Jazz Festival 2012 Saturday: Walk Away

 
You know how there's some people who like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then there's other people who prefer grilled panini with arugula, prosciutto, and gruyere? Or maybe next week they like free range chicken on stone ground whole wheat with butter lettuces, chipotle mayonnaise, and shaved provolone? Objectively, those other sandwiches are a lot better than PB&J. They have interesting ingredients. They're new and innovative. They contain somewhat unusual ingredients. 47 years in, though, and it turns out that I prefer just plain old PB&J. I can appreciate the butter lettuces and gruyere, but I grew up with PB&J, I know PB&J, and PB&J makes me happy.

Other people do too, which no doubt explains the enduring touring appeal of the surviving 1970s rock dinosaurs, such as the Eagles, who played to a packed house today at the Jazz Festival. Here's a secret, kids: you better pick the music you like carefully. Whatever music was popular when you grew up and learned about music likely will be what you listen to the rest of your life. You may learn to appreciate newer music and other musical styles as you grow older, but for at least a lot of people, newer music, however innovative, dynamic, and artistic can't really supplant the special status that the music you listened to as a kid holds. That music is like a comfortable sweatshirt: it may not be the best piece of clothing you own, but something about it just feels right. Put another way, no one wants to see a geezer at the Burning Man Festival (even though I guess they swarm there, like locusts, or trial lawyers).

And apparently the people of the 1970s, my people, like PB&J too, because they swarmed the Acura Stage area to watch the Eagles today. To put it bluntly, a lot of SUVs had to find parking places to put all those people in that crowd. But we'll get to that in a minute.

After making it in and out of the Blue Plate Cafe for breakfast just before the rush hit, and after getting ready for the day's festing, I discovered that one of the tires in my rented car had a screw in it. Which accounted for the low tire pressure warning that came on yesterday. I got enough air to get me to the Festival, and then called Avis. Their person was predictably useless, insisting that I understand that I would bear full responsibility for any damage, and warning me not to drive on that tire at all. I did make it to the Festival, and after making some calls arranged to swap my car for another one after the day's shows concluded, though it required me to drive all the way to the airport. Still, it cast a pall on the day.

As did the monster crowds. In all my years of attending the Festival I've never seen such thick crowds. So much for the recession. I knew it would be bad when, at 10:40, my top secret parking spot was already taken. Today's crowds were like that Star Trek episode where all the people on that one planet that hijacked Kirk have to stand side by side because there's literally not enough space for everyone because they continue to have kids but no one ever dies hardly. Or an LSU home game. In fact, today was so bad, with so many people jostling you and running over you and the like, it really made today not so great. Which is hardly fathomable. The extra crowds, combined with the brutal heat, just really made today a veritable death march. Were it not for the opportunity to cool down for a bit in the grandstand, I may not have made it.

Given the lateness of the hour, I'm going to skim a lot of stuff I'd normally drone on about at length.

I made it to the morning prayer today, and listened briefly to Gospel Soul Children at the Gospel Tent. Which was a deceptive name because none of them were children. Perhaps they were children of the Lord. From there I went to the Blues Tent, already mostly full, for Guitar Slim. He played pretty standard blues rock (Pride and Joy, Mustang Sally, etc.), but mostly I remember that he had a really sparkly silver and black jacket and tie.

The Economy Hall Tent was today's star, featuring the New Leviathon Oriental Fox Trot Orchestra and the Tuxedo Brass Band. Both bands played turn of the century (i.e. the 19th century) "jass" music. "Real hot!" Louis Armstrong, Fletcher Henderson, King Oliver, Jerome Kern, and Jelly Roll Morton. The former reminded me of a time when gentlemen would have cocktails together on the Promenade Deck (white tie only) at 5 p.m. sharp. In the latter, the band played as a very long second line highstepped throughout the tent. This was such a treasure. This music at one time was the most popular in the country. And the second line is an old, venerable New Orleans tradition, which makes it a uniquely American experience. All ages were represented in that tent. Young, old, and everywhere in between. As we become a nation of idiots who care more about the Kardashians and Jersey Shore than our neighbors and our communities, we risk forgetting our important traditions and history and regional customs simply disappear. Institutions like the Jazz Festival breathe new life into these important American customs.

I saw gospel pianist and singer Cynthia Girtley during the ensuing lull, and boy if you wanted someone to put on the front lines for Jesus, she's the one. Not such a great voice, but its powerful, rich, and commanding. Two minutes around her and you'd be willing to follow God all the way up the hill, over it and back down again. Next up was Roland Guerin, a jazz artist who plays a six string bass guitar. His band played methodical, introspective songs with numerous repeating phrases, which reminded me of Miles Davis' In A Silent Way.  Certainly nothing over the top or ferocious. Then I went to the Grandstand to cool down. The heat had become really brutal by that point. Some bongo player was being interviewed at the Alison Miner Music Heritage Stage, talking about the tribes back in Africa. The Grandstand view was amazing-you can see the entire Jazz Fest field. Today it looked like a refugee camp. I had ambitions of seeing Steve Earle, until the stage where he was playing looked like Atlanta under siege in Gone With the Wind. That caused me to rethink that decision quickly.

Instead, I headed to the Gentilly Stage to watch a new local band, MyNameIsJohnMichael. The frontman, a shortish guitar strangler, played guitar for some other group earlier in the Festival whose name escapes me. The music and enforced good time reminded me a bit of another local favorite, Cowboy Mouth, also renowned for being as much cheerleaders as musicians. Then I saw Anders Osborne, another local, who came to New Orleans the same year as I did (1991). While an extraordinary guitarist and writer, he's had some problems, chronicled in a recent song he played about the "junkie life."  Boy that explains it. I remember when he first came here from Sweden, he was the Golden Boy. He could do no wrong, and looked like a Swedish Brad Pitt. Now he looks like the Dude, with way more tattoos (including a huge "SARAH" up his left forearm). Quite the comedown in life. Osborne played some really crunchy music (think Neil Young and Crazy Horse at their hardest), interspersed with some intricate ballads. At one point he brought on two violinists and a cellist. I then went to the Irma Thomas show. Thomas, known as the Soul Queen of New Orleans, did not disappoint. Though she moves more slowly now, she got the crowd shaking their "backfield" and waving their handkerchiefs in the air.

