Island Living

In my opinion, all men are islands. And what's more, now's the time to be one. This is an island age.

A hundred years ago, you had to depend on other people. No one had TV or CDs or DVDs or videos... or home espresso makers. Actually, they didn't have anything cool. Whereas now, you see...you can make yourself a little island paradise. With the right supplies and the right attitude... you can be sun-drenched, tropical, a magnet...for young Swedish tourists. And I like to think that perhaps I am that kind of island. I like to think I'm pretty cool. I like to think I'm Ibiza.

--Nick Hornby, "About A Boy"

This may only be news to me, but, I don't get most of you. That is to say, I don't get you.  I don't get most of the things over which you seem to obsess or invest your emotions. American Idol? That show was on 50 years ago, but it was called the Ted Mack Amateur Hour.

You all seem to know every minute, gripping detail of a long list of things that I've barely heard of, much less care about. Its like I went to work one day, and nearly everyone was new and the company was in a totally different business than yesterday.

How did this happen? How does this happen?

Don't ask me. I avoid people wherever possible. Hmm, there you go. Problem solved.

I don't read, I see about three new movies a year, and I only watch about five TV channels not dedicated to sports (one of those is the Cartoon Network). Other than things like computers and four wheel disk brakes, for all I know it could still be 1979 (I SO wish we could get rid of that Jimmy Carter guy). So just because you think Game of Thrones is the most totally boss thing ever, don't look for me to spend a hour listening to you drone about it. "Oh, its so awesome!" Nope.

Time and again, I miss all the cultural guideposts littering the human highway. "Miss" isn't quite right. "Ignore" really best captures the spirit of the thing. They say no man is an island. But as you can see above, they are wrong. Sometimes I get on the bandwagon, but its usually about 10 years after it started. Right around 2005, for example, I really started liking punk rock. I'm a rebel.

But I can tell you a lot of the things I never got. Its a big long list, so this is just the tip of the iceberg. Maybe you can tell me what I missed, but please be so kind as to spare me your "dude, you are so wrong about [insert list item here], its totally awesome!" comments. 

Maybe I should I have just listed the things I liked.

Lots of TV. I guess since we're living in a global village, I should start with television. I could reel off a big long list of shows I never watched, understood, or even knew about when most of you were planning your lives around them. Its not that these shows are all horrible; I can acknowledge some of them were quite good. I just never could get sufficiently interested enough to invest the time to watch:

• X Files. Basically the Avengers (not those Avengers, but the real Avengers) with aliens and much less interesting leads. Emma Peel anyone?
• The Sopranos. Yeah, I know, it was brilliant. EVERYONE says so. You must obey!
• Hill Street Blues. Hill Street Bores.
• LA Law (which from all I could tell was basically Hill Street Blues with lawyers).
• Anything with a Kardashian. If you even hesitate in agreeing with me, please stop reading this instant and never come back.
• American Idol/America's Got Talent/So You Think You Can Dance/Dancing With the Stars. These are talent shows for people who lack the talent to be taken advantage of on their own.
• Real World/Amazing Race/Survivor/Jersey Shore. "Reality" shows? I say, lowest common denominator.

Rap. Maybe its a cultural thing. Rap is not much more than "call and response" as practiced in Africa for centuries. Beyond that, there's no melody, except lifting parts of songs written years ago. Overexcessive reliance on a thudding bass beat. Glorification of materialism, violence and misogny. Cash rules everything around me. Other than that, its my favorite.

Line dancing. Any man who line dances, other than the Cotton Eyed Joe at a wedding or after midnight at the Broken Spoke, should just get ballet season tickets.

