Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Truffles I’ve Seen
Or
The Fest Is In Venus
I stopped by Matassa’s for a paper on my way into the Quarter. I asked Louie how it was going and he replied that it was.
“Ya Mama an ‘em?”
“Another perfect day”.
Lump was on the corner holding down his first Bushe in a bag (it was only nine thirty) breakfast. He told me that Q’s Annie had told him that A.J. had taken one in his back at a crap game over by St. Peter’s and that he figured that it might be in today’s paper or as he said ‘Not’.
“How’d he catch one in the back?” I asked. “Tryin’ to run” says Lump.
The Lump is one of the leftovers from an older and more colorful French Quarter that you usually only see at Mass, the Polls or outside at the grocery store. They slip by you in the street un-noticed mostly unless you are also in that category yourself. They’re the ones without cameras, beads or funny colored drinks. I’m also one of the leftovers, urbane we are not and damn proud not to be. We remember things about the Quarter that can only be told as ghost stories at social occasions involving adult beverages because, once you start remembering the old Quarter, spirits rise from the pavement like Macbeth’s wraiths and old souls and scalawags wink from shadows.
“I owe’m five bucks and I thought I’d go and put it on a pony for him” says Lump. “You’ve gone mush” says I, “it’s Jazz Fest this weekend”. Lump nods his head solemnly and says “Yeah, yeah, it slipped my mind; I hope they buy something this year”.
“Who?”
“Them rich folks from up North, they’re the only ones that got that money to go, ‘cept they don’t buy nuttin’ from Ronnie or Clarice”. With that, Lump does his best lower lip and pulls his drawers out of his behind.
I start to tell him about all the locals that attend, spend money around town and patronize local shops, realize that I’ve had this conversation many times before and decide to steer the conversation toward my speedy departure from our chance encounter. I ask about the circumstances of A.J.’s latest dilemma. That turns out to be a bad move and I know that I’m gonna be late. Again.
“He’s shootin’ craps upstairs at that place across from Pat O’s and you know what a smart mouth he’s got; well, Spider is up and A.J. says something to him and Spider’s been workin’ all those doubles and is in no mood so Spider tells A.J. to shut his pie hole and A.J. is like ‘yeah, yer sister liked it’ and you know how Spider’s sister was busted just last week and he’s kinda sensitive so Spider pulls his piece and it gets real quiet and A.J. (who’s not all up there anyway) says like he’s Dirty Harry: ‘you aint got the balls’.
Anyway, you know how Spider’s got that wall eye and aint been right since his old man hit him with the tire iron and he lets a couple of caps go and they go wide and A.J. pulls that lamp down on Spider--- that one with the nice shade from Manny’s mama--- and Q’s Annie is comin up to see what’s goin’ on and she’s hittin’ the door goin’ in just as A.J.’s tryin’ to get out, A.J. bounces and Spider’s next cap gets him right above his money belt and he goes down and get this: Spider’s piece jams and he goes for A.J. but you know how A.J. carries that straight razor and he’s got it out of his shoe when Fast Eddie steps on A.J.’s hand and pimp slaps Spider and tells Q’s Annie to call a ambalance ‘cause A.J.’s startin’ to bleed pretty good and they take’m to Touro and he’s pissed ‘cause theys ‘sposed to go to his Parain’s for little Rosie’s Communion on Sunday and say, you aint goin’ to the Fest are ya?”
Right now if I don’t get to work, my balls will be bookends I tell him and he nods again and takes a pull from the straw in his beer; I’m thinking that I’m supposed to notice and ask about the straw so I do and the Lump tells me that the straw is so that he doesn’t have to tip his head back as he drinks. Lump logic.
So, I’m on my way in to work, thinking this and that and how we got people in for Jazz Fest and where I’m going to tell them to go eat. I figure that I’ll just keep it to three since they’ll probably stuff themselves at the event.
1. Willie Mae’s Scotch House (restaurant) for fried chicken
2. Yo Mama’s for crawfish boil and
3. Austin’s for the deep fried roast beef and gravy po-boy
All three have other stuff on their menus worthy of the trips and, Lord knows, I’ve put on the pounds to prove it; but, if I start recommending more places I’ll drive them and myself nuts.
I hope this year that I don’t have to reiterate my cautions on street smarts and receive the pity from another outsider on the tribulations of living here. I know all that and chose to live here and they chose to visit and that should be that. I also know that for all of it’s foibles, fallacies and facts of life that wound me, I live in the greatest city that there is; and once again, I only need express that the only thing worse than living here, for me, would be living anywhere else.
Oh, Ronnie and Clarice work in shops in the French Quarter and Lump says that they’re depending on you to buy stuff from them so’s they can keep their jobs and make their rent. Lump says he don’t need no money ‘cause he’s got asbestos in his lungs from working at the insulation plant and he’s on disability. I told him I’d mention it.
Showing posts with label Festing in New orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Festing in New orleans. Show all posts
Friday, March 6, 2009
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Music in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Fair Game
Or
The Way That Jazz Goes Down
I’ve come to believe that memory inhibits creativity and spontaneity. I kind of know this from experience; at least I think that I do.
For example, decades ago, a younger me, down on my luck, took a temp job as a dishwasher. I was sent to a club to bust suds.
There I was, up to my elbows in plate scraps, bemoaning my fate, when through the kitchen wall (adjacent to the audience) came the sounds of a gifted jazz artist and… viola, I had an epiphany. I was there, yes I was, (or at that time I was here, the lines kind of get fuzzy). And I was actually being paid to listen to one of the all time great performers of my time!