Finally it was time for the Eagles. I had aspirations of also checking out Herbie Hancock, famed former pianist for the great Miles Davis Quintet. When I did, there was one guy, and one guy only, on stage playing bass and singing in some sort of African clicking language. Not my cup of tea. I also had thoughts of hearing My Morning Jacket, but they had been featured in an American Dad episode, so I figured how great can they be? Plus they were on the totally other side of the field, and I was pretty tired.

So it was back to the Eagles, who to my knowledge, have never been in a cartoon. What can you say about the Eagles, except they're peanut butter and jelly? I know and grew up with all the songs. Many were and are exceptionally well written, even if none of those guys are stellar players. Though that doesn't really matter because they essentially have hired their own backing band to handle most of the parts. To say that the crowd was largely over 40 and white would be a vast understatement. Lynryd Skynrd and NASCAR think there were a lot of white people out there today. Don Henley and Glenn Frey aren't looking so great. Henley, who in my mind's eye looks like the quintessential cool California guy (even though he's a Texan) now looks like that cranky old guy on American Choppers, or Burl Ives. Not a good look. Glenn Frey apparently has shrunk about a foot and now looks like my old law school professor Lino Graglia. Also not a good look. Joe Walsh and Timothy B. Schmidt, on the other hand, both looked great. That actually kind of disappointed me. After all his run-ins with the law and hotel owners, I was kind of hoping Joe would look like a saddle. Not so. Who'd have thunk it? Not only that, Walsh still has his fastball, skill-wise. He played some really mean solos. I wondered about the Eagles' staying power. How could they possibly stand playing those same songs, year after year after year? Though I'm sure the mounds of cash they get from touring probably take away a bit of the boredom. And they seemed to play about as many of their solo songs as actual Eagles songs. I enjoyed that because I finally got to hear Rocky Mountain Way, Walk Away, Life's Been Good, and In the City (which technically was an Eagles song). For me these were the set's highlights. Can't wait for the James Gang reunion tour. They opened with the dull Seven Bridges Road, and closed with the strong Desperado. The Eagles became way more famous than they arguably deserved after Hotel California. But looking back, that probably obscured the strength of their earlier work, songs like Witchy Woman, Lyin Eyes, or Peaceful Easy Feeling. Those guys may have been totally coked up in the Hollywood Hills, but they could write some country rock for sure. They picked up the torch that the Byrds and Gram Parsons dropped after the Sweethearts of the Rodeo album, and made a career out of it. Oh, no word on where the hell Randy Meisner is. Guess he's somewhere in LA counting his royalty checks. Which is such a fine sight to see.

Tomorrow's the final day of the Festival, and generally I spend much of the night packing. Don't be surprised if the post covering the final day of the Festival doesn't come out until next week.

Oh, yeah, that kid above is at the Economy Hall Tent watching New Leviathon. She's not in jail. Not yet at least.

Jazz Festival 2012-Friday: Little Kids Bounce, Right?

Good to see that Jerry Garcia's ghost could make it to the Festival, right?

Let's get to it, shall we?

This morning I had breakfast at the Trolley Stop Cafe on St. Charles, a place my brother Ron took me and my Dad too once and which I've revisited many times. I enjoy the friendly, local feel and the excellent shrimp and mushroom omelette. Today, however, witnessed an unusual and momentarily harrowing experience. A couple had a cute little three year old girl sitting in a booster chair in one of their seats. The dad must have taken his eyes off the girl momentarily, because I and everyone else in the restaurant heard a crash and turned to see that little girl and her booster seat on the ground. The seat had fallen off the chair and took the girl with it. The dad was absolutely mortified, but the little girl was silent. No screaming or crying; she just looked a little bewildered at what had happened. Everyone was looking their way out of concern, and the Dad was frantic for just a bit. It all turned out just fine. The little girl was fine, and people were commiserating with them about how easy it is for that to happen. It must be difficult being a parent. You watch your kids like a hawk for 23 hours, 59 minutes and 59 seconds a day, and the one second you're even slightly distracted, your kid falls off her chair or gets into some other kind of scrape. Later in my visit I looked up and saw Aaron Neville standing beside the very next table, talking to the off duty sheriff's deputy and his friend who were sitting there. I hardly noticed him at all until I looked up. That is to say, the restaurant didn't become filled with commotion when he walked in the door. No one really stared at him or did anything different. That's a sign that you're with the locals. And...face tattoos.

For the second day in a row I missed the morning prayer at the Gospel Tent, even though I left a little earlier. The Zulu Men's Ensemble kicked off the day. Roughly 30 men strong, these Zulu members sang some great gospel music. The crowd at 11:20 was already thick and seemed ready to expand even further.

I next went to the Jazz Tent to listen to Courtney Bryan, whom the Gambit Weekly had recommended. Bryan plays a strong jazz piano. As I arrived it was just her, an outstanding bassist, and a drummer. She next announced that she was playing a series of old spirituals with several guest performers. For the remainder of the set, a collection of other musicians sat in, including a really excellent vocalist whose name I didn't catch. The music was intricate yet passionate, contemporary in feel but with echoes of those spirituals. The sheer quality of those musicians reminded me how, despite the fact that jazz is so difficult to play, very few people pay much attention to jazz or jazz players. Top to bottom, professional jazz musicians are the very best and technically proficient musicians. They often play incredibly complex arrangements, improvised solos, and must continue playing during other musicians' improvised arrangements. Musicians who devote their careers to playing jazz are in my experience nearly always far more gifted and accomplished than others, yet the general public takes almost no interest in jazz. As one of the few genuine American art forms, that's a really sad state.

After Bryan's set concluded, I set off for lunch. Eventually I settled for Prejean's pheasant, quail and andouille gumbo. Food of the Gods, folks. Their gumbo has a rich, smokey flavor but lacks the sort of "thick as paste" consistency that mediocre French Quarter serving gumbo often exhibit.

After loading up on gumbo and rosemint iced tea, I returned to the Jazz Tent to catch a bit of the Phillip Manuel show. I first encountered Manuel when he sang a tribute to Nat King Cole two or three years ago and really enjoyed his voice and phrasing. Today's show was very good as well. His style reminds one of a George Benson; very smooth and technically proficient. Manuel ranks among New Orleans' favorites.