Movies:

• Batman/Spiderman/Iron Man. If I wanted to read a comic book, I'd steal some money from my Dad's top drawer and ride my bike down to the 7-11 and buy the comic book. What am I, 12?
• Most romantic comedies. Having been on about 10,000 dates, I can pretty much tell you the entire plot of most rom coms after the first five minutes. A little originality, please.
• Karate Kid. I was cheering for the Cobra Kai. Hilary Swank played the apprentice in one of the sequels, and she was way tougher than Ralph Macchio. Are you surprised? Wax on, wax off.
• Horror movies. If I want to be scared or grossed out for two hours, I'll go on a date.
• Angsty dramas. Oh my God...just do something already. These movies are like incredibly ridiculous and distilled versions of Hamlet.  That suck. The characters pretty much know their problems and how to solve them throughout the entire movie. But they spend the first 95% of the movie agonizing over the choice that everyone knows they'll make at the end (with five minutes left...its called "dramatic tension, people). By the time they finally do what everyone in the theatre knew they had to do, two hours before, I usually hate them and wish that they would fall into a ditch with a sewer leak. Think Reality Bites.
• Live and let live movies. Not so much chick flicks, but where everyone feels really good at the end because of some life affirming lesson. Except Its A Wonderful Life, which is remarkable.
• Mysteries.

What do I like? Westerns. Comedies. Old musicals.

Skiing. I haven't known anyone older than 16 that went skiing for the first time who didn't break a bone or tear a ligament or tendon. And not like an elbow but one of the important ones. Of course, most of them were probably wasted at the time, but my innate Chevy Chase-like coordination resembles drunkenness. I can't take that risk. You'll find me sitting by the fireplace observing the ski bunnies warming up from the day's runs.

Golf. If I want to walk around in the woods swinging a stick, I'll go for a hike or attend a "live action role play" fest with all the other dorks. For free. And avoid all the country club douchebags ruining the scenery. "I want a hamburger, no a cheeseburger. I want a hot dog. I want a milk shake. I want potato chips...."

Hunting and fishing. Ugh. Look. Most of you don't recognize God's gifts in your midst. Like, the grocery store. Where they sell any kind of meat or fish you could possibly imagine. And, whoa! You don't have to get up at 4 in the morning and freeze to death just to go to the store. True story.

Sailboats. Being especially motion sickness prone, sailboats to me are sort of like the zero-G exercises the astronauts endure. You know, the "Vomit Comet." I basically get nauseous looking at a sailboat.

Wrestling. Its fixed. Get it? If I want to see a bunch of steroided, speedo wearing muscle freaks yell at each other while bleached blonde chicks show off their boob jobs, I'll just hang out at the Tropicana pool.

Jeeps. Grow up. Get a vehicle with air conditioning and seats that won't send you to the chiropractor every two weeks.

Laying out at the beach. Or the pool. Laying (or lying) around hours at a time, frying in the sun among the beached whales, makes me homicidal. You see, I'm like a shark...I have to keep moving. I spend hours at my desk, inert. Why would I want to be just as inert on vacation? Give me a mountain to climb, or a trail to vanquish.

Cards. Not only does this require getting together with the fellas (intolerable), you have to sit for hours on uncomfortable chairs using math and looking deadly serious, while the boys smoke cigars and fart. Or worse, while the married guys boast in as masculine a tone as possible, but who really sound exactly like their wives. Talking about their new house, or little Timmy's soccer skills, or how two-year-old Gretchen is so amazingly gifted. Yeah, the last time I saw her she was spitting up peas. No thanks.

Drinking. You know, people get into their 30s and hang on to their weekend binge drinking like its their last free small-size frozen yogurt coupon. I know all of you are stalwart and never age. But as for me, someone shortly after one drink sends me past the "comfortably numb" stage straight into the "projectile vomiting" stage. Sorry for that image BTW. Drinking ends for me with the "spending the next day comatose on the couch" stage. I don't know all of you do it. Guess you're just manlier or something. Hey I can't even eat fried food anymore without paying for it. Not sure how I would survive an absinthe assault.