I remember this, and I remember Ahmad Jamal coming into the kitchen to scam a bite and me feeling special and a part of it all. I remember it like it was yesterday.
From that moment forward, I became a musiholic. I ate, slept, woke, dreamt, and lived music. No artist was too obscure, no venue was out of bounds, no form was ignored, no rolling stone was unturned, and I even put a full Nelson on Willie.
I started to, and still do, listen to Dylan and Dvorjak, The Beatles and Beethoven, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Doctor John, Otis Redding, Neil Young, B.B. King, The Spinners, Smokey Robinson, Clyde McFadder, Eric Satie, Bessie Smith, Peggy Lee, Marvin Gaye, Nat Cole, Elvis, The Dixie Cups, The Grateful Dead, The Doors, Vladimir Horowitz, Mendelssohn, Santana, Brubeck and a thousand other artists that you can but hope in your dreams to appreciate.
Listen up! I was actually paid to tend bar and see Miles Davis perform, not once but a half a dozen times (at least)! Top that!
But, I also recall Jazz Fest being twelve dollars, phone calls being a nickel, bus rides being a quarter and my pay being not much more than it is today.
Where does that leave me? I’ll tell you. In a quandary and quagmire. Am I still gonna try my damnedest to get as much time off from work to blow my hard earned to be out there at the Fair Grounds to cram more music into my already overloaded skull? You bet your sweet ass I am!
Do I understand why thirty five years of profit can’t be accounted for so that prices go up, tickets become more inconvenient to procure and Mother Nature more unpredictable, for the privilege of seeing performances by legends of the music world and be actually there when they do their thing? Yep.
Every year I make whatever sacrifice it takes to be there or be square. Sure, there are forces at work beyond my control or understanding that put on the greatest show on earth; but I’ve got to be there! My life, my soul and my heart beats to the sounds of Johnny Vadokovitz (SP) on drums at the Jazz tent. The Dixie Cups and The Dixie Chicks melt my shorts and to be in the Gospel Tent is truly a religious experience. And I’ve got to be in the audience! This year, as in all previous, The New Orleans Jazz And Heritage Festival will not be televised …Jazz Fest is LIVE!
My policy is to get tickets and worm my way into as many and any hours that I can squeeze in, I pour over programs and maps, make the necessary strategic plans to see my favored performers and then upon arrival scap it all and go where the sounds take me. And I travel light, fast and able. There’s gut in my strut, glide in my stride and no shame in my game.
Okay, I hate the car lot in the space where a stage should be, I don’t understand why the beer doesn’t give me a buzz or how come this year they’re going to build bleachers for high rollers to get a better view than us shmucks on ground level. I don’t know why thirty something’s carry poles with flags and travel in packs. I wonder why folks buy tickets and then claim real estate with blankets, folding chairs and tarps and treat you like a trespasser and interloper should you tread on their sacred ground. I also can’t fathom why people carry so much gear with them, like chairs and backpacks and jungle fashion. And you know what? I don’t care.
In my own warped mind, I don’t think that they really get it. This is not Survivor Twelve, it’s the friggin’ Jazz Fest!
Dig this; a few years ago my step was losing its pep, my ocean was losing its motion…my get up and go was getting’ up and goin’. So I spy this rain tent, you know, one of those misting places that you stumble upon and can never find again?
So I go in out of the din and the glare and all of a sudden it gets quiet; I mean real quiet. The fine mist of cool jetted water is not quite wetting me as much as it is centering me. I can hardly make out the shapes of people around me but I’m sensing that there are them and we’re headed in the direction of this light at the end of the tunnel, if you will.
Nobody’s in a hurry, so naturally I’m not either (you know, go with the flow..?)
So, I’m cruisin’ thinking everything’s cool and this light is getting brighter, all of a sudden I can see the forms in front of me and we’re headed for this opening and we get closer and closer and it starts to open up……SHAZAM!!
The sounds of people having a great time, music all around us, the sun is shining and I smell food cooking. My body temperature welcomes the Sun’s rays and I believe, yes I do, that I have just gone to heaven!
Every year I start my Festin’ with a dozen raw oysters and the hoisting of a beer to my loved ones who’ve passed on or merely passed on by and hope that their heaven is at least as good a time as mine will be; and like I said: be there or be square. See you at the Fair.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Fair Game
Or
The Way That Jazz Goes Down
I’ve come to believe that memory inhibits creativity and spontaneity. I kind of know this from experience; at least I think that I do.
For example, decades ago, a younger me, down on my luck, took a temp job as a dishwasher. I was sent to a club to bust suds.
There I was, up to my elbows in plate scraps, bemoaning my fate, when through the kitchen wall (adjacent to the audience) came the sounds of a gifted jazz artist and… viola, I had an epiphany. I was there, yes I was, (or at that time I was here, the lines kind of get fuzzy). And I was actually being paid to listen to one of the all time great performers of my time!
I remember this, and I remember Ahmad Jamal coming into the kitchen to scam a bite and me feeling special and a part of it all. I remember it like it was yesterday.
From that moment forward, I became a musiholic. I ate, slept, woke, dreamt, and lived music. No artist was too obscure, no venue was out of bounds, no form was ignored, no rolling stone was unturned, and I even put a full Nelson on Willie.
I started to, and still do, listen to Dylan and Dvorjak, The Beatles and Beethoven, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Doctor John, Otis Redding, Neil Young, B.B. King, The Spinners, Smokey Robinson, Clyde McFadder, Eric Satie, Bessie Smith, Peggy Lee, Marvin Gaye, Nat Cole, Elvis, The Dixie Cups, The Grateful Dead, The Doors, Vladimir Horowitz, Mendelssohn, Santana, Brubeck and a thousand other artists that you can but hope in your dreams to appreciate.
