And you know how I feel about this. Following Joe Hall was the immortal Crawfish Bread. We sat next to a guy at Economy Hall who told me that the first thing he does when he arrives at Jazz Fest is to get a beer and some Crawfish Bread, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the stuff ever since. Crawfish Bread basically is simple: a fresh third of a baguette, with various cheeses (primarily cheddar) melted on the bread, with crawfish tails and spices thrown in. Yummy hardly begins to describe it. More like I need to have kids so that I’ll have some kids I can trade for more Crawfish Bread if the money runs out.
OK, that was a bit much. I’ll grant you.
And so we come to the one dark cloud in this first Jazz Fest blog of the year, namely, our former favorite Amanda Shaw. When last we had anything to do with this young musician, 18 year old Amanda Shaw was performing a fairly traditional yet spruced up set of Louisiana country music in last year’s Fais-Do-Do stage performance. She played the guitar in a fairly straight up Cajun band, and appeared fairly serious about the music. At age 18, she seemed pretty confident, but not exactly what you’d call a showy player. What a difference a year makes. At 19, pictured above apparently botching an attempt to throw the shocker, Amanda Shaw appears to have driven a far piece down Britney Spears Avenue. Tricked out in white pants tight enough to resemble sausage casings, belly dancer belly jewelry, sparkly top, multiple beaded necklace, and done up hair, Ms. Shaw struts, preens, slithers, and bounces around stage with her fiddle like another Louisiana native we used to know (albeit somewhat less crazily). With an extraordinarily bizarre mix of a squeaky speaking voice and deep singing voice, Amanda insists on trying to straddle that fence of world-wise and Joan Jett-like on one side and a sweet little Southern belle good girl on the other (you know, Britney before Justin Timberlake was through with her). Unfortunately, she just can’t pull it off. Watching her completely new style (that insincere fake popular country that’s really just rock sung by someone with a redneck voice), new look, and new singing approach, I couldn’t help but see the meeting where her new handlers outlined her strategy for rocketing straight to the top (“honey, you need to show ‘em what you’ve got, don’t be afraid to flaunt it, but remember, you’re a nice girl most of the time, but a woman when it counts” ok, thanks for that focus group approach). Basically they’re going for Country Lolita. Hence, she preens around stage like a much less capable Mick Jagger, and throws out the Westside and the Shocker like some suburban Tupac or Ice Cube. “Someone’s gonna get cut…” ok, honey, that’s nice. Hand me another lemonade sweetie. Boasting of being a good Southern girl from Louisiana, and then in the next breath launching into “Devil Went Down to Georgia” is one thing. Innocently squeaking on at a vocal pitch that for the most part only dogs can hear while protesting your innocence, after which you tear into “Sweet Honey” or “One Night Stand” while sounding like Tina Turner is quite another. But you are who you are, and no amount of skanking it up is going to overcome you singing “I done told you once you son of a bleep I’m the best there’s ever been.” No, really, she said “bleep.” Imagine Mary Tyler Moore singing something like "Brown Sugar." Amanda, honey, even Johnny Weir thinks your street cred is in tatters.
Ok, from that black cloud we went on to Sunpie Barnes and the Louisiana Sunspots. This was another fairly standard Cajun and zydeco band, though with an interesting twist of adding some more New Orleans and Caribbean influences. Imagine Mardi Gras Mambo played by a zydeco band. And Sunpie wore a cool top hat, like Fred Astaire or John F. Kennedy at his inauguration.
Geno Delafose and French Rockin Boogie briefly followed. Geno was more in the usual zydeco vein, and the Fais-Do-Do stage crowd ate it up.