Onions. In A Clockwork Orange, the state figures out every person's unique primal, incapacitating fear and uses that to torture them. For some people, its snakes. Heights repel others. Its not that I'm afraid of onions. Its more like they're poison mustard gas from World War I. Or arsenic. Or deadly torture pellets. Different strokes for different folks, and for me, onions are on par with encountering a spitting cobra. Or any meeting at work. I can man up and eat other foods I dislike when I have to, like brussel sprouts or cabbage or pickles. But onions? That's not happening. And why do some people insist on putting them in every damn thing? Like rice? You put onions in rice? Really. What is your problem?

Coffee. No real story here. I just never got it. Always tasted like ditch water. Or milk-flavored ditch water. I love coffee smell, of course. But I like the smell of vanilla too and I'm not sucking that down either. Happily, my coffee aversion saved me thousands of dollars through the years, which otherwise would have found its way to the Evil Empire from Seattle.

Garage sales. All you losers who wake up at 6:00 a.m. on Saturdays and spend the morning picking over people's garbage spread out over their front yard really need to get another hobby. First of all, its not a "garage sale" when they put most of the crap on their front yard or driveway. Ok? Secondly, you don't have any idea where these people and their stuff have been. Who knows what kind of flesh eating bacteria lurks in their 30 year old copy of the Physician's Desk Reference or their Falstaff Beer coasters?

Parties. Parties mean talking to other people, many of whom you don't know, and eating fatty food. So, obviously, that's never going to work. "Oh, look at the time, I have to be up super early tomorrow. See ya!"

Man-hugging. Leaving aside the whole gay thing (no judgments here guys!), there's three, and only three, times when men may touch one another. When one of them has lost a relative within one degree of consanguinity, when one of them is administering CPR to the other, or when their team has just won the championship. I guess I could add when they've both been prisoners of war and were just released. Possibly. But those are the only acceptable times. Nor should man-hugging ever be obligatory. A hearty handshake will do in every situation. Why? Because men are not women, or at least they shouldn't act like women. Women hug one another because they haven't seen each other for six hours. In a row. Women hug because Joanie in accounting said that one of their blouses was tacky and didn't match her complexion. Women hug when one of them had prematurely chipped nails. And that's all fine. But despite the last 30 years' trends, men are not women. So we should at least try, sometimes, not to act like we are. I know this runs counter to contemporary beliefs (hence its appearance in this list). You can all do whatever you want, of course (just like you always do). I simply ask that you please stop pawing me. "No" means "no"!

Tattoos. It used to be that only dirty people got tattoos. Sailors, prisoners, Andy Warhol. Then it was legal secretaries who needed a dolphin or star to match their ankle bracelet. Then it was everyone in the NBA. Then it was everyone. Sorry, I just think the human body as God made it is more beautiful than any tattoo could make it. I realize that's especially cranky old man, even for me, but its just a personal preference. Plus, I dread the day, not too long in coming, when there's gonna be a bunch of grandmas tripping over their sagging tramp stamps. Shudder....

Cats. Allergic. Plus, they suck. They have a totally selfish attitude, provide nothing in return for your affections, and snarl at you when you try to help them. Whatever cat. How about you open your own Little Friskies from now on, hmm?

Video games. I know all the rest of you spent hour upon hour playing Ms. Pac Man, or Frogger, or Galaga. Or later, you waste your lives on xbox or nintendo or or wii or whatever. How you can sit in one spot for so long, moving your joystick and staring at the screen as drool trickles out of the corner of your mouth over the Cheez-its residue is beyond me. Hey, read a book. Go ride your bike. Walk to the park. Kiss a girl. Do something with yourself beyond spending your weekend with that glazed over look in front of a Mr. Gatti's pizza box collection and swilling Mountain Dew.

Sudoko. Remember this craze from a few years ago? Everyone running around with their puzzles? I mainly saw these people in airports. I could admire that it required at least some thought, but it just seemed like crossword puzzles but with numbers.

MMA. Its human cockfighting. The point of the cage is, what, again? Exactly. These guys aren't skilled enough to excel at a real sport. All that's left is pounding on one another like two guys fighting over a Waffle House waitress in a Pasadena parking lot at 4:00 in the morning.


