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2009-11-14T10:04:00.002-05:00

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The Rise and Fall of Music in the 20th Century

2009-08-03T14:23:00.002-04:00

What the Fuck Is Wrong With You People?

2009-08-01T17:37:00.029-04:00

As I sat at home yesterday, frantically refreshing the Doppler on Weather.com, I wondered how much I really care about Soulive. I used to love this band circa 2000 and 2001, but somewhere along the way, I lost interest. It’s been so damn long that I don’t recall what drove me away, but I think it may have coincided with the moment when they stopped wearing suits on stage. Anyone who has seen my disheveled appearance knows that I’m far from a disciple of the fashion police, but I seem to recall their sound taking a different direction once the suits disappeared. They lost a little of their connection to the old school funk and veered off on a path that no longer appealed to me. Of course, this was all so long ago that I could be grossly misreading Soulive’s history. The fact remains that when it comes to music, I’m a highly judgmental sonofabitch, and when I’m faced with the embarrassment of musical riches that New York City provides on a daily basis, I’m (often unfairly) quick to the cut the cord on a band that has a couple of mediocre shows. Sometimes, it’s two strikes and you’re out.

So the question remained: Did I like Soulive enough to stand out in a deluge of rain while they would play their 10th Anniversary Celebration gig? I had been to Celebrate Brooklyn the night before for a uncharacteristically fair set from Naomi Shelton & The Gospel Queens and a phenomenal set from Burning Spear. It was probably the first time I’d gone to the Prospect Park Bandshell solo, and I instantly made friends while surrounded by every Jamaican living in the city of New York, all of whom made significant contributions to a cloud laced with delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol that permanently hung over the lawn like the fog in the San Francisco Bay. While Thursday was fun, did I want to take the solo plunge again? Citing the rain and their fear of melting, my Nervous Nellie friends had previously made firm commitments to this show but were now withdrawing faster than a sixteen year old without protection in the backseat of a Ford Escort. For a few hours, I fell under their pessimistic spell until I finally realized that a man who lives a full-throttle lifestyle does not take nights off because of rain. No, sir, it was time to man-up and do this thing.

I didn’t arrive to the park until 9:00, and even though I pleaded with others WHO ACTUALLY LIVE WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF THE PARK to join, I was met with pathetic text excuses:

“I think it might be canceled.”

“You’re only gonna see one hour of music.”

“You might stub your toe.”

Nevertheless, I arrived to see Soulive tearing it up in a nasty way for an appreciative but small crowd. The rain had rendered the muddy lawn vacant, and the puddles on the seats caused everyone remaining to get up on their feet. This all resulted in an excellent dance-a-thon, and Soulive delivered. It had been at least six years since I’d seen a full Soulive show, and either Neal Evans has grown tremendously over that time or I have a terrible memory. In any case, his ability to mimic a bass guitar with the lefthand on his keys is now unrivaled. By the end of the show, he was laying down the most ridiculous, funked-out basslines with a hyperkinetic blazing speed that bass guitarists could only dream of matching. Guitarist Eric Krasno was a perfect foil, displaying aggressiveness and bite, and drummer Alan Evans put some dip in my hip with thumping beats. Rounding out the lineup, the Shady Horns dropped some 1970s-inflected soul into the proceedings, and guitarist John Scofield sat in and showed why he’s still a badass at 57 years of age.

Scofield and Krasno duel. - Photo by Allison Murphy Photography

The finale was Stevie Wonder’s “Jesus Children of America” jammed into Sly and The Family Stone’s “If You Want Me to Stay,” featuring vocals from Nigel Hall, as well as Ivan Neville and Tony Hall of Dumpstaphunk, whose set I sadly missed while foolishly debating with the rain.

Nigel Hall on the vocals. - Photo by Allison Murphy Photography

Nigel Hall and Tony Hall get into it. - Photo by Allison Murphy Photography

The Grand Finale. - Photo by http://www.ga-photos.com

Download the show at http://www.archive.org/details/soulive2009-07-31 or stream it here:

I was feeling too good to quit now, and after attempting in vain to get some Park Slope friends to redeem themselves and salvage the evening, I journeyed onward to Barbes, the tiny little bar with music that’s the hidden gem of Brooklyn. Someone earlier asked me who was playing, and I responded by saying, “Does it matter?” 90% of my visits to Barbes have featured musicians I’ve never heard of before, but they’re always phenomenal. Last night was no exception.

Scott Kettner’s Forro Brass Band was holding court in the backroom, which was naturally crowded but not uncomfortably so. When I walked in, they were deep in the midst of a sweaty samba jam, and I had never seen a crowd like this at Barbes. Usually, you see a mix of people that are attentively enjoying the music, a couple of dancers, the occasional talker who was dragged there by her friends, and a hipster or two who mistakenly wandered southward from Union Hall. However, last night the backroom was a slithering pit of lithe bodies dancing salsa, cha-cha, and just undulating to the heavily addictive, pulsating percussive grooves laid down by Kettner. The horns added some brightness and flair, and guest guitarist Jesse Lenat brought a rollicking country soul feel to the ensemble. It didn’t take long before they had a whole New Orleans thang goin’ on, and this unique hybrid of secondline, Brazilian, and bouncing blues created a wild Carnival atmosphere in the backroom. The closer of “Big Leg Woman” had everyone doing a crazed strut, and the encore, which was desperately squeezed in before midnight, had us all singing on a full-throated call-and-response to “When I Lay My Burden Down.” It was a highly charged ending to a great night of music, a stellar evening that would be capped by slice from Smiling Pizza and a miraculous appearance by the ever-elusive G-train.

I only wish some of you people in Park Slope could have gotten off of your lazy asses to experience it!

"I Want To Take You Higher!" - THE Show of the Year 7.16.09

2009-07-18T03:28:00.008-04:00

Thursday’s triple-header began at Union Square, where despite an earlier threat of rain, Buzz Universe took the stage with a radiant sun setting across them. They gradually built a large crowd and entranced many with their galloping grooves delicately seasoned with Latin spices. The gig was a lot of fun, and I would have loved to have stayed, but after 30 minutes, I needed to get downtown to Castle Clinton for Destination 2: Electric Boogaloo.

Castle Clinton is an 1812-era fort that was built to protect Lower Manhattan but was never actually attacked. After outgrowing its use as a military installation, it eventually became a beer garden, a covered opera house, and then an immigrant processing center before losing its roof while returning to original form and serving as a national park. Now the River to River concert series hosts events there to a mostly seated, polite audience.

Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

Celebrating the 40th Anniversary of Woodstock, many of the city's myriad of free concerts are paying tribute to the performers of the legendary three-day Aquarian Exposition. Last night, the incredibly talented Steven Bernstein and his Millennial Territory Orchestra (along with plenty of all-star guests, such as Bernie Worrell and Vernon Reid) paid homage to Sly & The Family Stone in a thrilling 90 minute performance that nearly rocked Castle Clinton to it's nearly 200-year-old foundation.

Bernie Worrell - Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

Vernon Reid - Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

After the band made their way through an instrumental opening, we found ourselves wriggling inside "Stand." The gloves came off, and the funk was dropped in a serious way. I immediately took the advice of the lyrics and knew that sitting was no longer an option. I made my way into a roped-off area where the funked-out freaks cut loose with abandon while remaining separated from the seated folk, who looked at us with a mixture of curiosity and longing, as if they secretly wanted to join the wild animals in the cage but were too white to do so. Nevertheless, many of the heavy-assed crowd gave the band a standing ovation, and I knew that even though we were only one song in, this was going to be a stellar evening beyond compare.

"Fun" jammed straight into "M'lady," which took about 2 seconds to initiate the liftoff sequence. This was so…damn…fon-kay. Some of the baddest reeds I’ll ever hear were swirling around this gem.

Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

While the funkiness was fantastic, it wasn’t until Shilpa Ray took the stage that I realized we were witnessing greatness. After Bernstein reminded everyone of Sly’s famous quote “Don’t hate the black; don’t hate the white. If you get bit, hate the bite,” Ray began singing what may be the most cathartic version of “Everyday People” to be heard in the last 30 or so years. Accompanied by the ancient, hypnotic Eastern drones of her harmonium, she led the ensemble through a tremendously pensive rendition of this iconic song of togetherness. I hesitate to use these words because I think they have become little more than cliché, but I truly felt chills run up and down my spine while listening to her voice, a voice so simple and pure that it sounded like a matte finish. These lyrics were hitting home, and when a cynic like me is suddenly filled with an overwhelming rush of naïveté and love that can make you believe we can bring the whole world together--- well, that’s the power of artistic genius. The Millennial Territory Orchestra took a brilliant work, reinvented it and twisted it through the dueling prisms of modern times and archaic musical styles to add a whole new level of depth and understanding.

Shilpa Ray wailing and playing harmoninum - Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

That’s when I knew that this was no ordinary show. Nay, we were witnessing the Show of the Year.

Mind you, this is not a mark of exaggeration. There was a rare level of inventiveness and virtuoso musicianship on display in this show, and the results were deeply affecting everyone within earshot. Those who were seated, swayed with rapt attention, while those who stood experienced involuntary muscle spasms, as waves of kinetic energy rifled through the air.

And who the Hell takes Larry Graham’s signature funk-throttling electric basslines and divvies them up between an acoustic upright bass and a horn section while weaving in interludes laced with klezmer to yield stellar results? Steven Bernstein, that’s who!

Steven Bernstein - Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

There was no let up here. Every arrangement and performance of every song was nothing less than a building block in one phenomenally moving experience. Martha Wainwright delivered an over-dramatic version of “Que Sera Sera” but it was so heartfelt that we all bought into every uplifting word of it.

Martha Wainwright - Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

Dean Bowman brought a bafflingly broad vocal range to sing lines that were all over the scale in a jubilant “Sing a Simple Song.”

Dean Bowman - Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

And then came the finale.

After sitting for nearly 90 minutes, the crowd finally broke free from the chains of their chairs on “Dance to the Music.” Leaping to their feet, people sang and bounced around to the modern-day Ode to Joy. Those of us who had already been dancing took this as our cue to begin the epic full-body freakout—well, at least I did. I’m not really sure what the people around me were doing because I was in a total trance. My movements were no longer voluntary. The music of Sly Stone was commanding my central nervous system, and his lyrics of unrepentant bliss had permeated even the darkest corners of my soul. When “I Want To Take You Higher” and “Music Lover” had been weaved in, we all responded by shouting “HIGHER!” Each one was challenging Bernstein to take us to loftier heights, and he and his compatriots had just enough rocket fuel to blow that old fort to shreds.

Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

"I Want To Take You HIGH-ER!"
- Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

Bernstein lifts off on the final note
- Photo courtesy of http://www.ga-photos.com

It was a simply stunning ending to a mindblowing concert. I was covered in sweat and pulsating with adrenaline. I needed more, so I quickly convinced my business manager to hop in a cab with me in a mad dash to climb nearly 100 blocks north to Lincoln Center for the last hour of the Ponderosa Stomp. We were overflowing with energy, so we engaged our poor cabbie in a bout of rapid-fire conversation and questioning that probably bordered on interrogation. He was initially scared of us, but by the end of the ride, he was talking and opening up in a way that he probably hasn’t in many years. We did our best to convince him to stop being a hermit, give up his addiction to Off-Track Betting, and get out to go see live music.

Unfortunately, what we saw of the Ponderosa Stomp was a bit of a letdown. We were far too wired to appreciate William Bell’s ballad-heavy set, including “You Don’t You Miss Your Water.” It didn’t help that I kept thinking William Bell was Archie Bell, expecting a “Tighten Up” that never arrived. While the show ended on a high note with The Bobbettes’ “I Shot Mr. Lee,” it really just paled in comparison to what we had experienced at Castle Clinton. The disappointment was inevitable because once you’ve been to the mountaintop, there’s nowhere to go but down.

It may seem ridiculous, but I cannot throw enough ebullient praise in the direction of Steven Bernstein’s Millennial Territory Orchestra. Their show had a little something to please everyone from the jazz snobs to the fist-pumping lovers of shredding guitars to the indie rock whores to the klezmer-addicted Hassidim to the funk-worshipping lapsed Jews. Over a day later, I remain convinced that those in attendance witnessed the show of the year. As a matter of fact, I will publicly challenge anyone who attended that show to prove me wrong. I am adamant about the unprecedented level of inspired wizardry that took place on that stage, and if you want to debate me on this, go for it. I’ll just warn you now that you had better have your shit together because if you haven’t noticed, I feel kinda strongly about this subject, and I will come prepared with full color charts and graphs in tow.

You had better accept it or you betta bring it!

Consider the Thursday Night Tripleheader

2009-07-14T12:08:00.007-04:00

Dear Friends,

July finds us deep in the throws of a plague of phenomenal music. It is absolutely criminal that we must face so many daunting choices for entertainment each evening, and so much of it is devilishly free. I abhor this situation, and I’m tired of suffering from FOMS (Fear Of Missing Something). This Thursday features an extraordinarily cruel spate of options, and I feel as though the only way to combat this conundrum is by attempting to see as much as humanly possible. Therefore, I invite you to entertain the Thursday Night Tripleheader.

The best part of this exciting endeavor is that the music won’t cost you one red cent. Sadly, we’re only scratching the surface of Thursday’s free musical delights, and if anyone has devised an inexpensive way to stop time, please get in touch because I’d also like to catch Man Man at East River Park, Kronos Quartet with Luminescent Orchestrii at Celebrate Brooklyn, as well as Credence Clearwater Revisited, Mountain, and John Sebastian at Asser Levy Seaside Park in Coney Island.

But I digress…back to the tripleheader at hand.

Any successful tripleheader begins with a plan and advance scouting, so if you follow this schedule, all your Thursday evening dreams will come true:

5:00 PM – Get way downtown (or send a proxy on your behalf) to Castle Clinton, where tickets will be distributed for that evening’s Steven Bernstein’s Millennial Territory Orchestra’s tribute to Sly & the Family Stone. I don’t know how long it will take for these tickets to be distributed, but the venue only holds about 750.

6:00 PM – Get thee up to Union Square, where Freaks’ fav Buzz Universe will be headlining Summer in the Square for an hour set of Latin-tinged, butt-shakin’ grooves.

6:35 PM – Depart Union Square with expediency and get on the 4/5 to Bowling Green. This should get us to the show just in time.

7:00 PM – Arrive at Castle Clinton for Steven Bernstein’s Millennial Territory Orchestra’s tribute to Sly & the Family Stone. Yeah, we’ll be in the back, but that’s fine because we’ll want to dance. If you want to sit down during a Sly & The Family Stone Tribute, please do not consider doing the Thursday Night Tripleheader, rather you should go straight to the city morgue because you are probably dead.

8:30ish PM – The show ends. We have grooved with the best of ‘em, but we’re just getting warmed up. Unfortunately, we have no time to socialize, chit-chat, or even wave goodbye. We are on a mission, and we need to make like Christopher Cross and run…run like the wind! We’ll be getting our asses uptown to Lincoln Center post-haste. Hopstop says both the 1 train and a cab will each take 36 minutes, so we’ll gauge the weather, consult our astrologists, and decide on a transportation method and GO, BABY GO!

9:00ish PM – We arrive at Lincoln Center’s Midsummer Swing to catch the last hour of the Ponderosa Stomp’s presentation of Get Down! This bill features some funky-ass performers, including William Bell, Harvey Scales, and The Bobettes, with The Bo-Keys. Do you doubt the awesome funk power of this lineup? Well, after you listen to the clips on this link, ye shall doubt no more:

http://new.lincolncenter.org/live/index.php/the-get-down

10:00 PM – The show ends. We just did 3 shows in 4 hours and traveled all over Manhattan. But it’s only 10:00… Could there be a quadruple header in our future?....

Birthday a la Solitude

2009-02-26T14:00:00.013-05:00

When you tell people that you're celebrating your birthday by dining solo, the reaction ranges from "That's so sad!" to "That's so awesome!" Many thought there was a good chance I'd end the evening either in my bathtub with my wrists slit or sitting at home with a smile on my face. Because I have an aversion to the sight of my own blood, I opted for the latter.

While my birthday fell on a Wednesday, it was only appropriate to celebrate the night before on Fat Tuesday. After Ryan and Sarah treated me to an excellent dinner at Vynl that included a deliciously rich Black Truffle Mac 'n Cheese special (apparently, this recipe was the winner on Top Chef Season One), a gaggle of my closest friends gathered for a great Nola-style throwdown at Sullivan Hall featuring The Funky Fritters and Bill Malchow & The Go-Cup All-Stars (with a 4 piece horn section and backup singers!) playing the classic album, Dr. John's Gumbo. I had a blast and got down and funked it up with my good buddy John Jameson by my side. Amazingly, I avoided drinking too much (a first) and woke up in my bed instead of on the living room floor under the coffee table (yet another first).

I decided that Wednesday's celebration would be a little more subdued. Upon reading that some of the best cassoulet in the city is served at Jarnac, I had found my target. I wanted to go by myself because I find that the rare, solo dinner is the best way to appreciate what you're eating. The distractions, needs, and complications of others are removed, and all that remains are you and your delectable meal. Dining solo gives you all the time in the world to slowly savor and focus on every bite of your food. (If you think this is a pretentious load of bullshit, piss off! It's my party, and I'll cry in my food if I want to!)

Jarnac is in a quaint little room in the West Village, just below the obnoxious Meat-Packing District. As soon as I entered, I was greeted warmly by the jovial staff, especially the fun-loving owner, Tony. Including the owner, a team of four people waited on the tables and tended bar interchangeably, everyone constantly shifting responsibilities and no one claiming specific tables as their own territory. I'm sure this cannot be the only restaurant that approaches service in this logical yet casual way, but this was the first time I'd experienced it. Everyone was so warm and friendly that I really felt at home the entire time.

Initially, I thought I'd be good and forgo the alcohol for a nice, restrained meal. It wasn’t long before I realized that this was a dumb idea because the words “restrained” and “Brian Ferdman” do not belong in the same sentence. Upon considering that all three of my readers seem to be disappointed when I write about anything that isn’t completely gluttonous, I decided to throw caution to the wind because you only turn 33 once. I started with a French 75, a cocktail that I first became a fan of in New Orleans. Jarnac’s version mixed the standard cognac and champagne, but there was more than the normal amount of citrus in it. Normally, a French 75 tends to be a sweeter drink, but this creation was quite tart and a refreshing way to begin the meal.