Listen up! I was actually paid to tend bar and see Miles Davis perform, not once but a half a dozen times (at least)! Top that!
But, I also recall Jazz Fest being twelve dollars, phone calls being a nickel, bus rides being a quarter and my pay being not much more than it is today.
Where does that leave me? I’ll tell you. In a quandary and quagmire. Am I still gonna try my damnedest to get as much time off from work to blow my hard earned to be out there at the Fair Grounds to cram more music into my already overloaded skull? You bet your sweet ass I am!
Do I understand why thirty five years of profit can’t be accounted for so that prices go up, tickets become more inconvenient to procure and Mother Nature more unpredictable, for the privilege of seeing performances by legends of the music world and be actually there when they do their thing? Yep.
Every year I make whatever sacrifice it takes to be there or be square. Sure, there are forces at work beyond my control or understanding that put on the greatest show on earth; but I’ve got to be there! My life, my soul and my heart beats to the sounds of Johnny Vadokovitz (SP) on drums at the Jazz tent. The Dixie Cups and The Dixie Chicks melt my shorts and to be in the Gospel Tent is truly a religious experience. And I’ve got to be in the audience! This year, as in all previous, The New Orleans Jazz And Heritage Festival will not be televised …Jazz Fest is LIVE!
My policy is to get tickets and worm my way into as many and any hours that I can squeeze in, I pour over programs and maps, make the necessary strategic plans to see my favored performers and then upon arrival scap it all and go where the sounds take me. And I travel light, fast and able. There’s gut in my strut, glide in my stride and no shame in my game.
Okay, I hate the car lot in the space where a stage should be, I don’t understand why the beer doesn’t give me a buzz or how come this year they’re going to build bleachers for high rollers to get a better view than us shmucks on ground level. I don’t know why thirty something’s carry poles with flags and travel in packs. I wonder why folks buy tickets and then claim real estate with blankets, folding chairs and tarps and treat you like a trespasser and interloper should you tread on their sacred ground. I also can’t fathom why people carry so much gear with them, like chairs and backpacks and jungle fashion. And you know what? I don’t care.
In my own warped mind, I don’t think that they really get it. This is not Survivor Twelve, it’s the friggin’ Jazz Fest!
Dig this; a few years ago my step was losing its pep, my ocean was losing its motion…my get up and go was getting’ up and goin’. So I spy this rain tent, you know, one of those misting places that you stumble upon and can never find again?
So I go in out of the din and the glare and all of a sudden it gets quiet; I mean real quiet. The fine mist of cool jetted water is not quite wetting me as much as it is centering me. I can hardly make out the shapes of people around me but I’m sensing that there are them and we’re headed in the direction of this light at the end of the tunnel, if you will.
Nobody’s in a hurry, so naturally I’m not either (you know, go with the flow..?)
So, I’m cruisin’ thinking everything’s cool and this light is getting brighter, all of a sudden I can see the forms in front of me and we’re headed for this opening and we get closer and closer and it starts to open up……SHAZAM!!
The sounds of people having a great time, music all around us, the sun is shining and I smell food cooking. My body temperature welcomes the Sun’s rays and I believe, yes I do, that I have just gone to heaven!
Every year I start my Festin’ with a dozen raw oysters and the hoisting of a beer to my loved ones who’ve passed on or merely passed on by and hope that their heaven is at least as good a time as mine will be; and like I said: be there or be square. See you at the Fair.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Even More Festin' in New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Festers R Us
Or
Pleased To Meet You
Call me a fool; but I’m thinkin’ that there’s some repeat Festers that only get to read my column once a year. Call me nuts if I didn’t think that there’s also some Festers comin’ home to New Orleans for the first time and for the best face this city ever puts forward (and we gots some faces!) that have never read me. Call me irresponsible if I don’t have words for all y’all, and call me a blackguard if I don’t impart some wisdom for the novice and the veteran.
Let me, please, introduce myself. I’m not a man of wealth and of questionable taste. My gracious editors allow me to express my views monthly, hence the name of the column. This issue is about you and ‘The Fest’.
First of all, during the Fest (to be precise, The New Orleans Jazz And Heritage Festival) you are a citizen of New Orleans! And get it straight: we are a small and fiercely independent third world country that has been at war with the United States of Amerika for some time now. And as a citizen and fellow plantation-er/ess there are duties for you to fulfill above and beyond Festing, and we’ll go into that later.
First though, let’s go through a Fest checklist. It’s all well and good that you’re here, but an ounce of preparation is worth a pound of sunburn.
1. Get your tickets early. The object being to avoid standing in line on a Fest day when you should be inside the gates, kissing the sky (s’cuse me?).
2. Have your transportation planned. I advise public transportation, it’s cheap, it’s easy and the only downside is the pain in the ass getting back to town. Really, I hope that they’ve worked on that, but I doubt it.
3. On Fest days make sure that you breakfast well. If you’re like me, you’ll be pigging out all day so, believe it or don’t, Fest food tastes best on a full stomach. It’s all about overload. Plus you’ll be more selective in your purchases.
4. Pack light. The more you lug in the more you’ll have to schlepp back. Sunscreen, dark glasses, do rag, a towel and cash with a small shoulder bag is plenty for me. Also, every year there is a dilemma on bringing in your own huge bottle of drinking water. Can you or can’t you? Every year I bring one and I get in fine. Just make sure that the seal isn’t broken.