High fives and fist bumps. Again, I am not 12. High fives scream "over-intense softball guy." Or "softball guy."

Next-What Mad Men teaches us about the last 50 years. A very topical subject. Only about five years behind the times.

World Tour 2012: I'm Going Up the Country

Before I preview this year's vacation plans, let me just say that your snippy comments implying that I no longer work and just spend all my time traveling are soooo funny. No, really. Ha, ha. Look, you're greatly exaggerating my travels. Besides, travel posts stand out only because I don't write about the incredibly mundane things that occupy most of my time. Do you really want to read this all the time: "today at work I wrote a motion to compel discovery, then I ran four miles at the trail. Boy it sure was hot and I got really sweaty! Then I went to the grocery store after finishing. There sure were a lot of people at the store! I had to wait in a long line. Then I came home and watched TV while making dinner, then I went to bed. Family Guy sure was funny! Boy was I ever tired.  LOL!! (smiley face insert)" I'm close to jumping in front of the nearest pedicab just reading that, but that pretty much is how I spend most of my days. Without the LOLs, of course. God I hate those acronyms. Use the English language, people! So I only write about cool subjects that interest lots of people all over the world. Like the subtle nuances in Star Trek episodes, or the gritty reality that every Dirty Dancing scene evokes, or how "skorts" are from the devil. It just so happens that when I make an exotic trip to awesome places, like, Opelousas, I can't wait to share them with my 12 readers (up from six, because people looking for the other Chris Reeders sometimes accidentally read my posts).  So, my "busy travels" owe more to standing out from the usual drudgery than my being a latter day Marco Polo. Hey, does anyone feel like swimming just now?

Besides, as I have to remind people repeatedly, this blog's original raison d'etre is to share my world travels with you (not unlike the FBI's raison d'etre is to find crooks and commies, signed, Nathan Arizona). Instead of having to answer the dreaded "how was your trip" question, oh, I don't know, six times, this way I can just write it all down and people can read it at their leisure. Its like how fast food places put signs all over the dining area ("dining area" is a bit rich; more like "cholera ward") thanking customers for clogging their arteries there instead of some other grungeateria, thus sparing the employee-mutants the panic of having to convey that message themselves.

So, having dispensed with that friendly and not at all snobbish introduction, let's move on to today's post's real point. I would like to announce that this year, barring some more unforeseen tumult or zombie/cannibalism outbreaks, I plan to spend part of my vacation at Yosemite National Park. I don't think they sell bath salts there so I should be relatively safe. Yosemite is reputedly one of the most beautiful places on earth, at least if you buy into all that Ansel Adams propaganda. I'll arrive in Oakland during Labor Day weekend and celebrate the heroic proletarian struggle against evil capitalist bourgeoisie overlords (like myself) with my friends Kimberly and Terry (everyone's checking out her Craftini blog, right?). Then on Labor Day proper, I'll drive from the Bay Area out to Yosemite.  Then I'll spend a week at the Yosemite Lodge, spending days hiking and exploring, and nights freezing to death. It got down to 27 degrees the other night. That doesn't work for me. Oh, and even more lucky, I'm arriving in the wake of the decision to shut down some of the park lodging area due to rock falls. Apparently, people have been getting hurt in rock falls. Excellent.

Why Yosemite? Last year I spent WAY too much money in Ireland and Scotland, and spent too much time driving all over the place instead of enjoying great scenery. This way I'll get to see some of the most beautiful scenery anywhere but can remain in relatively one place for a time. Cheap flights, thank you Southwest, and relatively cheap rental car and lodging rates. I can spend more of my time outside, getting in better shape by dodging boulders and running away from hungry bears.

After this first week, I then plan to get back on the road and head out to the coast, after which I'll leisurely work my way north back toward San Francisco. I haven't exactly decided how far south to go. Maybe you could offer some suggestions. I thought about going to Santa Barbara, but it just sounds like its a little too Knots Landing, where all the men are either surgeons or paroled international art thieves, and all the women are former Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders who spend their lives tanning, throwing up, and working out their evil revenge plot against some other chick with a name like "Heather." 