I made a nice choice with the Roasted Bosc Pear, Red and Gold Beets with Forme d’Ambert Dressing. This was a well-composed dish, as the flavors seemed to reveal themselves in shades of one another. First you had the sweetness of what I believe were candied pecans. Then things scaled back a tad with the sweet roasted pear, which was followed by the mellower sweetness of the red beets and the semi-sweet but slightly savory gold beets. Put all of this on some peppery arugula with a little chive, lightly toss on some mild cheese dressing, and you got yourself a winner.

For the main course, I went with the much-vaunted Cassoulet along with a side of Carmelized Baby Brussel Sprouts and a glass of Côte du Rhone. This cassoulet was a dynamite concoction, and there’s a reason why it takes the chef three days to prepare it. Duck confit, pork cheeks, and some truly stellar, savory pork sausage all sat in a bubbling hot dish with plenty of white beans, tomato, herbs, and garlic. It was a mouthwateringly brilliant combination and certainly the best cassoulet I’ve ever eaten.

The baby Brussel sprouts provided a nice bitter contrast. The carmelization was essential to their flavor, although I have to admit that I found their texture to be a little mushy. I’m not sure if this lack of density can be attributed to their young age and small size or the fact that they might not have been parboiled and shocked prior to sautéing.

Cassoulet demolished. (Inexplicably, my boss always says that it's impolite to finish all of the food on your plate. She says you should always leave something, so I felt generous and left a bone.)

Upon finishing all of that food, I was more than full, but a waitress was really twisting my arm to order dessert. Finally, I chose something that seemed small and wouldn’t put me to sleep—Vanilla Gelato with a Shot of Espresso. The waiters delivered the dish with their back to the table, waiting until the last second to reveal the candle nestled in a small cookie on the plate. The dessert was another winning combo, as the waitress poured the espresso on top of the gelato to create the coffee equivalent of a root beer float. It was a great finale and was further enhanced by some complimentary champagne. This champagne had a sweeter, peach flavor and was made with Semillon grapes. I believe it was called Clos du Somethingfrench. As soon as I’d finished my glass, Tony immediately filled it up again, and had I not insisted on the check, I’d probably be still be there, on my 17^th glass and thinking about sleeping on the floor.

Much has been made about New York restaurants rolling out the red carpet in an attempt to persuade guests to come back again soon. I don’t know if that’s what was happening at Jarnac, but I really don’t care. French restaurants aren’t typically lighthearted, fun places to eat, but this staff seemed to be having a great time, which naturally rubbed off on the customers. The synthesis of well-crafted food and friendly service certainly made for a fantastic birthday meal and effectively ensured I will return to Jarnac in the near future.

Some People REALLY Hate Me

2008-11-23T09:00:00.003-05:00

A very funny thing happened on Friday night.

I went to Banjo Jim’s to meet my friend, Portia. (NOTE: The names in this story have been changed to protect the guilty.) We were there to see Adrienne Young, backed by members of Railroad Earth, including Tim Carbone, John Skehan, Johnny Grubb, and Andy Goessling, a conglomeration that is often referred to as The Shockenaw Mountain Boys. It was an awesome show, and I told Portia that I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen that many virtuosos in such a tiny room. When the band started, the joint was filled (around 25 people), but it was comfortably filled. By the time the set ended, around 10-15 more people had arrived, which forced the manager to turn on the air conditioner…on a night when it was 30 degrees outside! Nevertheless, there was tremendous energy in the room, as everyone was whoopin’ and hollerin’ after every blazing run down the frets by the Railroad Earth guys, who were really on fire.

It was also a rare chance for New York folk to see these guys in a different element, particularly Andy Goessling, who normally plays the role of “the quiet one.” In fact, during soundcheck, they asked Andy to say something on his mic and “keep talking,” which caused a guy to turn to me and say, “Who are they kidding? He hasn’t said anything in four years!” Something must have been in the air last night because Andy suddenly became very Biden-esque, loquaciously grabbing the mic during tuning, telling jokes that weren’t very funny, but we all gave him a big laugh anyway because it was funny to see him play the role of comic relief.

Somewhat amazingly, the guys were not really familiar with Adrienne and had only rehearsed with her for a few hours prior to the gig. Nevertheless, they culled together a setlist of her originals and some choice covers, including a thrilling bluegrass rendition of “Midnight Rider.”

Adrienne played clawhammer banjo, a style of playing that you rarely hear these days. She also shifted off to play some snare with brushes for a number. Her voice had an earthy twang, and it was obvious that she writes some great songs. Could she instrumentally hang with The Shockenaw Mountain Boys? Honestly, not many people can because their talents and skills reside on another plane. However, she added nice texture to the sound, and her singing and compositions gave them a launching pad for their swirling solos. Her show closer, “Jump the Broom,” was especially fine, and the entire bar was going nuts after its wild (and seemingly impromptu) breakdown. There was no way that the musicians were escaping without one more, and the loudest 40 people in New York City made sure they would play an encore. “Ragtime Annie Lee” is probably my favorite encore that I’ve seen from Railroad Earth because I love how they keep ramping up the tempo to truly insane levels. Such was the case Friday night, as they took they song to a frenetic pace…and then continued to kick it up several more notches. Ms. Young’s eyeballs started to bulge out of her head with every tempo increase, and when she finally realized the song was ending, she had this hysterically funny look of relief on her face. It was priceless.

Afterwards, Portia and I set out to get some dinner. Cassius, a friend of hers whom I had just met, said he would join us in a bit, so we walked over to Mercadito and put our name on the list.

Sidenote: Thanks to a delectable lunch at Artichoke Basille, I was still rather full. I had been wanting to visit the fabled pizzeria in a space the size of a broom closet for some time now and was thrilled to try both their crab slice and their artichoke-spinach slice. The crab was deliciously luscious and rich, and the artichoke-spinach was like having a huge terrine of creamy artichoke-spinach dip on a big, thick slice. If you like those flavors, you will love this slice. Thankfully, I do! I will say it’s a pain in the ass to eat because the slice is so fresh and lava hot, and it’s loaded with toppings that slosh around everywhere. This is no high-end joint, so if you get a little messy, that’s okay. The prices ($4 for each slice) are a real bargain because the artichoke-spinach slice is hearty enough to qualify as a meal for most people. I also have to mention the friendly reg-u-lah guy vibe the men who work there exude. I will definitely be back.

Meanwhile, back in the recent past…

While waiting for a table at the tiny and cramped Mercadito, we went across the street for a drink at Rue B, a charming little spot with welcoming décor, fine cocktails, and an inoffensive if not noteworthy jazz trio. We had some fancy but not very memorable drinks before Cassius joined us. Being a generous lad, he graciously bought me a margarita.

We then went over to Mercadito, where we ordered margaritas from a very attractive and helpful bartender. Since I’m a fan of good tequila, Cassius asked for my recommendation. I suggested he opt for Herradura Blanco, which is exceptionally smooth and blends well in margaritas. I opted for a Pepino Margarita, which subtly combined cucumber, lime, and chile de arbol into one fantastically refreshing concoction. Portia ordered the Jamaica Margarita with hibiscus, lime, and orange juice. For dinner, we all split an order of smoky, house-made chorizo and a large house salad with corn, jicama, queso fresco, and a tasty chipotle vinaigrette. Portia ordered the Corn Masa Quesadillas, which were more like little Mexican calzones. Cassius ordered the Carne Tacos, loaded with succulent rosemary grilled steak, potato-rajas fondue, and avocado-tomatillo salsa. His was an excellent choice. However, we universally agreed that I hit the jackpot when I went with the Estilo Baja Tacos, which featured beer-battered mahi mahi, Mexican-style cole slaw, and chipotle aioli. I only chose to eat at Mercadito last night after reading this article rating it as having served the best fish tacos in NYC, and even though the fish tacos I ordered were not the same as the ones featured in the review, they were so light and airy and had a wonderful blend of juicy flavors. I savored each and every bite.

After dinner, I returned from the restroom, and Cassisus asked, “So Brian, are you going to write a review of the show for Jambands.com?”

I immediately asked him how he knew I wrote for that site, and he just sat there smiling. I then asked Portia if she had told him who I was and what I did, and she said she hadn’t.

“You’re Brian Ferdman. You know Rainbow Brutus, right?”

Well yes, and yes, but that didn’t explain how he knew my last name without anyone telling him. I began to get a little uncomfortable but also incredibly curious as to where this was headed. He asked if I had seen any of the recent Phil Lesh and Friends shows, and I told him that I saw one, and it was mostly okay with a stellar ending, but the band would be better served with a dominant lead guitarist. He replied that he had seen all of the recent Phil shows and then asked, “So you wrote that review of the S.O.B.’s show that was posted on Philzone.com, right?”

Uh-oh.

Now I knew what was happening. That particular Phil show was one of the worst concerts I have ever seen. It was disjointed, uncomfortable, and unprofessional, and naturally, I wrote one of the harshest reviews I’ve ever written in response. This royally pissed off the collective of sycophantic apologists who reside at Philzone.com, people who think we should be eternally “grateful” for every note of music, praising everything we hear. You know, I not-so-humbly disagree with their philosophy and believe that if every piece of art is praised, the praise is worthless. I call it like I see it, and the brilliant moments receive ebullient praise while the horrendous experiences are described as such. It’s called being honest and fair, but many feel that any sort of criticism is unfair.

I’ve been known to enjoy a good argument or two, so I tried to reason with Cassius, who was now very drunk and close to foaming at the mouth. Not surprisingly, he was not interested in my rationale and laid into me on a variety of topics, such as my complaining about the ticket price (I had said that the $50 show made Phil & Friends the most expensive bar band in America), the fact that I like Warren Haynes (guilty as charged, no apology necessary), and the notion that I’m a Trey “Anastahsio” (sic) and Phish apologist. On the latter front, he deridingly asked if I was going to Hampton, and I told him that I didn’t even try because I think Phish won’t sound very good until they get their feet wet again. My response didn’t seem to faze him, as he went on a rant that involved the words “fuckin’ Phish” several times. Why is it that people who dislike Phish are always filled with such vitriol?

Circling back to my comments on the Phil show, he actually said, "YOU'RE the reason why Phil can't play small clubs anymore!" Seeing as how that's a totally absurd statement, I tried to argue that little ol' me has absolutely no effect on the venues where bands play, and why on Earth would Phil not be able to sell tickets to a 400-person venue when he just successfully sold plenty of tickets to a fourteen-night run in a 2,500 person venue?

However, he wasn't going to let me talk. He had waited a long time for this moment, and it was his time to shine.

"Your review was on the Internet-- it was seen by thousands of people!"

I hate to break his heart, but an average of seven people visit my blog daily; four of them are looking to pimp their junk technology website from Southeast Asia, two want to sell me a mail-order bride from Ukraine, and one is a deposed Nigerian prince who wants to deposit a large sum of money in my bank account. On the rare day when I actually post something, I pimp it to my friends and family, and about 50 of them click on it, mostly skimming and looking for pictures. Generally, only one person reads the entire long-winded entry. (Thanks, Mom!)

"Everyone listens to what you have to say, and all you do is rain on everyone’s parade."

Not true. The deposed Nigerian prince thinks I’m a positive and kind-hearted person, and that’s why he comes to me for assistance.

"No one cares what you have to say," he continued, completely contradicting everything he had previously said. Then, while leaving the jaws of the friendly lesbian couple to our left agape, stood up and shouted, "Everyone thinks Brian Ferguson (sic) is just a pompous, self-absorbed asshole, and Rainbow Brutus thinks so, too!"

Crestfallen, I looked upward and whispered, "Et tu, Bruté?"

And in a drunken, zigzagging flash, he raced out the door.

Wow. I was truly amazed by what had just transpired. Then I realized that I have finally made it, because I have my very own stalker. Now I know what it's like to be Paula Abdul! Knowing your stalker thinks you are a cold-hearted snake and picking up on all of that negative vibeology really improves the promise of a new day.

Ironically, in desperately trying to meet me face-to-face for over a year to tell me that I have a big ego, dear Cassius only served to swell my ego to epic proportions. Now that I have my own stalker, I am completely and totally full of myself, and I have the biggest head you've ever seen. Mom and Dad, I'm sorry that I won't be home for Thanksgiving because I can't fit my noggin through the front door.

I've always thought that my opinion on music is ultimately worthless to others because when it comes to art, the only opinion that matters is your own. I’ve just been writing these long-winded pieces to amuse myself, but now Cassius has made me realize that the influence of this little blog is rather far-reaching. Yes, my friends, I have truly arrived and my Intelligent Rectum is a global force to be reckoned with. Since I am apparently all-powerful, I’ve decided to use my powers for good. Therefore, I am officially finished with writing about music, food, and drink and have decided to focus on global affairs. Obviously, Cassius would back me up on the fact that if there is anyone who wields enough clout to solve the world’s problems, it’s me.

Consider this your warning, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, because my Intelligent Rectum is coming for you.

Margot Leverett and the Klezmer Mountain Boys at Drom 10-7-08

2008-10-08T13:40:00.006-04:00

Hot damn! This show was great!

It was my first visit to Drom, and I'll definitely go back. I've wanted to visit this club that specializes in world music (typically of the Eastern European variety) for about a year now, and I’m happy to report that it’s very nice inside with good sound. There is a decent amount of open space to sit or stand at the bar (far more room than a place like the Blue Note), but the ideal view is from the tables, which carry a $20 minimum that is easily met with their fine array of tapas. Senor Hochstat and I made this journey, and amongst the small plates we shared, I'd definitely recommend the Deep-Fried Okra with Sea Salt and Lemon and the Spanish Chorizo in Turkish Chili Pepper Sauce. The sauce was so damn tasty that I lapped it up with what must have been half a loaf of bread. I also had a Turkish beer, Effe, which was like a more flavorful pilsner. Believe it or not, “flavorful pilsner” is not an oxymoron.

Clarinetist Margo Leverett and the Klezmer Mountain Boys (Barry Mitterhoff, Kenny Kosek, Joe Selly, and Marty Confurius) came on stage around 8:30 and the fairly crowded house was treated to a phenomenal blend of klezmer and bluegrass. Others have mined the "Jewgrass" hybrid territory before (offhand, Hypnotic Clambake as well as Andy Statman and David Grisman's collaborations come to mind), but there was something different about this lineup, and I think it was Leverett's clarinet. Capable of oozing Eastern European sorrow and klezmerized unbridled joy, it was a great treat to really hear her delve into the traditional bluegrass numbers, such as "Lee Highway Blues." While there, she fit in perfectly. Her sound was very different than other reed players who’ve worked in this genre, forgoing the emotionally detached and smooth styles of Paul McCandless or Jeff Coffin and moving more toward an imitation of a mandolin or fiddle. I don’t know the term for it (I’m sure someone can correct me), but she was able to duplicate that sound mandolin and fiddle players make when they’re accompanying a soloist by just plucking on the upbeats. It was very cool.

There were special guests galore, including vocalist Jen Larsen from local bluegrass band Straight Drive, who sounded nice on “Lil’ Moses,” Klezmatics drummer David Licht, who was ripping it up all night long in a unique style that relied solely upon brushwork, and banjo machine Tony Trischka, who brought an amazing level of virtuosity and tasteful fills to the ensemble. Of course, everyone was buzzed to see Jorma Kaukonen, who had taught a class upstate earlier that day and rode in a car to come to this gig, only to immediately make the 3.5 hour trip back afterward. It was hilarious to watch the musicians fumble around and trip over each other on the tiny stage, as they attempted to untangle a web of powerstrips and microphone cables in order to get Jorma plugged in. I believe his first song was called “Electric Kugel,” and with him heavily in the mix, this became some sort of weird psychedelic kosher cowboy odyssey. He switched to acoustic for the next and last song of the set, which was more of a straight-ahead pickin’ number.

This really was a special show, and I can’t thank Gayle Kaufman enough for bringing it to my attention. I gave their new album, 2nd Avenue Square Dance, a quick listen this morning, and it’s great. It, too, is loaded with guests. In addition to those musicians mentioned above, the album boasts Darol Anger, Mike Marshall, Bryn Bright, Hazel Dickens, and many more on mostly lively instrumental tracks. I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone who is a fan of EITHER bluegrass or klezmer because more than likely, you will become a fan of both genres by the time you finish hearing it.

Who's in for Oktoberfest @ The Beer Garden?

2008-09-17T19:33:00.004-04:00

Is anyone interested in going to Oktoberfest at the Beer Garden at Bohemian Hall in Astoria?

Because this is Queens, i.e. the land of no common sense, Oktoberfest is held in September, more specifically, Saturday, September 27th at noon.

I've gone the past two years, and I've gotten quite intoxicated each time. It happens.

There's a $10 cover charge, and I would strongly suggest arriving at 11AM (it opens at noon), as a line will form to get inside. It's vital to be there early to not only grab a table but also to get those coveted pitchers. If I remember correctly (and considering how much I drank, that's debatable), the pitchers of Czech, German, and Belgian beer were rather affordable. It's also important to get there early so that you're tired of drinking and want to leave before the fratboys in plastic lederhosen take over the joint.

The Beer Garden gets so crowded these days that Oktoberfest seems to be my only annual appearance there. If you're ever going to visit it, it's probably the day to go because not only does everyone get smashed, but there are also oom-pah bands...and lasers...okay, maybe not lasers...but there will be people drunkenly dancing, which is just like lasers...except that it's not.

In any case, they limit the number of people they allow inside, so it doesn't get too crowded and the beer lines are manageable. Last year, they served roasted pig and kielbasa with dumplings. For vegetarians, I think they had something exciting like potatoes. Don't look at me, chief. I didn't create the cuisine of Eastern Europe. If you want something green, they might have rotten potatoes. Are you enticed yet?

