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.

Z is for Zorn

“It’s sorta like jazz, but it’s really hard to explain.”

As I was taking a leak after the show, I heard someone outside the bathroom use the above words in a futile attempt to describe the brilliance he had just witnessed from John Zorn's Celebration Of Light - Bar Kokhba at the Abrons Arts Center. Admittedly, talking about music is like dancing about architecture, and when you encounter a performance this incredible, there are no words that can do justice to such an ingenious work of art. Nevertheless, I’m going to do my best to recount what I experienced last night.

I’m relatively late to the John Zorn party. People I know and respect have raved about him for years, and while I have appreciated the few tracks I’ve heard, I’ve also known that he has a predilection for noisy free jazz, which is not always my cup of tea. That being said, after years of hype from this guy, I decided to suck it up and catch the final performance of the acoustic Masada Quartet at Lincoln Center last March. I was simply riveted by what I saw, particularly the diverse and engaging skills of Joey Baron. Afterwards, I theorized “this Zorn guy is pretty good.”

The Abrons Arts Center is located in the middle of nowhere in a weird, isolated, desolate section of Manhattan near the Lower East Side and Chinatown that resembles the Land That Time Forgot. The building has a couple of different theaters, and this particular one was perfect with stellar acoustics and sightlines, holding only 200 people. Two days ago, the venue was only half sold, but there must have been a mad rush of last-second patrons because by 8:05, there were no seats to be had, and people were parking their asses in the aisles. I grabbed a perfect spot, dead center in the small balcony, which gave the ideal vantage point to observe Zorn interacting with his band of merry men.

Oh, yes. The band.

Four major reasons why I had a hunch this show would kick ass were: guitarist Marc Ribot, percussionist Cyro Baptista, drummer Joey Baron, and bassist Greg Cohen. I was unfamiliar with cellist Eric Friedlander and violinist Mark Feldman, but their names would soon be written into the hallowed “Never Miss These People Live” scroll, which resides in my cerebrum.

My adviser, Dr. Wheelwright, had informed me that this music would be nothing like the wild sonic explorations of the Masada Quartet, as the evening was billed as the “world premiere of new compositions from Zorn's Book of Angels (Masada Book Two)." Little did I know that this work would produce so much positive energy that it felt downright medicinal. I had read some cockamamie description of this music that included so many different genres that it just sounded fake and unrealistic. Truthfully, I had no idea what to expect, but from the first notes, I knew Zorn was about to take us on a wild adventure.

The only legitimate word I can use to describe these compositions is “cinematic,” as Zorn paints these lush, vivid, detailed landscapes and then he sends you flying through them on the back of a magic carpet. Never before have I heard instrumental music so immensely visual, and at times, I felt as if Zorn was saying, “Eat your heart out, Dvorak!” The sounds were gorgeous, smooth, and incredibly accessible, and like the description I had read earlier, the music did indeed draw upon film scores, klezmer, surf rock, classical, jazz, blues, latin, and a host of other now meaningless categories. Musically, you could never say that a song belonged to only one of these genres, as it was always an enthralling, simultaneous amalgamation of three or four or five different types of music that worked beautifully in conjunction with one another. Thematically, there did seem to be a slight undercurrent of the self-deprecating Jewish sense of humor that weaved its way through each work, an effect occasionally emphasized by a laughter-provoking turn from Baron’s Chaplinesque stumbling across his kit or Baptista’s punctuation with a quirky percussive instrument that seemed to ask “Why me?” The images created in my mind were also a lot of fun, as one song had me envisioning a derringer-toting, trenchcoat-wearing Hasidic Jew riding a surfboard in an outtake from the forgotten James Bond film, Goldsteinfinger. Another favorite image appeared in a later song as Vida Guerra crashed an Orthodox wedding and danced the Lambada with the men, who were so mesmerized by her sumptuous curves that they did the forbidden dance and later ate the forbidden fruit: bacon, sweet bacon.

Throughout the entire performance, the audience sat transfixed, rapt with attention on the edge of their seat, eagerly awaiting the thrilling new direction conductor Zorn would lead them on this engrossing journey. Everything was so quiet that you could even hear the musicians whispering between songs. The only bad vibe in the room was created by the tool behind me, who (somewhat understandably) wanted to snap along to the songs. It wasn’t that he was off the beat, it was just that Baron and Baptista were much more talented percussionists than he. However, after 13 seconds of a lacerating, soul-crushing stare, I convinced him to abandon his musical dreams and retreat back to his lonely life as an administrative assistant.

