Birthday a la Solitude

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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)

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

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)

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...

...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)

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Thursday, May 3, 207: A Return to the Scene of the Crime (and Other Dumb Ideas)

We grabbed our morning Hoes at Club Decatur before walking to Fiorella's for lunch. Normally, I wouldn't return to the scene of the crime where I got food poisoning, but I was in a forgiving mood. Either that, or I was very stupid.

Now permanently frightened of poultry, I ordered the Cajun Burger, which could be undercooked yet still safe. It was okay with that tasty Cajun sauce slathered on top. I also ordered the gumbo, which the waitress was proud to have made herself. I didn't have the heart to tell her to ease up on the salt next time. Their stereo played an odd mix of 1980s tunes, and I thought that it would have been perfect had they had a dish called “Bangles and Chicken.”

After lunch, I walked to Frenchmen Street to buy some Pralines at The Praline Connection. There were rumors of some sort of festival taking place on Frenchmen, but it was dead. (I think it was a one-day affair that ended on Wednesday.) Willie Tee was supposed to be playing in Lafayette Square with Stanton Moore, Robert Walter, Robert Mercurio, Wil Bernard, so I had to haul ass cross-town. As I frantically raced up Royal Street, I thought, "Isn't it nice to have a relaxing day in the French Quarter?"

Opener Charmaine Neville was on stage and Willie Tee would not be on for a while, making it impossible to both catch his act and get ready for dinner. Shaking my fist at this cruel world, I grabbed a drink and retired to get ready for Cochon.

(Editor’s Note: Sadly, Willie Tee would pass away on 9/11/07, and I missed my chance to see him live in concert.)

There's a good chance that any restaurant whose name translates to the word "Pig" will get a hearty endorsement from me. Cochon certainly lived up to its wonderfully swineful name.

A quick run-down of what was ingested:

- a couple of Mint Juleps (I would have preferred Woodford but Makers Mark would do.)

- Boudin Balls - Mike had eaten these before, so we followed his advice and enjoyed these fried things that tasted great with Creole mustard

- Ribs -They were very peppery but well balanced by tart watermelon pickle.

- Andouille sausage and sweet potato w/ black-eyed pea vinaigrette - A real smoky combo paired well with tart vinegar

- Crawfish Bisque - It was good but not the best. It could have more rich.

- Louisiana Cochon - The only thing better than pork is succulent pork, so moist, good texture with cracklins and turnips.

- Bitter Greens with Pork Chunks - vegetables always taste better with pork chunks

- Eggplant and Shrimp Casserole thing that tasted like a tamale

- Cucumber and Squash Salad with Goat Cheese – a refreshing and perfect pairing

- Cochon Mississippi Mud Pie – featuring a wall of caramel, it was the best dessert I've had in Nola

We left Cochon for the Cricket Club, whose edifice was once a restaurant on the Eiffel Tower. Apparently, the architect's calculations were slightly off, so for safety's sake, they removed the entire restaurant from the tower and shipped it to New Orleans. It's a gorgeous steel structure with a long ramp leading to the entrance. It was very nice inside, and the spring-loaded dance floor was great. Unfortunately, the cavernous sound completely sucked.

Groovesect, whom we had been somewhat impressed with at the porch set last Sunday, were on for the first set. They weren't bad, but the sparse crowd wasn't exactly into it. They brought Fred Wesley out, and the quality started to ramp up significantly. Everything was really smoking by the time they got into a killer "Pass the Peas." It had a nice little jam, and then Bill Summers played a cool little mellow solo. Then Fred Wesley announced that they would be back in a bit for a second set.

What?

They finally started to gain some momentum, Fred and Bill had barely been onstage, and now we were suddenly suffering from coitus interruptus. Not cool. Not cool at all.

Set Two started nicely before completely fizzling out. It featured one of the most lifeless "Cissy Struts" ever with the drummer skipping the essential Zigaboo two-note hit on the high hat. Bill Summers never came back, which made his 15 minutes on stage a bold theft of a paycheck. Honestly, the best part of this set was a crazy dude in the audience who sat cross-legged and banged shit on the floor.

We bolted before the ending to grab a cab to The Maple Leaf, where we caught the last 45 minutes of George Porter, Johnny Vidacovich, Marco Benevento, and Skerik. Sadly, this was the only time I caught Johnny during Jazz Fest, and he wasn't as wild as he normally is.

There was a lengthy changeover before the James Brown Birthday Tribute began, and I killed time by befriending Sam and Brian, whom I would later learn live a few blocks away from where I work. The set of music was certainly danceable, but it was nothing special. Tony Hall did a decent job, but it was clear he was no James Brown.

It had poured rain during the show, but it was only lightly spitting at setbreak. Since I was tired and somewhat unimpressed by the band, I opted to try to take advantage of the relative clearing and attempted to grab a cab. Many others had the same idea, and there were no cabs in sight, as the cab companies weren't answering their phone at 3:30 AM. I tried the old New York trick of walking further down the block than anyone else in hopes I could grab the cab first. When I got all the way down the block, I realized that this was one of my least intelligent ideas. Although the Garden District is certainly a very nice neighborhood, this particular area was sparsely populated, and noting the recent crimewave, it dawned on me that no one would hear me scream as I would be disemboweled by a random thug's rusty meat hook.

As I walked back to civilization, the cab sped past me and picked up a pack of assclowns who wanted to piss away their morning at Igor's. There were plenty more who wanted to do the same thing, and I now knew that a solo passenger would have little shot at getting a cab to the French Quarter.

Just then, when hope was bleak, Saint Samuel Wilcher appeared with keys in hand and offered a ride. Thank God for Sammy. If not for him, I would have probably been stuck outside the Maple Leaf for hours.

Friday, May 4th, 2007: The Great Flood

Friday morning at the Fairgrounds began with a double-pronged mission: eat Creole's Stuffed Bread and try the Boudin Balls. I had not had Creole's Stuffed Bread once on this trip, and I was starting to become weighted down with tremendous guilt for betraying my principles. I had long believed that Creole's Stuffed Bread is the perfect Jazz Fest breakfast, and it was finally time to dig into that incredible bread bursting with andouille sausage, cheese, seasonings, and slathered in a delicious jalapeño sauce. After I ordered my breakfast, I thanked the woman profusely and then shouted, "I've been waiting three years for this moment!" She nodded her head, smiled, and then slowly backed away from the counter fearful that the crazed, rabid foodie before her might accidentally gnaw off her ring finger. The flavors exploded in my mouth, and it was everything I'd been dreaming of. Oh, Creole's Stuffed Bread, someday I will make you an honest woman. Until that time, we will continue our torrid love affair once a year.

After being impressed by Cochon's Boudin Balls, I wanted to see what the Fairgrounds had to offer. This offering was quite good, smothered with hot sauce and Creole mustard. Come to think of it, it's not often that a heterosexual man can be impressed by two sets of balls in two days, so that's a feather in your cap, City of New Orleans.

Suddenly, it started to rain. This was not unexpected, and I already had a poncho on in preparation. However, I did not want to get my balls wet because I'm told that wet balls taste kinda funny. I grabbed my balls and hightailed it for an eating tent. There I stood, balls in hand, watching a downpour unleash its fury on the Fairgrounds. Rain blew sideways and the wind whipped with ferocity. It came down hard and fast, and within minutes, there were huge, deep puddles everywhere. All across the infield, geysers shot up from overloaded drainage pipes. I even watched in amazement as a garbage can just floated away.

After about 30 minutes, I had stopped playing with my balls and just swallowed them. Now that I no longer had any balls, I wondered what I was doing here. Sure, it was pouring, but Jazz Fest was still happening, so I decided to wade out to find a tent with music.

The water was mostly about ankle-high (deeper in other areas) as I made my way to the Gospel Tent. It was too crowded, so I waded over to The Blues Tent, which featured a surreal scene. The water was about knee-high, which rose just up to the chair-line. Everyone was sitting in chairs, their ass barely above water with their legs completely submerged. Nobody seemed bothered by this, although it was very weird.

Wondering what fantastic diseases and bacteria were lurking in the water, I opted to find higher (and dryer) ground. The Jazz Tent was very crowded, but it had to be on more level ground because it was a lot less wet. Ellis Marsalis came on to deliver some swinging tunes, but it wasn't holding my attention. I kept thinking about the odd image of those submerged people in the Blues Tent and I wanted to see what other weird shit was out there, so I ventured over to the Acura stage.

As I crossed into the infield, I noted that the drainage "moat" was a raging river with large black bugs swimming around. The area in front of the stage had a huge puddle, and feeling like I was 4 years old, I just knew that I absolutely had to run through it. I started plowing in before I was getting bogged down. In the deepest part of the bog the water came up to mid-thigh.

I then stood in front of the Acura Stage for about 45 minutes, waiting for Dumpstaphunk to come on. During the entire time we stood at the edge of the stage, the crew, which was well within earshot, did a great job of ignoring our inquiries about what was happening. They left us in the dark as we waited and waited and waited...before I finally gave up. I'm told that Dumpstaphunk eventually did come onstage, but I was long gone. Thanks so much for all of your help, Jazz Fest.

Now pissed off and soaking wet, I walked until I heard some music, which wound up being a portion of The Stooges Brass Band's unamplified set.

After the ark had departed, the flood had stopped, and the sun began to come out. I decided to celebrate this development by eating, so I grabbed an $8 combo plate, which featured Gratin Louisiane (a congealed yellow thing with crawfish, crab, & shrimp with cheese in hot mixture with a little spice), Spinach Artichoke Casserole (standard fare not all that different from what you'd find in any chain restaurant in America), and Sweet Potato Pone (a tasty fruit cake-like thing with rummed-raisins and ginger crisp topping). These were all Jazz Fest firsts for me, and I was especially surprised at how much I enjoyed the Sweet Potato Pone.

I noshed on my plate while watching the traditional Lousiana Dixieland of The Last Stand in Economy Hall. When the food was depleted, it was time for a change of pace, so I stumbled over to the Fais Do Do for Lil' Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas. This was the perfect, upbeat music for what had suddenly become a sunny day. Lil' Nathan runs a family affair, with his Dad sitting in and selling CDs from the edge of the stage, while his 7 year-old brother entertained on both the drums and washboard. It was a lot of fun.