I next went to renew my following of the "young guns" Lafayette zydeco band Feufollet. I've seen them several times now, and each time they display an interesting and fresh take on the old zydeco forms. The crowd was greater than previous times, evidencing that they may be picking up a bigger following. I didn't stay long, but this set seemed even further removed from zydeco than I remembered. Almost like a straight rock show with someone playing an accordion. They seem to draw on an even wider set of influences these days. Nonetheless, the crowd loved them and clearly got what they came for.

As Feufollet's last chords waved to the crowd, I went over to the Theresa Andersson show at the Gentilly Stage. Andersson is an accomplished violinist and "fiddle" player. Yet, she doesn't play straight country or cajun music despite having made her home in New Orleans for many years. She brought a big brass section this time and played only one song on violin (while I was there). As with Feufollet, this set seemed more pop-focused than past efforts. Entertaining, however, but just a little different.

Next up was my first trip to Economy Hall to hear Mark Braud and the New Orleans Jazz Giants. The Gambit Weekly billed them as a "Critic' Pick." I quickly learned why. Despite appearing at a venue normally reserved for traditional, highly structured jazz performers, Braud's group took significant liberties with the concept. A brass band format, Braud generally played in a contemporary, classic jazz style. This wasn't second line music. During the show, some guy sitting two seats over from me asked to see my schedule. He forgot that one hand had ketchup all over it, and promptly got ketchup over my clean schedule. His buddy explained, "at least you don't have to spend all week with him." To that I replied, "yeah, well, good luck with that." Within a couple of minutes they had taken off. Never doubt my ability to run people off. But seriously, if you ask for someone's help, don't spread ketchup all over them (uh, figuratively).

From there I went to the Marcia Ball show. This was the second Marcia Ball show in three days. As usual, she commanded the stage and she owned the Festival. Crowds swelled at the Acura Stage where she played with the same band as Wednesday. And as with Wednesday's show, she mainly selected "up" songs, with only a few ballads or pensive numbers, as befits a festival performance setting. The latter included "Louisiana 1927," which Ball seems to have adopted as her own.

After the Marcia Ball show concluded, it was on to the Jazz Tent to listen to Germaine Bazzle, longtime New Orleans jazz chanteuse. Bazzle sang a number of moving, delicate ballads in her unmistakable dark, heavy, rich voice, reminiscent of Diana Krall, though with more character. Sadly, I sat next to a gaggle of young women who talked loudly through the whole performance, ruining the experience.

So I headed on to the Lagniappe Stage to listen to the Yvette Landry Band. Landry is the bass player for another favorite cajun band, Bonsoir, Catin. The Band is an opportunity for Landry to branch out, playing more traditional, "old school" country music. Songs covered the likes of Johnny Cash and Porter Waggoner, as well as some compositions working within that vein. Still, I hope Bonsoir, Catin is still a viable act.

Then I caught a few moments of Bonerama. Another local act, they have an intense, widespread following. Its basically three guys playing trombone and running all over the stage. Behind them a conventional band plays rock and roll.  The Gentilly Stage crowds were thick, and loved every minute. Another great, high energy performance.

I then moved over to the Blues Tent to watch Deacon John. John had been a session musician for many years before finally headlining and recording his own work. Head of the local musician's union now, he mainly plays private parties, casino shows, and special events like this one. The last Deacon John show I saw was really good so I was looking forward to this one. But this time, I had a real feeling that he was just mailing it in. It was as if though I were watching just the usual casino show. He brought a big band to accompany him and was technically proficient. But it lacked dedication and energy; I even noticed him looking at his watch a couple of times. A disappointing effort.

It was at this point I hoped to watch Mavis Staples, an R&B and gospel legend, performing at the Gospel Tent. It wasn't to be, however, as throngs overflowed the Tent. Jazz Fest really cheats its ticket buying fans in many ways but this is one of the worst: scheduling headliner quality acts in the smaller tents so as to try and siphon away fans from the main stages. In this case, they were obviously trying to lure people away from the Zac Brown band. But too often, the "tent" performer's fans don't overlap with the headliners' fans, so all that happens is people get turned away from the tents. I've suffered this many times, with B.B. King, Gregg Allman, Aaron Neville's gospel performances, and several others. Each deserve their own shot at the main stage, if for no other reason than so everyone can enjoy their performances.

So instead I bought a t-shirt, ate some shrimp vermicelli, and went to the Kids' Tent of all places to hear Gal Holiday and the Honky Tonk Revue. They were my great Jazz Fest find last year, playing a wide range of western swing and similar "old school" country songs. "You Are My Sunshine," "Jambalaya," and the like. Sadly, they had only the Kids' Tent show this year. Nonetheless, they were just as fun as last year. Gal Holiday stayed on stage after the show, talking to fans and others who came over to visit.

To close out the day I got a little out of my comfort zone and saw Rodrigo y Gabriela and CUBA. I can't quite describe them. Husband and wife guitarists, Rodrigo plays an absolutely incredible acoustic guitar, which, with sound effects, he can make sound electric. The style strikes me as flamenco at its core, with strains of Cuban influences. Think Gipsy Kings. They played several songs alone, then brought out a much larger band. Again, though they incorporated Cuban themes into the songs, I can't say it was really Cuban music. Rather, it seems more like Spanish or Basque music with Cuban touches. To my surprise, they had a huge following and packed the Gentilly Stage field with rabid, screaming fans. If I didn't particularly enjoy the music itself, I certainly could appreciate the unparalleled technical skill that they bring to the guitar.

After the shows, we had a really fine dinner at Mandina's, a locally owned, Creole-Italian restaurant. I had softshell crab topped with shrimp etouffee, potatoes and green beans. Another great, though filling, meal in New Orleans.

Tomorrow-the Eagles. Jeffrey Lebowski is not impressed.

Jazz Festival 2012-Thursday: Can Anyone Play the Drums?

Lots to get to and its already late, so let's jump right in, shall we?

Today I woke up early and ran, again, despite my better judgment. I figured I better get on that before my back and foot totally give way (it happened today, so good resilience, body). The humidity was oppressive again, but the cooler temperatures helped. Just as I remembered it from years ago, cars bustled down St. Charles Avenue on their way into the CBD for work. Kids walked to school and parents dropped them off. I ran all the way up to Napoleon Avenue and back, dodging filled streetcars the entire way.