Anyway, here's the tentative plan:

11:00AM - Arrive at Beer Garden and get in line. If coming from foreign boroughs, be sure to avoid arriving fashionably late and pissing off your friends who have waited all day long.

11:01AM - People from foreign boroughs complain about their commute, exaggerating how long it took them to get there on the train, bitching about having to travel "all the way to Queens."

11:02AM - People from Queens seethe internally towards Brian for inviting narcissists from Manhattan and Brooklyn.

11:08AM - Someone has to pee.

11:25AM - Someone is late driving in from Brooklyn and calls to complain about how confusing the streets of Queens are, despite the fact that Astoria is arranged with far more common sense than hallowed Park Slope.

11:40AM - To break up the mundane routine of waiting, Brian tells an inappropriate story that he thinks is hilarious.

11:41AM - Awkward silence.

11:59AM - Someone who believes Manhattan is the center of the universe arrives, bitching about the trains, even though everyone knows that she/he just woke up and got on a train 25 minutes ago.

12:01PM - Our large group secures a table.

12:02PM - We begin drinking pitchers of Hoegaarden, Spaten, Pilsner Urquell, etc.

12:03PM - Nicky Ray spills beer on someone.

12:59PM - Brian inspects roasted pig on a spit, declares it to be inferior, but states, "I will eat it anyway."

1:10PM - The first band ends, and a bus load of tourists from Texas leaves. Everyone is puzzled as to why/how they got here.

1:11PM - As the Texan bus pulls away, a hipster slaps an "Obama For Change" sticker on it. Victory is declared.

1:15PM - Fox News reports that crazed Obama fanatics are vandalizing vehicles of McCain supporters across America.

1:16PM - The McCain campaign declares the hipster's actions to be sexist and an obvious example that Obama wants to raise taxes on the middle class and teach Kindergarteners to have sex.

1:17PM - Republicans everywhere chant "Drill, baby, drill!" for no apparent reason.

1:30PM - Food is consumed.

1:45PM - Beer is consumed at a much faster pace.

2:30PM - Several individuals in our party are tempted to get up and dance the polka.

2:35PM - Several individuals in our party realize that their motor-skills have declined significantly.

2:40PM - After watching the first dancers fall down, several individuals in our party feel relieved that they decided to sit this one out.

2:50PM - Dancers start dropping like flies; torn MCLs are arriving like presents on Christmas.

3:00PM - J-R pukes under table then brags about how he will run a marathon tomorrow in record time.

3:15PM - Fratboys arrive and begin applying plastic lederhosen.

3:25PM - Our party has seen enough.

3:30PM - We stagger out in a zig-zag motion, singing theme songs to 1970s television shows in harmonic chord structures that have yet to be invented.

3:40PM - Someone reminds Gerrard that he's not allowed to walk around on the streets of Astoria in the daytime without pants.

3:42PM - Brian attempts to tear down No Parking sign.

3:43PM - Brian gives up, realizing that not only is he no longer in college, but he is also no longer strong enough to pull said sign out of the ground.

3:44PM - Brian weeps inside.

4:00PM - We arrive at a festive Greek restaurant in Astoria, perhaps Zenon Taverna or any other place that is willing to accommodate a phalanx of drunken people.

5:30PM - To the relief of the restaurant staff, we leave without breaking any more than 9 plates and 7 glasses.

5:48PM - Brian falls asleep on couch, waking up in puddle of drool hours later.

FIN.

Who's in?

The Quest for the Sacred Burrito

2008-08-22T17:47:00.006-04:00

Four days ago, an acquaintance on a discussion list posted remarks about a transcendent burrito, the kind of life-changing meal that causes one to stand up and scream “I’ve seen the light!” to a crowd of confused onlookers. The burrito was from the new Calexico Cart on 25th and Park, and mere mention of it ignited a passionate conversation from those who had tasted the wares of the original on Prince and Wooster. These disciples of the burrito raved about an essential ingredient, which they had dubbed Chipotle Crack Sauce. Well, as luck would have it, this new cart was located mere blocks from my office. If you haven’t noticed, I like food. Therefore, I needed to taste of this Holy Grail of Mexican street grub.

A couple of hours after reading the email, I dashed out the office door for this mythical land of burrito manna, but when I arrived on the spot, there was no burrito cart to be found. I stormed up and down Park Avenue, calling out, “Where are you, rice and beans? Here Chipotle Crack Sauce!” Alas, I didn’t get anything aside from strange looks, so I settled for a boring old lamb platter from Raffiqui, a chain of street vendors.

After politely voicing my displeasure with the situation to the discussion list, it was suggested that I try an earlier time. No problem. On Wednesday, I went to the magic spot again, this time at 12:30, but yet again there was no magic cart. However, I did find a place called Latin Thing (I’m not kidding-— that really is the name of it) on Lexington, and they did serve a fine pressed Cuban-style sandwich with braised beef, peppers, onions, Monterey Jack cheese, and spicy chipotle sauce (sans crack). As I did on the day before, I calmly informed the list of my frustration with this new vendor’s curious business practices. Apparently, I was not the only one who felt this way, and a couple of us formed a secret Burrito Watch Network, an alliance of foodies who would use a phone chain to inform one another if the cart ever appeared again. It was never said, but it was implied that if the cart tried to leave early, members of the BWN would lay down and block its path until all BWN members were served.

Does this seem like it was a lot of effort for one burrito? Absolutely. No one should have to jump through this many hoops in order to buy a rollup of beans, cheese, salsa, and meat.

Nevertheless, word broke out early yesterday that the cart was in its place, so a swarm of people began migrating to the neighborhood with record speed, me chiefly among them. I finally saw the cart and wondered why it was sponsored by a beer company when the cart couldn’t sell beer:

Then I placed my order and was told there would be a 10 minute wait. Fine. You can’t rush greatness.

As I waited, a friend appeared behind me. He had traveled from midtown on his lunchbreak. It was now clear that the hype had gotten out of control.

The two of us grabbed our burritos (which both arrived in less than 10 minutes) and we walked over to Madison Square Park to eat.

For starters, one of these burritos is a hearty meal. I am a man, and I eat man-sized portions. No, scratch that. I eat American man-sized portions. I cannot nor do I ever want to fit into those annoyingly skinny H&M jeans that are popular with the hipsters, models, and Heroin addicts. They won’t allow me into Williamsburg because my waist is larger than 27 inches. (Literally, a ironically leather-clad midget henchman steps onto the G-train with a tape measure, and he will not allow me to get near the egress until we’re deep into Brooklyn.) But I don’t care because I enjoy my food, and I need it. I walk fast and mine is an active lifestyle. Food is fuel, and I need a lot of fuel to survive these multi-borough exploits that last way into the wee hours of the morning. This engine does not run on diesel-- well, maybe sour diesel, but I digress…

Anyway, it’s a substantial log of a burrito, measuring almost 8 inches in length and nearly 3 inches in diameter.

My compadre ordered a side of rice and beans, which was totally unnecessary unless he was trying to make up for the recent lack of imports of Russian natural gas.

I ordered the Carne Asada, i.e. grilled hangar steak with rice, beans, cheese, pico de gallo and avocado salsa, although there was nary a trace of this avocado salsa. I also asked for the Chipotle “Crack” Sauce, which to my amazement, is actually called “Chipotle ‘Crack’ Sauce,” and they didn’t charge me for it. The sauce was on the burrito, and it was tasty and went well with the meat, which was a little salty and maybe a little dry but still filled with flavor. The burrito was really well-constructed, guaranteeing that you get equal parts of everything in every bite, and there were lots of chunks of steak on board.

The tortilla also had the right consistency. It was not too wet and not too dry and there was just the right amount of it. Sometimes you get burritos that are nothing but tortilla or ones that are falling apart for lack of tort, but this one was just right. My amigo ordered the chicken, and he liked it but felt as though the Chipotle “Crack” Sauce overpowered it.

For good measure, I went back again today and ordered the Chipotle Pork, i.e. pulled pork in chipotle sauce (no word on whether or not crack is involved), rice, beans, cheese, pico de gallo, pickled red onions, and sour cream.

I again asked for the Chipotle “Crack” Sauce and stressed that I definitely wanted it on the burrito. Again, I was not charged for it. This tortilla was a little dryer, which was probably a good thing because the burrito was very wet and leaking out of the bottom. The drippage was certainly there, and it was not easy to eat like the Carne Asada. However, it was much tastier, undoubtedly thanks to the delicious Chipotle “Crack” Sauce. (Have I mentioned that enough times yet?) The whole burrito had a mellow chipotle flavor, and I was not complaining about it.

I do get the sense that the guys who run this stand are a tad too laid back about things. They say they “try” to be there every day, but we already know we can’t count on it. I can see that while their flavors are good, they might not be offering the same consistency on a regular basis. Plus, God only knows what the deal is with the crack sauce and why you never have to pay for it. If they took a little more serious approach, I could see this cart doing some big business. Yes, $7-8 is expensive for a burrito, but it’s a filling lunch, and let’s be honest, most takeout lunch in New York costs about this much money, if not more so. If it tastes good, we’re all willing to pay out the ass for it.

I will now admit that people might be a little free with their hyperbole-laden praise for these burritos. I’m no burrito connoisseur, but I did think they were pretty good and probably the best non-knife-and-fork burrito I’ve had in the city. That said, I think that Calexico probably fell short of the life-altering experience that many have claimed it to be. Then again, exaggeration is the hallmark of my friends’ reviews. After all, earlier today I had to suffer through some asshole’s long winded blog entry about some show about Fela Kuti…

Go See Fela!....NOW

2008-08-22T13:58:00.006-04:00

If you have ever heard and liked a jam, song, or note by Fela Kuti, you owe it to yourself to get over to 37 Arts for the off-Broadway run of Fela!

Musical theater people have a natural gift for screwing up a great story with unnecessary excess and schmaltz, but in this instance, they set their gift to the side and let the tremendous story of a tremendous giant among men do the talking. In fact, there is very little “musical theater” in this performance of musical theater. Thankfully, the man in charge of this show, Bill T. Jones, truly loves the life, legacy, and music of Fela Kuti, and this all comes out in the wonderfully thrilling work he has created.

The show envisions a fictional night inside Fela's Shrine nightclub in Lagos, and what you see is the real deal. Sahr Ngaujah *becomes* Fela Anikulapo Kuti, engaging the audience with radiant charisma that has you eating out of the palm of his bruised-but-never-broken hand. His really is an amazing and uncanny performance that sucks you in and never lets go. While essentially watching Fela and company put on a concert in his Nigerian club, the audience is both engaged and cleverly informed about the back-story of this world-renowned iconoclast, antagonist, humanitarian, artist, and spiritual leader, who was routinely tortured and jailed by a corrupt government that could never break this man’s indefatigable spirit.

The music is provided by Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra, and these guys are a natural fit. In fact, they’ve rarely sounded better. For a while now, I’ve felt as though Antibalas plays best when they are pissed off. I’ve seen them give a rousing and angry performance that pumped up a genteel Shakespeare in the Park crowd, transforming the middle-aged, upper middle-class NPR-Democrats in the audience into a rabid pack of fire-breathing gargoyles who nearly destroyed the old Delacorte Theater on the cusp of the 2004 Republican Coronation of Supreme Leader and Decider, George W. Bush, and then last summer I saw Antibalas play a very pleasant show on a gorgeous, sunshine-kissed day on Governor’s Island. The former show raised some serious Hell. The latter was fun for the whole family but more than a little vacant.

Antibalas was born to play the music of Fela Kuti, and their slinking guitars, thumping bass, pounding drums, and attacking horns relish every note of these layered and meandering compositions. Fela’s lyrics are blunt but powerful, and Jones wisely projects many of them onto the backdrop, which really allows the brute force of this man’s art to sink into the deepest reaches of the brain. Visually, the entire theater is transformed into the Shrine club, and people can bring drinks to their seats. (Thank you, Musical Theater for finally waking up to this revolutionary concept; it only took you about 98 years.) Of course, I would be only telling half the story if I failed to mention the gorgeous and extremely lithe dancers (of both sexes) who sensually grind around the stage to these hypnotic compositions while showing more than a little leg. Unfortunately, there are no cold showers to be found.

This is not your normal theatrical event; it really is like a concert, and I think the show works best when people treat it as such. I don’t think I’m giving away too much when I say that at one point, the crowd gets up and dances to the music. Last night, everyone was having a great time during this sequence, but as soon as there was an opportunity to sit, 70% of the crowd dove for the seats, blowing their golden opportunity to blur the line between performer and audience. The folks in the front kept dancing, and some ridiculous old ladies tried in vain to make them sit, but the vibe was too strong and they wouldn’t acquiesce. Eventually, I said, “Fuck it,” and got up to dance in my spot, which amazingly didn’t cause a mutiny in the rows behind me. If only everyone had felt free enough to let themselves go, they would have enjoyed it oh, so much more.

I should also add that last night’s show was not without what has become a bizarre musical theater phenomenon: the union audience clap-on-every-down-beat during the curtain call. It’s like the cut-time version of a soulclap, but it sounds more like a soulless clap. I have no idea why white people do this, especially when there is incredibly funky music being played on stage. Isn’t there a way that we Caucasians can overcome our genetic deficiencies and learn to channel our inner-James Brown?

If I know my friends well enough, many will be intrigued by this review and will think “I should go see that.” Then they’ll get very lazy and never buy the tickets, waiting until the show is about to close months from now and not being able to afford the full-priced ticket. Don’t make that mistake, folks. The show is still in previews, and if you use this TheaterMania discount code, you’ll only pay $26.25. The discounted price will soon rise to $51.25, so you should get off your ass and order tickets at this bargain rate yesterday. For the record, everyone in the theater LOVED the show last night, and I expect the word-of-mouth will be tremendous. I also anticipate great reviews because not only is the show great, but I think that politically correct reviewers will be loathe to criticize it because Africa is very *in* right now, and no one wants to say something bad about a product of a continent that supplies cute little orphan babies to so many beautiful American celebrities.

In an ideal world, Fela! Will be the saving grace of the dying off-Broadway commercial scene and will run in this theater for a long time. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if it eventually makes a Broadway transfer because with some judicious cuts, it could appeal to an ever larger audience. That said, I advise you to see it now, and see it on the cheap. This is a great show for anyone who loves live music, history, or even life itself. Get your ass in the seat now…and then standup and dance!

A Great Show Withers and Dies an Uncomfortable Death - Hal Wilner's Bill Withers Project Prospect Park Bandshell 8-9-08

2008-08-11T01:48:00.004-04:00

Saturday's Bill Withers Project season finale of Celebrate Brooklyn had its place reserved on the Great Calendar of Life for a long, long time. Whenever producer Hal Wilner assembles and creates these types of events, you're usually in for a star-studded lineup of major talents congregating to take part in a moving and thrilling ritual. Last year's tribute to songwriter Doc Pomus was a very emotional and incredibly well-crafted affair that earned its spot as the second-best concert I saw in 2007. I'd be lying if I didn't say that my anticipation was through the roof for Saturday's event.

We began our evening at Bierkraft, home of fine beer, excellent cheese, high quality meat, and impressive chocolate truffles. Because Celebrate Brooklyn is the most chill venue on Earth, they let you bring your own food and beverage inside, as long as you leave the glass and cans at home. Bierkraft sells growlers, and in a maneuver that I will not hesitate to label a stroke of genius, I figured out how to get beer from a glass growler into a plastic bottle. First, I bought, emptied, and rinsed a couple of two liters of cream soda. Then we bought the growlers, and in order to get the beer from the wide-mouth glass growler into the small-mouthed two liter plastic bottle, I used a pitcher with a tap spout dispenser as the magic middleman. Gingerly filling up the pitcher to reduce foam, the tap spout worked perfectly to load the two liters. A gallon jug of spring water worked perfectly to rinse the pitcher between pours so as not to contaminate one beer with another. After pouring the two-liter into plastic cups inside the venue, victory was ours. I knew that if anyone had tried to bust me, they would be forced to let me off the hook once they recognized the amount of ingenuity and effort that went into this operation. Its success has given me a whole new outlook on life.

The Wolaver's Organic Pale Ale and Six Point Sweet Action were complimented by a great sandwich that included some very fancy Italian ham, creamy "Naked Goat" cheese, grainy mustard, arugala, and roasted peppers on ciabatta. For only eight bucks, which includes a small bag of Louisiana’s mouthwatering Zapp's kettle-cooked potato chips (I chose the Spicy Cajun Crawtaters), this large sandwich is a phenomenal deal. Yes, you do have to deal with a bit of, how shall I say this delicately?...outer borough inefficiency. While the staff may be less than expedient, they do know what they're doing, and they deliver a fine product. This stellar meal was completed with a juicy chocolate, peanut butter, and jelly truffle.

We arrived early enough to throw down the tarp in the unofficial NYC-Freaks spot just behind and right of the soundboard. Slowly but surely, our crew amassed and morphed together prior to the 7:30 start. Steven Bernstein led a major force of a backing band that included Lenny Pickett on sax and legendary guitarist Cornell Dupree. I have to admit that I was not prepared to be hit with such funky music. I expected a lot of soul, of course, but this was some very funky soul, and vocalists like Nona Hendryx and Eric Mingus paired wonderfully with the super-tight band.

I've been admittedly slow to become absorbed by the My Morning Jacket phenomenon that is sweeping the nation, and much of my resistance can be attributed to frontman Jim James' often Kermit The Frog-like delivery of his vocals. Insulting the vocal stylings of a man who is being revered as a demigod isn't going to win me any new friends, but I don't understand why his voice frequently sounds so nasal and far back in his throat when he's also proven himself to be capable of not singing in this grating way. That said, James' "It's Not Easy Being Green" style was in full effect on Saturday, and it sounded absolutely perfect on "Ain't No Sunshine," the obvious peak of Set One. Somehow James' unique singing blended with an overabundance of soul to create an ideal fit on this classic slow burn of a tune. (Dear My Morning Jacket fans, before you fire off the hate mail, note that I complimented your idol. Maybe this is a sign that one day I will share your belief that MMJ is the bestist band ever.)

Setbreak saw a minor exodus of those who had youngins with early bedtimes. I understood their plight, but I felt bad for them because they missed one of the weirdest sets in musical history.