If not that far south, I would start at Big Sur. Anyway, I'd spend the next few days going to Big Sur, Carmel and 17 Mile Drive, Monterey, Santa Cruz, Half Moon Bay, and finally San Francisco. I want to see the buffalo, and the tulips at the Dutch windmill, in Golden Gate Park. Don't judge me.

Admittedly, a vacation announcement is kind of douchey. Like the President issuing a travel schedule press release. But when your blog focuses on your travels, an announcement doesn't seem too unforgivable.

So, that's the trip. Roughly two weeks. All in America. Well, California, which in many ways bears striking resemblance to some portions of America.

Its getting to where I can hardly count how many trips I've taken there. As much as I'd like to spend my money somewhere else and thereby avoid funding the bizarrity that is California society (like Rob Lowe), California got all the cool terra firma. Its like Californians don't deserve to live there. So I generally try to overlook them and enjoy the scenery. Which in so many cases is breathtaking. Truly California is the Golden State.

One drawback, from a blogging perspective, to such a trip is it affords me little writing material. As I've mentioned previously, hiking through spectacular scenery makes for an incredible experience, but terrible writing. "I hiked up the trail about four miles, and there was a really beautiful lake. Boy, it sure was pretty. Then I went a little further and saw some great mountains. They were really high up and they were pretty too." Yawn. Its like all those test pilots and engineers who became astronauts and comically failed to describe the sights from outer space. "Well, it sure is big, and bright, and there's lots of colors...." Great. So don't look for daily posts.

OK, that's all for now. See you in September. Before then, I expect, but September for sure.

Jazz Festival 2012-Sunday: Do These Come In "Cold"?

Soul is the music people understand. Sure it's basic and it's simple. But it's something else 'cause, 'cause, 'cause it's honest, that's it. Its honest. There's no fuckin' bullshit. It sticks its neck out and says it straight from the heart. Sure there's a lot of different music you can get off on but soul is more than that. It takes you somewhere else. It grabs you by the balls and lifts you above the shite.

--The Commitments

I was totally prepared to focus this last post on the Foo Fighters' absolute napalming of the Jazz Festival, as compared to the Neville Brothers' now sadly usual "mail it in one more time, send my check to the same address" show. That plan lasted until about 6:45 p.m. on Sunday, when I poked my head in the Blues Tent after my friend Katherine posted that she was having a great time there.

When I did, I enjoyed for almost half an hour the best show of the entire Festival, and maybe the best Festival show EVER. "No name" Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings were busily burning the Blues Tent to the ground with the most intense soul show I've ever seen. And I've seen Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, Al Green, Isaac Hayes, Aretha Franklin, Ike Turner, Earth, Wind, and Fire, the O'Jays, and Sam Moore. She's from Augusta, Georgia, and according to the web site, the band has been touring for years with appearance all over the world. How have I not heard of them until just now? Even past 7, when they were supposed to shut down, the tent was still packed with people dancing like a death rattle. It kind of resembled that weird scene in the second Matrix movie where they're all doing some super intense tribal dance as the machines are burrowing through the defenses to come kill them all. Sidebar: Monica Bellucci. That is all. Ok, getting back. About the only way I can describe it is to compare it to old videos of Ike and Tina Turner, with Tina shimmying all over the stage in a sequin dress, howling like an animal devouring its prey as the band keeps laying down a brutal vibe. The music kept on flowing, Jones commanded the stage, and the whole show just destroyed. She was moving so fast I couldn't get any pictures that weren't blurry. In short, those 30 some odd minutes were the highlight of entire Festival.

Ok, lets get back to the regular chronological order. No sense getting all fahklempt unless we absolutely have to.