After cleaning up, I enjoyed a really nice breakfast at the Blue Plate Cafe, a couple of blocks down from the hotel on Prytania. The Blue Plate serves breakfast and lunch, a quiet little place just a block off the main St. Charles craziness. My friendly waitress wore a '50s "mom" dress and black and white patent leather oxford shoes; sort of a Miss Yvonne in an apron. The place featured pale purple (I will not use "eggplant" in relation to color; what am I, a metro?) and green painted walls, tiled tables, stained glass, and lots of street front windows. A fire truck crew was finishing its breakfast, so I knew we were safe from any kitchen fires too. I had the excellent omelet with spinach, jack cheese and shrimp, along with some tea. The place was still half full at 9:15 on a Wednesday, and the customers appeared to live nearby (not tourists). The food compared favorably with the insanely more popular Slim Goodies Diner, but without the wait or sense of entitlement. Maybe it helped that I wore my Saints t-shirt. Again.

After getting ready and getting out to Jazz Fest, again utilizing the top secret, secure parking spot, I made it through the gates just as the morning prayer concluded in the Gospel Tent. As long-time readers know, I like to start each day in the Gospel Tent as the morning prayers are offered, giving thanks for the incredible experience I enjoy each year to travel safely to New Orleans and enjoy incredible food, music, and culture. The Eleanor McMains gospel choir started the music off with a bang. I noticed that the Gospel Tent lineup every year includes many groups culled from local schools. That seems like something that wouldn't occur in Texas or most other places, where church-state laws would inhibit a school based religious choir program. I haven't researched to find how this happens in New Orleans, but note that most of these choirs are connected to magnet or charter schools. All these choirs appear to have nearly 100% minority membership. Though its not "Glee," thankfully, these programs provide a way for these kids to work with and learn from positive adult role models, gain some self-esteem, work on a talent, and achieve something positive. From my limited understanding of such things, lower-income kids often lack such opportunities. The real show here this morning though was the little five year old kid just rocking in his seat in front of me. This little boy was getting down, though he remained seated next to his sister (just like his mother said). Wearing his little "Harriett Tubman Charter School" uniform, he was soaking up the gospel music. THAT is what this whole thing is all about.

From there it was on to the Acura Stage for Hurray for the Riff Raff (shouldn't that be "Hooray"?). This band featured four young musicians, led by a Zooey Deschanel look-alike singing and playing guitar (and wearing bangs and a flower in her hair). I would call this country blues, with a tinge of Lucinda Williams. The crowd was sparse and pretty dead, but at 11:30 in the morning, with a hot sun already baking everyone, that's only to be expected. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the show and will add "Hurray" to my list, proper spelling or not.

From there I went to Congo Square for the closing of the Kourtney Heart concert. I know, that name sounds fake. But this girl (who looks like she's not a day over 16) is real and has a great voice. Its not as rich as Aguilera's but its along the same lines. Rows and rows of tween girls jammed the front row and repeatedly beckoned to her, yelling "I love you!" and singing every note of every song. The local paper recommended her show, and now I know why. She's got the kind of look and sound that compares with all the other not old enough to drink stars. All she needs is proper management to become huge. Hopefully there's no sex tape out there. Of course, none of this explains the white guy at the remote end of the stage playing guitar. What's going on here guys?

I've mentioned kids here a couple of times. Thursday seems like the local school day. Each Jazz Fest Thursday, I've noticed hordes of kids wearing their local school uniforms. They tend to congregate mainly in Congo Square but I see them throughout the place. Assuming the schools make some sort of effort to take the kids to the Festival, good for them. Schools across the country have slashed music and art budgets, so anything artistic, at all, that the schools can convey to students represents a positive step.

Well after Kourtney Heart finished it was lunch time, so I had some classic red beans and rice, and the crawfish bread. Long time readers will recall the crawfish bread. Imagine the most incredible tasting thing you can ever eat, and that's crawfish bread. Crusty, fresh bread, sauteed crawfish, cheese, and jalapenos. Mmmm. As I tweeted, not "heart healthy" but "heart warming." I visited with "others" over lunch, a couple from Pittsburgh who were gushing about Marcia Ball's performance last night. We started talking about the old Steelers vs. Oilers rivalry of the 1970s, which of course only made me mad that the Oilers never did "knock down the door."

Having successfully enlarged the little pouch where I keep my extra cookies, I ambled over to the Acura Stage to watch Glen Hansard's solo performance. I first learned about this Irish performer from watching the incredible movie "Once," in which he and partner Marketa Iglova collaborated on a haunting, heart breaking, yet jovial and literate musical romance. I can hardly rave enough about that movie-a rare movie written for adults. They wrote the amazing soundtrack as well. Then I learned that Hansard was in an apparently popular band called the Frames, which I happened upon at the Seattle Bumbershoot festival several years ago (just after Texas legend Roky Erickson played an indescribably great set). So I was excited to see Hansard again. He came out with just a beat up old guitar, the victim of his athletic, furious playing style. His solo music is just as literate and engaging as the Frames and Swell Season songs, and as the movie. He displayed an impressive stage command, really connecting with the enthusiastic audience. Early on he wondered aloud "how do you live here?" That is, at the fair grounds site year round. Then he praised New Orleans and said to be thankful for the heat, or else tourists would overwhelm the town. He also related how he had been in line for coffee earlier in the morning and saw Aaron Neville ahead of him, and thought "its gonna be a fuckin' great day." Tons of former emo chicks, now apparently living in the suburbs, crowded the field and listened in hush rapture.

Gotta stop to watch the end of Love in the Afternoon on TV. Billy Wilder. Audrey Hepburn. Impeccable.

OK, back to the Festival.

One question though. Why is an Irish guy who sings complicated, Irish-inspired folk tunes playing the New Orleans Jazz Festival? Answer: money, baby. Anything to bring more fans out. The set's end featured something unprecedented. Hansard didn't bring a band, but wanted to play a Bruce Springsteen song. The next band to take the stage had pre-installed its drum kit, so Hansard asked if anyone in the crowd could play drums. One of the stage crew leaped up and after a moment or two, they were off. The guy, "Joe," was really good at playing by ear, and the song turned out as well as if they'd rehearsed it together. Needless to say, the fans loved it.

From there I went to the super crowded Gentilly Stage for George Porter Jr. and the Runnin' Pardners. This was straight up, no bones about it, get down with your bad self funk. I wondered why no one had a 'fro and whether any cars around had fuzzy dice or curb feelers, or why I wasn't seeing any platform shoes. This music had a heavy bottom, but moved along quickly. The crowd was dancing even in the prevailing heat. This makes sense; Porter was the bassist for the Meters, another soul and funk group of world renowned.