The set began with an introduction of Dupree, and the band laid down a nastified funk groove, as the old guitarist soloed over top. It was a righteous moment, and when Bill Withers walked out on stage, the place went nuts. Apparently moved by Dupree's soulful solos, Withers decided to surprise everyone by singing. He strode out with a mic in hand and sat down next to the guitarist while delivering a few lines of "Grandma's Hands." This sequence really sent a phenomenal musical moment over the top. Withers' voice wasn't particularly impressive and was honestly a little rusty, but it passionately oozed with feeling and relished every bit of emotion in the lyrics. The seemingly improvised nature of this slice of the show just added to the euphoria, and it became the undisputed highlight of the night. Dear Bands Everywhere, this is how you open Set Two. Take note.

The funk continued to flow deep and thick with Mingus pulling out some freestyling lyrics about war and Angelique Kidjo pumping everyone up higher and higher. She even tossed her microphone down to Withers, who was now sitting in the audience but was still moved enough to engage in another improvised, albeit very short, duet. Everything was rolling along and a good show was truly tiptoeing on the cusp of greatness.

Then the Swell Season came on stage.

I don't know what makes this indie duo "swell," but it certainly can't be attributed to the female singer's monotone leanings. Perhaps her pitch-deficient warblings can be called "European harmony," but I'd just call it "lousy." It was a damn shame because the band and the male singer sounded pretty good, but Yoko did her best to flush their valiant effort right down the drain. Lenny Pickett did have a killer sax solo.

To be perfectly honest, she sounds much better on this video than I recalled her sounding at the show, but I'd still rather hear the guy without the ball and chain:

The vibe was redeemed with a funky number or two before Bernstein brought up “co-producer” Janine Nichols to sing a song. One might think that a co-producer and co-artistic director of such a star-studded event would be able to display audible talent. One might also think that a guy can become rich and famous by waxing poetic in long-winded blog entries about food and music. So far, neither statement has been proved true.

It wasn’t so much that Nichols’ voice was terrible; it was just that Nichols’ voice was not very good. Aside from her possibly “just wanting to get into the act like everyone else,” I see no reason why anyone would give her a microphone. Her ballad was very dull and boring.

But we weren’t out of the woods yet.

The other guitarist (not Dupree) was then introduced, and he sang a song. He sounded somewhere between abysmal and God-awful. It was yet another ballad, but this one just kept going and going and going… Every time I thought he’d show mercy and put us out of our misery by stopping the singing, he went into yet another coda. At this point in the show, I seriously contemplated just walking down the aisle and asking to sing a song, as well, because I couldn’t be any worse that what we had just heard.

The consensus around us was clear: What was shaping up to be a brilliant evening had suddenly gone right into the shitter, as people were leaving in droves. From an organizational standpoint, I couldn’t understand why anyone would craft a setlist that started with such a bang and then degraded into such sludge. What was Wilner thinking?

Everyone had assumed the curfew was 10:00, but that time was already upon us, and we couldn’t see any way that this terrible song from the guitarist would close the evening with a fizzle. Thankfully, Howard Tate picked things up a little bit, but we were still far from the infectious joy of the set opener. The Persuasions then appeared for an acapella “Grandma’s Hands” reprise, which led into the expected finale of “Lean on Me.” This was the moment we all were waiting for, and the Persuasions’ opening was cool. Then Withers’ daughter sang the lead and sounded horrible, begging the question, “Why are people with pitch problems being allowed anywhere near the microphone?” Thankfully, James took over and the song was briefly redeemed before Withers’ progeny sent us spiraling downward again. The song closed with an extended we’re-not-gonna-let-it-end jam, led by the Persuasions, who successfully drowned out the young Withers’ attempts at singing. This jam went on for SEVERAL minutes, and Withers, himself, appeared on stage and walked around to shake hands with every single musician during the jam. We were all holding out hope that he would sing again, but that didn’t happen.

The show ended, and he took the mic to say a few words of thanks. When he introduced Hal Wilner, he said, “Who thinks Hal Wilner and I should sing ‘Just the Two of Us’?” Suddenly, the light bulb went off for everyone—they didn’t play “Just the Two of Us!” Withers realized he was on to something, and he immediately huddled with the band. It was clear that they were going to try to play a song that they had not arranged at all. Somewhat awkwardly, they paused for what seemed to be four or five minutes as the musicians tried to figure out how to play the tune. It was a strange but nonetheless exciting moment. Withers was going to deliver some cathartic vocals that would close this show out with the bang it deserved.

Ah, no.

The song began, and it was the younger Withers who took the vocals, which she energetically delivered without much semblance of pitch. She seems like a nice young lady, but in her case, the apple falls far from the tree. We’re talking miles and miles from the tree. I now understand why we haven’t heard anything about her recording career. As for the guest of honor, all hopes that he might join in to rescue this song and provide some correct notes were dashed when he just wandered around the stage, smiling and playing the cowbell. Finally, the song ended…but then Withers let go of his cowbell to say, “Let’s do that again!”

I kid you not, there was a very loud groan that came from the remaining people in the audience. These were not just cynical assholes like me who made this noise. There were lots of super-positive people who never say a negative word about anything who were audibly grumbling. The vibe had become incredibly sour as the ill-conceived reprise began. Some people just ran for the exits, while the rest of us just stood there in a catatonic state. I saw that the clock was close to 11:00, and I can honestly say that this was the first time in my entire life when I actually rooted for the curfew to kick in so the musicians would be forced to stop playing.

It’s a damn shame that what was shaping up to be an incredible night of musical genius descended into such an awful shit pit, but hopefully, the film crew taping the event will be able to edit out the garbage and save the moments of brilliance that occurred earlier in the show. Overall, this night did make me realize that Bill Withers created some amazing music in the 1970s, and I know that I’m going to have to re-visit his back catalog to take another listen to many of these gems.

The Start of a Nice Run (MMW 6-19-08)

2008-07-03T08:17:00.001-04:00

Thursday, June 19th was the start of yet another excellent run of music in New York City. When the summer hits, there is so much happening here that it's easy to pull a double or triple header without too much effort. Of course, the unfortunate aspect of this musical embarrassment of riches is that you often are forced to skip one or two tremendous acts each night because they either conflict with one or two other tremendous acts or you need a little time to sleep. Then again, I'll sleep when I'm dead.

On this particular Thursday I hauled ass out of work to get to the best venue in the city, the Prospect Park Bandshell in Brooklyn. Nothing beats the laid back vibes of the tree-dotted lawn, which serves as the ultimate chill zone. I motored to get there because we were expecting a huge contingent of New York City Freaks, and we needed to save a good-sized swath of land. Arriving at 7PM, I relieved poor Kilgour, who had been trying to hold a patch of grass by laying down and making snowangels like a three-year-old child with no concept of the seasons. We unfurled my tarp, and gradually, more and more compatriots joined us, as we successfully annexed the territory to our right in a way that would have made Thomas Jefferson proud.

Taylor McFerrin and Cell Theory were up first. I'll admit that they essentially served as background music, but I did enjoy them when I paid attention, as they had a bit of a jazzy, turntable-enhanced groove that was later augmented by an MC.

Marc Ribot's Ceramic Dog was next on the docket, and while I'm a definite fan of the incredibly versatile Ribot, I'd never seen this particular project. It started out strong, intense, and very noisy. Occasionally, he would drop in some less than beautiful vocals, and I did enjoy it when he would briefly bust out a little psychedelic guitar. By this point, I knew about 100 people around me, and everyone wanted to talk, which enabled me to tune out the noise and the refocus when he'd hit the grooves. I know, this makes me a bad music fan. You can't see it, but I'm slapping my wrist right now.

Medeski, Martin, and Wood were the headliners, and you never know what you're going to get with these cats. Sometimes, it's a lot of banging, smashing, and clanging of pots, pans, and rattles made from parts of an animal, and then other times, it's a sweet and funky groove machine. Everyone has their preferences, but it's safe to say that most of us came on board when they were in their groove period. Of course, in the eyes of the elitist MMW aficionados that makes us mainstream fans who is intellekshully defishint.

From start to finish, this was the funkiest MMW show I'd seen in years, if not ever:

I cannot tell a lie; I chopped down the cherry tree and I likes my MMW fonkay. The average age of the crowd was about 25 years younger than the contingent who were at the same venue for Isaac Hayes' season opener one week prior, and the band rewarded our (relatively) youthful exuberance with a litany of danceable grooves. It was a stone gas.

Ribot and slide trumpeter Steven Bernstein joined them for some interesting jams:

I really enjoyed their great Masada number from the band's upcoming album of John Zorn compositions:

When MMW gets this deep into the grooves, I love every minute, even though such practices make the esoteric elitists squirm. Because their repertoire is all over the map, I often wonder exactly how MMW decides what they're going to play each night, and as I’ve said elsewhere:

You really never know what you're going to get with these guys, and I have to wonder how they decide what they'll play at each performance. On this particular night, I was envisioning the following pre-show conversation.

WOOD: What say, John? Can we please make it funky tonight?

MEDESKI: I'd rather not, Chris. I'm really in the mood to produce some noise in changing time signatures.

WOOD: (sighs) Again? Well, there's only one way to settle this. Billy, what's your vote?

MARTIN: Oh, I don't care, as long as I get plenty of time to play the deer hooves.

WOOD: Damn! I'm always losing this game. (dejected) I guess it's John Cage's wet dream once again.

MEDESKI: Hold on. I'm sick of those fucking deer hooves. In fact, I hate them so much that I'll make it funky just to keep those deer hooves locked up.

MARTIN: C'mon! I wanna play the deer hooves! I wanna play the deer hooves!

MEDESKI: Alright, you get one fucking song, but it's at the end of the show. Don't even think about trotting them out early. Ribot will never sit in with us if you start in on that shit too soon. You know he hates venison.

MARTIN: You never let me have any fun.

Thanks to the phenomenal stealth efforts of Scott Bernstein, you can download this show via BitTorrent.. By the way, why don’t you allow taping if the artists are okay with it, Celebrate Brooklyn? Everything else about your venue is pretty chill, so there’s no reason to act so anal about this. I’m warning you, Celebrate Brooklyn. You had better get your act together or I might start skipping your free shows.

Beer and Beer and Beer and Beer and Beer and Beer and Beer and Beer and The Cure and Dale Watson and Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey and Beer 6-20-08

2008-07-03T07:48:00.005-04:00

Now The Cure is not a band that is high on my radar. When I was in high school, a lot of my friends were very into The Cure, but I had little interest in such mopey music. While they were digging The Cure, I was listening to psychedelic and classic rock. There were a few Cure songs that interested me, but I wouldn't be caught dead at one of their shows, as I never wear eyeliner unless I'm getting paid for it.

However, my stockbroker is a huge, colossal, die-hard fan of The Cure, and he's been cajoling me to see Robert Smith live for many years, assuring me that Cure shows are a wild time. My stockbroker is also a man who knows how to party, as evidenced by his pre-show estimation that he'd consume close to 45 beers before the end of the night. With the possibility of witnessing such a record-breaking feat in mind, I decided to see how the other half lives and took the plunge on getting an $80 ticket for the show.

I met my stockbroker at Penn Station, and we rode back to my neighborhood for the pre-game. Knowing that I'd need something substantial in my belly to soak up the incoming flood of alcohol, I grilled peppers and corn (with my beloved green chile-garlic-cilantro-lime butter) as well as figs wrapped in pancetta and sage. For the main event, I fired up the smoker and made succulent, moist barbecue chicken that was falling off the bone and Pig Candy, which is a revelatory recipe that involves smoking bacon, then coating it with brown sugar and cayenne pepper before continuing the smoking to create a smoky sweet and hot piece of delicious swine. We ate well, although time constraints really prevented me from ingesting enough food. At the time, I knew it wasn't worth worrying about because I'd surely be paying for this mistake much later on.

We high-tailed it to the Garden and made it to our seats with time to spare, thankfully missing the opener, 65 Days of Static, who were described as 65 Days of Pounding Eardrums. I expected to see a crowd comprised of people in their 30s to early 50s, but to my surprise, almost half the audience appeared to be in their mid 20s. Since The Cure haven't had a hit in 16 years, I'm not really sure how the band would even be known by this younger generation. The crowd was ethnically diverse, as well. Of course, the homosexual population was well represented (both those out and those locked safely within the closet). For this reason, I shaved off my Village People-esque fu man chu before the show, as it's always a good idea to avoid looking too gay when you're amongst many regular patrons of the Blue Oyster Bar. There was a surprisingly small number of goths, and my stockbroker incorrectly assumed that the thing in front of us was a woman. Having lived in New York for over eight years, I am well-versed in the old Milton-Bradley game, Spot The Tranny, and I knew she was all man, baby.

I'm not gonna lie. I was really hoping I'd see lasers at this concert...or at least some fire. I don't get to see mainstream arena shows all that often, and the bands I like tend to do stupid shit in concert, like focus on the music. For once, a big spectacle would be nice. I don't need to see David Lee Roth dry-hump a gigantic inflatable microphone again (an image that permanently scarred my retinas), but I don't think it's too much to ask for a few lasers or a little fire or maybe even a strobe light. The Cure had none of that jazz, although the light show and backdrops were certainly respectable. They were supposed to have video screens, but a security guard told us that the screens weren't working. Umm...WTF? How can you come to Madison Square Garden, the most legendary arena in America, and not have everything in working order? And seriously, this is New York. We kinda know a thing or two about this here entertainment business, and we have no shortage of electricians.

Regardless, the show was pretty cool. Robert Smith's voice sounded in fine form, especially when he held out a high note for a really long time, which garnered enthusiastic approval from the fans. While I enjoyed Smith's singing, in my opinion, the real star of this show was guitarist Porl Thompson. Certainly one of the strangest looking musicians I've seen, thanks to a shaved and tattooed head, white-face and raccoon-eye makeup, and black leather boots with platform heels, this guy was shredding all night long. Never in a million years did I expect The Cure to rock so hard, but Porl was really raging for the entire show and brought everyone along for the ride.

I should also mention that I felt a tremendous amount of inexplicable nostalgia at this concert. Of course, it didn't make sense for me to feel nostalgic because The Cure was definitely not the music of my youth. Nevertheless, I felt swept up into the surprisingly positive atmosphere.

When a band has been in the business for nearly 30 years, you'd figure they've learned a thing or two. Towards the end of the set, Robert Smith showed his savvy by using the setlist to connect with the audience and dial up the energy in the room. "Friday I'm in Love" brought elated screams from the girls (and some boys) in the room, and while I'm not much of a fan of this tune, it was hard to deny the cheerful feelings it evoked. “Inbetween Days” immediately followed in a similar vein, and the good times were ramped up yet again in a jubilant "Just Like Heaven." By now, a solid 86.2 percent of the arena was up and dancing, a site I never expected to see.

There are tons of video clips of this show on YouTube, and these three are my favorites, all pro-shot from the FUSE TV broadcast.

“Friday I’m In Love”

“Inbetween Days”

“Just Like Heaven”

There were three pre-conceived encores that were well done, although I have to say that I'm officially over pre-conceived multiple encores. One pre-conceived encore is bad enough, but two and three are utterly pointless, aside from the band getting a little extra exercise while trotting on and off the stage. Listen up, bands, it's time to stop this pre-conceived multiple encore bullshit. That's right, I'm talking to you, too, Bob Dylan. Either play longer or leave. Stop toying with our emotions.

The final encore was one of my favorite Cure tunes, the gritty and raw "Killing an Arab." Due to political correctness, Smith has changed the song to "Killing Another," rendering the lyrics pointless until someone digs up Albert Camus and asks him to change his novella. In this day and age where idiocy knows no bounds, I could see some whacked out white supremacist using the original lyrics as some sort of warped mantra, so I guess I understand the change. Nevertheless, the tune smoked and was an excellent, fist-pumping ending to a fine three-hour show.

Since it was only midnight, our evening had just begun. My stockbroker, his brother, and I hopped in a cab, jetting cross-town to the comfy confines of Rodeo Bar, where Dale Watson was holding court. The Austin resident has a bit of Johnny Cash in him, and his full-throated bass sounds great when singing about outlaws and injustice. As soon as we arrived, my stockbroker immediately saw to it that our pace hastened in the Beerlympics. If I was going to have any shot at the Silver Medal (my stockbroker was a stone cold mortal lock for the Gold), I knew I needed to get something solid in my belly. My stockbroker and I split some delicious and mellow Chorizo con Queso, and I inadvertently hoarded and plowed through a plate of loaded nachos. It was dark and I have no idea of what was on them, but they were solid.

With another layer of protection in the digestive system, we cabbed on down to Sullivan Hall for Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey. I had given my stockbroker lots of late night options prior to his visit, and to my surprise, he chose this dark and one-of-kind trio. I really thought their brand of jazz would be too esoteric for his tastes, but shortly after walking in, we both concluded that the robed and hooded band sounded a lot like a jammed out version of The Cure, making theses guys the perfect post-show act. (If only they had known about this, JFJO could have made a living playing after-show concerts in the way that Particle leeched off of Phish for years.) While downing a few more beers, I watched Reed Mathis unexpectedly play a lot of guitar (I think it may have been either pedal or lap steel, but don't ask me because my depth perception was waning at that point) before switching to bass. In between songs, several annoying friends approached us to crow about the life-changing event they'd witnessed at Radio City, thanks to some band called My Morning Waistcoat. None of them could believe The Cure show was good, let alone great. Their loss.

After JFJO ended around 3:30, we grabbed a cab home and went straight to my backyard, where I immediately fired up the tiki torches and cranked up The Cure on the stereo, undoubtedly delighting my neighbors. The plan was to eat the leftover smoked chicken, but as we stood there, wobbling back-and-forth with beers in hand, I realized that we should be sitting. Now I have about 63 chairs in my backyard, but I decided that we needed to be sitting in my most comfortable camp chairs. I retrieved the chairs, and we sat down, which was the evening's kiss of death.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up, slumped over in my chair, the sun shining across the 6:45AM sky with all four torches still blazing away. My stockbroker was inside, conked out on the couch, and while I was tempted to wake him up and shout, "Why'd you leave me sleeping out there, asshole?" (he would later claim that he thought I was slumping over while talking on the phone), the best I could do was make my way inside the house to lay on the floor. Oh, you wonderful floor with your amazing stiffness and your wonderfully uncomfortable carpet. In no time at all, I would be awakening to begin suffering from a world-class hangover, which was a sure sign that I had a great night.