The last time I had seen The Dirty Dozen Brass Band in New York was really disappointing, so I figured I'd give them a brief shot as I traveled across the Fairgrounds. They were swinging on the Congo Square Stage, but I don't think they had any guitar with them. I may have watched them for a grand total of 3 minutes before moving out of earshot on my way to see one of my favorite singers, John Boutte.

John Boutte has such an incredibly soulful, smoky voice. I sometimes think he sounds just like a good rack of beef ribs tastes. And the guy can truly rip emotion out of a song. Ever since Katrina, he's really been singing with so much more pathos.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to hear John Boutte because there was some little clever switcheroo at the Jazz Tent as he had flip-flopped sets with the World Saxophone Quartet and his set was long over. How did I learn this? The news was delivered via a small 8.5 x 11" sign that appeared as if it had been written by a child and then crookedly taped onto the outside of the tent. Gee thanks, Jazz Fest! You really went that extra mile to keep us informed!

Now royally pissed, I stormed over to the Gospel Tent in hopes that some old time religion might suppress my boiling anger. Once inside, I found Paulette Wright and Volume of Praise. The sound was very loud and very bad, but the group had lots of energy. At end of her set, Paulette did something I'd never seen a gospel singer do: she thanked God for gastric bypass surgery. Now more amused than anything, I went for some food.

Praise Jesus for the miracle of gastric bypass surgery!

This day was starting to look like a literal and figurative wash, as I was missing the acts I wanted to see. I decided that if I was gonna save this day, I had to think outside the box and transcend cliches to do something exciting and new. I looked at the art and crafts. I stopped and smelled the roses. I taste-tested the two kinds of jambalaya.

Jambalaya #1, which is just billed as straight-up Jambalaya, was a mixture of tomato, celery, onion and garlic with crawfish and chicken. Jambalaya #2, which is known as Cajun Jambalaya, had a brown roux with a very smoky, earthy flavor and no seafood. Each had their merits, but I leaned more on the side of the Cajun version.

Now that my riveting experiment was concluded, I opted for some music. Congo Square featured the interminable boredom of George Benson and his penchant for horrible smooth jazz. It was so awful that I couldn't stick around for more than 2 minutes before running away, hopes dashed of hearing "On Broadway."

I decided to opt for something unfamiliar, so I found myself in the Economy Hall tent, which featured the longest name of an act I'd ever seen at Jazz Fest:
Bob Wilber & a Tribute to Soprano Summit Remembering Kenny Davern featuring Dr. Michael White. This was a really interesting blend of soprano sax and clarinet on a plethora of Dixieland-style numbers, many of which were written by the great Sidney Bechet. It's always nice to hear the soprano sax played as it was intended, as a swingin' cousin of the clarinet and a far cry from the evil work of Kenny G. Unfortunately, Bob Wilber's watch was off by nearly 20 minutes, so he had the band end their set way too early. After a little debate, they did come back, but I was already on my way to the next venue.

There were lots of options, but since this day had become all about familiarizing myself with the unfamiliar, I opted for Walter Wolfman Washington and the Roadmasters, a band that I had inexplicably never even heard once over the past seven years. I'm glad I had the chance to rectify that in the now dry Blues Tent because Wolfman and his band played a fun, hot set of rocking blues and funk, bedecked in red and black outfits. It was a nice way to end a bizarre day at Jazz Fest.


On the way out, I saw the TLC Brass Band once again playing for much-deserved tips.


Seeking to avoid a really long cab line, I ponyed up for a round-trip ticket on the more expensive bus straight to my hotel.

The sun sets on Canal Street.

After a much-needed shower and nap, I made my annual pilgrimage to Rock 'n Bowl. Apparently, several hundred people had the same idea because there was a long, slow-moving line to get inside. Of course, waiting 45 minutes in line can be kind of fun when you meet some friendly locals, and that's exactly who I found in Sheril and Rosylyn. They were both really cool, and we had a blast talking about Jazz Fest and Nola. For some reason, they were surprised how much I knew about Nola music. Maybe locals don't realize how many outta-towners are addicted to the Crescent City?

We finally made it inside, but unfortunately, we had missed Snooks Eaglin's set. Tab Benoit was up, and he played a solid 90 or so minutes of his patented swamp guitar rock. The Rock 'n Bowl was really filled to the rim with Brim, and I'd never seen it anywhere near this crowded. We found a place far in the back to drink, chat, and strain to see the guy on stage.

Rockin' Dopsie was up next, and he was yet another guy I'd certainly heard of but had never seen before. I think it's best to describe his sound as zydefunk. Sure, that's not really a word, but I'm going with it anyway. It was pretty fun. A very strange moment occurred when Rockin' Dopsie introduced Jerry Rice's wife and daughter. He didn't introduce them by name but just called them "Jerry Rice's wife and daughter." Jerry Rice's Daughter lent some nice vocals to "Proud Mary." The legendary wide receiver was not in attendance, as rumor has it he's preparing to come out of retirement to play his 38th NFL season for any team that has low enough standards to sign him as a 9th stringer.

It was late, and there were some good shows still happening on Frenchmen. However, I was once again faced with the dilemma of trying to find a cab back to the French Quarter when few cabs were coming to the Rock 'n Bowl. Just then, I saw my friend, photographer Gary Firstenberg, who was headed out. If there's one thing I know about Gary, aside from the fact that he takes great photographs, it's that he always has a car nearby. Sure enough, he did, and as always, he generously offered me a ride. It was a Godsend.

I made my way over to Frenchmen, where I had the honor of paying a $15 cover for the last 30 minutes of Idris Muhammed, Robert Walter, Wil Bernard, Wil Blades, and Eddie Roberts. Working out to 50 cents a minute, this was some expensive souljazz. Afterwards, the upstairs area was open, so we had a quick drink up there before one of Frances' friends gave me a ride back to the hotel. There my night ended at 5AM with the thumping sounds of James Brown laying down a sweet block of thick funk grooves on WWOZ.

Good God, I love that radio station.

Saturday, May 5, 2007: A Man and His Cous-cous

True to form, I was up at 11ish to start another day.

I rode the bus in, and I sat next to a fun and chatty Louisiana local. I gotta say that one of my favorite parts of this vacation was meeting the friendly locals. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seemed like there were more locals at Jazz Fest this year, as opposed to years past when many locals seemed to take it for granted.

The first stop was for sustenance in the form of File Gumbo. It was loaded with sausage, chicken, and crawfish, and it had a very herby flavor. To me, it tasted very much like the excellent blend of Herb d'Provence, but I could very well be wrong...although I doubt it...but I'm not sure.

One of the best things I saw at Jazz Fest a few years ago was called The Woodshed, where Stanton Moore and the Dirty Dozen's Terence Higgins faced off on the drum set, taking turns with the same backup band. This time around, The Woodshed featured dueling basses from James Singleton and Roland Guerin It was not bad, but I got there at the end, so I'd imagine I missed the more engrossing parts.

I wandered around Acura as the Dixie Cups sang until I reunited with Teddy and Amanda. The Dixie Cups primarily served as background music for our chat, but the parts I heard sounded good.

Teddy had the brilliant idea to go get Cochon de Lait po' boys, and I never turn down the opportunity to eat that most succulent swine. He was impressively two-fisting, carrying one for his appreciative wife. We met up with J-R, Rich, and Dr. Hevron, and we took our bounty to a top-secret location that J-R's aunt had secured. I won't reveal the details of our secret eating spot, but it was perfectly relaxing to dine in the shade while a nice breeze blew by. Incidentally, I hit the culinary jackpot with this Cochon de Lait, as it was incredibly moist and easily attained "best ever" status.

From there, we ventured over to the Gentilly Stage for Zigaboo Modeliste. I can honestly say that Zig was nothing special, despite having a band loaded with talent. Again, I must stress that I’m tired of “Just Kissed My Baby” and “People Say,” but there was no way of escaping them at this show.

We decided to hit the Blues Tent for Snooks Eaglin, but it was very crowded. Snooks had a powerhouse band, featuring George Porter Jr. on bass, John Gros on keys, and Jellybean on drums. It sounded great, but it was too damn crowded and very hot.

We ambled over to Acura for Galactic, and they played the sort of decent-but-uneventful set I've come to expect from them at Jazz Fest. Essentially, Galactic served as background music for the chattering masses, which was fine because I had just found Gooner, and she and I had some catching up to do. For their finale, Galactic brought out John Mayer for a very tepid "Immigrant Song." Long a Mayer-hater, I had recently warmed up to him after hearing his considerable skills with blues music and realizing how he makes fun of his own trite pop tunes, which are written solely to pay the bills. I expected him to tear into a vicious solo, but he did nothing...and I mean nothing at all. He absolutely refused to take a solo, and the band just vamped interminably. It was so damn lousy and a wasted opportunity, perhaps the weakest version of "Immigrant Song" ever performed by anyone outside of a garage band. ZZZzzzzz...

If you don't believe me, watch this:


At the end of Mayer's piece of stale bread, Gooner and I got to talking about Jazz Fest food. I raved about Cochon de Lait and Creole's Stuffed Bread, while she insisted that I try her favorite food on the Fairgrounds. It was called Cous-cous with Yogurt Sauce.

"What kind of meat is in that?"

"There's no meat in it."

"Listen, I come to New Orleans to eat animals. If it hasn't mooed, oinked, quacked, baaed, or clucked, I'm not interested."

"It's really refreshing, and it's very healthy."

"Sorry, but I don't do 'healthy.' If I wanted to eat healthy, I would...I would...well, I don't know what the Hell I'd do because I've never eaten healthy before, nor to I plan to start now when I'm surrounded by so many delicious deep-fried creatures."

Despite my intense, pig-headed (pun intended) defense, I was persuaded to give it a try. I guess the prospect of trying a new food outweighed the fact that the new food was never a living, breathing thing. The Cous-cous with Yogurt Sauce had little chunks of pineapple with golden raisins. Much to my surprise, it was incredibly cool and refreshing. I mean, really cool and refreshing, so much so that I became an instant fan. In fact, I liked it so much that I began to convince random people around me to try it.

"You gotta try this, man. It's great."

"What kind of animal is in it?"

"None, but it's really refreshing, despite the fact that it never breathed."

*

"You gotta try this. It's great!"

"Is it deep-fried? Cause it doesn't look deep-fried."

"No, it's just incredibly refreshing."

*

"Hey, you should try this because it's really refreshing!"

"Oh, so you think I can't handle a dish with meat in it?"

"Umm, that's not-"

"Cause let me tell you something buddy-- just cause I'm thin doesn't mean I'm a vegetarian!"