After this, I needed to get a respite from the heat and rest my decrepit back. Kristi Guillory, the leader of one of my favorite Cajun bands, Bonsoir Catin, was playing the Lagniappe stage with her new group, the Midtown Project. As she explained, this consisted of zydeco players of other bands who wanted to play something a little more rocking. I enjoyed the portion I heard, though I hope Bonsoir Catin hasn't broken up.

Then I went to Congo Square to see the Stooges Brass Band. They've gained quite a following in New Orleans, enjoying the renewed brass band interest since the Dirty Dozen and the Rebirth Brass Bands helped revitalize the form over 20 years ago. The Stooges call on a wide variety of musical influences, from Weather Report to Stevie Wonder, to all out rap. They packed quite a punch, and the crowd was really rocking.

Leaving there, I caught the last bit of Rosie Ledet and the Zydeco Playboys. My friend Donna recommended her. Ledet absolutely packed the Fais-Do-Do stage, playing rocking zydeco. I only caught a couple of songs, unfortunately. Hopefully I can catch a longer performance.

After catching up with my friend Jeremy, we headed over to the Dirty Dozen Brass Band at the Acura Stage. The Dirty Dozen was the original brass band from the 1970s who ushered in the revitalization of the brass band. But most of the original members have left, and others have not necessarily carried on the original tradition. The Dirty Dozen today sound more like a pop and soul band. The last couple of songs were traditional brass band numbers, but played in an updated, pop style. In a farcical moment, the band played a song called "Dirty Old Man" and had four attractive women come out and grind on the baritone sax player, who appeared to be the oldest old man on the stage. Lovely. Some woman from the crowd jumped on stage and tried to dance with another one of the guys, but security quickly hustled her off. I don't get it. This wasn't the Beatles or the Stones or Elvis. This was the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. Years later. Surely you have something better to do out here.

The final show of the day was Florence + the Machine. I know they're famous and all, but I don't know exactly what I just heard and saw. I do know that whatever it was, it wasn't Louisiana. Florence, apparently, was a London based musician who recently wrote an incredibly well selling album. Some of the music escapes my descriptive ability. Stevie Nicks and Kate Bush come to mind. Along with Annie Lenox and Laurie Anderson.  The music was often ponderous and deliberate, as one might expect when a band shows up...with a harp. Florence made various cat crawling up a tree gestures, evoking weirdo '70s comic Emo Phillips. At times though it moved along quite nicely in a pop vein, as she ran back and forth across the stage, bouncing up and down, and twirling alternatively in her Morticia Adams. Her "go to" move was to stand still and raise her arms as the music built up to a crescendo, revealing some flowing fabric under her arms (a la Stevie Nicks) blown by a strong portable fan set in front of her on stage. Still, when the music started moving in an actual direction, it had some heft. The crowd of twenties-aged women with their forcibly abducted boyfriends loved it. They sang every word, and swooned when Florence blew kisses to them. They bounced up and down when she exhorted them to do so, and sang on cue. In other words, they were sheep. Soon I expect it to just be "Florence." Kind of like "Prince and the Revolution" became just "Prince," and then that weird symbol. Then "Prince" again.

And just remember, "pain is inevitable, suffering is optional."

OK I've pretty much run out of steam. See you tomorrow.

New Orleans Jazz Festival 2012-Wednesday at the Square

Welcome to the Jazz Fest blog! Four days of fun and music. And nothing BUT fun and music! Except food. And parades. And folk life demonstrations. And heat. And parking problems. Four days of nothing but fun, music, foods, parades, folk life demonstrations, heat, and parking problems. And roads....

As usual, I owe a tip of the cap to my ubiquitous friend Theresa for giving me the fancy schmancy moleskin notebook in which I take the copious notes I later use to write these posts. By the way, every day some festival-goer sees me writing notes and asks me what I'm doing. I'm running out of snappy answers to their questions.

Getting here involved the usual humanity-eroding airport experience, of course. I'm sure within the next five years TSA will just start parading armed guards up and down the airport hallways, strip searching babies and 95 year olds at random. To protect the public. Even worse than the overall authoritarian climate prevailing at American airports, an airline trip, particularly one on Southwest, subjects one to a Lord of the Flies-style devolution where one fights against one's fellow travelers just to get to one's destination. You have to evaluate people in security lines when choosing which one to enter. Do they have a bunch of 80 year olds, little kids, and Utah residents who haven't flown in a plane since 2001? Will they have to be told every single rule, each step along the way, 15 times just so they can make it through security? Or do they look like they are reasonably capable of following the very well known process? At the same time, you're pushed, prodded, and herded through lines, inspections, pat downs, x-rays and surveillance. Its like crossing through Checkpoint Charlie. Once you board a Southwest flight, you lose even more of your humanity as you try to decide where to sit. Which available seats would force you to sit next to someone "unacceptable" and which ones have "tolerable" seat mates? You know. Is your neighbor going to ooze over onto you, take the wrong seat belt, smell, regale you with kid stories worse than a waterboarding experience, or sicken you with a hacking cough, sneezing fit, or appalling personal habits? In a split second time, you have to decide whether you'll be safe during your flight sitting next to the person before you. Its like you're Simon Cowell, except you're deciding whether people meet your standards. Or deciding whether its safe to move to a particular neighborhood. Women of course have the added headache of deciding whether some random dude who looks like his wife let him out of her sight longer than 20 minutes for the first time in five years is going to work his sweet moves on her throughout the flight. Of course, if you're one of the first ones on the flight, you have to master these same skills AND direct your perfect human death stare at unacceptable co-passengers who look tempted to join you. You have to Jedi mind trick them into moving on: "These aren't the seats you're looking for." This all inevitably creates an atmosphere of suspicion, intolerance, and prejudice. Kind of like the mall at Christmas. Only after you successfully exit security at your destination do you regain some modicum of humanity. That's why I try to drive whenever I can.