5. Dress for success. I usually wear shorts and a big tee shirt under overalls and a sport shirt. When it’s warm I doff clothes (remember that shoulder bag?) and when it cools off I don. Make sense? It will.
6. Know where you’re going. If you’re really jones-ing to hear some of the big names, get your place between sets. There’s some folks that take up entire zip codes in front of stages and everyone else can screw themselves if they don’t like it (bad form I say). You on the other hand just take up a bitsy space and during the break (between sets) find a place big enough for your towel and sit. Just make sure that you void your bladder beforehand.
There’s a basic six pack of sound advice to get you off on the good foot for Festing. Welcome home.
Now, as a citizen, here’s your Katrina update. It’s a year and a half plus since the Thing and whatever has gotten done has been done by volunteers. Gutting, hauling and rebuilding. No one knows for sure if our replaced levees will withstand the next one and there’s lots of areas that are still decimated from the last one. If you’re going to be here throughout the week consider doing some volunteer work. If not that, make sure that you go see what fifty two billion gallons of water can do to a city even after all this time of cleaning up.
Talk to the natives, hear them out and get an ear of what it’s like to be here 24/7. As a city, we have memorized a lot of facts and figures, we have much to talk about and say. It hasn’t been easy keeping up our game faces on and our memories are not fading fast enough. Not many of us feel sane or anywhere near normal even at this juncture. Ask us what we think of our administration, our safety, our economy, and/or our future.
Read our newspaper, look closely at our city and then go back and tell everyone that you can about our abandonment and the despair. Tell them of our hope and how we are coming back, we are open for business and how we are still as full blown bat shit crazy as ever. AND, that we welcomed you and fed you. How we gave you music and warm days.
Tell them what you know, tell them like I’ve been telling you all along. New Orleans is like taking a warm bubble bath with a martini and a snake and a radio perched precariously on the side of the tub; except now it takes place inside a gutted house.
Back to the Fest. Every year on the first day of the Fest, this is what I do. I go get me a dozen of those freshly opened, chilled, oysters on the half shell and the biggest beer that is available at the oyster bar. Naturally I tip big.
I then take a quiet moment and dedicate my oysters and my beer to all those people that I know (and those that I don’t know) that, for one reason or another, can’t be here at The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. The oyster bar was closed last year. This year I will have two dozen oysters and two beers to make up for that. And then I will join you in seizing the day. What more can we do?
By
Phil LaMancusa
Festers R Us
Or
Pleased To Meet You
Call me a fool; but I’m thinkin’ that there’s some repeat Festers that only get to read my column once a year. Call me nuts if I didn’t think that there’s also some Festers comin’ home to New Orleans for the first time and for the best face this city ever puts forward (and we gots some faces!) that have never read me. Call me irresponsible if I don’t have words for all y’all, and call me a blackguard if I don’t impart some wisdom for the novice and the veteran.
Let me, please, introduce myself. I’m not a man of wealth and of questionable taste. My gracious editors allow me to express my views monthly, hence the name of the column. This issue is about you and ‘The Fest’.
First of all, during the Fest (to be precise, The New Orleans Jazz And Heritage Festival) you are a citizen of New Orleans! And get it straight: we are a small and fiercely independent third world country that has been at war with the United States of Amerika for some time now. And as a citizen and fellow plantation-er/ess there are duties for you to fulfill above and beyond Festing, and we’ll go into that later.
First though, let’s go through a Fest checklist. It’s all well and good that you’re here, but an ounce of preparation is worth a pound of sunburn.
1. Get your tickets early. The object being to avoid standing in line on a Fest day when you should be inside the gates, kissing the sky (s’cuse me?).
2. Have your transportation planned. I advise public transportation, it’s cheap, it’s easy and the only downside is the pain in the ass getting back to town. Really, I hope that they’ve worked on that, but I doubt it.
3. On Fest days make sure that you breakfast well. If you’re like me, you’ll be pigging out all day so, believe it or don’t, Fest food tastes best on a full stomach. It’s all about overload. Plus you’ll be more selective in your purchases.
4. Pack light. The more you lug in the more you’ll have to schlepp back. Sunscreen, dark glasses, do rag, a towel and cash with a small shoulder bag is plenty for me. Also, every year there is a dilemma on bringing in your own huge bottle of drinking water. Can you or can’t you? Every year I bring one and I get in fine. Just make sure that the seal isn’t broken.
5. Dress for success. I usually wear shorts and a big tee shirt under overalls and a sport shirt. When it’s warm I doff clothes (remember that shoulder bag?) and when it cools off I don. Make sense? It will.
6. Know where you’re going. If you’re really jones-ing to hear some of the big names, get your place between sets. There’s some folks that take up entire zip codes in front of stages and everyone else can screw themselves if they don’t like it (bad form I say). You on the other hand just take up a bitsy space and during the break (between sets) find a place big enough for your towel and sit. Just make sure that you void your bladder beforehand.
There’s a basic six pack of sound advice to get you off on the good foot for Festing. Welcome home.
Now, as a citizen, here’s your Katrina update. It’s a year and a half plus since the Thing and whatever has gotten done has been done by volunteers. Gutting, hauling and rebuilding. No one knows for sure if our replaced levees will withstand the next one and there’s lots of areas that are still decimated from the last one. If you’re going to be here throughout the week consider doing some volunteer work. If not that, make sure that you go see what fifty two billion gallons of water can do to a city even after all this time of cleaning up.