"I didn't think that-"

"I got this body because I work my ass off every day in the gym. Then I eat meat. Lots of it. And I like it. The cuter the animal, the better!"

"Actually, you're a woman after my own h-"

"Don't try to sweettalk me, dickhead! You can take that yogurty tofu shit and cram it up your lilywhite ass!"

"But it has golden raisins.."

*

My attempts at converting the locals didn't go over so well. Honestly, part of the problem is that the dish needs a sexy name. You gotta sell the sizzle, not the steak. Cous-cous with Yogurt Sauce sounds about as appealing as Leprosy Pie. I would call it Icy Cool Cous-cous with Refreshing Yogurt Sauce. Either that, or I'd give it a nonsensical but catchy name like Coologurt.

Whatever you wanna call it, it was really fucking good.

Now refreshed, I wanted to see the Allman Brothers, so Gooner showed me a secret way of getting to the Gentilly Stage by walking behind it on the track. Secret or not, there were something like 8 million people trying to watch the Allmans, and people had chairs camped out way on the track. I couldn't dream of getting close, and the sound completely blew from so far away. I tried several different vantage points, but the terrible, phasing sound, rendered the Allmans unlistenable. Resigned to the fact that if I wanted to see the Allmans, I'd have to pay $7,000 a ticket at the Beacon next year, I walked away.

There's one way to pickup my spirits after serious disappointment and that's through my stomach. Allan had great things to say about the Crawfish Sausage, so I headed that direction before the enormous line caused me to change course. No one was waiting for Andouille Callas, and despite the fact that I didn't know what it was, it had the magic A word, so I was game to try it. It was andouille sausage with rice and spices battered and deep fried, served with green onion sauce. I will offer my verdict in one word: YUM. Later, Curtis informed me that this dish is the least healthy offering on the Fairgrounds, so I felt as if I had really achieved something great by eating and surviving it.

Not yet sated, I went for the Crawfish Etouffe. What a disappointment! It had spice but not nearly enough flavor. It needed salt, and it was definitely not rich enough. Moreover, there was way too much celery, and it could have used more onion or garlic. Most importantly, I questioned the freshness of the crawfish and suspected they might be frozen from China.

With the Allmans crossed off the list, I needed a new act for the final set. Since I had never seen them live before, I opted for The Iguanas at the Lagniappe. However, they weren't on at the Lagniappe because I had read the schedule wrong. (The Iguanas were at the Fais Do Do.) Joe Krown came on, and after about 10 seconds of him kicking ass, I knew I wasn't going anywhere. With Brint Anderson on guitar, Brent Rose on sax, ??? On drums, and the always excellent Cassandra Faulkner on bass, this combo was steamrolling through classics that are featured on Krown's Old Friends, an album I really dig. His rough setlist was:

Junko Partner
Old Friends
Tipitina - with Big Chief Albert? or Alfred? on vocals
Livin' Large - with the always dapper Brian Seeger ripping it up on guitar

The right honorable Mr. Krown on Hammond B-3.

His band, featuring Big Chief Albert or Alfred?, Cassandra Faulker, and Brint Anderson.
Brian Seeger prepares for liftoff.

Afterwards, I caught a ride home with Mike, who also enjoyed Joe's fantastic set. I showered and took a brief nap before heading off to the shithole of shitholes, the Contemporary Arts Center. 'twas my first visit to this awful place and it will likely be my last.

I had really wanted to see Dr. John's Night Tripper, but I was a little disappointed in this opener. He was wearing the whole voodoo getup, and off and on, he'd played guitar. In between, he would sing a few lyrics and then grind somewhat inappropriately with a very young, scantily-clad dancer. The band would lock into a groove and repeat the same riff for 25 minutes, which was cool for the first 5, mellow for the next 10, and then incredibly monotonous.

Gov't Mule played a solid but unspectacular 2 sets. Mule is a band that always has great sit-ins from a variety of guests, so a show at Jazz Fest, where everybody and their brother is in town, is a no-brainer. Unfortunately, there were no guests until the encore, when Smoky Greenwell sat in on harmonica. Any way you slice it, this was a major letdown. In all honesty, the highlight of this show was seeing Warren Haynes screw up the lyrics to “Hunger Strike,” which was the first time I've ever seen Warren make a mistake on stage.

Per usual, our krewe wanted to go to Club Decatur for Hoegaardens. Having effectively skipped dinner, I needed sustenance, so Curtis and I hit Rotolo’s across the street, as this looked like a safer pizza option than that ghetto stuff they were serving to the pimps and hos in Club Decatur. I ate two fat slices coated in oozing, thick cheese.

Would I describe these slices as good? No. Gluttonous? You're damn right. Did I need them? No way. Am I glad I ate them? Absolutely.

I was incredibly tempted to sojourn across the quarter to Frenchmen where Papa Mali had a cool gig that was featuring Eddie Roberts, among others. However, I knew that I was attempting Mission Impossible on Sunday: planning on arriving at the Fairgrounds to make the start of 007's brutally early 11AM set. With that in mind, I called it a very early night and was in bed by 4.

Sunday, May 6, 2007: The Grand Finale

Sure enough, I was awake 6 hours later and on schedule to arrive at the Fairgrounds earlier than I ever had before. I grabbed a cab with a couple from somewhere near Laguna Beach. They weren't used to the heat and were having a rough time of it. Later in the day, I passed another couple saying "Man, it gets cold down here."





I arrived a little more than 5 minutes after 007's set began. 007's upbeat, rock-steady groove really makes for a great start to the morning. For such an early set, they had a good-sized crowd at the Gentilly Stage, and everyone was in high spirits, no one moreso than me.



Jonathan Freilich and Alex MacMurray rock out.




Feeling as if I were sitting on top of the world, I knew it was time for breakfast in the form of a Crawfish Sausage Po' Boy. I then ducked into Economy Hall for Louis Ford & His New Orleans Dixie Flairs with guest Barbara Shorts. Shock of shocks, I remember nothing about the music, but I vividly recall the po' boy. It was rather savory but half-way through it, I couldn't gnash my teeth through the casing. I didn't know what that meant, but it couldn't be good, so I stopped eating and disposed of the rest of the sandwich. Guilty, I thought about the starving children in China.



The Crawfish Sausage Po' Boy in question.

Unsatisfied and racked with guilt, I headed to the Lagniappe Stage for the UNO Louis Armstrong Jazz Quintet with Cindy Scott on vocals. Something about this combo really rubbed me the wrong way. No, strike that. They truly pissed me off because the Louis Armstrong Jazz Quintet played music that sounded nothing like Louis Armstrong, especially the soulful vocals from the female vocalist, who naturally sounded nothing like Louis Armstrong.

In a self-righteous huff, I departed the Lagniappe and promptly ran into Sammy. We quickly decided that Soft-Shell Crab Po' Boys were in order, and I have to say that I hit the jackpot with the greatest Soft-Shell Crab Po' Boy in history.




Temporarily sated, we decided to catch Eric Lindell in Blues Tent, which had no air circulation and was hot as balls. Lindell sounded great, even better than normal, especially when playing a bluesy western swing. Unfortunately, the constant stream of sweat pouring down my face made the venue unbearable, so I bid adieu to Sammy and circled back through Acura.

Along the way, I caught a little bit of Allen Toussaint doing "Happiness." It was not bad at all, and I'm told that his entire set was great. Whenever I've seen him in the past, I've found him to be less than engaging as a performer, but maybe I should give him another chance. Anyway, I then found my new best friend, Couscous with Yogurt Sauce and our torrid love affair continued.

I made my way over to the Gentilly Stage and found a great spot down front for Anders Osborne, who surprisingly looked kind of soberish, a rarity for Mr. Osborne. His set was pretty good, but it was cut short when the power mysteriously cut out. Instead of stopping, everyone on stage began a spirited percussion jam. Anders' regular band was already augmented by a few auxiliary percussionists, so this jam was excellent. It finally ended when the guy playing cowbell, who acted as if he may have fallen to Earth from the furthest reaches of outer space, took a flying leap from the stage and landed on the photographer's platform below, perfectly punctuating the final note.








I wanted to see Ingrid Lucia, but I went into the Lagniappe by accident. This was the second day in a row that I made this mistake, and I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with me. Perhaps my bloodstream was suffering from low levels of pork?

I then went to go to Ingrid Lucia's correct venue, Economy Hall, which was very crowded. The only seat I could find was sandwiched between a really fat man and a woman who was taking up part of my chair. Fat Man's girth spilled onto my lap, and the woman to my left was not going to cede any ground. After one song, I had suffered enough and needed to move. I walked around but couldn't find a seat, outside of a chair with a bag on it. I asked the woman next to the bag if she would move it, and she said, "No. Someone is sitting there."

"I understand, but may I sit there until they return?"

"No."

"NO?!? WHY NOT?"

"Because you might not ever get up."

I didn't know whether to laugh or just judo chop her in the jugular on the pretext that one less shrew would make the world a better place. Honestly, her selfishness left me completely dumbfounded, and I hate when people and their shitty attitudes become vibe killers on an otherwise great day.

Seconds after walking away, I realized that I missed a great opportunity to take her picture and slap it up on the web for the world to see her as the selfish bitch she is. Assholes of the world, listen up. Next time you piss me off, your picture will be posted all over www.peoplewhofuckedwiththewrongguy.com

Thoroughly irritated, I stormed over to the Jazz Tent, but it was far too crowded, and I didn't have the patience to once again fight for a seat. Just when the day was beginning to suck, the magic of Jazz Fest took over, and I made a discovery in the Gospel Tent. Elder Edward Babb and the Madison Bumble Bees don't make many performances outside of their South Carolina church, but this set was a rousing and spirited affair. Elder Edward would sing/preach a few lines, and then twelve (yes. I said TWELVE!) trombones would fill in with a raucous chorus. Eat your heart out, Bonerama. These guys were simply awesome, and everyone was up and movin' and groovin' with the spirit.



I had never seen Steely Dan before, so I snaked into the crowded Acura Stage for a little bit, including "Dirty Work." I know I'm in the minority here, but their smooth jazz-bordering-on-adult-contemporary sounds don't do much of anything for me, and to my ears, they sounded almost out of place when other artists were delivering gutsy, raw performances at Jazz Fest. After 20 minutes, I had seen enough, and I was able to officially check Steely Dan off the "Bands I Need To See Before I Die List."