The Dallas flight was pretty much the usual for a Wednesday morning, but the New Orleans flight was, as usual, an odd mix of business types and people my age attired in their festival gear. No sight has worn on me worse than 58 year old guy and his buddies, attired in Tommy Bahama casual and flip flops that their wives bought them, draped over their enormous guts, with their oddly matched designer straw hats to cover their Red Spot of Jupiter bald patches. The combination of early retirement packages and a Jimmy Buffett concert appearance can only spell doom. I'm sure their wives enjoy the respite from the the gin and golf lifestyle, but honestly, you need to flee for your life if you hear Jimmy Buffett is coming to your town. Those attractive, newly "old" couples you see in late night medical products ads? Yeah, put those guys in Tommy Bahama, give them a cord to keep their glasses from falling off their heads, and that's what will invade your town along with Jimmy B.

I'm staying at the Prytania Park Hotel for the first time. Its like a glorified LaQuinta, without the Denny's or IHOP next door but with somewhat nicer furnishings. Most importantly, its outside the CBD and the French Quarter, so its easy to get in and out and they don't charge for parking. Almost every New Orleans hotel charges $30-35 per night for parking. In five days that's almost like another night's room stay. Its located next to several good restaurants, and a Walgreens, all within walking distance. After checking in, I ran on the St. Charles streetcar line after getting here and after enjoying yet another good lunch at New Orleans Hamburger and Seafood Company. It was still relatively cool here, thanks to overcast skies that earlier had dropped some rain on the town, but the humidity was still brutal. Four miles felt like seven back in Austin. It always takes me a few days to adjust.

After getting cleaned up I went toward town to enjoy the YLC Wednesday at the Square concert, featuring Marcia Ball and the Pinettes Brass Band. The Young Leadership Council sponsors a spring-time concert series on Wednesdays in Lafayette Square near the federal courthouse. This is one of the city's oldest public areas, and contains some lovely shade trees and statues, among the taller buildings that surround it. The New Orleans Saints provide the primary sponsorship funds, and their erstwhile future owner Rita Benson LeBlanc hosted along with several Saintsations, a guy in a dog costume and Saints uniform (for some unexplained reason), and a "co-host" dressed like Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack (but sounding like someone from the RuPaul's Drag Race). The Pinettes are a local woman-only band, playing tomorrow at the Festival. Not quite as aggressive and dynamic as some of their male counterparts, but maybe that's the point. Long tall Marcia Ball once again did not fail to entertain. I've seen her over 10 times now, and can't remember a show that wasn't high energy, fun, and rollicking. Despite all the years and all the mileage, she seems to enjoy playing and always delivers a good show. Something that one can't say about most acts. Ms. LeBlanc's act, however, was somewhat bewildering. One may recall that her father, Tom Benson, had for some time designated her as the presumptive "heir" to the franchise, and she had assumed many of the day-to-day owner's responsibilities. He recently relieved her of this role, however, amid rumors that, well, basically everyone hated her. After Marcia already had been introduced and played her first song, she insisted on coming out and doing some very odd second introduction, replete with humblebragging about the Saints' role in funding the whole affair. She then went off on some tangent about people having sex in the "bush" nearby. Then she shot t-shirts out of a cannon at the crowd. Then, they finally let Marcia resume her performance. Now, bear in mind, this happened on a day when (1) the league handed down severe penalties to four current and former Saints players for participating in a "bounty" scheme to injure opposing players, which they actively sought to conceal from the league's investigators, and (2) one of the finest human beings and most skillful man ever to play professional football, Junior Seau, died by his own hand. You would think the representative of Saints' ownership might have a little more dignity on a day like today. I understand the crowd was looking to have a good time, but, really, I'm not sure today was the day for that act.

I had dinner at a new seafood restaurant, Superior Seafood. Its owned by the same group that owns the Superior Grill mexican restaurants that started in Shreveport and later opened in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Its located right next to Fat Harry's (no doubt to the chagrin of a certain resident of Charlottesville, VA I know). Its in the style of a Parisian bistro, or of a Brennan's restaurant-tile, curtains, mirrors, wood moldings, metal bar. I had Redfish Marigny (sauteed with lump crab and a lemon butter sauce), with haricot verts and fingerling potatoes. It was small but quite good.

As I walked around the corner to enter the restaurant, it was impossible to avoid walking past a couple who appeared roughly my age, arguing about something. She looked quite attractive, while he looked like he sells pre-owned Saabs. Actually the guy was repeatedly saying "I would never do that!" as the woman, hands firmly on hips, stared daggers at him. Ah, true love! Nothing like confronting your significant other about his cheating ways or some other equally heinous offense on a public street next to a busy bar and restaurant. Was this some sort of yuppie "Jersey Shore"? Well, whatever he did, I assume she drove him to it. Signed, every woman I ever told about an argument I had with a girlfriend whose immediate response was "what did you do?"

Well, ok, this was pretty dark. Sorry for bringing everyone down. I promise to return to happiness, joy, and love tomorrow.

Jazz Festival Preview 2012

Its that time of year again. Time to stand out in a sun baked dust field four days in a row, listen to some fantastic music, eat some incredible Louisiana food, and enjoy the bon ton rouler spirit that envelops the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. This year's Fest started last Friday, but as per usual, I'm attending the second weekend. That kicks off this Thursday. Think of me at the Fais-Do-Do stage while you're sitting at your desk.

How many times has it been? A couple of times before 2005. Once when I lived there, and once when I returned while living in Galveston. I resumed going the year before Katrina and have returned every year since. Everyone needs a thing, right? Some people have a boat, others go bowling, still others take xanax.  The Jazz Festival is my thing. Don't judge me.

This year's festival looks very promising. Sadly, some great acts have already played the first weekend: Rev. Al Green, the original Beach Boys reunion, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Bruce Springsteen, Dr. John, and Trombone Shorty. Al Green and Springsteen are all time favorites, and I'd have enjoyed hearing Brian Wilson live.

But the second weekend includes four days, rather than the first weekend's three, so I invariably attend the second weekend. This year's lineup includes a lot of the usual suspects: Anders Osborne, Allen Toussaint, John Boutte, the Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Dumpstaphunk, Marcia Ball, Astral Project, the Iguanas, Bonerama, Deacon John, Feufollet, Irma Thomas, Better than Ezra, Steve Earle, Galactic, Glen David Andrews, Rebirth, Maze featuring Frankie Beverly, and the Neville Brothers.

This year's headliners are pretty good too: the Eagles, Foo Fighters, Bonnie Raitt, My Morning Jacket, Herbie Hancock, Little Anthony and the Imperials, Florence and the Machine, and Jimmy Buffett. Frankly, last weekend's headliners had a little more heft, but this represents a solid offering.