As far as the musicians go, Cohen was rock solid, laying down amazing grooves that fueled every exploration. Baron and Baptista worked brilliantly in tandem with Baron often resorting to mind-bogglingly complex fills as Baptista found the ideal beats to compliment on a bevy of lighthearted instruments that would typically produce grins throughout the hall. Feldman and Friedlander each oozed tremendous emotion from their strings and also showed an impressive virtuosity with their fingerpicking. Ribot was usually the man in charge of making the tunes groovy, bringing that 1960s secret-agent flair to the compositions and creating an enticing air of mystery that lurked around each corner. Technically, he did some amazing things, including one moment when he went on a rapid diminuendo that got so soft that his amp was suddenly inaudible and you could only hear the sound of his pick hitting the strings before quickly rising back up to full volume. Tying all of this together was Zorn, who would conduct as if he were holding a sock puppet on his hand. Each little bite into the air would drill an accent or theme change, and he would sculpt the improvisations by tweaking and massaging the accompanying musicians. He was a wonder to watch, and it was obvious that he and all the guys on stage were enjoying this every bit as much as those of us wearing shit-eatin’ grins in the audience.

Every song seemed to finish on such a warm and happy note, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve attended a seated show that produced such an overwhelming sense of joy in the house. After the final tune, the place erupted into a raucous standing ovation. This was not one of your typical we’re-clapping-because-it’s-our-job-in-this-charade-to-bring-you-back-out-for-the-pre-planned-encore situations. Nay, the audience was demanding an encore. The reaction went from loud to explosive, and no one was leaving until we had another taste from the buffet of good vibes that Zorn was serving. When he brought everyone back out to triumphant applause, Zorn yelled, "a whole set of material learned in one day by these fucking geniuses!" If this was true, and I have no doubt that it was, I’m stunned. The level of virtuosity on this stage was unparalleled, and to think that everyone had just learned these complex charts in one day is just…just…hbfnagvzlwdroaonesdgjnaejnrglaenrgaredmghmzsqplkarejghjaer!*

* - I just searched Roget’s for a half an hour, and I can’t come up with a word for this. “Mindboggling,” “shocking,” or “Earthshaking” are all way too tame.

I bounded out of this theater with much more than a mere spring in my step. Great art often makes you question your own life, but sometimes great art makes you feel lucky to be alive. Last night was definitely a case of the latter, an irony underscored by the fact that I felt years of my life flying away while sitting in Katz’s and recounting the show with Dr. Wheelwright over an artery-cloggingly delicious pastrami sandwich.

Yum.


This video is of this ensemble from a while ago. While it’s nowhere as good as I what I witnessed, it does give you a feel for their sound. Listen to this, and multiply the excellence factor times ten, and you might have some idea of what I experienced on Saturday.

Halloween From Both Sides

I had been planning this costume for a few months, and when Phil Lesh announced he was playing a show on Halloween, I knew this would be the ideal show for it. I spent 6 weeks growing a beard for this occasion, which was not really a chore for me, as I am a direct genetic descendant from neanderthals; hence, my love of meat and natural fur coat.

Okay, so this is nothing out of the ordinary...

Yes, Brian, we've seen that side of you, too...

WHAT THE...?

You would not believe how many people didn't even notice. Granted, Halloween in New York is kind of redundant because we all see freaks on a daily basis, but unless you were looking at me head-on, you probably wouldn't realize that you were looking at two different people.

This costume fulfilled a life-long desire to walk the streets with half a beard. Now I have essentially run out of facial hair styles to try. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.

During the concert, I would be dancing next to people, and they'd have no idea. If they were on my right, they just thought I was another Deadhead. If they were on my left, they just thought I was some tool who came straight from work. Then I would turn around and blow their mind. A lot of people were very confused.

However, I must have had at least 10 different guys come up to me and say, "I get it. You're me! I understand how it is!" Obviously, there are many business folk who live the secret life of a Deadhead.

As an added touch, I only wore deodorant on my left side.

I never really came up with a name for this costume, aside from calling myself a "Split Personality." Seeing as how this was a jamband show, some ideas I had were:

"Two Souls in Communion"
"Two Versions of Me"
"Evolution of the Species"
"Blue State/Red State"
"Good vs. Evil"
"Andy Cahn vs. Mitch Cahn"

Oh yeah, I only shaved half my neck.