This being the final day of Jazz Fest, I had one last item to eat: the amazing White Chocolate Bread Pudding. My dish was overflowing with that wonderfully sweet white chocolate sauce, and I wound up wearing a good bit of it, but I didn't care. This creation is a slice of pure heaven, and it's a must-have every year. Having sampled one of the best dishes at Jazz Fest, I felt content. I did not need to eat any more on the Fairgrounds in 2007. I had made my peace with Jazz Fest's food.



White Chocolate Bread Pudding-- before it made its way onto my clothes.




Sated, I met a few friends for a nice chunk of the Soul Rebels' fun set at the Jazz & Heritage Stage.



The Soul Rebels are up there somewhere.

Then there was but one set remaining for the 2007 New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, and I chose to spend it in Economy Hall with Papa Don Vappie and His Creole Jazz Serenaders. They delivered a great set of rockin' old school Nola classics, such as "Ramble" and "Your Bucket's Got a Hole In It," but the jam into "Iko, Iko," with guest Duvel Crawford breaking it down on piano, was phenomenal. "Down By the Riverside" with its profound lyrics stating "there'll be no more war down by the riverside" added a lot of pathos and emotion to the proceedings.



There looked to be but one number left in the set, but I knew our cadre had a 9:00 reservation at Delmonico, and being stuck in the role of "semi-responsible one," I knew I had to leave first in order to get a jump on the shower. Rather than waiting for a cab, I paid the extra cash and hopped on the shuttle bus. The bus driver was blasting the rocking studio recording of Credence Clearwater Revival's "Heard It Through The Grapevine," and the happy-go-lucky crowd of festers was having a great time. The next tune was "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?," which initiated a full-throated sing-along from most of the bus. It was as if everyone had graduated from "The Wheels On The Bus Go Round and Round" and logically moved on to CCR. I have to admit that this odd and giddy experience was one of my favorite moments of Jazz Fest.

We made our way to Emeril's Delmonico, my third visit to this elegant restaurant. Delmonico is known for impeccable service, but we had a somewhat surly waitress who gave off an I-really-don't-want-to-serve-these-hard-partying-tourists-especially-the-big-one-from-Boston-who-wants-to-order-17-consecutive-Heinekens attitude. When my request for a Mint Julep was rejected on the basis that the kitchen was mysteriously out of mint, I bitterly ordered a Knob Creek and sulked inside.

My meal began with Lobster Mac & Cheese, a hearty portion that was both lush and mellow. My entree was Duck Breast with Foie Gras in a Smoked Grape Reduction, and while I have no complaints, the dish sounds much better on paper. Three of us were hoping for the Delmonico staple of Smoked Duck Over Cheddar Scallion Grits in a Cherry Cane Reduction, but alas, it was not on the menu. As a side, I ordered Wild Mushrooms in Bacon Vinaigrette, which was quite tasty. I'm beginning to think that bacon should become a lifelong partner with vinaigrette. Flora shared some of her Sweet and Sour Calamari, which we agreed was coated in a very heavy, syrupy sauce that tasted like bad Chinese food. Dessert was a wonderfully rich and tasty Toffee Pudding.


Duck Breast with Foie Gras in a Smoked Grape Reduction

Honestly, I was less than impressed on this, my third trip to Delmonico. The food was good but not truly good enough to justify the prices, and the service, which is Delmonico's hallmark, was less than stellar because of our surly waitress. I decided that Delmonico will be skipped on future trips unless my table is willing to go for the Degustation (tasting) menu.

Stuffed to the gills but somehow managing to avoid the perils of Food Coma, I returned back to the hotel and began calling Gooner, who had agreed to drive me to Saturn Bar on the cusp of the Lower 9th Ward for 007. She did not answer. 8 calls and 45 minutes later, I finally woke her up. Then what did she do? She rallied and picked my ass up because Gooner is a champion.

It was around 1AM or so when we drove to the Saturn Bar. Locals call this neighborhood the Upper 9th Ward, but real estate agents and people hoping to escalate their property value prefer the name Bywater. Whatever you wanna call it, this was certainly the most far off the beaten path that I'd been in any trip to New Orleans.

The Saturn Bar is a great little dive with a strange back room that used to be filled with clutter. The bar's original owner passed away, and his nephew (the new owner) spent a long time clearing out the junk to create a back room for bands to play. Incidentally, this new owner is a great guy, eager to chat about anything and full of interesting stories.

We arrived as 007 was in the last third of a very positive set being played to the shit-eatin'-grinning faithful. As expected, the band was in fine form.

Set Two inadvertently became background music for us, as Gooner and I sat at the bar in dire need of catching up, as well as engaging the owner in entertaining conversation. Throughout the course of our chat, it was revealed that I had never been to the Lower 9th Ward but had long wanted to see it, and Gooner immediately decided that she would take me on a tour as soon as 007 finished, and then she'd drive me to the hotel to pickup my luggage before taking me to the airport. This is one of the myriad reasons that Gooner is the best.


007 ended, and I asked Alex MacMurray if they had any CDs for sale.

"No."

"You're all out?" (They had just been pimping them from the stage.)

"Yep," he snorted, giving me the blowoff.

Minutes later, I went to the bathroom, and on the way out, I accidentally ran into Jeffrey Clemens' hi-hat, which was stationed right in front of the exit. Naturally, I expected Jeffrey to be pissed, but he was as nice as he could be, concerned that I might be hurt. I then asked him if they had any CDs, and he gladly sold me one from a large stack as we chatted about their early set at Jazz Fest.

For the life of me, I cannot understand how Jeffrey is so nice and Alex is such a moody fucking asshole. I am far from a groupie and I generally don't talk to musicians, but in every single interaction I've ever had with Alex MacMurray he's been a royal dickhead. Honestly, Alex would have a truly successful career if he didn't treat everyone like a total cocksucker. All I wanted to do was give him money for his work. Is that so offensive?

Gooner and I wanted to get our picture taken in front of The Saturn Bar, but we made the mistake of asking the wrong guy to take our photo. He was a budding amateur photographer, and he insulted my rather inferior camera, insisting that he use his own. Fine. Then we had to move all over the place to find a spot with the perfect mood lighting. It was a laborious pursuit, and despite my protestations that no amount of fancy lighting could make me look pretty, he was persistent. Nearly a year later, I’m still waiting for him to email this precious photo.

Then we went on our late night/early morning moonlit tour of Katrina’s devastation. First, we saw the Musicians Village, where volunteers have been doing a great job of building new houses for displaced Nola musicians. After that, we went into the Lower 9th Ward. This area doesn't come anywhere close to resembling a city. It looks more like a rural patch of land with a couple of dilapidated shacks and no sign of electricity, let alone human life. It's just barren and while there are a small number of crumbling houses, it's mostly nothing but the remains of foundations. With the Lower 9th in a bowl surrounded by the "Mister Go," it was sadly easy to see how these residents lost everything in a very short amount of time.

These were sobering sights, and while it was both morbidly fascinating and depressing, I also had one eye on the clock, worried that I might not make it to the airport in time. In addition, I was slightly frightened that someone might jump in the middle of the road with a gun because we were completely isolated, and no one would hear our cries for help. To her credit, Gooner has become a bonafide Nola resident, as nothing fazes her. She was rather relaxed and unconcerned about the clock, certain that we'd make it.

I made it back to the hotel and raced down the hallway. Unfortunately, for the 5th time on this trip, my key stopped working and I couldn't get back into the room. Miraculously, Curtis was in the room. (There's a first for everything). He let me in and saved me some precious time and Gooner and I sped to the airport. Arriving about 45 minutes before my flight, we said a quick goodbye, I raced inside, and just like that, I was on the flight bound for home. Within hours, I’d be dead on my feet at work, and another phenomenal Jazz Fest would be in the books.

I got Totally Baked today.

On Friday, I learned that Totally Baked (8 W. 18th St. between 5th & 6th Aves.) was opening less than three blocks from my work. Within minutes, I had found the top-secret menu online, and my keyboard became flooded with drool. A plan was immediately put in place. I would seek out this baked potato mecca and treat one of my employees to lunch so that I could sample two different creations. The choice of employee was of paramount importance: picky eaters or those with dietary restrictions would not be up to the task. Nay, I needed a fellow carnivore with a sense of adventure. I found my man, and as an added bonus, he's one of the best on the staff, so the lunch was fully justified.

At 1:00AM, I emailed him the menu with these specific instructions:
"Study it. Make it your friend. Become one with it. It is of paramount importance that you choose wisely. The future of our lives may very well hinge upon this decision."

I was initially concerned that my compatriot might be immediately drawn to the Buffalo Chicken because people from Buffalo (his birthplace) tend to be fixated on the pride and joy of their hometown. Conversely, someone from Philly would scoff and laugh at a Cheesesteak Baked Potato, something Totally Baked thankfully does not offer. As we rode the elevator, I inquired about his selection, and he threw me aback with a choice of either broccoli and cheese or spicy chili.

"Oh, come now, young man. We must think outside the box. There shall be no ordering of normal items. Anything that can be found on the menu Wendy's is immediately disqualified."

I leaned heavily upon him, and after applying the right amount of pressure, he chose the exact item I wanted him to pick: Braised brisket with parsley and marsala reduction ($10). Good choice, my friend. I knew you had it in you. My thinking was that the marsala reduction would be great because the potato could really soak and absorb it. For my part, I went with Creamed Spinach with Manchego and Frizzled Leeks ($8).

Yes, fellow rabid carnivores, I know you are disappointed with my choice, but do not consider me a traitor to the cause because as soon as I knew my employee would be ordering an animal, I knew I would be free to judge the less bloody side of the coin with a vegetarian offering. I happen to have a soft spot for manchego, especially manchego with frizzled leeks, a combination that would be close to divine if bacon were involved. Alas, 'twas not meant to be on this day, but bacon, my friend, we shall meet again. Before ordering, I believed that the addition of spinach in this item was purely to give the illusion of healthy eating, an illusion which admittedly means nothing to me.

The place was packed when we arrived. It was loud and frenzied, just like you'd imagine on the first day of a new restaurant/eatery. The decor was nice, although there is a very limited amount of seating available, and most of the patrons were getting take-out. As an added bonus, the walls had original drawings of the animation from the first Mr. Potatohead commercial. The line moved quickly, and the smells were amazing. We stared as employees shoveled mounds of wonderful toppings on top of hollowed potatoes. After they were loaded, the potatoes went into an oven for baking, and only certain items (I think broccoli and cheese) were being sent to the microwave. The space was really small, but the employees were doing a great job of running around each other. I don't know if it would be possible for baking, but I think they might be better served with one of those fast-food conveyor belt ovens, although I suspect those are primarily for broiling.