Talk to the natives, hear them out and get an ear of what it’s like to be here 24/7. As a city, we have memorized a lot of facts and figures, we have much to talk about and say. It hasn’t been easy keeping up our game faces on and our memories are not fading fast enough. Not many of us feel sane or anywhere near normal even at this juncture. Ask us what we think of our administration, our safety, our economy, and/or our future.
Read our newspaper, look closely at our city and then go back and tell everyone that you can about our abandonment and the despair. Tell them of our hope and how we are coming back, we are open for business and how we are still as full blown bat shit crazy as ever. AND, that we welcomed you and fed you. How we gave you music and warm days.
Tell them what you know, tell them like I’ve been telling you all along. New Orleans is like taking a warm bubble bath with a martini and a snake and a radio perched precariously on the side of the tub; except now it takes place inside a gutted house.
Back to the Fest. Every year on the first day of the Fest, this is what I do. I go get me a dozen of those freshly opened, chilled, oysters on the half shell and the biggest beer that is available at the oyster bar. Naturally I tip big.
I then take a quiet moment and dedicate my oysters and my beer to all those people that I know (and those that I don’t know) that, for one reason or another, can’t be here at The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. The oyster bar was closed last year. This year I will have two dozen oysters and two beers to make up for that. And then I will join you in seizing the day. What more can we do?
Monday, August 11, 2008
The 'K' Thing in New Orleans
Po-boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Perspective and Soda
Greetings Cats and Hats, and welcome to the nth uninterrupted edition of Where Y’at’s Jazzfest extravaganza bonanza issue. Brought to you by anyone that’s left and has enough dough to advertise and get this puppy back off the ground. Thank you.
You know, we here in the Big Uneasy have a lot to talk about but lately it’s been all about that “K” thing; and we’re gonna try to steer away from that. The more you talk about it the worse it gets.
So, let’s talk of something else.
I recently reread Slaughterhouse Five and finally got it from Billy Pilgrim. And the ‘it’ that I got is that: whatever we’re doing, whatever we’ve done and whatever we’re going to do has already been done and gone like last week’s mugging that’s waiting for us around the next corner about to happen to us again in the past. It only sounds weird. But it’s not really. I mean, here you are reading this and enjoying a day like other days; full of those events that alter and illuminate your life. Except ‘Billy Theory’ says that you already have and will again do this (that bit might be the weird part).
The challenge with that kind of ‘Pilgrim Pretzel Logic’ is that I don’t like to picture me having that splitting headache, hangover and hangnail for sempiternity. Nor do I relish re-occurring birth, puberty and nursing home experiences. However, I do fancy falling in love repeatedly for all eternity; but, I’d rather skip all of those heartbreaks.
For those of you that don’t remember that you’ve read the book somewhere in your future past I’ll remind you: Billy Pilgrim is was a person or not that has, had and will have the ability to view his life as a subjective time traveler, seeing, not often willingly, his birth and death and everything in between right now. In fact, much like ourselves, Billy doesn’t really know where in his life that he will be at any given moment. Billy doesn’t even know where in his life that he will be any time that he closes and reopens his eyes.
That plus alien abductions, family life as an successful optometrist and that nasty Allied bombing of Dresden is kinda of what the book all about. Of course it’s written in the third person plural abstract individual experience mode. Why should you read this book? Too late, you already will have. Why did it make a difference to you?
Because it threw coincidence and déjà vu out the cosmic window and all of a sudden the meaning of heaven and hell became quite clear. Also it improved your memory, made you more popular and an all around better person. You also mind your mouth and manners, remember to accessorize properly and finally get that manicure/massage that you’ve been promising yourself. After all, if you’re going to do today, this minute, over and over again, why not let now be as pleasing as it possibly was (will have been).
That’s why it is so very important to be at Jazzfest every minute that you can. The bucks that you have in your pocket are going to come and go, and, Entergy and Ma Belle will continue to dog your butt every month for time eternal; but, Jazzfest will have taken up such a little piece of your life that you owe it to yourself to be as much a part of it as you can. It’s your own little bit of heaven. The smells, sights and sounds; the warm beer, mud, crowds and noise. The icy cold oysters, the freebees at the cooking demonstration that you can never get close enough, soon enough to get a sample of and the long lines for the toilets are all part of it. The mist machines, that seat in the back of the Gospel tent that’s the only place left to sit. Those guys that sell overpriced peanuts that I’m sure to purchase. That sunscreen that you left at home, the threat of rain, and (hopefully) tribes of Indians sedately making the rounds, the Crawfish Monica, Jama Jama, strawberry ice tea, the pauses that reflect.
I didn’t quite know how to handle the storm’s aftermath, so I allowed my instincts get me through the best that I could; and, just as I know that none of us can rest while any of our neighbors are displaced I know that those of us that have been replaced have to keep things going. The alternative is not to laugh, not to dance, and that’s not an alternative I want to be a part of. After all, what if Billy Pilgrim is right? What if I pass up the opportunity to jump and clap and whistle and grin like a monkey until that lady with the yellow shirt tells me to go sit back down? I want to be in that number, and, especially if the repercussion of missing my Jazzfest over and over again is because of some lame reason (like work) that I will have to repeat again and again instead. Now, that would be hell!
Eighty percent of this city, my city, is in shambles. The least I can do is to invite everybody to come and to hang out with me, for this brief time, and dance to the music.
So, all of y’all, I’m glad that you’re here. Jazzfest opens in the mornin’ and closes at night unlike the aftermath of the storms that knew no closing time. It’s for less days than I spent without water, electricity or a cold beer; and I am one of the lucky ones.