Pass the Ibuprofen.

The Redemptive Powers of Hot Empanadas and Warm Cookies (Alice Russell and Bonerama with Pimps of Joytime 6-21-08)

2008-07-03T07:28:00.004-04:00

That morning was an incredible struggle. My head was pounding, my body ached, and I was exhausted. I spent a few hours trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again before my stockbroker departed and I caught a brief nap. I had to get something at Costco, so I soldiered off into the scorching heat to wait for a bus. After shopping, I wandered into nearby Socrates Sculpture Park, which was hosting some sort of Summer Solstice Celebration festival. While there, I heard a drum circle of children banging out a multitude of discordant rhythms, which sounded great while I suffered from a pounding headache. Technically, this qualified as my first musical event of the day.

However, the virtue of this detour to Socrates Sculpture Park was not found in the performance of 40 budding, little Tito Puentes with a John Cage sensibility. Nay, I found salvation in the form of Mama's Empanada's, a small tent that was serving up a host of the deep fried Latin treats. I saw exactly what I wanted in the Guava and Cheese Empanada. Now I don't know what genius accidentally discovered the combination of sweet guava with mellow, nutty queso, but I'd like to shake his or her hand. Wrap those two up in dough, deep fry it, hit it with a little powdered sugar, and you have just what the hangover doctor ordered.

When this day began, I had lofty dreams of pursuing a multi-state, double-river crossing quadruple header involving two parties in Jersey and two concerts in Manhattan. The quadruple header is not nearly as difficult as one might imagine, but it does require a bit of preparation, efficiency, focus, and solo travel. (Gentlemen, I highly advise against attempting this with a girlfriend/wife/call girl unless you want to get dumped/divorced/sued between stops 2 and 3.) Unfortunately, I had broken my own rules and lacked both preparation and focus for this effort. Not only was I suffering from a relentless hangover, but I was also way behind schedule and only capable of moving slowly. An executive decision needed to be made, and I had to abandon to Jersey half of the plan, which was unfortunate because I knew that both parties would feature fine food and even finer friends. Instead, I took a little time to regroup before heading out for the first of two concerts.

The Hiro Ballroom is a gorgeous venue underneath the swanky Maritime Hotel. With its stylish Japanese motif, it appears to be a lounge for the beautiful and talented...yet somehow they let me inside.

Arriving at 8:45, I figured I'd be walking in late, but I actually opened the door at the perfect time, as Alice Russell's band struck their first note. Initially, the scene was awkward because everyone was afraid to move into the middle of the floor for fear of blocking the views of the beautiful people sitting at perfectly stylish but naturally uncomfortable low-slung tables. Then Alice motioned everyone to come forward, so I shoved my ass right in front of those models, Middle Eastern princes, and their gay hangers-on.

As a performer, Alice Russell exuded an incredibly infectious charm. She's a pint-sized woman with a powerhouse voice and excellent diction (which was required to spit out her often dense lyrics), and her smile and jovial demeanor really lit up the room. Everyone seemed to be having a blast in her slightly randy but cheerfully seductive presence.

Her band was comprised of a Buddy Holly look-a-like on guitar and a fiddler who sang backup vocals flamboyantly (as all fiddlers seem to do these days). These two were imported from Russell's UK, and they were joined by San Franciscans on drums and bass, neither of whom missed a beat.

Her new tunes sounded tre funky, particularly "Dreamer," and the audience had to be filled with fans-in-the-know because they reacted with ebullient praise when she mentioned her old band, Quantic, playing some great blaxploitation-sounding numbers from their repertoire. I particularly enjoyed the uptown funk strut of "Hold On Tight," as well as the expected encore of the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army."

This clip is from a different show, but it gives you an idea of what she’s all about:

While I've enjoyed but haven't been blown away by Alice Russell's My Favourite Letters album, I thought her live show was fantastic. She's a very engaging performer with a nice set of pipes and some cool songs. I'll be seeing her again.

I bolted from Hiro and hopped on the cross-town bus, exiting at 14th St. and 5th Ave. for a nice stroll through the Village. I knew I needed to eat something, but I wasn't sure what I wanted, so I was on the lookout for something new. It arrived in the form of a sign that said "Warm cookies inside." I went inside Insomnia Cookies (which is open until 3AM) and felt the uncomfortably warm air before ordering a chocolate peanut butter cup cookie to go. It cost $2 because it was a "specialty" cookie, but their regular offerings were reasonably priced at 90 cents apiece. The cookie was warm, moist, and just melted into a delicious clump of peanut buttery chocolate goodness. I'm so happy I found this place. I shall return.

I went into Sullivan Hall and caught the last song-and-a-half from Pimps of Joytime. It's hard to fairly judge an act by such a short performance, but I heard enough fine music to pique my interest in seeing these guys play a headlining gig. Their sound was a unique mix of afrobeat, funk, reggae, and other global styles, and the decent-sized crowd seemed to be just as impressed as yours truly.

Here’s a video for one of their tunes:

At setbreak, I strolled around for a while and looked for the perfect dinner. With a desire to try something new but with only minimal hunger, I settled on The Creperie for the Grilled Vegetable Crepe, which included Peppers, Zucchini, Onions, Garlic, and Ricotta Cheese. It was quite tasty, although at $8 it was way overpriced for its meager portion and MacDougal Street home of typically cheap eats. Nevertheless, the line of people, most of whom were young women in tight outfits, proved that people apparently don't care about the prices (as long as they live by the light of Daddy's AMEX). I would probably go back to The Creperie again, but I'd opt for one of their numerous and more reasonably priced dessert crepes.

I went back to Sullivan Hall and walked in the door while Bonerama was finishing "The Ocean,” which you can hear now:

Bonerama was a band that we used to see all the time when they first began, but after a while, many of my fellow freaks and I began to tire of their endless Zeppelin and Sabbath covers, which eventually lost their novelty and became old hat. However, after the release of 2007's Bringing It Home, the band hit on a creative upswing. I was very impressed with what I heard at Jazz Fest, and this night’s performance was no exception.

Truth be told, I'm probably not the greatest judge of the quality of the performance because I was completely exhausted by midnight and my eyes were redder than a baboon’s ass. However, the band was able to pick me up and get my butt moving, grooving, and secondlining, particularly on an excellent Meters medley that included "Cabbage Alley," a completely original brass band spin on "Folsom Prison Blues," and an uplifting "When My Dreamboat Comes Home.” I should also mention the fine first set sit-in by Roswell Rudd, who played a couple of swingin' tunes, including Count Basie's famously smooth "Lil' Darling," while bringing the onstage trombone tally up to five. Craig Klein said, "Y'all make sure you go to YouTube and search 'Roswell Rudd.' R-U-D-D," so
here’s what you’ll find.

Thanks to the fine folks at Radio Johnson and taper extraordinaire Scott Bernstein, you can download podcasts of both Bonerama’s and Pimps of Joytime’s sets here.

I'm pretty sure the show ended close to 2:00, and I trudged into the subway, somehow managing to avoid falling asleep before my stop, which was a nice bonus and sufficient ending to a long day.

And on the 7th Day...

2008-07-03T07:23:00.002-04:00

...God took a nap.

I really wanted to continue my streak by going back to Prospect Park for Salif Keita and Haale, neither of whom I had heard before (but both sounded intriguing), but my mortality was becoming apparent, as I was beat from the previous three nights. I needed a day to veg out and rest.

I apologize for letting you all down. It won't happen again.

8th Ave. Freeze-Out (Coldplay at MSG 6-23-08)

2008-06-25T01:08:00.003-04:00

I’m not the world’s biggest Coldplay fan, but I do think they’re the only pop group that interests me these days because they have their own unique sound, and I will admit that I dig a lot of their songs, too. I’d heard that they put on a great live show, so I was geared up to buy tickets for this tour, but when they announced that their show at the Garden would be a free gig where the winners would be chosen from a drawing, I was S.O.L. Thankfully, my friend, Jennifer, who is inexplicably not ashamed to be seen with me in public, was both lucky and willing to take me to this special event.

We pre-gamed with friends at F.A.T.S. (Fat Annie’s Truck Stop). It’s an alternative to the crowded bars that are close to M.S.G., and like many joints in the area, they played a Coldplay DVD the entire time to rev up the crowd. I ordered the Grilled Buffalo Chicken Po’ Boy, which was nothing like a true po’ boy and was served with shredded carrots and blue cheese dressing on a warm pretzel roll. The roll could have been a brilliant revelation, but it was in dire need of salt. Along the same lines, the chicken was as bland as bland could be, and my compatriots deftly pointed out that had it been fried, it could have absorbed more flavor from the sauce. I guess I learned my lesson, Fat Annie’s Truck Stop. Thanks to you, I’ll never eat healthy again.

The arena was only 1/4 full at 8:00, and the 400 Level was curiously empty, which didn't make sense at all. It's a free show, and you're inexplicably not playing another show in New York, even though you could sell out the Garden in minutes, so why not give away as many seats as possible? Are you saving the upper deck for a rainy day?

Matt Pinfield excitedly introduced the opener, Long Island's The Blue Jackets. I found their music to be quite inoffensive, and that's probably the best thing I can say. There seem to be countless bands that sound like this being given daily reach-arounds on BrooklynVegan.com, and not one of them interests me in the slightest. That being said, The Blue Jackets are one of those slightly better than mediocre bands that play really loud, accent every single downbeat, and have a whiny lead singer. In other words, most of my friends would love them. I hate my friends.

The Blue Jackets played for a merciful 25 minutes. Looking at the clock, I started to wonder if Coldplay was only going to play a short set because it was a free show. That would be weak sauce.

At setbreak, I strolled around as Jen discovered that MSG has good beer after all. Internally, I cursed myself for having consumed hangover-inducing, Bud Lite on Friday when there was Hoegaarden to be had. I also discovered a disproportionate number of people in their early 20s, and I felt like the entire state of New Jersey was at this show.

A screen was oddly positioned on stage during the changeover, and when the lights went dark, the now 2/3 full arena screamed, as a countdown appeared on the screen and a guy at a rig did what appeared to be a combination of spinning and keyboard playing. When the countdown arrived at zero, I was hoping for a big explosion and then Coldplay flying in from the rafters. Instead, the DJ/keyboard guy spun this mundane new-agey electronica crap as we watched a mildly trippy cartoon that was more repetitive than creative. The cartoon improved and eventually became more interesting than the cotton candy vendor to my left, but the music got progressively worse and rather plodding. YAWN. At the very end, the screen said the musician's name was Jon Hopkins. I only mention this to warn all of you, so you can avoid having to sleep through one of his future performances. He finished and received satirical cheers from the relieved crowd.

It was now 9:10, the lights came up, a curtain dropped on the stage, and atmospheric music played. Coldplay was successfully boring the shit out of me, and they hadn't even taken the stage yet. At this point, I thought to myself, "They better have some fucking lasers. Only lasers can save this show. A little fire wouldn't hurt, either."

The lights went dark around 9:30, and the crowd went wild. During the “Life In Technicolor” opener, the large orb hanging from the screen turned blue, and I suddenly felt as though this show might have some promise. (Beforehand, I made it clear that I was hoping a little glowing green creature would appear inside this orb during the set.) Sure enough, the second song was "Clocks," and it featured a host of red and yellow lasers! BOO-YAH! Not only was it a song that I really love, but it had fucking lasers, people! LA-SERS! Coldplay immediately became untouchable in my eyes.

The next song featured Chris Martin running down one of the ramps into the crowd and looking like a somewhat confident front man instead of the fragile introvert role that he's been playing in the press as of late. The following cut was the new single, and I was shocked as the entire arena, aside from me, sang along with gusto. I think the song had only been out for a week, so it was clear that I was surrounded by hardcore fans.

At the conclusion, the band moved down to the front of the stage left ramp for a patented mini set. Thanks to U2, The Rolling Stones, and just about everyone else who puts on a big arena show, the mini set in a new location amongst the crowd has become an essential but relatively pointless exercise that never fails to drive the audience crazy.

The second number in this configuration was “God Put a Smile Upon Your Face.”

In my opinion, this was the highlight of the night, featuring some intense, ripping guitar. Very sick. Then Martin played piano in the mini set while the rest of the band accompanied him onstage in a lackluster number.

This video of “Square One” shows a little of Martin’s swagger as a front man:

At this point, more orbs slowly began to appear, and I became impressed with the orbs' mating habits, as they were multiplying almost as fast as rabbits. When the orbs turned different colors, I started to think that there was a good chance of my dream coming true. Since I already got my lasers I thought I had a decent shot at getting a little glowing green creature inside an orb. By now, there were a lot of orbs, so I figured that at least one of them might have a little glowing green creature inside.

After Viva la Vida's "Stawberry Swim," Martin said, "We're going to try something we've never done before." Then band proceeded to leave the stage and walk through the aisles, up the stairs, and all the way around the concourse until they were at the rear of the arena (about 50 feet from me), facing the stage. They pulled out a couple of acoustic instruments and started "Yellow" to the frenzied delight of the crowd. A minor flub caused their second restart of the night, but with 18,000 people singing along, no one seemed to care:

Then the drummer, Will Champion sang a gospel-like “Death Will Never Conquer.”

Afterwards, the band vanished as dramatic music played while they traveled around the inside of the arena.

They reappeared to begin “Fix You,” and Martin shouted "Oh, shit" after flubbing the lyrics. The orbs had disappeared and were replaced by cannons shooting confetti, which I can only assume was made of recycled paper (and not the hides of African orphans, as is the case with most confetti in concerts by British pop acts). One “Lovers in Japan” amongst a background of a giant projection screen, and that was all she wrote.

It was only 10:35, and the crowd stomped and cheered wildly, despite the house lights coming on. If there ever was a time when the audience deserved an encore, this was it. The absence of house music and the relative stillness of the crew during the long break told us that we'd be getting more Coldplay. Then figures strode out on stage, and everyone went crazy...until we realized that it was just the crew in another classic concert encore psych-out.

While there were some lighthearted flubs here and there, it was still a very entertaining set from Coldplay, but it was so short that I feel as though I deserve my money back. Pony up, Coldplay, and don’t try to butter me up with lasers, either. If you can’t give me an encore, the least you can do is put a little glowing green creature inside an orb.

Bastards.

The 7th Annual Jammys Report Card

2008-05-08T02:27:00.019-04:00

Here we are at Madison Square Garden's Theater for the 7th Annual Jammy Awards. Never mind the fact that the 6th Annual Jammy Awards took place over two years ago. As I always say, the Jammys can be bold and adventurous, leading to moments of unexpected brilliance, or they can be extremely boring opportunities for B-list popstars to appear uncomfortable alongside talented improvisers.

As an added plus, we have Phish winning the Lifetime Achievement Award this year, and since we know that at least three of the band members will be in attendance, one has to wonder about a possible reunion. Of course, it's been rather surprising that very few people seem to think this reunion will happen, yet many are here tonight to see the show "just in case."

(NOTE: I wrote this as the show progressed, so in some instances, I may have gotten a songtitle or musician name incorrect. If that's the case please reply with the correction, and I'll try to take care of it as soon as I can. Also, feel free to reply with responses degrading me for grading something as subjective as music. I love that shit.)

The shows starts at 7:30 PM.

Warren Haynes, Grace Potter, Joe Russo, Booker T. Jones, and Will Lee - "Find The Cost of Freedom->Gold Dust Woman" - Wow. Usually this show starts out with a real dud, but hosts Warren and Grace are wailing through this one. Seated next to me is my financial advisor, who has already received a summons for having an open container in front of The Garden and is shaking uncontrollably. Grade: A-

"Take Me To The River" - Dear Mr. Cameraman, More close-ups on Grace Potter in that flapper dress, please. Regards, All The Men In The Audience. Grade: B+

Dean Budnick comes out and teases the looming Phish reunion a few times.

Pete Shapiro comes out and thanks sponsors, including Live Nation. Apathy has already set in, and no one in the crowd boos.

Live Album of the Year - Umphrey's McGee - Live at the Murat

Rose Hill Drive with Matisyahu, Rob Marscher (and someone on guitar) - "In the Morning of the Magicians" - I'm not entirely familiar with this Flaming Lips song, but I can tell you that it started out as the wussiest thing RHD has ever played... Matisyahu is now howling off-key and shouting unintelligible things. It's getting a little funky, aside from Matisyahu's rapping. And it's over. Grade: D+

Some dude shouts "More cowbell!"

Rose Hill Drive with Leslie West and Grace Potter (on keys) - "Goin' Down" - Awwww shit! This is nasty. I'm loving this and rockin' out, but most of the crowd is pretty stationary. Must be a lot of Umphrey's fans. I don't wanna ruffle any feathers, but I never thought I'd hear anyone rock this song harder than Gov't Mule, yet these guys are going way beyond the call of duty. Mr Haynes, the gauntlet hath been thrown down. Grade: A+

West makes a comment about how he's not used to having such a good looking organ player because the guy who originally did the song was an ugly fucker.

"Mississippi Queen" - Um...yes! This is killer stuff... Dammit, now I have to re-think my decision to skip Rose Hill Drive’s show tomorrow. Grade: A

Grace introduces Matisyahu. My financial advisor begins drunkenly taunting him.

Relix Man With the Moolah Steve Bernstein introduces a video of an 8 year-old Japanese kid shredding metal classics on a Flying V. The kid comes out and delights the audience with surprisingly good English.

New Groove Award: Cornmeal

Cornmeal's fiddler, Allie Kral, gives a nice, short speech.