We placed our order and waited for about 8-10 minutes, which wasn't too bad, considering the place was packed like Dolly Parton's brazier. The potato was served in an eco-friendly cardboard container with a little side salad that could have probably used a tad more dressing, but I'm sure they'll get that one fixed in no time. The plastic utensils were also eco-friendly, somehow made from potatoes, although they didn't have much flavor when I bit into one. I opted not to swallow it.



The brisket was moist and tender, although I did initially get a piece that wasn't quite melting, but others certainly were falling apart. The marsala soaked into the potato, and the longer it sat, the more the potato absorbed those succulent juices. They accidentally served the brisket with frizzled leeks, and I suggested that the owner keep this combination because it was great!



The creamed spinach with manchego (and later added) frizzled leeks was phenomenal. It was not the crappy creamed spinach that you get in a diner. This was a perfect blend with that nutty manchego, and again, the leeks were the perfect accent.

I cannot say enough about the potatoes, themselves. I'm not a baked potato fan, but these were the best tasting baked potatoes I've tasted. The skin had a nice blend of salt and pepper, and the potato was quite buttery, creating the perfect vessel for the savory toppings.

While the potatoes were smaller than I had imagined, the portion was really the perfect size for a meal. It was slightly less than what I'd normally eat for lunch, but it was probably the ideal size for a mid-day meal. The owner was very nice and wisely offered us some sweet potato gelato, which after waiting 10 agonizing minutes to soften, tasted damn good. It wasn't overpowering with sweetness, and the blend with pecans was just right. Yum.

I'm pretty excited about this place, and I think they will only continue to improve what is already an outstanding product.

On the way back to the office, my employee and I had a field day with double-entendres, such as:

""I got Totally Baked with my boss today," and "Monday sucks! Who wants to get Totally Baked?"

Later, I saw a fellow employee who was feeling a little down. I told him, "Dude, you need to get Totally Baked."

He took my advice and 20 minutes later, he came back to the office laughing in a very relaxed mood with a glazed-over look in his eyes.



Oh yeah, he liked the Turkey Chowder, too.

2.15.08 Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings with The Budos Band at the Beacon Theater plus Mocean Worker at Nublu

I don't really understand the magnetic force that somehow glues asses to seats when the opening band is on stage, but the Budos Band was not happy about it. NO ONE was standing and dancing during their set when I walked in shortly after 8. Not wanting to upset the cart full of lazy people, I went into the far aisle to get my swerve on. I got away with this for about 10 minutes before the Beacon's crack security team put the clamps on my fun and ordered me to my seat.

Fine. I'll be *that guy* and just dance at my seat. After all, this is not Lincoln Center. We are not here to academically ascertain the value of the music and then respond with a polite golf clap of approval.

So I grooved at my seat. Then three slobs behind me complained to a security guard that I was blocking their view, and she tried to make me sit. One of these complainers was a guy wearing a red velvet tuxedo, complete with matching ruffles. I'm sorry, but if you have the balls to wear a red velvet tuxedo complete with matching ruffles you can't be sitting on your ass while the Budos Band plays. It's not legal. Thankfully, another guard intervened on my behalf and confirmed my right as a citizen of the United States of America to freely express myself while listening to Afrobeat.

Meanwhile, the Budos Band repeatedly implored people to get up and dance. In turn, I shouted at everyone around me to get up off their asses and get into it. Everyone seemed to really appreciate this.

Eventually, my fellow renegades in the crowd emancipated themselves and our little dancing rebellion took hold. Unfortunately, Budos played a very truncated set, undoubtedly feeling less than inspired by the lame crowd, and they were off the stage by 8:50.

At setbreak, I finally realized that this was the kind of crowd I hate: NPR Democrats. Don't get me wrong, my heart bleeds with the best of 'em, and I love NPR. However, NPR isn't exactly cutting edge, as NPR prefers "palatable" to "rebellious." By the time NPR picks up on something, it's already been around for a few years. Now I'm not gonna fault these people because they're late to the party. After all, I've been listening to Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings for close to six years now, and I begged my musically-inclined friends to give them a shot for about four or five years before people finally listened to me and realized that this was a killer act. However, the problem I have with these NPR Democrats is that they're so damn straight-edge. Not everyone needs to two-fist their way through life, careening around corners with only one wheel on the ground, as I've been doing as of late, but listen up people: IT'S OKAY TO HAVE FUN. You won't get hurt if you take the pole out of your ass and dance a little. You can get your groove on AND listen to "Fresh Air." All Things Considered, dancing is good for you. Why don't you lovers of "Car Talk" understand this? Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me-- you're waiting for Garrison Keillor to give you the thumbs up before you bust a nut on the dancefloor. Well, folks, here's the news from Lake Woebegone: Diane Rehm is 71, but she can still do the worm.

Without the usual crowd of skilled, dancing gay hipsters from (insert name of the latest fashionable neighborhood in Brooklyn) down front, I was concerned about the potential failure of this concert. As Miss Jones has gotten older, she has relied more frequently upon these gay hipsters to entertain the New York crowd with their flashy moves, and it's worked. When they aren't in attendance, as was the case at the show I saw in Philly in December, the energy just isn't on the same level.

So here we were. A sold-out room full of the whitest people this side of a Wonder Bread convention. The Beacon Theater was filled with so many crackers that it looked like a giant box of saltines. I hadn't seen this many honkeys since the last time I was the guest of honor at a Klan rally. Okay, I'll stop now.

The Dap-Kings came on stage, and Binky Griptight revved up the crowd. Most of us got up, which had me relieved. There was some Great White Hope in this room, after all. The few sitters changed their tune after the dynamic soul sister with the magnetic je nes sais quois made them get up and get funky.

What can I say about this band that I haven't said before? I love them. In my book, they're the cat's ass. They know how to transform a room, and it was amazing to see this happen in a 2,800 seat venue. Granted, I never again want to see them play a seated venue with Draconian security like the Beacon (Dear Booking Agent, Please look into the Nokia Theater. Your pal, Brian), but even the challenges of this venue were no match for their awesome funk power. There was a little less pulling people up on the stage than you would normally see, but that meant that Sharon and crew had to work a little harder. And they did. And we all enjoyed it.

It was a nice touch to have the Bushwick Philharmonic add some strings, and the Dansettes, whom I thought were extinct, sang backup that was barely audible. (Side note: The one Dansette who always looked like she'd rather be filing her nails has thankfully been replaced, although my hunch is that these were really 3/4s of The Sweet Divines. I'm sorry if I'm not totally up-to-date on the inner-workings of the Brooklyn-hipster-girl-group-retro-soul-scene.) The strings really added a lot to one of my favorite tunes, "Tell Me," a song which I had never heard live and whose inclusion caused me to freakout (moreso than usual). Since the strings were there, I was really hoping for one of the most gorgeous songs ever written, "All Over Again," but knowing that the audience had an addiction to sitting, the band wisely steered clear of the ballads.

The set lasted close to two hours, and the demand for an encore was great. This was one area where those NPR Democrats excelled: they knew how to clap with authority. Unlike most shows I've seen lately, the crowd wasn't comprised of jaded New Yorkers who thumb their nose at the whole we're-pretending-to-leave-so-you'll-clap-loud-and-"force"-us-to-return charade. These people took the bait, and God bless 'em for it. The band came back and hit it with intensity once again. When they left, there were still 10 minutes remaining before the Beacon would undergo its union-enforced turn into a pumpkin, but even these guppies down front were bitter enough to know that the elusive second encore wasn't worth the effort. One day, I would love to see a genuine, honest-to-goodness, second encore that hasn't been previously planned. (Did you hear that Bob Dylan? Your shit doesn't count.)

After some refueling, I reunited with the merry pranksters down at Nublu on Ave. C for some Mocean Worker. After he rocked the Freaks Ball with funktacular abandon, everyone has decided to enter the Mowo, and that makes me one very happy boy. Nublu is a really cool little joint. It's not big enough to call it a club. It's not seedy enough to be a bar, so maybe "lounge" is the appropriate word. Anyway, I dig it and its chill vibe. While the Freaks Ball featured a completely different Mocean Worker than I had ever seen, this show was yet another turn for Adam Dorn. The funk was dark and spacey, and it completely fit the vibe of the place. I do wish they would have played more than two 45 minute sets. However, the DJ in between was spinning something that I'd probably never choose to listen to, but at that moment in time, the funky trance was just what the doctor ordered (even though it was played at a comically deafening volume). 'Twas a perfect nightcap for an evening of funk and soul, and even though it ended somewhat early around 3AM, there was still plenty of time for me to get into some stupid fun and hi-jinks, but that's a different long-winded story...

The End of 2007: A Musical Blowout

What follows is an account of a phenomenal five-day stretch of music in New York City, the likes of which I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. I caught a bevy a great bands in concert, and the crazy thing is there were many excellent acts I missed, such as The Greyboy All-Stars, moe., The Disco Biscuits...(okay, not The Disco Biscuits).

12/27/07 The Word – Terminal 5

Unlike many of my brethren, I had never seen The Word perform live. I don’t particularly know why, but perhaps their few performances occurred way back when I was playing all of the bad white guys in a touring musical about the Underground Railroad. I didn’t own their album, but I knew that a supergroup like this playing gospel-inflected music was a no-brainer. Moreover, it had been a few years since I had seen pedal steel phenom (he’s probably too old to be called that now) Robert Randolph in concert, and I felt a palpable urge to see him perform quality material instead of his now-standard lowest-common-denominator pop songs with off-key vocals.

After suffering through the inhospitable Terminal 5 for two otherwise enjoyable Ween shows, I briefly contemplated selling my ticket for The Word. With its bad sightlines, lousy sound, eternal entrance and coatcheck lines, and ludicrous bar policy that makes it a real challenge to buy a drink, Terminal 5 is probably the worst concert venue in the city. (Terminal 5 is so bad that it makes me pine away for the notoriously awful Roseland Ballroom.) I had no desire to go back to this 11th Ave. hellhole, but the ticket was purchased long ago, and interest in this show was waning enough to make it a buyer’s market. Then the venue and/or Ticketbastard decided to play some sort of game with ticketholders by notifying us that the show would start at an incomprehensible 7PM. That being said, a friend on the inside insisted that the show would go off at the previously scheduled 8PM starting time. I had a bad feeling about this—- it just seemed as though the writing on the wall was saying that this show would really suck.