When y’all leave and we go back to cleaning up what’s left of our lives, I’ll look back and ahead to the time that we’re spending together smiling. I sure needed the break. And after all, if either we’re all in this together or we’re in it by ourselves, which part would you want to repeat?
By
Phil LaMancusa
Perspective and Soda
Greetings Cats and Hats, and welcome to the nth uninterrupted edition of Where Y’at’s Jazzfest extravaganza bonanza issue. Brought to you by anyone that’s left and has enough dough to advertise and get this puppy back off the ground. Thank you.
You know, we here in the Big Uneasy have a lot to talk about but lately it’s been all about that “K” thing; and we’re gonna try to steer away from that. The more you talk about it the worse it gets.
So, let’s talk of something else.
I recently reread Slaughterhouse Five and finally got it from Billy Pilgrim. And the ‘it’ that I got is that: whatever we’re doing, whatever we’ve done and whatever we’re going to do has already been done and gone like last week’s mugging that’s waiting for us around the next corner about to happen to us again in the past. It only sounds weird. But it’s not really. I mean, here you are reading this and enjoying a day like other days; full of those events that alter and illuminate your life. Except ‘Billy Theory’ says that you already have and will again do this (that bit might be the weird part).
The challenge with that kind of ‘Pilgrim Pretzel Logic’ is that I don’t like to picture me having that splitting headache, hangover and hangnail for sempiternity. Nor do I relish re-occurring birth, puberty and nursing home experiences. However, I do fancy falling in love repeatedly for all eternity; but, I’d rather skip all of those heartbreaks.
For those of you that don’t remember that you’ve read the book somewhere in your future past I’ll remind you: Billy Pilgrim is was a person or not that has, had and will have the ability to view his life as a subjective time traveler, seeing, not often willingly, his birth and death and everything in between right now. In fact, much like ourselves, Billy doesn’t really know where in his life that he will be at any given moment. Billy doesn’t even know where in his life that he will be any time that he closes and reopens his eyes.
That plus alien abductions, family life as an successful optometrist and that nasty Allied bombing of Dresden is kinda of what the book all about. Of course it’s written in the third person plural abstract individual experience mode. Why should you read this book? Too late, you already will have. Why did it make a difference to you?
Because it threw coincidence and déjà vu out the cosmic window and all of a sudden the meaning of heaven and hell became quite clear. Also it improved your memory, made you more popular and an all around better person. You also mind your mouth and manners, remember to accessorize properly and finally get that manicure/massage that you’ve been promising yourself. After all, if you’re going to do today, this minute, over and over again, why not let now be as pleasing as it possibly was (will have been).
That’s why it is so very important to be at Jazzfest every minute that you can. The bucks that you have in your pocket are going to come and go, and, Entergy and Ma Belle will continue to dog your butt every month for time eternal; but, Jazzfest will have taken up such a little piece of your life that you owe it to yourself to be as much a part of it as you can. It’s your own little bit of heaven. The smells, sights and sounds; the warm beer, mud, crowds and noise. The icy cold oysters, the freebees at the cooking demonstration that you can never get close enough, soon enough to get a sample of and the long lines for the toilets are all part of it. The mist machines, that seat in the back of the Gospel tent that’s the only place left to sit. Those guys that sell overpriced peanuts that I’m sure to purchase. That sunscreen that you left at home, the threat of rain, and (hopefully) tribes of Indians sedately making the rounds, the Crawfish Monica, Jama Jama, strawberry ice tea, the pauses that reflect.
I didn’t quite know how to handle the storm’s aftermath, so I allowed my instincts get me through the best that I could; and, just as I know that none of us can rest while any of our neighbors are displaced I know that those of us that have been replaced have to keep things going. The alternative is not to laugh, not to dance, and that’s not an alternative I want to be a part of. After all, what if Billy Pilgrim is right? What if I pass up the opportunity to jump and clap and whistle and grin like a monkey until that lady with the yellow shirt tells me to go sit back down? I want to be in that number, and, especially if the repercussion of missing my Jazzfest over and over again is because of some lame reason (like work) that I will have to repeat again and again instead. Now, that would be hell!
Eighty percent of this city, my city, is in shambles. The least I can do is to invite everybody to come and to hang out with me, for this brief time, and dance to the music.
So, all of y’all, I’m glad that you’re here. Jazzfest opens in the mornin’ and closes at night unlike the aftermath of the storms that knew no closing time. It’s for less days than I spent without water, electricity or a cold beer; and I am one of the lucky ones.
When y’all leave and we go back to cleaning up what’s left of our lives, I’ll look back and ahead to the time that we’re spending together smiling. I sure needed the break. And after all, if either we’re all in this together or we’re in it by ourselves, which part would you want to repeat?
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Satchfeast in New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Cliff Hanger Satchmo
Or
“Can’t Hold On Much Longer”
I may not be the picture of wholesomeness, watching Fred Rogers at 5:00 a.m. with a beer, a cigarette and a blank expression on my mugg; but you know, I get some of my best thinking done on an all-nighter. Then again, I like New York in June (how about yew?).
Well, whatever; take this ‘Satch-fest’ thing, or whatever it’s called. This is a subject that I’ve been avoiding for the last five years. Avoiding talking about, avoiding writing about, avoiding thinking about. Why? Because a New Orleans love affair with Mr. Armstrong is like that of a faded harlot, after making nothing of herself, bragging about an ex-lover who, when all stories be told, spurned her. I mean, is this the same man that told reporters, about a half century ago, that if he never set foot in this town again that it would be too soon for him (or words to that effect)?