Keller Williams - "Cadillac" - As he's introduced, there's a lot of excited wooing, showing this crowd is surprisingly filled with 19 year-old dreadlocked hippies who don’t believe in showers and the dogs they tour with. I like Keller without the electronics and loop toys, and this is okay but kind of boring and rather irrelevant. There's a lot of talking amongst the crowd, and people have stopped paying attention. Grade: C-

Keller Williams with Chevy Chase - "Natural Woman" - As he walks across the stage, I recall that I once saw a story on Chevy Chase that showed him to be an amazingly talented pianist. There's a long wait as Keller vamps before we finally hear Chevy play anything. Wow. Keller really has no soul and sounds whiter than a Grand Wizard. At least Chevy is providing humor with his backup singing and whistling. I guess this is a comedy number. I chuckle a little but cry inside. Grade: B-

"Sweet Home Alabama->Take The Money and Run->Sweet Home Alabama" - This jazzy and light version is actually kind of cool. My financial advisor leans over and says, "I hate myself for liking this." I wish we could hear more piano. Now my financial advisor says, "The novelty has worn off." My financial advisor is now so tanked that he has the attention span of a gnat. Grade: B+

DVD of the Year: Disco Biscuits - Progression

Download of the Year: Phish Headphones Jam

The crowd goes wild for Page. Drunks ignore the good things he has to say about the funds this download raised for charity and shout, "WHERE'S TREY!?"

Tea Leaf Green with Allie Kral and Big Head Todd Park Mohr - "Taught To Be Proud" - People actually like this Tea Leaf Green? I have to admit that I don't get it. This song is so remarkably milquetoast. There's no jamming, either. The fiddler is adding a little interest, but it's still rather lame. Grade: D

"Sister Sweetly" - It begins kind of funky but soon becomes repetitive and tiresome before being briefly saved by 8 good bars of a guitar solo and some nice fiddle work. Whoops. Spoke too soon. It's mundane again. Grade: C-

"Pulling Mussels (From The Shell)" - I don't like this song. It reminds me why I think the ‘90s sucked. Nevertheless, it is inoffensive and better than the previous musical dosage of Ambian. Grade: C

Tea Leaf Green with Allie Kral, Glenn Tilbrook from Squeeze, and Warren Haynes - "Tempted" - Now I really hate THIS song. Can Warren save it? Not if they don't do anything interesting with the arrangement. Warren sings but barely plays guitar. I have my eye on this Tilbrook character. He's having way too much fun, and even money says he's the guy who has no business being in the end of night jam session but will be so excited that he'll step all over everyone's toes. Grade: C+

Grace Potter changes outfits. I do not approve of this.

Jon Fishman and David Shulman are introduced, and the crows goes wild for David Shulman.

Mimi Fishman Memorial Award: Marc Ross and Rock The Earth

Marc is a great guy who has made plenty of sacrifices, and gives a good speech, but his speech goes on a little too long for the drunken New York crowd, and they let him know about it.

Ken Dashow and some other douchebag DJ from Q104 come out and shamelessly self-promote their shows, which, of course, do not feature jamband music. Somehow these two clowns escape being booed for the third year in a row.

Song of the Year - "Cadillac" Keller Williams

Chevy Chase accepts the award as Keller Williams, and it's rather amusing.

Tour of the Year: Disco Biscuits and Umphrey's McGee - D.U.M.B.

No, the above is not the punchline to a joke about the intelligence level of their audience but rather the actual name these bands gave to their tour.

Roy Haynes on drums, Christian McBride on bass, James Carter on sax, Nicholas Payton on trumpet, Page McConnell on piano - "Magilla" - Hey, who let all of these world class musicians in here? Page is actually holding his own with the creme de la creme of the jazz world. Me like. Grade: A-

During the song, a guy using a flash camera walks onstage and gets right up close to the musicians and takes pictures, including self-portraits of him and the band. It's bizarre. He is soon escorted offstage.

People are now hassling other people around me for dancing. At present, this is the lamest crowd in the history of Jambandia.

"Cars, Trucks, and Busses" - McBride switches to electric. Something doesn't sound quite right, as if McBride and Haynes aren't entirely familiar with the song, which they probably aren't. On the other hand, Carter sounds like he knows it better than Page, and he scorches. Payton ain't too shabby, either. Now McBride is playing a wicked solo and laying down a thick groove. Forget what I said earlier. This is pretty good.
Grade: A-

Grahmmy Jammy (The Industry Patting Itself on the Back Award) - Lee Crumpton, Homegrown Music Network

While presenter Ken Hays speaks, my financial advisor is just chanting "Fuck you" over and over again. I admire his style.

moe. gets booed when their name is mentioned as a nominee for Archival Album of the Year, and I’m fairly shocked by this. Right now, I sense that this must be a pro-String Cheese anti-moe. pro-Phish crowd.

Archival Album of the Year - Grateful Dead - Three From The Vault

Galactic with Booker T. Jones - "Hip Hug-Her" - Personally, I love this tune, but I wasn't wowed at the start, feeling that Stanton Moore was playing a bit too heavy and not as funky as normal. Thankfully, Ben Ellman and Rich Vogel threw some grit into the song and Galacticfied it. Grade: B+

Galactic with Booker T. Jones, Chali2na, and Sharon Jones - "Born Under A Bad Sign" - Oh, yes, my friend. This is fonkay. Grade: A-

Galactic with Booker T. Jones, Chali2na, Laidlow? - "Think Back" - It had a lot of energy, and I thought this performance had far more energy than the one I saw late-night First Saturday at Tipitina's. Grade: B+

Galactic with Doug E. Fresh and Chali2na- "The Show->La Di Da Di" - Guess what? 90% of the crowd is now up, groovin' along, and diggin' the 1980s call-and-response. Doug E. Fresh's beat-boxing is excellent, and he and Stanton get into an awesome beat box vs. drums showdown. Grade: A

Studio Album of the Year: moe. - The Conch

Everyone cheers. I guess they like moe. again.

Live Performance of the Year: Gov't Mule and guests at Bonnaroo

Fab Faux with Joan Osborne - "Come Together" - Joan turns this into a slinky and sultry moan. Ouch. I'm told the lead guitarist is not Jimmy Vivino, but I think he is. Whomever he is, he is smokin'. This is hot. Grade: A

Fab Faux - "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" - I've seen them nail this before, and they nail it again, but I feel like they need to do something different here...Holy shit. Right as I thought that, Trey comes on stage, and the crowd goes wild. He shreds like he's been dying to do this for a long time, and he and Vivino/Mystery Guitarist duel ferociously. This definitely qualifies as something different. Grade: A fucking +

"Everybody's Got Something To Hide (Except For Me and My Monkey)" - More of the same brilliance. Anastasio and Vivino/Mystery Guitarist are perfect guitar foils. Grade: A+

They play a cool video montage in tribute to Phish.

Danny Clinch gives his tribute to Phish with a brief slideshow.

Lifetime Achievement Award: Phish

All four guys speak with Mike talking about how he wasn’t feeling well but realized it would be great to get out of bed and come down here to be with all of his friends, Fishman asking if we knew “The Prison Joke,” informing us that he would not tell us “The Prison Joke,” and then bizarrely walking away, Page genuinely thanking the fans, and then there’s Trey. Trey gives a trademark rambling speech, and the room gets completely silent. The silence doesn’t last long, as drunks and assholes start shouting things. He’s losing the crowd (as he usually does when he talks at the Jammys), but his speech is actually quite good, particularly the part about enjoying watching us dance and take the cultural phenomenon of Phish to another level. He also tells everyone that on the way to the show, he learned that his composing mentor, Ernie Stires, passed away a few days ago, and he wants to pay tribute to the man who was influential in the development of Phish's sound.

Judging from the ovation, people seem to be really into this here Phish band. It's quite a contrast from a few years ago when Phish was booed by the crowd for winning an award.

Afterwards, Phish all walk off the stage, and everyone in the crowd looks less than pleased with this non-musical reunion-like development.

Joe Russo, Kyle Hollingsworth, Jake Cinninger, Marc Brownstein, Jon Gutwillig "The Headcount All-Stars" - "Wilson" - Someone in the audience throws a bunch of glowsticks. The All-Stars make a couple of mistakes, but it sounds pretty good, thanks to Russo, who is really pounding the kit. I really wish Marco Benevento were here because I think he'd do a lot more than Hollingsworth, who ain't doin' much right now. Grade: A-

While I would hope that this is going to be some sort of tribute where an all-star band plays the honoree's songs before the honoree comes up and joins and eventually is left to play alone for the audience's delight and I hit the lottery and buy a small island where I establish my own nation-state and create a new system of autocratic rule that yields a higher gross domestic product and ends poverty and vastly improves infrastructure and builds a feeling of euphoria and unbridled joy in the general populace which eventually leads me to bring this ingenious system of governance to other countries in an ultimately successful movement to usher in an eternal era of world peace, it's becoming obvious that this dream is somewhat unlikely.

"Run Like an Antelope->Also Sprach Zarathrustra" Barber and Brownie really shine on this. I wonder if these guys sound better doing this stuff than Phish would right now. No one in the crowd is complaining during 2001. Grade: A

Joe Russo, Kyle Hollingsworth, Jake Cinninger, Marc Brownstein, Jon Gutwillig, and Aron Magner - "Maze" Russo is chugging along well, and Cinninger and Barber sound great dueling with Cinninger really ripping up the tension-and-release solo. My financial advisor says, "I saw Phish 4 times. They were never this good.” My financial advisor is drunk. Grade: A

Wait. That's it? No jam session? Just that little bomp-a-domp-domp-domp ending of "Maze"? Houselights up and not even a "Thank you"? Well, it's hard not to feel a tad disappointed even though this was a pretty good show.

Overall: I think this was a very good, very entertaining program, although it lacked in the real bold and adventurous pairings of Jammys past. I also would have liked to have seen host Warren Haynes sit in more than once and play more of a leading role. That said, I appreciated the way they made the evening revolve around the Lifetime Achievement Winner, and while Phish obviously did not want to play, I thought the "Headcount All-Stars'" tribute to them was a very smart and enjoyable way to resolve that dilemma. It was also a plus that very little this evening truly sucked. Overall Grade: A-

Jazz Fest 2007: Finally Recapped!

2008-04-20T13:42:00.002-04:00

Yeah, it took me a little while to get this up, but here's the recap of last year's Jazz Fest. Look for 2008's recap in about 374 days.

While you're here, enjoy these sounds of Nola:

Friday, May 27, 2007: Slowly Getting Back In the Groove

2008-04-20T04:47:00.004-04:00

After a brief layover at Bush The Elder International Airport in Houston (the first time in my entire life that my feet ever landed on Texas soil), I touched down at Louis Armstrong Airport in Nola and waited for Curtis. It wasn’t long before I realized that Curtis was going to be very delayed, so I hopped on the shuttle to the hotel. Once inside the van, I befriended Orianna, who gave me my first good tip of the fest: check out Grayson Capps at the Fairgrounds.

I dumped my bags and started running down Bourbon Street to catch a cab. I found a woman who wanted to share a cab, so we were in business. She was from San Francisco, and she had been here the previous evening. I asked what she had done the night before, and she told me that she went drinking on Bourbon Street.

DANGER! DANGER WILL ROBINSON! SHE IS NOT ONE OF US!

I should have jumped out of the cab right then and there, but I stupidly stayed inside.

(Photo by IrieDesign.)

We arrived at the Fairgrounds, and suddenly, I had unwillingly made a new friend. Almost immediately she turned to me and said, “What are we gonna do now?” She was clinging to me like an infant on a nipple, and I didn’t know what to do. When I’m at Jazz Fest, I need my space. I gotta be fluid. I need to be able to run around, turn on a dime, and do whatever tickles my fancy at any given moment. I did not need some Bourbon Street-partying dead weight trying to bring me down.

I briefly contemplated kicking her in the shins and running for my life, but I thought that I’d give her a chance. Why not see if we can bond over food? I asked what she likes to eat, and then she told me that she’s a vegetarian who eats fish (like almost every woman I know).

The urge to kick her and run was now bordering on overwhelming.

Drunken vegetarian Bourbon Street whore be dammed, I knew I wanted to eat Creole’s Stuffed Bread, a food I had been dreaming since my last Fest three years ago. I started describing it (partly hoping it would frighten away the vegetarian tramp), and strangers heard me discussing it and wanted to find it. Without warning, I found myself leading a posse of Creole’s Stuffed Bread-craving individuals, but I didn’t have my Jazz Fest sealegs yet, and I couldn’t find that elusive delicacy. I failed them all, and now I felt all of this pressure to make sure the fish-eating vegetarian hussy got fed, so I settled for the old standby of Pheasant, Quail, and Andouille Gumbo, which was very rich and excellent. In the Crawfish and Crab Stuffed Mushrooms, she found a dish that please her because it never had a face. She let me try a mushroom (she was good for something), and it was pretty tasty.

I had yet to see any bands, and I really wanted to see MOFRO, but time ran out on their set. I wanted to catch the bluegrass sounds of Jeff & Vida, but I didn’t want to drag the pescetarian pain-in-the-ass all the way to the Lagniappe at the other end of the Fairgrounds. (Since when did I become so considerate of others, especially those who won’t eat animals?) We settled on the Swamp-Blues Guitar Summit featuring Lil’ Buck Sinegal and Rudy Richard. The music wasn’t necessarily eventful, but it was nice to sit in the cool mist of the Blues Tent.

She wanted to know what was next on our agenda, and I told her that I wanted to see George Porter, Jr.

“What’s he play,” she asked. “Afro-funk?”

That was the third time she’d asked me if someone played “Afro-funk,” and aside from not knowing what the Hell “Afro-funk” is (perhaps the opposite of Honky-funk?), I was offended that she had claimed to be a Jazz Fest veteran yet had no idea who George Porter, Jr. was. That was it. My tolerance level had reached its threshold.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you around. BYE!”

Then I ran to the Acura stage and didn’t look back.

The new “no seats up front” policy at the Acura stage was a nice change that allowed dancers the space they needed. Unfortunately, George was horribly boring. He had a 12-piece band, lots of horns, and backup singers, and he used this massive lineup to inexplicably play several bring-you-down ballads, including a song dedicated to these children whose mother killed them. It was all smooth contemporary R&B and far from funky. I met some friends and hung around a little longer in hopes of hearing “Sneakin’ Sally Through The Alley.” It didn’t happen, and I had seen more than enough.

I moved to Congo Square for Kirk Joseph’s Backyard Groove. They were killing it, especially June Yamagishi. The Houseman came out as a guest. He sounded good but looked thin, as he sang a nice cover of Edwin Starr’s “War.” This lineup was the first real highlight of the Fest for me.

I took Orianna’s tip and went to see Grayson Capps & the Stumpknockers at the Lagniappe. It was a lot of fun because of his great, humorous lyrics and his Desire-era Bob Dylan sound. People were really into his set for good reason.

Freed from the leech, I went to get food and tried the Sausage & Jalapeño Bread, thinking my sacred Creole’s Stuffed Bread might have changed names. However, this was not it. This dish was more like a stromboli with lots of cheese. It was good but a far cry from Creole’s Stuffed Bread.

I then found Curtis, and we walked over to Dr. John, who unfortunately had just finished. We decided to hit Bonerama at Fais Do Do. It was crowded with bad, bleeding sound in the back. Nevertheless, the band played well, especially on “Helter Skelter.”

I tried to see Theresa Andersson with the Betcha Can-Cans at the Kids Tent. Theresa Anderson and Can-Can sounds like a great combo, if not a combo that’s inappropriate for children. Regardless, she wasn’t at the tent, and it was just a bunch of bagpipers. This was my first time at the Kid’s Tent. It was lame. I’m glad I’m old.

I went to Economy Hall for Second-line til’ You Drop – The Music of Paul Barbarin featuring Herlin Riley and Lucien Barbarin. There were lots of costumed people second-lining. I took special note as the band played a song called “Call Up the Freaks,” a tune that really was the shit in 1929.

After about 20-30 minutes, I ventured forth for my first Cochon de Lait Po’ Boy in years. Not only was it a wonderfully succulent masterpiece, but I didn’t even have to wait in line, a rarity for Cochon de Lait.

I walked around the track and heard a little of Kermit Ruffins before heading around the side of Acura for Van Morrison. He turned in a nice mellow set, spending ample amount of time soloing on the sax, including some turns on “St. James Infirmary.” Another highlight occurred when he played Fats Domino’s “Josephine” with Dr. John. Despite these nods to Nola, people were pissed that they didn’t hear any of Van’s major hits.

Outside the Fairgrounds, I met Louis and The Gov at Liuzza’s and then walked over to Gary Wainwright’s crawfish boil, where Paula and the Pontiacs were holding court on the porch. Gary boiled around 800 pounds of the best crawfish ever. They were big and juicy with oh, so much juice in the head, and spicy but not burn-your-lips spicy. It was an excellent pairing with some dirty rice/jambalaya. He also had some tasty boiled veggies, especially the heads of garlic. You won’t make many friends, but man, eating garlic out of a crawfish boil is a beautiful thing.

I made my way home and wanted to sleep and then wake up for Mike Dillon’s Go Go Jungle at Le Bon Temps Rouler, but Allan convinced me to go see Robert Walter’s 20th Congress at the Blue Nile. The $25 price was steep, but I took the plunge. I found Allan at setbreak, and he told me he was going to Critters Buggin instead. Unfortunately for him, the 20th Congress 2nd set was awesome with lots of jams. Cheme really stepped up and took charge, and this was as good as I’ve ever heard this band play.

Afterwards, I wandered into the tiny Apple Barrel Bar and danced in the doorway to the Hip Shakers. It was fun. The jam-packed place held maybe 35 people at the most.

Continuing my rambles up and down my beloved Frenchmen Street, I hopped into The Spotted Cat to hear the New Orleans Jazz Vipers. They were great, as usual, with plenty of world-class jitterbuggers doin’ their thang in front of the band.

I walked out with the aim of retiring early. Then Sammy, Frances, and Katia found me and tried to force me into the Blue Nile for Trombone Shorty. I needed rest, and I just couldn’t do it. Later, they said I missed the sleeper show of the year.

As I walked home, I heard a great groove coming from The Hookah Café. Gov’t Majik was laying down a cool afrobeat groove. There was a really cool, dark 3AM vibe in that room. It had an opium den-like feel to it.