Then it was on to bluegrass, and, curiously, the highlight of the day. The bluegrass was provided by none other than National Treasure Steve Martin. You know, the “Wild and Crazy Guy,” the “Excuse Me” guy, and the Cat Juggling guy? Yeah, Navin Johnson himself. “He hates these cans!” No joke, but Steve Martin is, and has been for many years, an accomplished banjo player. He puts it aside of course, but always seems to return. The highlight was not so much the songs, which with backup band the Steep Canyon Rangers were capable, but the intersong dialogue, where Martin introduced the songs. Its been over 30 years since Steve Martin abandoned standup to do one outstanding movie (The Jerk), one incredible yet melancholy movie (The Shopgirl), one semi-funny movie (LA Story), and a bunch of crap. Many people have forgotten that during the late 1970s, Steve Martin became the pre-eminent American standup comic, and that’s in a field that included Richard Pryor. Casually tossing out asides more clever than 95% of all working comedians, Martin held the audience with humor, great chops, and often witty song lyrics. He left stage to “find a beer” and to allow his band to play a song by themselves, observing that it had been “25 minutes since I’ve googled myself.” He remarked that atheists don’t have art or hymns, and proceeded to lead the band in the world’s first atheist hymn (“he” is always written in lower case). He observed that he admired protest song writers and wrote his own protest song, but “Let’s Keep the Minimum Wage Right Where She’s At” was unlikely to sell. He predicted his latest CD with the band would be a smash hit, because the day its released, he’ll die of a vicodin overdose. The crowd, and I, loved it.
But we cut it short to catch the tail end of up-and-comers the Soul Rebels. In about four songs, three were about the Saints winning the Super Bowl. I guess that’s a really huge deal down here still. This was a young New Orleans brass band, from the Rebirth mold, only more hip and cool.
After getting some jama-jama (sautéed spinach) to try and put a dent in my artery buildup, we went on to catch a little Widespread Panic. I still am not quite sure how the Panic phenomenon ever caught on. I get that when Jerry crossed the river Styx (probably smuggling cocaine in with him), that left a huge void in the jam band ethos. What are these people going to do in life if there’s not some band to follow around and make your own, you know, like all those times Jodi Foster ignored John Hinckley. So they soldiered on, attaching themselves to Pfish and later Widespread Panic. I’m not sure what they play is really music, or if its just written to account for their stoner fans. Widespread Panic songs seem to be a bunch of six and twelve measure musical thoughts stitched together in one song. The tempo will widely speed up for a bit, then slow down just as suddenly, like the song was swerving to avoid some kid that drove his Big Wheel into the road. The trippy, hippy, dippy fans also leave something to be desired. The girls were evocative of Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In (though not as cute and far filthier), the guys were just a bunch of stoned frat boys and way over-the-hill guys with guts and excessive facial hair. And everyone seemed extra dirty. Now this all sounds like the Conservative Republican at the MoveOn.org rally, but Daily Affirmations embraced the Dead. I went to at least eight Dead shows, know what that’s all about, and enjoyed my times. This just seems like nostalgia. Or crap. I’m not really sure which. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to affect sales one way or the other.
After a taste of Panic, we checked out the Inspirational Souls of Chicago at the Gospel Tent on a tip from the Crawfish Bread guy from earlier. This five-singer group really commanded the stage, and lived up to its inspirational name. We stayed longer than planned, to the end of the set.
With our spirits energized and refreshed, we went over to check out Elvis Costello. He of course hit the scene when I was in high school. With his odd, Buddy Holly-style look and association with the punks, he was at first dismissed as part of that movement. But late period Elvis Costello has in large part resembled a rock and roll Liberace. Cutting albums with Burt Bacharach, for example. Tonight’s show was also in a mellow vein, with Elvis playing acoustic guitar, and six other guys playing softly. After a somnolent “Every Day I Write the Book,” on the heels of a totally average “Friend of the Devil,” we prematurely called it quits, by which I mean it was time to check out Lafayette’s own Bonsoir Catin, a four-piece French and Cajun music group comprised entirely of women. And, as I’ve noted before, one of the members was a Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival Queen. They played more traditional Cajun French music, replete with triangle, saxophone, and accordion. No drums, of course. The Lagniappe Stage crowd was more sparse than last year’s mid-day Fais-Do-Do stage feature show, but this crowd was enthusiastic. Maybe Breaux Bridge came here yesterday?
OK this has been pretty long so I’ll close. On the whole, no real showstoppers today, but we heard a wide variety of fairly good music.
Tomorrow-“Are you tripping? No one interrupts the Queen of Soul bitch, okay?”
1 comment:
double rods!!!!
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