Thankfully, I rarely read the writing on the wall.

It quickly became crowded on the floor, but the pre-show soul and funk music had me in a great mood. Then The Word appeared on stage. Right from the get-go, they sounded great, reveling in their holy sounds. Of particular note was a beautiful tune that I’m fairly certain is called “Louis Collins,” a song I only know because Jerry Garcia and David Grisman used to play it. When they kicked into “Down By The Riverside->When The Saints Go Marchin’ In,” the vibe was really uplifting. This was exactly what I wanted from John Medeski, Chris Chew, Luther and Cody Dickinson, and The Talented Mr. Randolph. Every song seemed to serve as a little trampoline for these guys to bounce into a little improv of sorts. They weren’t quite launching pads, as they never really got “out there,” but there were plenty of nice jams, especially a ragged but fun second set spur-of-the-moment exploration of The Ohio Players’ “Love Rollercoaster,” in which Randolph forced Medeski to engage him in lighthearted chicanery. Initially, Medeski was hesitant, but then he seemed to say “Ah, fuck it,” and really let his hair down. Okay, he doesn’t have hair, but if he did, it would have been down.

The first set also featured a cover of The White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army." We had already been tipped off to this, so it wasn't a surprise, but I enjoyed it, nonetheless:



Randolph was really the star of this show, although he wasn’t hot-dogging like he used to. Sure, he would whip out a killer line or two, but his real virtue on this night was serving as an All-Star point guard, dishing out assists to the other players around him. Determined to get everyone involved in the game, he was confident, decisive, and his unselfish play certainly made Medeski, Chew, and the Dickinson boys sound great.

I left Terminal 5 (for what I hope will be the last time ever) thinking that I had just stepped into The Wayback Machine. Outside of Jazzfest, I hadn’t really experienced a jam-laden show like this in 6 or 7 years. It made me nostalgic for the good ol’ days of The Wetlands Preserve, when you could pay 10 bucks and see four bands who would open things up and knock your socks off. That kind of loosey-goosey vibe no longer flies in today’s post-9/11 indie-pop-obsessed world, but this evening’s nostalgic treat was delicious.

12/28/07 Gov’t Mule with Keller Williams – The Beacon Theater

Photo courtesy of Mule.net

I hadn’t seen Gov’t Mule in nearly 8 months, having backed away from them after what I thought was a very lackluster performance at the shithole known as the Contemporary Arts Center in New Orleans. I was holding tickets for NYE, and truthfully, I wasn’t really feeling much of a pull to see them on any other night. However, the prospect of Keller Williams intrigued me. It had been a few years since I had seen Keller. While I’ve long enjoyed Keller’s music, I eventually grew to detest the stinking heady-brah high school crowd that seemed to infiltrate his shows. The last time I saw Keller at B.B. King’s there were tour-rats outside on 42nd St. with their dogs on hemp leashes. Sadly, I'm not kidding.

I thought this was my one shot at seeing Keller in a dog-and-patchouli-free venue. The kiddies could not afford the ticket, and the agro Mule crowd would have probably beaten them into submission if they did. I came in when Keller was onstage. The crowd was sparse, and just about no one was on their feet. Nevertheless, they seemed to enjoy him.

If I could sum up Keller’s set, I would use the word “uneventful.” It was neither special, nor offensive. It just happened, and it wasn’t a bad way to pass the time. He basically re-worked all of his songs, playing them in different styles. While I appreciated this re-invention, not one single attempt was an improvement on the original. He played The Grateful Dead’s “One More Saturday Night” as a dance groove (changing it to the appropriate "Friday Night"), and the crowd seemed to dig it. There must have been some closet String Cheese Incident fans in the crowd because “Best Feeling” received a warm reception, as well.


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

Everyone I know seems to say the same thing about Keller: “I like him, but I hate when he does the loop jams.” Well, on this night, the loop jams were short. Essentially, he’d play a song, and then he’d start looping on different instruments, but this would only go on for a minute or two before starting a new song. I really didn’t mind this at all, although I could have done without the cheesy electronic drums.

12.28.07 Beacon Theatre - New York, NY


Keller Williams Opening Set:
Art
Good Evening
Rock And Roll All Night
More Than A Little
Best Feeling
Friday Night
Thin Mint
Apparition
Jazz Loop
Tribe

After having made it through Keller’s set without much fanfare, I began to wonder if I made the right move in shelling out seventy-some bucks for this ticket. I was going to see Mule in three days anyway, and did it really make sense to pay this much to see an opening act who didn’t do all that much?


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

By the time Gov’t Mule ripped into the second tune, “32-20 Blues,” my concerns had been put to rest. Per usual, Warren Haynes was in fine form, and the place was really rockin’ with authority. “Lively Up Yourself” gave me some needed space to groove before “Slackjaw Jezebel” brought the thunderous rock back. Keller came out and Warren, who was surprisingly chatty, talked about the 1999 Summer Sessions tour, shows that featured Mule, Keller, Gibb Droll, moe., String Cheese, Galactic, and Kevin Kinney. I had a flashback to the Summer Sessions show I saw in Baltimore, a show that made me a newfound fan of Gov’t Mule and inspired me to write my first ever concert review. So if you, poor reader, have anyone to blame for having to suffer through 8+ years of my logorrhea, it’s Gov’t Mule, who really kicked ass back on 8-26-99.

Meanwhile, back at the show…


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

Keller sat in on “He Ain’t Give You None,” which was fun and “For What It’s Worth,” which I thought was pretty weak. I’m not exactly sure why I disliked this Buffalo Springfield classic so much, but I felt as though it lacked the gravitas the song requires. Perhaps this can be attributed to Keller, who tends to sing with the emotional reverence of a three-year-old. Anyway, I knew that Mule’s NYE show would be dubbed “Winter of Love” and would feature covers from 1967, so I thought it was interesting that Mule was already trotting out a song from that year.

The second set really took things to another level, especially after a psychedelic “She Said She Said->Tomorrow Never Knows.” I think Warren even quipped, “You never know where that one’s gonna go." Matt Abts look a very lengthy but interesting drum solo, and it seemed as though he wanted to end it several times, but the rest of the band just wouldn't come back on stage. The crowd went apeshit during the “Shakedown Street” tease in a very intense “Unring the Bell,” and fan-favorite “Bad Little Doggie” kept the fists pumping. Just when people were really amped, “How Many More Years->Wang Dang Doodle->How Many More Years Reprise” took everyone to the edge and back for a monstrous finish. (You can see video of "How Many More Years" here.) After all of that, I had absolutely no regrets about seeing this show.

Gov't Mule
Set 1:
Brighter Days
32/20 Blues
No Need To Suffer
Mercy On The Criminal
Lively Up Yourself
When Doves Cry->
Beautifully Broken->
When Doves Cry->
Beautifully Broken
Slackjaw Jezebel
He Ain't Give You None* with Keller Williams
For What It's Worth with Keller Williams
Set 2:
Birth Of The Earth Jam*->
Child Of The Earth
Painted Silver Light
She Said, She Said->
Tomorrow Never Knows Jam
Streamline Woman->
Drums
Unring The Bell Shakedown Street Tease
Bad Little Doggie
How Many More Years->
Wang Dang Doodle->
How Many More Years Reprise

Encore:
Long Distance Call
Thirty Days In The Hole

* First Time Played

A quick word about The Beacon Theater is needed. Now that MSG is in charge, it’s no longer the chaotic free-for-all party that it used to be. Patrons face a virtual strip search upon entry, and the security force sweeps down the aisle repeatedly asking people for their tickets. (Of course, when a fight nearly broke out behind us, the security personnel were nowhere to be found.) It’s rather annoying, and it’s strange that Madison Square Garden might be the most laid-back arena in America while their security team has turned the Beacon into Fort Knox.

12-29-07 Railroad Earth with The New Riders of the Purple Sage – Morristown Community Theater Morristown, NJ

Inexplicably, there are some bands that I rarely see these days, but every time I catch them, I have a ton of fun. Railroad Earth is definitely one of these acts. I used to live to see these guys, but for whatever reason, I always seem to miss them now whenever they hit New York. On this particular date, I hadn’t seen Railroad Earth in exactly one year, and I was only going to this show because my good friend Sunshine Bob had really poured on the Jewish guilt and practically forced me to join him.

I drove out to Morristown, taking a wrong turn along the way and going a solid twenty minutes in the wrong direction. (Oh, how I love you, State of New Jersey.) I went into the venue and discovered that most of the crowd was crushed into the lobby. This was one of those weird concert venues where you can’t drink in your seat, and very little can stand between a Railroad Earth fan and his alcohol. People were pounding beers as quickly as possible during the opening act. The theater itself was very nice and large inside, and it was staffed by septuagenarians who were probably not prepared for the raucous crowd. By the time that Railroad Earth would take the stage, seat locations on tickets suddenly became irrelevant.

However, they weren’t on yet, as a band I had wanted to see for a long time, The New Riders of the Purple Sage, were on and churning out their patented brand of cowboy psychedelia. The New Riders have undergone just shy of a million lineup changes over the years, and the current roster includes 1971 originals David Nelson and Buddy Cage, along with crusty guitarist Michael Falzarano, bassist Ronnie Penque, and drummer Johnny Markowski. In the past I have made no secret of my dislike for Falzarano, a C-list celebrity who generally does nothing on stage but whose mere presence is inexplicably believed to lend credibility to shoddy Long Island Dead coverbands. That being said, this night was the first time I’ve ever heard Falzarano contribute something to the music, and I really enjoyed his hooks.

In recent years, Buddy Cage has made waves back acting like a grizzled old bastard, openly denouncing bands that he thinks suck and hearkening back to the good ol’ days. Physically, he looks like a mean sonofabitch who spits venom, and not surprisingly, he plays his pedal steel accordingly, ripping out nasty and fierce lines. David Nelson is his counterpoint, the playful old cowboy with a rambling and bubbling guitar. Penque and Markowski really add a lot to the group, providing an infusion of energy and fine backup vocals.