For comedy’s sake, I decided to walk up Bourbon Street to see how the other half lives. With drunks all around, every step became more and more ridiculous and absurd. The entire experience culminated as I stood outside a karaoke bar and watched a group shout through “Sweet Caroline,” which was then followed by a Brooke Hogan number with full choreography. I’m still not sure how I knew the song was by Brooke Hogan, but I think I hate myself because of it.

Full of self-loathing, I went down for the count and crashed early at 4AM.

Saturday, April 28, 2007: Back with my "A"-game

2008-04-20T02:18:00.020-04:00

I got to the Fairgrounds around 12:30, a very respectable arrival time. Almost immediately, I grabbed a Soft-Shell Crab Po’ Boy. Good golly, Miss Molly, this was AWESOME! What is better than drenching your deep-fried soft-shell crab in butter, tartar sauce, and hot sauce? The line was lengthy, but it was totally worth the wait.

I then met Allan at the Jazz & Heritage Stage for the Mahogany Brass Band, an excellent unit who were a lot of fun. I danced my ass off, and with great grooves and a killer soft- Soft-Shell Crab Po’ Boy, Saturday had begun 180 degrees from Friday’s rough start.

We then went to the Fais Do-Do for the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars. Vividly recalling their insane performance at D.B.A. during Mardi Gras, I couldn’t wait for this set. It started slow, but it wasn’t long before then they had a crazy massive circle in the crowd. The horah was danced amongst chairs and blankets with breakneck speed. We were moving so fast I nearly had a heart-attack. I felt as though I definitely needed some pork in my blood to help me recuperate.

Now exhausted, I went to the Lagniappe to sit a spell. While there, I caught a little of Patrice Fisher & Arpa featuring Marcelo Cotarehi and members of the Ilhabela Big Band. These were cool Brazilian sounds that were the perfect way to calm my racing pulse.

Now refreshed, I wandered over to Acura and ran right into Amanda and Teddy, and we saw a good chunk of Johnny Rivers’ set. I had really been looking forward to this set, but it was rather unremarkable. This guy is an international legend with Louisiana roots making a much heralded return home, yet he received no intro whatsoever. He just walked out and casually began to sing. There was no pomp; it was all circumstance. Musically speaking, his set was rather void of excitement, as well.

Recalling the great set they delivered at the last Jazz Fest I had seen, I attempted to catch Rebirth Brass Band at Congo Square. This area was just insanely crowded with tons of chairs parked for headliner Ludacris.

(Photo by IrieDesign.)

It was extremely difficult to move around. I waded into the melee to find Frances, but I had no luck. Then she texted that she was at the Lagniappe watching Alexa Ray Joel. I was happy to escape the congestion of Congo Square and even happier when I discovered that Alexa Ray Joel really has a great voice. Her piano skills are a far cry from her father, Billy, but her soulful voice was a nice discovery.

(Photo of Alexa Rae Joel by IrieDesign.)

Frances and Katia convinced me to go to the Blue Tent for Richie Havens, and it wasn’t much of a surprise to find his passionate voice sounding the same as he did nearly 40 years ago.

(Photo by IrieDesign.)

Then they coerced me into heading to the Jazz tent for Pharoah Sanders. Surprisingly, the tent was not crowded, and we met Curtis and Sammy there. The set was full of nice, relaxing jazz. Pharoah did not solo very much, which was a little disappointing, but his band was very good.

Pssst...you two idiots are looking the wrong way.

You're getting warmer...
There's Pharoah! (Photo by IrieDesign.)

Of course, Pharoah's set guaranteed that I missed Rod Stewart, and I mentally shed a tear for that, but was able to console myself by looking at Frances’ picture of his back.

(Rod Stewart's good side by IrieDesign.)

The sun sets on three random vagrants. (Photo by The Ukraznian.)

Post-Fest, we decided to go get Po’ Boys, so we walked to the car and drove to Johnny’s in the French Quarter. This is when we learned that Johnny’s is only open for lunch, and we were way late for that. Making lemonade out of lemons, we wound up at Coop’s. Three of us ordered the Shrimp Creole, and we all thumbed our nose at the regular Tabasco and opted to put hair on our chests (a curious decision for the ladies) by dousing our dishes in Habanero Tabasco. Ay carumba! What a mistake! It was like trying to eat fire and was hard to enjoy. I also ordered some string beans with bacon sauce (for obvious reasons), but the dish definitely needed more bacon in sauce. Then again, wouldn’t every sauce be better with more bacon?

Sated, I returned to the room for a shower and a nap. I awakened and strolled over to the House of Blues (Parish) to watch my favorite band on the planet, The New Mastersounds. It was my first time at any House of Blues, and I didn’t hate it quite as much as everyone else, although I thought their “No photographs allowed” policy was really strange. Next time I see Dan Ackroyd I’ll have to ask him about that. I hear he’s a real dick, and since he hasn’t been funny since 1992, I won’t hold my breath in expectation of a witty retort. The New Mastersounds were really jazzed for their first appearance in New Orleans, and the room was gettin’ down like nobody’s business. Amazingly, the band played one mammoth set that ran for over three hours and fifteen minutes. It was fantastic.

It's tough to see in the darkness, but Katia and I invented an X-rated way to exchange tickets.

As an added bonus, Frances introduced me to my gay doppelganger:

Afterwards, Frances, Katia, and I jumped in a cab to Tipitina’s. Oddly enough, I recognized the driver from the day before, and Ali came through for us once again.

Tipitina’s was sold out, so we needed to get three tickets. We split up and scoured the territory for extras, grabbing people as they got out of their cabs. Minutes later, we reconvened and discovered that we were a little overzealous and between the three of us, we now had five tickets, but we were able to unload the extras with little problem.

We had some time to kill, so we ventured over to the food truck to share a very tasty Goat-Cheese Quesadilla. Remembering something very important from Mardi Gras, we walked up the block to Miss Mae’s. This dive bar to end all dive bars probably has the cheapest drinks I’ve ever seen. In looking for it online, I actually saw a review where someone complained that he remembered the “old” Miss Mae’s, where drinks were only 85 cents. If I ever run into this guy, I’ll have to front him 15 cents, so he can afford a premium draft.

Galactic played a killer, long two set show. Teedy Boutte had a great sit-in, and sat in and the Houseman came out for a nice old-school encore of “Something’s Wrong With This Picture.”

When your hands are covered in day-glo stamps and your wrists are shackled with multiple paper bracelets, it's proof that you had a very good night. (Photos by IrieDesign.)

It had been a long day/night, and I was spent. I got ride home (with someone? Maybe Sammy?), and I crashed at 7:15AM.

Sunday, April 29, 2007: A Hot Jazz Funeral, a Hot Free Show, and a Hot Tub

2008-04-19T19:50:00.005-04:00

Surprisingly, I awakened bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 11AM. Amazingly, Curtis was up, as well, so we went to Club Decatur for a few pints of our Hoegaarden breakfast. Mike picked us up and drove us to a church in the Treme for Ed Bradley's Jazz Funeral. I'd always wanted to see a jazz funeral, and I was very surprised that the small canopy in the church parking lot wasn't mobbed by people. As it stood, there were maybe 75 of us.

We arrived and walked around the side of the canopy to watch Dr. John on a Hammond B-3, tearing up “Cabbage Alley” with a few horns. Arthel Neville was hosting this affair, and she introduced her daddy, Art, who took over Dr. John's seat and then played a solo version of “Big Chief.” Al “Carnival Time” Johnson stepped up next to sing his signature song ("Carnival Time") with Art on the organ, but Al kept pissing Art off by reaching over and playing a few notes on Art's keys. More than once, Art stopped and asked Al "Do you wanna play it?" and the situation became a little tense and awkward, especially considering that we were right outside of a church. Nevertheless, Art kept it together and bit his lip, probably because he was at a funeral, which in New Orleans is usually a joyful occasion.

Following the tense moments between the two old school titans of Nola R&B, the Dixie Cups performed "Iko Iko." At this point, I started to feel as though we were witnessing a mini Jazz Fest in this church parking lot. So many major players were there, and they were all mere feet away from us, milling about like the regular everyday Joes they truly are.

The musical portion of the service ended when the priest got up to sing "A Closer Walk With Thee." To be honest, the priest’s vocals were warbling, off-key, and downright terrible, especially in comparison to the legends who preceded him. Nevertheless, I enjoyed his performance most of all because he was pouring his guts into it. He was singing as if his life depended on it, and his full-throated passion was infectious, igniting the crowd to sing along with him.

Arthel introduced Leah Chase, who invited everyone to sample some of her Dooky Chase cuisine. The Stuffed Pepper Casserole was piquant, and the Eggplant Casserole was very mellow. It was all good. Playing off Mayor Ray Nagin's famous tirade on the radio after Katrina, a local company presented samples of their Chocolate City Ice Cream.

Not only was the name perfect, but the ice cream was rich and delicious. Of course, it was only fitting when Mayor Nagin, himself, showed up at the funeral. A good sport, he noted the ice cream and made a crack about himself. He posed for pictures with people, and a hilarious moment ensued when Mike somehow wound up in a picture with Mayor Nagin. On the car ride over, Mike had gone on a long rant about how much he detests the mayor, so it was hysterical to see him uncomfortably shoved into the role of hypocrite, as his least favorite politician suddenly had his arm around him for the cameras. After this bizarre incident, Leah Chase addressed the crowd and she singled out Curtis, concerned that the "guy without a shirt on" might get sunburned. While she was there, we should have taken the opportunity to ask Leah what the deal is with her restaurant, Dooky Chase, which always seems to be rumored of opening soon but never seems to ever truly open.

We left the funeral and arrived at the Fairgounds at 2PM. Immediately, I grabbed a Trout Baquet with Crawfish Bisque combo. The trout was really nothing special, but the bisque was wonderfully rich and creamy. I chose this combination because my goal during this Jazz Fest was to try many of the different types of Fairgrounds food that I had never previously tasted. I took this rich bisque and blasé trout to the Jazz Tent to hear the soulful organ of Dr. Lonnie Smith, who was surprisingly just as non-descript and boring as the dead fish on my plate.

Not satisfied with that food offering, I went back to the old mainstay: Cochon de Lait Po' Boy. Over the years, I've noticed that the Cochon de Lait can vary wildly in terms of quality. This day's offering was a little dry but had much more meat.

I went to the Gentilly Stage for the supergroup, New Orleans Social Club, and as expected, this cadre of local All-Stars was quite good. Unfortunately, the Henry Butler's microphone was off when he tried to sing "Tipitina." The same was true for Dr. John. The musicians on the stage were unhappy, the crowd was ticked off, yet the guys at the soundboard seemed incredibly nonchalant and even appeared to not notice the problem. Eventually, they switched mics, then channels and then started the song over. Just like on the album, John Boutte's cover of Annie Lennox's “Why?” was overwhelmingly emotional and really resonated.

Up next was a trip to the Lagniappe to see the man I had long wanted to see: boogie-woogie pianist and eccentric nutcase, Bobby Lounge, who was flat-out hilarious while romping up and down the pearly 88's. His set was just tons of fun. I don't know how anyone can miss this cat's set at Jazz Fest because I've been waiting to hear him ever since he released the fantastic album, The Night Your Trailer Burned Down. His lyrics are white trash fantasies with sardonic and perverted wit, and he's always wheeled on stage in an iron lung, courtesy of his private nurse, Gina Pontevechio, who sits off to the side of stage, looking bored and reading tabloid magazines. Because he pointed out that he's better than Jerry Lee Lewis, I decided to skip geriatric Jerry's conflicting set. Truthfully, Bobby Lounge would have outclassed anyone with his brilliant and riotous performance.

Nevertheless, Bobby was also conflicting with New Orleans' Queen of Soul, Irma Thomas. I love Irma, and I always make it a point to catch her set on the Fairgrounds, so I raced over to the Gentilly stage just in time to see the second-line portion of her show, which was undeniably fun. Then she sang her classic, “Time is on My Side,” which is exactly what I wanted to hear.

Irma would be ending soon, so I left for the Fais Do-Do, where Gillian Welch was performing. Since it was hot, and I'd never tried one before, I grabbed a Mango Freeze, which was very refreshing. Now I know why they're so damn popular. Gillian's music was very pretty, but it was a little too mellow for my needs.

Then it was back to my beloved Economy Hall for the legendary Pete Fountain. This titan of the clarinet is a Jazz Fest staple for me, and he was excellent, per usual. Everyone was up dancing and second-lining, creating a really fun vibe in the tent.

Having never seen music at the Kid's Tent, I decided to see how the smaller half lives at Jazz Fest, observing a set called "Sunpie Barnes with Louisiana Creole Music." This was actually a lot of fun. This band of kids was really great, especially those who were dancing and leading the second line. Some of them were rather little (maybe only 5 or 6 years old). I did my best to avoid looking like a pedophile, but I'm sure some of the mothers were quite frightened of me. Honestly, I would be frightened of me, too. Before I wore out my welcome, I opted to second-line out on "When the Saints Go Marching In."

It would be wrong to say, "Small children make me hungry," so I won't say that. Regardless, I decided to eat and opted for an old favorite in the form of the Alligator Pie, Fried Green Tomato, and Crabmeat-Stuffed Shrimp Combo Platter. 'Twas a great dinner, as the gator was very herby, the tomato had an excellent, smoky sauce, and the shrimp was joyously overstuffed with luscious crabmeat.

Mike had previously tipped me off to The New Orleans Bingo! Show, which was a very weird performance art kind of thing at the Lagniappe. There aren’t many acts at Jazz Fest that feature musicians in bizarre makeup and costumes, playing a Theremin and a saw. Nevertheless, just like everyone else at Jazz Fest, these musicians were quite talented in their own odd way. The lead singer had a voice that sounded very much like Prince. However, the name of this band was The New Orleans Bingo! Show, yet somewhat confusingly, there was no actual Bingo being played. I’ve had the misfortune of seeing a lot of performance art in my lifetime, and I will confess that I did not get it.

The Fest ended, and I had already known that my favorite band on planet Earth, The New Mastersounds, would be playing a free gig on Marca’s porch, right across from Liuzza's. Oh man, I cannot say enough about the amazing scene here! The location was absolutely perfect, with people coming right out of the Fairgrounds and walking into a killer party. Like a scene out of Martha Reeves’ wildest dreams, there were several hundred freaks dancin’ in the street to the funky sounds of the five lads from Leeds. Smiles were all around. People were shakin’ it like there was no tomorrow, while guzzling Bloody Marys and Hurricanes. There was even a woman, whom I dubbed “Latin Spitfire,” dressed in some wildly skimpy ballroom dancing outfit with a lot of feathers dancing to her own crazed rumba beat.

Latin Spitfire shook so fast she couldn't stay in focus.

I felt like I was on another planet, and as Chris Bertolet once said about Galactic, “It was as if someone got inside my hips’ control center and hotwired the motherfucker!”

Simply put, the band, who played in front of a couple of flying Union Jacks, won a lot of fans, but they would have been better served if they had posted a sign with their name on it. (Oh, you artists! When will you ever learn Marketing 101?) All of the craziness was filmed for an upcoming DVD about The New Mastersounds' first trip to New Orleans, and the killer vibes continued when Groovesect followed and also put on an excellent set.

(Editor’s note: This post-Fest porch gig that New Mastersounds played with Stanton Moore briefly sitting in on drums was easily the best concert I saw in 2007. I saw a ton of spectacular live performances last year, but nothing touched the wild vibes of that streetparty.)

This is neither here nor there, but for some reason, I feel it’s worth pointing out that while there was a huge danceparty going on in front of Liuzza’s, a wookie sold Kind Veggie Burritos and was accompanied by a baby goat. That’s right—a baby goat. I have no idea why.

Frances, Katia, and Gooner met us for a good deal of Groovesect, and then they drove us home. I then slept for two hours before going to Howlin' Wolf to see some crazy funk all-stars show, featuring Leo Nocentelli, George Porter, Jr., Russell Batiste, Raymond Weber, Bernie Worrell, Henry Butler, Ivan Neville, Ian Neville, Adam Deitch, Kevin O'Day, Tony Hall, Skerik, Cheme, and a sax player who was introduced as Grover Washington, Jr., although I don’t think it was actually him. This unit, which I dubbed “Almost Everyone In New Orleans Who Plays Funk Music,” played lots of big funk covers, and the second set featured plenty of tunes by P-funk and James Brown. It was here that I decided I no longer need to hear anyone play The Meters' "People Say." It's getting old and tired now. The same goes for "Just Kissed My Baby," although I know I'm in the minority on that one. Nevertheless, Leo was not on stage for much of the gig, which was an absolutely wonderful blessing. This enabled other guys to have space, and it was really cool to see Henry Butler playing straight up funk. It was also great to watch bassists Tony Hall and George Porter, Jr. have a blast while communicating back-and-forth.

The ladies had to depart for Gulfport, so I bid them adieu and went to Frenchmen for The New Mastersounds at the Blue Nile. They had just begun a second set that would last until 6AM, making it a second set that was at least 3 hours long. Digging deep for all sorts of covers, Eddie Roberts was wailing as they jammed the crap out of Johnnie Taylor’s “Who's Making Love?” and I went nuts. Pete Shand was so funky and grooving so hard on his bass that I thought his hand was gonna fall off. Simon Allen sounded awesome, locking into a nasty pocket on the drums.

In need of refreshment, Curtis and I walked through Quarter in search of 6AM Hoegaardens. We were led by one of the nastiest women I’ve ever seen. She was a total skeletal wreck, and Curtis and I had a fun time playing the classic guessing game, “Junkie or Crackhead?” Leaning towards the former, we tried to see how many double-entendres we could create with the word “horse.” Along the way, we passed Shea making out with someone on the street, which is notable because I seem to find Shea doing that every year. We allowed our haggard tourguide to get back on the horse, and then we stumbled towards the hotel, double-fisting Hoegaardens along the way. While I have little to know recollection of it, the pictures below indicate that we ate breakfast somewhere.

I don't know what this is or where it came from, but apparently, I ate it. It looks like an omelet, and since I ordered it, I'm guessing there had to be a good amount of bacon, andouille sausage, or some other kind of pork involved.