This last day of the Festival, my friend Carrie and I tried a new breakfast place over by the Camellia Grill called Refuel. Its a couple of blocks down from the Maple Leaf. Its a really nice room with counter service, and they focus on fresh, natural ingredients and healthy dishes (something of a premium in the Big Easy).  I had a "runner's breakfast," which was a whole grain bagel with spinach, eggs, and jack cheese, with a side of fresh fruit. Really good. Once again, we arrived around 9, just before the rush, and left as people were milling about outside waiting for our table. Vultures.

Once we made it out to the Fest, it was time for the morning prayer and then I remained in the Gospel Tent to enjoy the Rocks of Harmony. This is one of the oldest continuing gospel groups in the city, but they still pack a tremendous punch. These guys continuously got off the stage and into the crowd, holding hands with audience members, dancing to the music, and generally whipping the Tent into a genuine old-time religious fervor. Try finding that kind of passion in your new age, Joel Osteen, "everything is beautiful" churches. As with many other gospel groups, I dug the matching suits.

From there I slid over to the Jazz Tent to hear the UNO Jazz All Stars. This was pretty much just killing time until some name acts came on, but these grad students played really well. Its amazing just how many talented musicians live in New Orleans. They played some fairly straightforward contemporary jazz, soothing to the soul though musically challenging. In no way did this resemble Kenny G. These guys have spent several years in school perfecting their talents. Think about that when I get to the Foo Fighters.

I then headed to the Fais Do Do tent, where the Red Stick Ramblers, from Eunice, briefly doubled as Annie Tee and the Bayou Cadillacs for a filming of the HBO series, Treme. Its kind of bizarre, but I've never seen this show, set and filmed in New Orleans. Its about the Treme neighborhood, set in the aftermath of Katrina. The show features local musicians in guest spots, and wanted to film an episode at the Jazz Fest. One of the stars, Lucia Micarelli, played a couple of songs in character with the Ramblers backing her as a fictional band, and the HBO cameras recorded it. They took extensive crowd shots, and the area seemed a little unusually packed for that time of day. After she finished her two songs, about a quarter of the crowd left, which struck me as odd. Why would anyone show up just to see a TV show filming? Ever noticed those mutants lined up outside the Today show studio windows? Exactly. Once that was over though, the Ramblers settled in for an excellent set that was more Willie's Roadhouse country than zydeco or Cajun. I'd call it more "Cajun influenced" than Cajun. I found a little spot of shade just under a light tower, and enjoyed that small little oasis of tranquility amid the surface of the sun temperatures otherwise prevailing around me.

But all good things must end, or at least give way to other good things. So I quickly beat it over to the Gospel Tent to renew my appreciation of the Zion Harmonizers. I've written before about Brother Sherman Washington, who founded and led the Harmonizers for over 60 years. Bro. Sherman founded the Gospel Tent, which provides the "soul" of the Jazz Fest and allows people from all over the world to appreciate the gospel music of the black church. Here, unfortunately, is one of the few areas where blacks and whites come together and enjoy the same music at Jazz Fest. His image is literally the symbol of the Tent. Even in his declining years, from a wheelchair, probably suffering mentally as well, his booming voice and presence could still move the crowd to its feet or to its knees. He sang "I Want to Be At the Meeting" at his last Jazz Fest and I'll always remember it. This was the first time I'd seen the Harmonizers without Bro. Sherman on stage. They seemed a lot more subdued. More dignified and less relentless. They had a great show, but maybe they didn't quite reach the old magical heights. Or maybe its just unfair to compare anyone to Bro. Sherman Washington, who had enough energy to power about 10 gospel groups.

I left the sacred and headed straight for the secular, in the form of another New Orleans institution, the Funky Meters.  This requires a bit of explanation. The Meters were one of New Orleans' most famous R&B and soul acts, charting with several hits like Hey Pocky Way, Mardi Gras Mambo, and Cissy Strut. They sort of didn't get along after awhile, or just decided they had better things to do, and broke up in the 1970s. But about 10 years later, three of the original four members (including Art Neville), formed the Funky Meters, which basically was a dirtier, funkier version of the original Meters. I enjoyed it, and the crowd really got into it, but it just seemed a little too down and dirty for me. At times it sounded like a porno soundtrack, actually (well, just based on what I've heard....). Just a bit too chunky for my taste. But they won't miss me; the Gentilly Stage crowd seemed totally packed.