It seems to be an unwritten rule that audiences in seated venues will not get into the opening act. I don’t know why this always seems to be the case, but there was only a small cluster of us grooving off to the side in the aisle, digging “Diamond Joe” and “Higher.” Of course, more people did get into it after RRE’s violinist Tim Carbone came out to add some nice licks to “Peggy-O” and a rollicking “Glendale Train” finale. The band wanted to keep going, but their time was finished. It was really kind of silly that this show began at 8PM when there were two acts who wanted to play a lot but whose time would be truncated by a union-enforced 11PM curfew. Anyone ever heard of starting the show at 7:30 or 7:00? Unfortunately, this short set forced the band to omit a couple of gems that were written on their setlist, including “Take a Letter, Maria” and “Ripple.”

12/29/07 (Sat) Morristown Community Theatre - Morristown, NJ
Set 1: I Don't Know You, Contract, Henry, Absolutely Sweet Marie, Diamond Joe, Higher, Peggy-O*, Glendale Train*

* w/ Tim Carbone-Fiddle


I forgot to mention how Sunshine Bob had scored some killer seats. We were in the second row, and my seat was absolutely dead-friggin'-center. It was the perfect spot.

Railroad Earth didn’t come out firing on all cylinders, choosing to open with the mellower but profound “Everything Comes Together.” However, everything would change with the opening notes of the speedy “Dandelion Wine.” Instantly, the venue was transformed into a wild hoedown, and everyone was going crazy as the band pushed the tempos dramatically, which they would do for the next couple of songs. When “Peace on Earth” hit, I realized that Railroad Earth just might be the most jubilant band on the planet, as it’s really hard to listen to their music without being swept into their celebratory groove.

Of course, it’s not all sunshine and lollipops with these cats, as the lengthy jam through the dark and intense “Seven Story Mountain” would demonstrate. Buddy Cage’s sit-in on “For Love” was really kind of pointless and was almost an afterthought, considering that he was practically hidden offstage. However, the old gem “My Sisters and Brothers” really brought the room together. I often tend to forget about the amazing family atmosphere at Railroad Earth shows. The audience is filled with good-natured, salt-of-the-Earth people, and even a cynical asshole like me can let down his guard and join in the positive vibes that seem to flow freely throughout the generous crowd.

Once again, I left the venue thinking, “Dammit, I need to see these guys more often!” Granted they’re not always around, seeing as how this was apparently their first appearance in their native New Jersey in 400 days (or so said a homemade banner that several people were adamant that the band see). Regardless, I can’t think of another group with so many virtuosos. Mandolinist John Skehan has really mastered the art of counterpoint at breakneck speeds with his dexterous foil Carbone, and multi-instrumentalist Andy Goessling’s actions never ceases to amaze, including simultaneously playing tenor and alto saxes and making them each sound really soulful and beautiful-- sort of like Rahsaan Roland Kirk in a Motown band.

Unfortunately, a tight schedule forced me to quickly bolt out of the venue before being able to see all of my Jersey friends of years gone by, but I’m gonna be sure to drag my tail to another RRE show soon.

12/29/07 (Sat) Morristown Community Theater - Mayo Center for Performing Arts - Morristown, NJ
Set 1: Everything Comes Together, Dandelion Wine, Little Rabbit, Loving You, Peace on Earth, Seven Story Mountain, Old Man and the Land, Waterfountain Quicksand, For Love *, Railroad Earth, My Sisters and Brothers, Long Way To Go

E: Head, Keep Moving On **

* w/Buddy Cage (NRPS) on pedal steel guitar.
* First Time played, Sam Cooke cover.

12/30/07 (1:30AM) P.B.S. Porter, Batiste, and Stoltz – Gramercy Theater

I hauled ass to get back to Manhattan, knowing that it wouldn’t be easy to score a ticket to the sold-out gig for George Porter’s seemingly endless 60th birthday celebration. I think George has been celebrating his birthday in New York and New Orleans for three weeks running, but as long as the funk master keeps playing, I’m not complaining. There were about 10 people in front of the theater trying to nab a ticket, and I noticed that this short scalper who always wears a baseball cap at the Beacon was also there looking for tickets and making the competition even more intense. I hate scalpers, but I’m not stupid, and I watched what this guy was doing, as he ran back-and-forth across the street to catch every arriving cab. Everyone else was standing on the north side of the street, but I knew that more cabs were likely to arrive from the Beacon on the south side, so I stood over there and was determined to beat the scalper at his own game. Several minutes passed with no luck, and then Curtis, Rama, and Eddie stumbled out of a cab. As I was talking with them about needing a ticket, one of their friends was standing right next to me, and quietly sold his ticket to the scalper. I was livid. This was the same guy who went on a populist rant on the previous evening about how the Beacon should not be allowed to sell water bottles without their caps, and here he was supporting a leach in the marketplace. He claimed ignorance, but honestly, everyone in New York knows who the scalpers are, and it really takes next to no effort to find a ticket buyer who actually wants to see the show.

Royally pissed, I stormed up and down 23rd St., and ten minutes later, I found my ticket.

I used to run the box office at the Gramercy when it was MoMA’s movie theater and later an Off-Broadway house. The new management has really revitalized the space, tearing the seats out of the floor, putting some nice bars downstairs, and installing excellent sound equipment. If Terminal 5 is the worst venue in New York, the Gram just might be the best, although the drinks are a small fortune and the bar situation is rough upstairs, but hey, that’s life in New York.

P.B.S. was a blast. It was definitely crowded on the floor, but the grooves were being laid down in a nasty way. Once again, this was a band I hadn’t seen in a couple of years, having been unimpressed with their initial efforts when Art Neville was unable to tour with The Meters. Now they’re a tight unit, and I loved their Tenacious D-like self-referential songs, such as “Bring The Flood,” which cast themselves as funk superheroes.

Photo courtesy of Mule.net


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

The second set was when things got really nutty, as Warren Haynes and Danny Louis sat in for a dirty "Honkytonk Women." Well, actually, that was only the beginning of the madness, as George let Andy Hess take over the bass and decided to man the second drum kit. Then Warren and George traded as Warren gave George his guitar and took George’s place behind the kit for a ripping "Cissy Strut." And if this wasn’t crazy enough, Karl Denson, John Gros, Eric Krasno, and the Easy Dub All-stars’ horns all sat in. Eventually, Karl even made his way behind the ubiquitous second drum kit. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would ever see Karl Denson, George Porter, or Warren Haynes play the drums, let alone all three on the same night. Out of the three, Denson did a pretty good job holding his own, Porter wasn't bad, and Warren did manage to keep the beat, even finding a way to get a nice little breakdown in there.

Photo courtesy of Mule.net


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

This show seemed to be the perfect bookend to The Word gig from Thursday. Once again, here was a band opening stuff up and jamming like crazy. It was another throwback to a different era, a time when late night jams and bizarre instrumental switches were commonplace in the city that supposedly never sleeps.

The gig ended at 4:30, but I was not ready to retire.

A friend invited me to his apartment for what is fast becoming his legendary late-night danceparty. I obliged and got down in a major way. Having been fueled by whiskey for several hours now, I switched over to water around 7AM, stating that I had to leave soon because I had to be at Shorty's for my DJ gig at noon. Seeing as how our host lived exactly one block from Shorty’s, he successfully convinced me to just stay up all night and then walk over at noon. “Why not?” I thought. I may not be young, but at least I can act like I am. Sure enough, I stayed up, DJ-ed the football games, and then went home to crash hard at 9PM. I needed plenty of sleep to get ready for the inevitable New Year’s Eve blowout.

12-31-07 Gov’t Mule – The Beacon Theater

After having been spoiled by Phish for several years, I developed an unrelenting desire to have an epic experience on New Year’s Eve. Naturally, these epic experiences have almost always revolved around music, or as the case was on 12-31-01, a home Eagles playoff victory followed by a train ride to New York to see Project Object playing Joe’s Garage at the Lion’s Den. Thanks to a girlfriend who did not see eye-to-eye with me on this subject, I had a two year drought of no NYE concerts, but that changed last year when I emancipated myself through Gov’t Mule, who put on a huge show. I knew that tonight’s show was dubbed “Winter of Mule,” which meant that they’d be doing an entire set of 1967 covers. Uh, yeah. That certainly would qualify as epic in my book.

The first set was solid with the AC/DC-like strains of “Mr. High & Mighty” really pumping up the crowd. Later, Warren played “I’ll Be the One,” and he went on a gut-wrenching, emotional solo. It was a song that I’d seen him play solo acoustic, but it became much more majestic with the backing of a full band. Warren was really in a cocky mood, which was a great thing. Of course, it’s not as if the guy ever lacks confidence, but on this night he was oozing with it and blowing everyone away with his ferocious playing and singing.


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

Anticipation was high for set two, and we all knew what would be coming, but no one knew exactly which gems would be covered. The house lights came down around 10:30 or so, and a lengthy speech from Martin Luther King, Jr. played alongside video footage and stills. At first, the drunken crowd was not really into it, but when Dr. Knig began making statements about opposing the war in Vietnam, it touched a nerve and people howled in approval. However, this speech seemed to go on for a very long time. I will admit that my perception of time was probably a bit skewed, but I still felt that while these were profound remarks, it was time to get on with the show. Then I wondered what would happen if they played King’s speech for an hour-and-a-half until midnight. That would have been a hilarious and bizarre way to torture the crowd.


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

A WCOS DJ booth was on stage, and the guy inside served as an emcee of sorts, introducing each number while photos and swirling Petri dish images were displayed on the backdrop. “Dear Mr. Fantasy” was the opener, and I was slightly disappointed because I had heard Warren play this many times before. Of course, it was still cool, but I was hoping for a lot of rarities, and this was a bad sign. The Rolling Stones’ “2000 Light Years From Home” was the next offering, and I have to admit that I was initially unimpressed. I kept thinking, “This doesn’t sound trippy like the Stones’ song at all. It just sounds like a generic hard rock Mule number.” “Sunshine of Your Love” was an obvious but damn fine choice, and “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” was exactly what I wanted to hear at that moment. We had a couple of nice Hendrix tunes, and then Vanilla Fudge’s “You Keep me Hanging On” was a great wild surprise.