I ate biscuits and gravy, too?!?!

I haven't the foggiest notion what this is, but I guess I ate it, as well. Holy shit, I had to have been REALLY hungry! I'm surprised I didn't eat Curtis, too.

Post-mystery breakfast, we made it to the Old Absinthe House. Curtis had a yearning for Bloody Marys, and he asked how they make them, worried that they might use a mix. The bartender laughed, “Oh, you’ve never had one of ours? Sit down.” We didn’t sit down because Curtis felt confident enough in her response that he immediately ordered two for each of us. I’m not really a huge Bloody Mary fan, but I wasn’t in the mood to object to anything at that moment (and thankfully, these drinks were excellent), so we two-fisted Bloody Marys on our way up to the hotel hot tub, where we soaked for two hours. The sun was out, and it felt great, as if we were marinating in our own juices. As far as I know, no one has ever eaten Vodka-Braised Ferdman before, but I’ll bet I would have made for a tasty dish. The hot tub was a magical cure-all, and my weary legs now felt great. Finally, we crashed at 11:15AM.

Monday, April 30, 2007: Instruments-a-Comin' plus Agony's-a-Comin

2008-04-19T19:41:00.003-04:00

We awakened at 6PM and took a while to get going. Initially, we had a goal of trying to hit Dooky Chase, but I couldn’t find any information online or over the phone regarding its rumored opening online. It was one of those classic Nola moments when you have a simple question that can be easily answered, yet no one seems to be able to help at all. Sometimes, this wonderful town is just so damn backward.

Our options dwindling and stomachs growling, we went to Fiorella's. I assumed I could not go wrong with Fried Crawfish tails with Cajun Dipping Sauce (mmmm…sauce), and I was right. We both ordered hulking plates of the world’s most AWESOME fried chicken. I’m certainly man who loves his dark meat, but this was the juiciest white meat imaginable, courtesy of a lengthy marination process. The skin was so crispy-- it was as if it were covered in cracklins. At one point, I did notice that a piece of chicken seemed a bit undercooked, but I passed on that piece and went to town on the countless other parts on my plate. I also had delicious sides in the form of smoky red beans and rice and spinach with a little vinegar bitterness. It was then that I wondered how body would react to eating a real vegetable after a few days of nothing but cows, pigs, and chickens.

Before:

After:

We caught a cab to Tipitina’s for the tremendously important Instruments-a-Comin’ benefit, a concert that raised funds for the Tipitina’s Foundation’s Annual push to provide free instruments to young people in public schools. Unlike the scene Curtis had described in years past, this event was way sold out with nary an extra to be found. I had snagged a ticket beforehand, and we had to use some clever maneuvering to find a way in for Curtis. With a huge lineup of bands doing 45-60 minute sets, we arrived just in time to watch the Dirty Dozen Brass Band nail a solid finish.

Donald Harrison and the Tips Interns were next on the docket. Their verision of “Hey Pocky Way” was not bad at all, and I especially enjoyed their spin on “The Girl from Ipanema,” which they turned into “The Girl from New Orleans.” “Big Chief” was a rousing finale, thanks to a very talented young man on the vocals. In all, it was really cool to see this ensemble play because these young, budding musicians really were what the night was all about.

Jon Cleary was up next. Admittedly, I’m not a fan, and he started out way funky, then soon devolved into smooth and boring. I hate it when he gets into “adult contemporary” mode. Bonnie Raitt then came out, and while expectations were high, she didn't do a whole lot. The set had started strong, but it really fizzled.

New Orleans Social Club simply smoked from the get-go. Theirs was a blazing set, especially the fiery Ivan Neville-led “Fortunate Son.” Unfortunately, they stopped way too early, nearly 20 or 30 minutes before their slot was scheduled to end.

Trombone Shorty & Orleans Avenue then took the stage. This was my first time seeing them together. Almost immediately, I was impressed by their killer cover of “Back in Black.” These extremely talented young cats made for one very slick band, and they were led by a guy with infectious charisma. Their set ended with flair on a big instrument switch. I could definitely see how this could be an awesome late night act.

Rebirth Brass Band also had a great set, playing a lot of Mardi Gras Indian tunes with Monk Boudreaux, and ending on a really high note.

I was tempted to stick around for Walter “Wolfman” Washington and the Roadmasters, but I was beat. The morning’s hot tub marination had me feeling a little pickled, so we packed it in and called it another early night at 3AM.

However, my night was not quite over, as I soon awakened with a sharp pain in my stomach and a cold sweat on my brow. I couldn’t stop thinking about that undercooked piece of chicken. Was the white meat so juicy because it was still rare? The pain kept getting worse, and I started to feel dizzy. I looked at the clock and calculated that it had been just about six hours since I had eaten that chicken. My body has an internal clock like a Swiss watch, and I knew exactly what was happening: I had food poisoning.

I’ll spare you the details, but the next hour alongside the porcelain god was quite agonizing. It was not the best way to end my day, although on the bright side, I knew I wouldn’t be gaining any weight that day because every single thing I had ingested was exiting my body in multiple ways with haste.

I will say it now-- while it’s nice to avoid the weight gain, the practice of bulimia is very overrated.

Tuesday, May 1, 2007: The Road to Recovery via Debris, Dragon Smoke, and a Deep Massage

2008-04-19T19:19:00.004-04:00

After the rough night, I recovered and made my way to get something to eat. Under these circumstances, the sensible decision would have involved eating something light, but when it comes to New Orleans food, I always try to avoid the sensible decision. Believe it or not, this was my first trip to the infamous Mother’s. Since there was a po’ boy that literally had my name on it, I opted for the Famous Ferdi Special. It was a packed po’ boy filled with baked ham, roast beef, debris (the delicious leftover bits of roast beef in the pan), and gravy, fully “dressed” with shredded cabbage, pickles, mayo, Creole mustard, and yellow mustard. All of these flavors combined to create one huge, sloppy mess of a sandwich. Hot damn, was it good! Immediately, my stomach felt a thousand times better, and once again, eating insensibly proved to be the smart choice.

After walking over to the New Orleans Arena to buy tickets for the upcoming second weekend of the Fairgrounds, I made my way over to the greatest record store on Earth, the Louisiana Music Factory. The Factory always has great free performances during the Fest, and people awkwardly pack in the cramped aisles to see intimate sets from local artists who have just released new albums. I saw a bunch of cool acts on this day, but there were two that really stood-out. The first was sousaphonist Matt Perrine’s Sunflower City, which is a beautiful, old-time sounding collection of classic New Orleans tunes with an optimistic feel. This really was a gorgeous performance of what would become one of my favorite albums of the year, and it was highlighted by a vocal duet between Alex MacMurray and a woman who was performing while holding her newborn baby. It was the kind of precious scene that melted the icy chambers of my frozen heart.

The second noteworthy in-store performance was delivered by Stanton Moore, who was promoting two new instructional DVDs about the techniques of New Orleans drumming. Essentially, Stanton did a free clinic for everyone who was around. Demonstrating the evolution of funk by playing the signature beats from classic tunes, he also talked about the history of funk, citing little stories about James Brown’s penchant for discovering drummers in small clubs. Then he talked about what comprises a New Orleans secondline beat, and he showed the subtle ways that swing can slowly morph into funk. Not only was this incredibly interesting and informative, but it was also really entertaining, and people were definitely dancing to his beats. Latin Spitfire was even there, shakin’ her tailfeather. I’d have to say that Stanton’s clinic was easily one of the cooler things I’ve ever seen at Jazz Fest.

Eventually, it was time for the evening’s entertainment to begin, so I headed over to the oasis of Frenchmen Street. Along the way, I stopped at Angeli, a place that was recommended by a bartender in d.b.a many years ago. Angeli serves great food, much of it is even healthy, and it’s open nice and late. Figuring I could get my week’s dosage in one shot, I went for the grilled veggie sandwich, which was rather tasty.

Then I made my way over to the Blue Nile for Dragon Smoke. I had such high hopes for this outfit, comprised of Stanton Moore, Ivan Neville, Robert Mercurio, and Eric Lindell, but this first set was aimless, weak, and disappointing. It was clear that Lindell couldn’t hold down the lead guitar slot, and as a result, the music suffered and sounded rudderless.

On the other hand, Set Two of Dragon Smoke was a completely different animal, as the band was amped up from the start. Then they really stood at attention when two hot burlesque dancers took the stage. I can't really explain it, but music really sounds better when accompanied by two hot burlesque dancers. Funny how that is.

The momentum kept rolling with Junior Walker & the All-Stars' "Shotgun," which is a personal favorite of mine. Then Eddie Roberts sat in, and with a bonafide lead guitarist on hand, Lindell could find his niche, and everything drastically improved. They pulled out a Meters tune, and Curtis Mayfield's "If There's a Hell Below (We're All Gonna Go)" was excellent.

Around the same time that the guys kicked into a sweet reggae groove, I discovered that the Blue Nile had a masseuse in the front window. For one measly buck a minute, this incredibly gifted young lady delivered transcendent bliss to my aching back. Accompanied by a nice jam, this was ten minutes of heaven.

Based on this experience, I think there is a very viable market for hot jams and deep massages. If she is at the Blue Nile next year, I'll be spending a lot of time there.

Dragon Smoke concluded, so we moved a few doors down to d.b.a. for Skerik's Maelstrom Trio. Skerik was playing with Brian Coogan, Simon Lott, and somebody I couldn't identify on guitar. Julie astutely asked "Why does every trio in New Orleans have more than 3 people in it?"

Curtis and I grabbed much-needed seats, and we downed a few much-needed Hoegaardens. The music was more on the abrasive end of Skerik's canon, and it was distorted metal-jazz. Eventually, Glenn Hartman, the N.O.K.A.S. accordion player, sat in for an odd pairing that was actually rather successful.

Then the music stopped around 4:30ish, and Skerik surprisingly announced there would be a second set. Outside during setbreak, Galactic's Robert Mercurio told Skerik he was leaving, and then Skerik berated him and called him a pussy for retiring so early. It was fun to watch.

Set Two started at 5AM, and Mark Southerland sat in on soprano sax. He wailed his ass off, and he definitely outplayed Skerik. It's rare that Skerik ever accepts a passive role on stage, especially in his own combo, but that was certainly the case on this morning. Maybe he was tired. Anyway, the festivities ended 45 minutes to an hour later, and I got into an argument with a bartender for throwing out my 3/4s-full glass of beer. Truthfully, I acted like a jackass, although I must admit that the d.b.a. bartenders were anything but friendly. It was a far cry from the warm atmosphere of Mardi Gras. Pissed off, we traversed the Quarter and crashed around 6:30.

Wednesday, May 2nd, 2007: Sustenance, Soft-Shell Crab, and Sleeps

2008-04-19T18:59:00.005-04:00

We awakened at some point around midday and were in need of sustenance, so we headed to Club Decatur for some liquid breakfast. While there, a hooker asked if we needed any "services." Since I have a personal rule that prevents me from hiring prostitutes before lunchtime, I respectfully declined, but we did admire New Orleans' unique brand of Southern hospitality.

Solids were craved, so we walked a couple blocks to Felix's. Once inside, Curtis and Rama were immediately recognized by the guy shucking oysters. Apparently, he used to work at Uglesich's, and he knew them from their annual visit. Then they realized he was the guy they always called “The Mothershucker.” It was a very happy reunion.

I ordered an appetizer of Marinated Crab Claws, which were very moist with what I believe was pickled radish on top.

My entree was an absolutely enormous Soft-Shell Crab. This thing was just huge. It took up the entire plate, and it was tasty, although this had become one mammoth lunch.

Afterwards, we made a brief trip to the room before we headed out to Lafayette Square Park for Marcia Ball. On the way out of the hotel, I noticed a brass band was playing on Bourbon and Canal, and I took a detour to go check 'em out. The TLC Brass Band wailed on the sidewalk, while a random woman and I danced in the street. I hung there for about 20 or 30 minutes, and it was fun to watch stragglers wander by and stop to take in the fiery band. The whole thing was a very Jazz Fest moment.

After getting a text that someone was opening for Marcia, thus guaranteeing she wouldn't be on for a while, I briefly went back to the room. Everyone had a complimentary USA Today at their door but us, so I stole one from the adjacent room. I justified this theft by believing I was doing a service to those guests, saving them from mediocre dumbed-down journalism. Then I got off my high horse and went outside.

Dumpstaphunk was on at the Louisiana Music Factory. Their double-bass attack was both tight and heavy, and they ripped through a blistering 25 minute set. It was hot, cramped, and sweaty in the store, and just like many days before, Latin Spitfire was dancing in another provocative outfit. Directly in front of me, an artist made sketches of the band, and he timed his great sketch of Ivan Neville perfectly as he finished exactly when the band ended their set.

Because he didn't want anyone to take a picture of his work, I followed the artist outside and attempted to negotiate a deal where he would allow me to post a picture in exchange for providing a link to his site. I learned the artist's name is Curtis Matherne, and like most so many talented artists, Curtis had poor marketing skills and questionable social skills. He was rather arrogant, and when I mentioned the name Frenchy, he lost it, insulting my intelligence and unleashing a tirade about Frenchy is "just throwing acrylic on canvas." Somewhat amused but also tired of his bullshit, I decided to throw him a curveball and said, "If Frenchy is just throwing acrylic on can canvas, what did Jackson Pollock do?"

That shut him up.

I journeyed on to Lafayette Square Park, and the place was jam-packed with blankets, chairs, and dancers. My krewe was dancing in the middle of this maze, so I made a very creative snaking path through the crowd. Marcia was great. I actually hadn't seen her since a Jambalaya Jam at Penn's Landing in Philly 9 or 10 years ago. She really put on a funky and fun show, and she's a blast to watch with that one leg crossed and bouncing to the beat. Once again, Latin Spitfire was there, shakin' her tailfeather.

The show ended, and suddenly the leisurely day had become stressful. One of the things I had really wanted to do on this trip was eat at Brigtsen's. Of course, when you have something like 32 things you want to do on a vacation, something is bound to slip through the cracks because you can't do it all. This is especially true at Jazzfest when there are countless bands, restaurants, and other curiosities all competing for your precious time.

In this case, time was short to get cleaned up post-Marcia. Plus, we were primed to hit Tips that night for Garage a Benevento with The Midnight Disturbers opening. Several friends had advised us that The Midnight Disturbers were not to be missed. One local described them in these terms: "They've only played two gigs, but they're already the best brass band ever."

New Orleanians occasionally exaggerate.

I knew I wouldn't finish a 10PM Brigtsen's meal and get changed in time to make The Midnight Disturbers probable 11PM starting time, so Curtis gave me a crash course on taping and sent me to Tips while he went to Brigtsens to gorge.

I setup the taping gear, and The Midnight Disturbers second-lined in from outside the club. An All-Star band of All-Star bands, they featured Kirk Joseph on sousaphone, Stanton Moore and Kevin O'Day on drums, Ben Ellman and Skerik on sax, Troy Andrews and James Andrews on trumpet, and Big Sam on trombone. Mark Mullins was absent, but Big Sam more than made up for his absence. In a great sequence where each pair played dueling solos, Big Sam took on two different personas, quickly turning his hat backwards to play in a unique style as “Little Sam.” He did this several times in what was probably the highlight of the set. In all, The Midnight Disturbers were really cool, bringing a darker, more intense vibe to traditional brass band music, although they didn't quite live up to the absurd level of hype. Something tells me that they also didn't quite match the level of their set at Papa Mali's Stoned Soul Picnic on the Thursday before the Fest.

I hadn't eaten dinner, and while missing Brigtsen's was starting to hurt, it opened a brand new culinary opportunity. Earlier in the week, someone had tipped me off about something called grit fries on the food truck outside of Tips. The guys running the truck were really friendly, and I ordered a pulled pork po' boy with a side of grit fries. The pulled pork was not bad, but it was nothing special. There was no smokiness, and I couldn't really taste the meat under the thick wash of sauce.

But then there were grit fries.

Oh, you delicious grit fries.

Through what must have been an act of gastronomic wizardry, grits were somehow molded into the shape of thick rectangles and then deep fried. In the past I have asked the question "Is there anything that doesn't taste good when it's deep fried?" I have yet to find my answer, and these wonderful grits definitely passed the test. I dipped them in this amazing honey-vinegar sauce that was a perfect sweet and sour blend. I'm sure that nibbling foie gras in Brigtsen's genteel establishment would have been nice, but I honestly wouldn't trade that for the chance to park my ass on the sidewalk and devour grit fries from a paper plate.

Garage a Benevento began, and my low expectations were quickly exceeded. I don't know why I didn't expect much from this quartet, but they really jelled well, producing a jammy 1980s Japanese pop sound. An excellent version of The Duo's "Scratchiti" was later followed by a long jam on The Zombies' "She's Not There," which led to Skerik unleashing a nasty series of "brown notes."

Set Two began with a very big take on The Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There," but then everything got very mellow. I was pretty tired by the time the second set rolled around, and during this lengthy melllow section, I actually fell asleep while leaning on the balcony railing. It was kind of scary because I nearly fell down. Flipping over the balcony at Tipitina's would have been a shitty way to go, and a staff member noticed. At Tips, they really hate it when you fall asleep and die in their club. I backed away to a safer spot, and I even broke my own personal rules and went to get some much-needed caffeine.

Skerik helped pick me up with an improv around the phrase "I'm makin' bacon." (True, the thought of bacon always perks me up.) Shortly thereafter, the band whipped into a frenzied "Gimme Some Lovin'" before finding themselves in a pounding, slower rendition of "What Is and What Should Never Be," featuring some really cool work on the vibes from Mike Dillon. "Immigrant Song" provided an intense set closer, and a slow, grooving "Just a Closer Walk With Thee" eventually built into a jumping encore.

Now that I was perked up (and the chance of getting a cab outside of Tips without bloodshed was unlikely), we walked up to Miss Mae's for some absurdly cheap Hoegaardens. Somehow we wound up outside of Le Bon Temps Roule (I think we caught a cab) where Groovesect was playing. It was crowded, so we never actually went inside, and eventually, we caught a cab home and called it a morning.