I also attend the YLC Wednesday in the Square concert, a fairly new Jazz Festival tradition, a sort of "kick off" for the weekend held in Lafayette Square around 5 p.m. tomorrow. This year, as last year, Marcia Ball is playing, so it should be a really energetic, rocking time.

As long time readers know, I post on this blog every night with my thoughts on the day's events. Let me remind everyone what I try to accomplish in doing so. I had to write this last year as well after some Amanda Shaw fans apparently suffered such a horrific zipper accident reacting to my negative "review" that several of them threatened to sue me. I guess writing that you think someone isn't all that good a performer is grounds for litigation, so that showed me.

I am not a professional music critic. I haven't attended every single concert of every single performer since 1971, and I don't purport to know all there is to know about these people. I do not try to "review" any of these bands. I like music a lot, however, and like to talk and write about music. Like everyone else out at the Festival, I react to the music and the performances. I enjoy some quite a lot, others are just kind of there, and still others make me want to go for my death ray. My opinion is just my opinion, not some sort of Pauline Kael review/social commentary. I like sharing my reaction with those who care to read my blog. I also like to describe the scene for those who can't attend, and sometimes I pass along my stupid little jokes or observations as I do. If I say something like "the town of Sugar Land, Texas wants the band Sugarland to get its name out of their mouth," that's just my opinion, and not an excuse for you to flood me with comments or gang audit me. I can't be wrong if I can't stand a band, just as you can't be right if you love them. Unless you like Bon Iver, in which case you need to not be living within a 20 mile radius of me. My appreciation or scorn for any particular musician does not implicitly criticize your intelligence or character if you happen to disagree. I do, however, encourage anyone to submit a comment that disagrees with what I've written. The more opinions and reaction makes for a more interesting post. As long as your comment doesn't contain insults, threats, or other vituperative, I will allow it to be published.

In addition to posting on the blog, I will twitter from each day's shows, at least until my phone battery runs out. Please follow me to catch the updates: @chrisreeder_ATX. Maybe someone out there can tell me how I can twitter photos too? I'm far too old to learn all this social media stuff so easily; need a 14 year old kid to help me (OK, interagency law enforcement internet child pornography monitoring sting, that was not any kind of inducement). We'll just have to see how it goes. I have this feeling the battery will run out around 2:30 every day. I also will upload about a million photos every night to my Flickr site: www.flickr.com/photos/chrisreeder. I purchased a special VIP access badge so I can get extremely close to the three main stages (since I'm in the "1%" and all, so how does that taste, poor people?), guaranteeing some really interesting headliner photos.

So that's about it. Look for me to start posting Thursday night. I'm looking forward to this year's festival just like every year, and am also looking forward to telling you about it. Let me know what you think too, especially if you were there.

Oh, and the first one to comment who can name both of the people in the photos above wins a very special, special mystery prize!

Louisiana: They're Trying to Wash Us Away

The river rose all day
The river rose all night
Some people got lost in the flood
Some people got away alright
The river have busted through cleard down to Plaquemines
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangeline

--Randy Newman, "Louisiana 1927"

I finish this post in the waning hours of April 30, 2012, the 200th anniversary of the day Louisiana was admitted as a state to the United States. I regard this as a great day, worthy of celebration.

Lots of people (and by that I mean, one guy, once) have asked me just why I like Louisiana so much. After all, I was born and raised ("reared" just sounds wrong and scary) in Houston, none of my family came from Louisiana, and before I lived in Louisiana for a couple of years (1990-92) I had no real Louisiana connections. But through the years I've developed such an affinity for the state and its people that some acquaintances think I'm from Louisiana. As we celebrate the bicentennial, and as I find myself preparing to attend another New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, its worth explaining where all this "swamp love" originates.

Louisiana is not what you see on Swamp People, a show that caricatures an entire state and its people based on a few isolated examples. It would be like concluding that everyone in New Jersey is like those Jersey Shore idiots. Uh, ok, possibly a bad example.

In some ways, I am from Louisiana. You're "from" wherever people hold the same values, prize the same aesthetics, and think the way you do. That's a generalization, of course, but think of all those people from places like Detroit or Cleveland or Peoria, who get the hell out of there the first chance they get and spend the rest of their lives in places that feel like home and move their soul, like Austin or Colorado or Paris. No one not running for office ever said "Plano moves my soul." Except people for whom "soul" means a trip to Home Depot followed by a hearty dinner at Olive Garden.

And so it is with Louisiana. Something about that battered, impoverished cultural crossroads moves me, and millions of others who flock there or enjoy its rich legacy of music, food, dance, art, and natural beauty renowned everywhere. Louisiana gave the world jazz and New Orleans. It invented gumbo and zydeco. Mississippi River steam boats and crawfish. The Long boys and Edwin Edwards. People all over the world have heard of New Orleans. No one has ever heard of Omaha.

 That's not to say the place doesn't often get a bad rap, and sometimes deservedly so. Alongside all those incredible things are mosquitoes, bad roads, reduced life expectancy and high cancer and heart disease, high crime and low educational achievement, killer storms, and rotting infrastructure. Ever poor, Louisianans have almost from the beginning tolerated rampant corruption on a Latin American scale. The state's oil and gas wealth, supplemented with fisheries, maritime commerce and forest resources, should have been sufficient to transform the state into a robust, economically vibrant society boasting high employment, oustanding educational institutions and thriving towns and cities. Instead, Louisianans have generally viewed government as a source of entertainment, resulting in officials at all levels treating the public treasury as their personal checking account and doling out favors to a parade of oil companies, paper mills, and cousins who have shipped unprecedented wealth out of the state. The resulting public service deficiencies historically have left Louisiana near the bottom in nearly every measure of social progress.

But they keep on dancing.

All these facts shape the world of Louisiana. People feel their legacy every day, both good and bad. And they have made Louisiana both a remarkable oasis and a stubborn outlier.

Louisiana represents a fascinating crossroads. So many different cultures have mixed and mingled that they've produced countless unique expressions. Good cajun and creole cooking ranks among the finest cuisines in the world. Take a bite of a debris po-boy from Mother's in New Orleans, or the crawfish etouffee at Poche's in Breaux Bridge, and tell me they're not among the best dishes you've ever had. Listen to Louis Armstrong's Hot Five or Hot Seven recordings, or the Funky Meters, or Ernie K-Doe, or Professor Longhair, and try not to dance.