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

I knew there would be at least one Grateful Dead tune from the first album, and I kept banking on “Cream Puff War,” which was not played. I don’t know why I never envisioned “Morning Dew” because this was absolutely perfect. (On a nitpicky sidenote, I was a little ticked when the screen was showing images of the Dead, Jerry in particular, that were not from ’67. I would have liked to have seen them be a little more authentic here because there were plenty of classic "Captain Trips" 1967 images to choose from.) It was during “Morning Dew” when the set really began to liftoff, and “When The Music’s Over” slingshot me into another dimension. This song was everything I envisioned this night would be: a wild, intense, sprawling psychedelic jam that pushed everyone to the verge of insanity. The unquestionable highlight of the night, it caused me to flashback to my high school obsession with The Doors, having watched Oliver Stone’s movie as a freshman and then realizing for the first time that it was okay, nee essential, to question authority.


Photo courtesy of Mule.net

People needed to catch their breath after that massive fire breathing monster departed, and an Ed Sullivan impersonator came out to introduce to two most controversial songs played on his show, which anyone who is up-to-date on their 1960s pop culture history knows are “Let’s Spend the Night Together” and “Light My Fire.” The latter was more like the single version than the gigantic album side, but it was still cool because Warren can apparent do a very respectable Jim Morrison. Then we took a shift toward the soulful sounds of the south. James Brown’s “Cold Sweat” and Stevie Wonder’s “I Was Made To Love Her” were both awesome funky jams featuring guest Steve Elson’s soulful sax and Warren’s excellent vocals, particularly on the latter tune. I was grooving hard, despite the chaotic scene with drunks falling down and spilling beer all around me.



It was now 11:59, but instead of going into a countdown, the band went into “You Don’t Bring Me Water,” as images of Otis Redding appeared on the screen. I think Mule was late on their countdown last year, but this time around, it really bugged me for some reason, and I, along with everyone else, was frothing in anticipation of the now late midnight celebration. After five or so minutes, the band wound down the song, and Warren did a very leisurely countdown. We weren’t even close at this point, so I guess there was no reason to worry. He took a sip of champagne, as balloons and confetti fell from the rafters. This quickly became an odd and chaotic scene because people on the left were gently tapping the balloons in the air and having fun, while people on my side (the right) were sadistically popping and destroying the balloons as quickly as possible. These people were crazy-- stomping, crushing, burning, and stabbing balloons vindictively. While the left looked like the hippie playland of the Human Be-In, the right sounded like the horrors of the Tet Offensive. It was a little intense and at times, a tad frightening.



“Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band” was fun, and then it went into a joyous “All You Need is Love.” At this point, the mad balloon poppers stopped foaming at the mouth and decided to sing along. Everyone was really into this genuinely beautiful and positive moment.

Here's a nice video recap of most of this set by LazyLightning66:



Everyone at setbreak was concluding that whatever followed in set three would have to be a letdown. A “You Don’t Miss Your Water” reprise was an odd opener, but I guess they were determined to play it all the way through. Then the WCOS DJ talked about those who had passed away in 1967, including John Coltrane. This initiated a big spacey jam on “Expression” that immediately eliminated the word “letdown” from everyone’s vocabulary. The Temptations’ “I’m Losing You” followed in the soulful, grooving footsteps of the funk tunes from the second set, and the dance party was reinvigorated once again. The heavy and roaring “Don’t Step On The Grass Sam” that came toward the end of the set was punctuated by crew members running out on stage with giant cue cards for an audience sing-along. This nasty number also made me recall that Summer Sessions show I saw way back in ’99, as this was the song that first enabled me to *get* Gov’t Mule.

After the moving “Sad and Deep as You” encore, the lights came up on a Beacon Theater that looked as if it had been demolished. The place was covered in busted balloons, confetti, assorted garbage, empty bottles, and mysterious fluids. It was here that I wondered why I wore nice shoes to this show. Oh, well. I had no time to worry about that as it was 2:30AM, and my night was just beginning.

I went over to Curtis’ row in search of anyone who wanted to “make way for the Rebirth.” Chris and Ashley were game, and we ventured out into the night for the next part of our journey.

12.31.07 Beacon Theatre - New York, NY


Set One
Brand New Angel
Mr. High & Mighty
Lay Your Burden Down
About To Rage
Banks of The Deep End
I'll Be The One
Time To Confess

Set Two - The Winter Of Love
Martin Luther King, Jr. Speech
WCOS On Air
Dear Mr. Fantasy
2,000 Light Years From Home
Sunshine Of Your Love
Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds
WCOS Break
Little Wing
Spanish Castle Magic
You Keep Me Hanging On
Morning Dew
When The Music's Over
Ed Sullivan's Really Good Show
Lets Spend The Night Together
Light My Fire
WCOS Break
Cold Sweat*
I Was Made To Love Her*
Born Under A Bad Sign*
You Don't Miss Your Water*
Countdown
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Reprise>
All You Need Is Love

Set Three
You Don't Miss Your Water Reprise
WCOS Condolences
Expression*
I'm Losing You*
Mule*
Reblow Your Horn
Don't Step On The Grass Sam
Two Thousand Ate Jam
Blind Man In The Dark

Encore
Sad And Deep As You

* w/ Steve Elson on Sax

1-01-08 (3:00 AM) Rebirth Brass Band – B.B. King’s

We raced down the subway steps and hopped on the 1 train to Times Square. Chris was nervous that our trip would take a long time, but I assured him that it would be nice and easy. Then again, if I was leading you at that time, I could understand why you’d be a little scared. Chris and Ashley were excited to see Times Square, but they weren’t quite ready to see it so empty, not realizing that the place clears out by 12:25.

We went downstairs at B.B.’s and saw that the coat check and box office were closed. The goon at the door asked for our tickets, which we naturally did not have. He then said it cost $31. I thought this was a really odd number, especially since they were selling heavily discounted tickets earlier, and there was no box office now. I was about to pay him, when Ashley said, “That doesn’t make any sense. What if we give you $20 each?”

“Deal.”

I was very impressed with Ashley. She may be from San Francisco, but she was haggling like a true New Yorker. Later I realized that this guy at the door was probably pocketing all of the cash. Oh, well.

The scene inside was a total zoo. It was so surreal to move from an uptown, hard-rockin’ pit of chaos into a midtown funky pen of insanity, but that’s exactly what we did. We dropped our coats, figuring they’d inevitably be trampled at some point, and went right out on to the floor. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a Rebirth show I didn’t enjoy, but this was probably the most fun I’ve ever had at one of their gigs. Within seconds, we found our contingent of NYC-Freaks, and the party was on. Rebirth was scorching hot. These cats were on fire, and every song they played for a solid 90 minutes sounded like it was the grand finale. It was major hit after major hit, and each one kept topping the previous number. The energy was bursting through the roof. Just like at the Beacon, there was a host of debris all over the floor, and I kept hearing bottles breaking, but no one seemed to care. Everyone was just having too much fun to worry about broken glass.

Rebirth ended, and our freaks huddled together, trying to figure out where to go next. The P.A. system was playing some Meters tunes, so we all just started dancing again. Every time a song would fade down, people would go grab their coats, but then another funk classic would begin, the coats would get dropped, and it was once again time to dance. This sequence continued for about ten minutes until I was the only one left dancing, so I grooved my way up the steps and out the door. It seemed as though we were all going to gather at the site of the infamous late night danceparty, so a big group of us shuffled down the street. At this point, it was around 4:30 AM, and outside of the cops, I don’t think there was a single sober person on 42nd Street. It was a hilarious scene.

We made it to the apartment building, and a large group piled into one elevator. I knew that we couldn’t all fit, but everyone kept pleading to squeeze more people in. I thought, “This is a really bad idea,” and then I naturally ignored my instincts and crammed myself in with everyone else. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the last one, as the crowd chanted for Craemer, yes THAT Craemer, to join us. He didn’t want to do it, but the peer pressure was too great, so he followed suit and jumped in. By now, the elevator doors had been open for far too long, and they automatically closed. The elevator tried to go up, but we were too heavy. Then someone jumped, and it felt like we had somehow gotten off balance. Suddenly, we weren’t moving at all.

Oh, yes. There were 15 people, none of whom were sober, all wearing winter coats, pressed up against each other, trapped in an elevator at 4:45 in the morning on New Year’s Day. If I could possibly imagine one place I did not want to be at this time under these circumstances, this was it. Our host rang the alarm on the elevator, but the front desk attendant wasn’t paying attention. He then called the front desk and explained that we were stuck. After nothing happened for five minutes, he called again, and the same guy at the front desk acted as if our predicament was news to him. This scenario continued for several minutes like a bad Marx Brothers routine, as our host attempted to explain to the attendant that in order to free us, he would actually have to walk over to the elevator. Realizing that the attendant was not going to ever be admitted into Mensa, a call to 9-1-1 was reluctantly placed. Then there was a lengthy delay before anyone arrived because New Year’s Day is one of the busiest times for emergency personnel. Apparently, people tend to do stupid things at this time of year. Imagine that.

Amazingly, everyone in the elevator kept it together. This could have been a torturous situation. It’s one thing to be trapped in an elevator, but it’s another to be crushed in with 14 other people who are far from sober. At any point, someone could have gotten sick, had to pee, or started to smell. I did want to take off my jacket, but since I was wearing a rather sleazy vintage New Year’s outfit, I was concerned that one of the ladies might pass out at the sight of my incredibly sexy chest hair. Somehow, we remained in great spirits, aside from a couple of the guys who thought that pounding on the door would somehow solve the problem (nice one, Craemer!). There was also a woman behind me who was not part of our cadre and therefore felt free to bitch up a storm. I couldn’t really turn my head around to see her, and honestly, that was probably a good thing. Nevertheless, we kept the negativity to a minimum for the twenty-five or so minutes while we were stuck. The fire department showed up and pried the door open, and as our gang of idiots poured out of the elevator, the look on the firemen's faces seemed to indicate that they had already done this 36 times that morning.

After that harrowing experience, would we all go home? Hell, no! We needed to party, and that’s exactly what we did. The tunes came on, and we all grooved for the next three hours. Eventually, the crowd started to thin, and by 8:30, there were only four of us left. It was at this point where I finally sat down, and realized that aside from a brief minute when I leaned up against a seat at the Beacon, this was the first time I had gotten off my feet in over twelve hours. The dancing machine known as Brian Ferdman had finally ground to a halt. My legs felt brittle, and as I saw storm clouds rolling in from the east, I decided to leave. I threw on my red-tinted shades and headed out into the world. I grabbed a cab home, beat the rain, and was in bed by 9:30AM.

My New Year’s Eve was everything I could have hoped for and more. It was truly an epic event and made for one hell of an ending to 2007 and one phenomenal beginning for 2008.