Then it was time for the Main Event. No, not Sinatra at the Garden. The Foo Fighters. Wow. This was without question the hardest rocking show I've ever seen at Jazz Fest. The previous winner, the Strokes, looked like a Bon Jovi cover band or "Scrantonicity" compared to the Foo Fighters. The performance was earth shaking. Literally. I was standing about 30 feet from the speakers and the ground was vibrating under me. I'm not a long time, obsessed, proto-stalker Foo Fighters fan the way many in the packed crowd were, so I unfortunately can't take you through the set list and describe every version of every song. I did recognize many songs, so I'm pretty sure they played all the "hits." About the best I can do is to compare it to Nirvana on steroids, force fed espresso for about 30 days' straight, and then cycled through a course of ADHD drugs. Having seen almost all the "rock gods" in concert, though, several things stood out to me. Most obviously, the band's incredible stamina. They played a full two hours, in oppressive heat and humidity, with Dave Grohl screaming as loudly for the last word of the last song as the first word of the first song and running non-stop from one side of the stage to the other. He even played drums on one song, and as my friend Carrie pointed out, looked like Animal from the Muppets in doing so. No ballads, no songs where one guy played the guitar while everyone else took a break. They were into every song, full tilt, the whole time. That's hard to do for one show, but almost unimaginable they can sustain that for an entire tour, year after year. Another thing that stands out immediately is Dave Grohl's sincerity and showmanship. The witty, down to earth guy you see on the talk shows? That's who shows up in concert too. No phony exhortations to the crowd to start rocking, or extended self-congratulatory drivel. Its like the most interesting guy in your circle of friends invited you over to his place to hang out for a couple of hours, and you listened to some great music as you did. Really funny one-liners never stopped. After they played a cover of Pink Floyd's "In the Flesh," he said, "we wrote that one last week." He told parents who pay $30 a lesson for their kids to have guitar lessons, that only one band member can read music, and he never had any lessons "and look who's on the big stage at Jazz Fest."  When he drank from his beer, he looked to the stagehands and asked "do these come in 'cold'?"  He busted the audience's unbidden attempt to sing the chorus of one song as a "noble effort," but said "you don't get to the big stage singing like that." He chastised the drummer for using bad language, when nearly every other word out of Grohl's mouth was dirty. When guitarist Pat Smear's wife brought out a birthday cake to celebrate his 41st birthday on stage, Grohl led the crowd in singing Happy Birthday, then referred to him as "Auxiliary Guitarist." He even begged the crowd at one point not to cheer so much because it made them nervous. So Grohl displayed outstanding showmanship and band fronting ability, of a type rarely seen from today's mumbling, inarticulate musicians who can scarcely muster up much in the way of the spoken word beyond "please buy my new CD." I guess the final, related thing that stood out was these guys play. At one point Grohl congratulated all the bands at Jazz Fest who don't "have computers play their instruments." Three guitars, a drummer, and a keyboardist comprise the Foo Fighters attack, and they just laid the wood to it for two hours. Contrast that with the Eagles or other famous names, whom hired hands playing the actual instruments often outnumber the name members on stage by about two to one, as the name members just kind of strum along on a wooden guitar or shake a tamborine. [cough, the Neville Brothers, cough]. So, I give the Foo Fighters two thumbs up.