Louisiana is a natural crossroads as well. To the north, near Natchitoches and Alexandria, one finds beautiful rolling pine forests. Further south one finds the Cajun prairies and the swamps and bayous of the Atchafalya and Mississippi basins. Towards the east lies the rich Mississippi delta, and north of Lake Pontchartrain, a rich forest provides a different kind of natural beauty. Louisianians love the outdoors and flock to state parks or other places like Avery Island or Hodge's Gardens.

Thanks in large part to the Cajuns, Louisiana perhaps more than anywhere else is filled with incredibly friendly people. You will not find a stranger in Lafayette. Nor can you talk to a Cajun for under a minute. It simply cannot be done. If they like you, they're a friend for life, and you have to work hard for them not to like you. Though Texas is famed for Texan hospitality, Louisiana has us beat by a bunch.  Despite hard times and often hard lives, Louisianians just seem to have an unmatched joy of living. This manifests itself in countless local fairs and festivals, dances, parades, concerts, and parties. Then of course, there's Mardi Gras, second lines, jazz funerals, and on and on. If you're in Eunice on a weekend and you can't find some good music, its your own fault. And if its a weekend, there's a festival going on somewhere in Louisiana. See photo above.

And though I hesititate to mention this last consideration, it is a powerful one. In all my travels, I've never found a place with more beautiful women. Not California, not Texas, not Florida, not Ireland, not Argentina, not anywhere. The most enjoyable walk one can take is across either the LSU or the University of Louisiana at Lafayette campuses around noon during the school year. Sorry, its just true. This of course will strike many of you as incredibly shallow, but  let's not be so quick to overlook what Mr. Darcy called "the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."


So I relish every chance I get to return to Louisiana. Whether for an LSU home football game weekend, or a local festival, or Mardi Gras, or to get away and enjoy some incredible food and music, or to while away a lazy afternoon on Royal Street then taking the streetcar out St. Charles Avenue to enjoy a drink on the patio at the Columns Hotel, or enjoying a drive up to Natchitoches and see the old buildings near the Cane River downtown or down to Abbeville to see the historic square and the lovely homes along the Bayou Vermilion, or hitting Fred's Lounge in Mamou for the Cajun dancing and radio broadcast early on a Saturday morning, there's hardly a time when I've had a wasted Louisiana trip. Hopefully I'll continue enjoying opportunities to do so. 


Hey, it beats Florida. Signed, every episode of Cops.


Oh...and...STELLA!!!!


Next-the 2012 Jazz Festival Preview. 

Jazz Fest Like A Local: Seven Survival Secrets

Here's a totally plagiarized post, from gonola.com. Pretty much everything here is spot on. Though I don't think they stress the severity of the heat enough. You must, must, must drink water. A hat would help too if you don't go for sunblock. Seen plenty of human carnage at the Festival. Too much fun, too much sun. Other than that, enjoy! I should do my own Jazz Fest preview next week, and as long-time readers know, I'll blog each night from the final weekend of the Festival.

Original article:

If you’re coming to New Orleans for the annual Jazz and Heritage Festival and looking for tips from locals, you’ve come to the right place for advice. I’ve been festin’ my whole life, at least as long as I can remember. Jazz Fest, to locals, is a celebration not just of music but of everything we are: food, music, art, culture, history – it’s a celebration of life. And you know that we know how to celebrate.


Now, it’s easy to over-celebrate in this city (if you catch my drift) and being prepared is always important. Here are a few key things I think you’ll need to know in order to survive Jazz Fest.

1. First thing’s first: Let’s get a drink. In my personal opinion, beer is the best thing to drink during a festival (that and water) but you can also get wine and frozen daiquiris. If you’re looking for something a little less alcoholic (and by that I mean alcohol-free) try the herbal teas. You can also bring a water bottle to fill at the public water stations but make sure it’s empty when you come in.

2. And second, some food. There is more food at Jazz Fest than you can physically ingest in one weekend, so knowing what you want is important. I don’t like to wait in lines typically but there are some foods at Jazz Fest worth the wait. I recommend anything with our fresh Louisiana Seafood, especially the Crawfish Monica and the Crawfish pies. Check out the rest of GoNOLA’s top picks for Jazz Fest foods.

Hat: check. Water bottle: check. Comfortable shoes: check. Loose clothes: Check. Professional fester: check. (Photo from Flickr by Kaarin T)

3. Weather is unpredictable. New Orleans is hot. There is no use trying to beat around this bush, but in case you didn’t know, the South can get quite warm in late April and early May. Because of this, I recommend wearing loose fitting, comfortable clothing. And sunblock; lots of sunblock.

3A. It’s also been known to rain down here from time to time so I recommend bringing a rain coat, one that will actually help keep you from getting soaked. Here’s a tip: in the inside pocket of your rain coat bring a Ziplock bag with rice. If it starts to rain, you can throw that smart phone of yours in there and keep it from getting destroyed.

4. Comfort is key at Jazz Fest. Like I said, it has been known to get a little warm here so wear clothing that gives you a little groovin’ room and some airflow. And, keep in mind that you’re walking around a track which means a mix of dirt, mud, sand and grass. Wear shoes that you won’t mind getting dirty and will be comfortable to walk around in all day.

5. Entering the crowds. Some of the stages, especially for the major headliners, will fill up with a crowd quickly. If you’re looking to meet someone who’s in the thick of the crowd at either the Gentilly or Acura stages, it will be easier for you to enter from the track side than from the back or the grass side. Trust me, I’ve been doing this a while. Just apologize a lot.

6. Live music recordings. Like what you hear? Some of the artists who play during Jazz Fest will have live recordings available for purchase after their shows. You can see which artists are recording and order in advance (you can also order past shows) at the Jazz Fest Live Festivals Recording tent between the Heritage and Acura stages.

7. Your bag. This might be the most important advice I can give to a festival newbie: if you bring a bag, make sure you’re prepared with important essentials. Here’s what you should absolutely have with you: toilet paper, hand sanitizer, sun glasses, coozie, wallet (with an ID and cash!), towel/blanket to sit on and a rain coat.

Hope this information helps get you through your first Jazz Fest and if you have any questions while you’re in town you can always find us on Facebook or Tweet us! [CR: hit the link above for the original story].