Then we come to the Neville Brothers. What are we going to do with you? I've said before, I've tried, I've really tried, to like these guys for over 20 years. It just hasn't taken. I've written before about the friction and general "bad mojo" between the band members and the city, and lately that has colored my reaction to their music. Its like they're mad at us that we don't hold them in even greater honor and kiss their backside even more than we already do, 'cause, you know, they're so awesome and everything. My God, they get the closing slot at Jazz Fest every year (even after they blow off the Festival for a few years), they're universally called "New Orleans First Family of Music" (which is ridiculous in a town that gave birth to the Marsalis family), and their mere mention is always in hushed tones normally reserved for Jesus. Or Obama. The point is, I can hardly think of the Neville Brothers any more without thinking "entitlement." Apparently a lot of other people think that too, because the Acura Stage crowd had thinned considerably after the Foo Fighters' show. It looked like mid-day density, with plenty of open space to throw frisbees, hold a pilates class, build a sundial, or graze cattle. I didn't stay beyond three or four songs, each of which (like "Hey Pocky Way") were pretty tired old staples, played with a seemingly tired, "we're here so mail us our check now, ok" attitude. If the Foo Fighters' energy and passion was a 10, the Nevilles were at a 2 (just ahead of guy fixing his clogged kitchen sink).

So I bailed on the Nevilles and decided to duck in to the Blues Tent on the way out, and then, well, you know the rest of the story.

Thus closes another Jazz Fest. Now, to close, I want to take you behind the curtain.  Its getting harder and harder to stand out in the field each year. Its like that scene in Bridge on the River Kwai, where the camp Commandant makes the British officers stand at attention all day in the broiling sun. Except its four days and I do get occasional water breaks. Its becoming more and more expensive, I'm pretty physically beat down when I leave and it takes about a week or so to recover, the crowds are getting progressively worse, and so too is the attitude of those who work at the Festival. Honestly, if any of them had tasers or guns I think we'd have had a body count.

So I may need to rethink this annual tradition. One possibility is that it becomes a TCM Classic Movie Festival tradition from here on out. Its in Los Angeles, and held in some classic movie venues like Graumann's Chinese Theatre. A star from the movie often appears and discusses it before it starts, as did Eva Marie Saint before North By Northwest one year. And its around the same time of year. Beats the skin cancer exposure and cholesterol assault that Jazz Fest entails. We'll see what happens.

Meanwhile, thanks for struggling along with me. See you soon!

Support for Bill Powers

Here is the text of an e-mail I sent to the University of Texas System Board of Regents and the Chancellor, supporting President William Powers. Rumors have been published that the Board has asked the Chancellor to fire President Powers for publicly expressing "disappointment" that the Regents rejected his proposal to increase University tuition, as well as for resisting Governor Perry's farcical "reform" agenda concerning faculty evaluation and related programs.

I am a 1986 Texas graduate, and a 1989 Texas Law School graduate. I strongly support my former law professor, President William Powers, and urge in the strongest possible terms that he continue his excellent work as President of the University. Bill is a scholar, leader, and a Longhorn in the truest sense. He has done a fantastic job of leading our University through difficult challenges, and the University has never been stronger in my lifetime. I am extremely proud of the job Bill has done.


Any question of his "disrespect" of the Board or its members is simply foolish. Bill's expressions of disappointment in certain decisions reflect his strong passion for the University's welfare, and in no way reflect disrespect or refusal to work with the Board in enhancing the University's reputation.

Having said that, our University needs independent administrators, not political yes men. Firing Bill would destroy years' worth of repair to the damage our University suffered in the 50s, 60s, and 70s when heavy-handed Governors and their Regent cronies used UT as their political playground. What qualified university president would lead Texas should the Regents fire Bill in a fit of pique? What well-heeled donor would continue throwing money at an institution led by cronyism and political patronage rather than the needs of scholarship and academic advancement?

Your role in shaping the University of Texas System's future represents a trust that the people of Texas, present and future, have conferred on you. You make decisions not just for today, but for next year, next decade, and the next 100 years. The University is one of Texas' most important institutions. It has a place among the world's leading academic institutions. The trust that Texas has bestowed on you demands that you make decisions not out of blind adherence to our Governor's or any elected official's political agenda, but on what is right for the University and for Texas.

I submit that at this point in time, Bill Powers is right for the University and right for Texas.

Thank you for considering my views.

Chris Reeder
University of Texas at Austin, BA '86, JD '89
[Address omitted]

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.