To prepare myself for this writer’s hell, I immersed myself in the subject of Louis, the myth, the legend, the man. I read books, both in his own words and that of others, I played recordings over and over again, I heard rumors of cosmetic surgery, homosexuality and ties to organized crime. I know about at least one of his illegitimate children. I’ve had him for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the last friggin’ month, okay?
What did I come up with? A headache.
Was he a sell out, a philanderer, a musical Buddha, a pawn or a king? Yes. Did he lie about his birthday? Did his Mama ‘sell fish’ to keep bread on the table? Yes. Is his 1927 recording of ‘Hotter Than That’ and ‘West End Blues’ an epiphany of musical innovation? Yes. Did he mind slapping around his old lady if she beefed about his chippies? No. Did he bend over to the Guy Lombardo school of music? Yeah, man!
Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s draw the shades, open a bottle of cheap champagne, disconnect the phone and light up a Lucky. Also let’s chow down on a three-pound meatball po-boy from Matassa’s.
Louis was born a poor black child here (go figure), hustled anyway he could, and was fortunate enough to raise himself up in a time of ‘anything’s legal if you don’t get caught’ New Orleans (same as now).
Then, as now, there were three ways out of the ghetto (in those days most of this town was a ghetto): sex, drugs or music. Period. Racism was taken for granted by him for at least fifty-seven years.
Conflicting reports of how and when he got his first horn, put aside, does not diminish the ability he had for coaxing sounds from that ‘thang’. He simply could, so he did. A New Orleans hustle if there ever is one; take what you got and work it.
His second wife, Lil Hardin, schooled this overweight numbskull in the subtler ways of gaining acceptance to a wide variety of audiences (read ‘white’ here). Louis soon learned what could butter that scrap of bread he had to offer. White America. (you oughta look up ole Lil if you want some schoolin’) Basically he became a twentieth century minstrel, a clown with a horn.
New Orleans is a place that genius’ can live and die in, even now, you can’t throw a rock without hitting a musician; but ‘they be po’. Ya gotta leave town to make it. So he did.
And he never came back! (‘cept once or twice)
He was, and still is, a musical genius’ genius, BUT, the fact remains that our city is a graveyard for people like Buddy Bolden, Kid Ory, Bunk Johnson, Baby Dodds and their ilk .We play lip service to, and take credit for the roots of that thing called Jazz. But, like me, we’re too drunk, lazy, or complacent to nurture and keep it here.
Louis left the country to escape racism and mob control, did you know that? Louie criticized the President about civil rights and the white washing that it gave to Jim Crow. And got blacklisted for it. Hell, neighbor what are we celebrating?
You don’t know Louis like know Louis: Louis was a dumb kid from the third ward who suddenly found out that he had the talent and ability to not only reach the expertise of a master, such as Joe (KING) Oliver, but to surpass it! What are you to do then? Who do you play for?
Louis played for the world.
But he had to sell out. It’s as simple as this: say that I’ve got a whole alphabet to hip you to, but you can’t dig nutthin’ but the A B Cs? Guess what? Then as now, I’ll go where the do re me is and, like the farmer said to the potato: “plant you now and dig you later”.
A hundred years later, and if you’re lucky, if you’re very very lucky, if your listening ear has not become as prejudiced as Louie’s South is. If you are that lucky, you’ll put this rag down and put on the Hot fives and Hot Sevens, light up a Lucky, pop a cool one and dig. If not, you’re a dumb Mother Cracker and only deserve to read Dick and Jane for the rest of your life.
If you’re a woman reading this: Louis was no better than that loser you’ve got now: don’t envy his women. If you be a man reading this: If you ain’t blowin’---you ain’t knowin’ …………and if you can’t get somebody to hear your LMNO’s, how are you gonna get to your XYZs?
Think about it. Myself? I’m gonna put myself to bed with the Saint James Infirmary in my head and wish I was more like the ‘Satch’. Red beans and ricely yours. Amen.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Cliff Hanger Satchmo
Or
“Can’t Hold On Much Longer”
I may not be the picture of wholesomeness, watching Fred Rogers at 5:00 a.m. with a beer, a cigarette and a blank expression on my mugg; but you know, I get some of my best thinking done on an all-nighter. Then again, I like New York in June (how about yew?).
Well, whatever; take this ‘Satch-fest’ thing, or whatever it’s called. This is a subject that I’ve been avoiding for the last five years. Avoiding talking about, avoiding writing about, avoiding thinking about. Why? Because a New Orleans love affair with Mr. Armstrong is like that of a faded harlot, after making nothing of herself, bragging about an ex-lover who, when all stories be told, spurned her. I mean, is this the same man that told reporters, about a half century ago, that if he never set foot in this town again that it would be too soon for him (or words to that effect)?
To prepare myself for this writer’s hell, I immersed myself in the subject of Louis, the myth, the legend, the man. I read books, both in his own words and that of others, I played recordings over and over again, I heard rumors of cosmetic surgery, homosexuality and ties to organized crime. I know about at least one of his illegitimate children. I’ve had him for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the last friggin’ month, okay?
What did I come up with? A headache.
Was he a sell out, a philanderer, a musical Buddha, a pawn or a king? Yes. Did he lie about his birthday? Did his Mama ‘sell fish’ to keep bread on the table? Yes. Is his 1927 recording of ‘Hotter Than That’ and ‘West End Blues’ an epiphany of musical innovation? Yes. Did he mind slapping around his old lady if she beefed about his chippies? No. Did he bend over to the Guy Lombardo school of music? Yeah, man!
Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s draw the shades, open a bottle of cheap champagne, disconnect the phone and light up a Lucky. Also let’s chow down on a three-pound meatball po-boy from Matassa’s.
Louis was born a poor black child here (go figure), hustled anyway he could, and was fortunate enough to raise himself up in a time of ‘anything’s legal if you don’t get caught’ New Orleans (same as now).
Then, as now, there were three ways out of the ghetto (in those days most of this town was a ghetto): sex, drugs or music. Period. Racism was taken for granted by him for at least fifty-seven years.
Conflicting reports of how and when he got his first horn, put aside, does not diminish the ability he had for coaxing sounds from that ‘thang’. He simply could, so he did. A New Orleans hustle if there ever is one; take what you got and work it.
His second wife, Lil Hardin, schooled this overweight numbskull in the subtler ways of gaining acceptance to a wide variety of audiences (read ‘white’ here). Louis soon learned what could butter that scrap of bread he had to offer. White America. (you oughta look up ole Lil if you want some schoolin’) Basically he became a twentieth century minstrel, a clown with a horn.
New Orleans is a place that genius’ can live and die in, even now, you can’t throw a rock without hitting a musician; but ‘they be po’. Ya gotta leave town to make it. So he did.
And he never came back! (‘cept once or twice)
He was, and still is, a musical genius’ genius, BUT, the fact remains that our city is a graveyard for people like Buddy Bolden, Kid Ory, Bunk Johnson, Baby Dodds and their ilk .We play lip service to, and take credit for the roots of that thing called Jazz. But, like me, we’re too drunk, lazy, or complacent to nurture and keep it here.
Louis left the country to escape racism and mob control, did you know that? Louie criticized the President about civil rights and the white washing that it gave to Jim Crow. And got blacklisted for it. Hell, neighbor what are we celebrating?
You don’t know Louis like know Louis: Louis was a dumb kid from the third ward who suddenly found out that he had the talent and ability to not only reach the expertise of a master, such as Joe (KING) Oliver, but to surpass it! What are you to do then? Who do you play for?
Louis played for the world.
But he had to sell out. It’s as simple as this: say that I’ve got a whole alphabet to hip you to, but you can’t dig nutthin’ but the A B Cs? Guess what? Then as now, I’ll go where the do re me is and, like the farmer said to the potato: “plant you now and dig you later”.
A hundred years later, and if you’re lucky, if you’re very very lucky, if your listening ear has not become as prejudiced as Louie’s South is. If you are that lucky, you’ll put this rag down and put on the Hot fives and Hot Sevens, light up a Lucky, pop a cool one and dig. If not, you’re a dumb Mother Cracker and only deserve to read Dick and Jane for the rest of your life.
If you’re a woman reading this: Louis was no better than that loser you’ve got now: don’t envy his women. If you be a man reading this: If you ain’t blowin’---you ain’t knowin’ …………and if you can’t get somebody to hear your LMNO’s, how are you gonna get to your XYZs?
Think about it. Myself? I’m gonna put myself to bed with the Saint James Infirmary in my head and wish I was more like the ‘Satch’. Red beans and ricely yours. Amen.
Friday, August 1, 2008
More Jazz Fest musings in New Orleans
Po-Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
blah
Or
Blah
Okay, you’ve been to the second week of Jazz Fest. Mother’s Day is coming up and then Memorial Day and whoosh… you’re into hurricane season! My, how time flies since you turned the clocks ahead, we must be having fun. All of our lent season debts are paid, all of our New Year’s resolutions given up and it’s not quite bikini season so we don’t have to watch our waistlines just yet. So, just what are you doing in May to make life worth putting make up on for? Nuttin’ Honey?
Did you know that in May of 1872 Frederick Douglass and Victoria Woodhull declared their candidacy for the office of the President (and Vice ) of the United States? The first African American AND the first female candidates on the same ticket. It makes you wonder why we can’t all just get along.
So, what are you doing in May? Cinco de Mayo anyone? Baseball’s first perfect game was pitched in May. James Brown and Stevie Wonder were born in May as was Rock and Roll specifically, with the release of Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around The Clock’. Columbus discovered Jamaica in May, Mon. Nessie had a first sighting. Lewis and Clark go under way in May, De Soto reached the Mississippi in May, Joan of Arc defeated the English at Orleans, Germany surrendered after the second world war and Salvador Dali was born.
I say that May is a month that we do something more special than just wear our panties on our heads. Mickey and Minnie Mouse (when did they get married?)made their first appearance in May. We gotta do something!!
Let’s win the lottery! Let’s rebuild New Orleans! Let’s wake up the sleeping government! Let’s… nah, let’s do nuttin’ Honey.
Yeah, let’s not do much in May, birth month of Orson Welles, Gary Cooper, Billy Joel and George Clooney. Face it, it’s already been done in May.
Root Beer invented, Levi’s patented as well as Corn Flakes. Bonnie, Clyde and Anne Boleyn got theirs. Carson, Cheers and Mash had their farewells. Jesse Owens breaks six records in 45 minutes. No body ever told you this stuff, huh? I say take May off and take your casserole to coffee.
Birthdays? Dennis Hopper, Reggie Jackson, Busta Rymes, JFK, MR T, Joey Ramone, Jewel, Melissa Ethridge, Lenny Kravitz, Janet Jackson and Lisa ‘left eye’ Lopez!!!
Go back to bed with a lemondrop, loser!
The Saxophone was invented, Eiffel Tower opened it’s elevator, Golden Gate opened to Main County and the Brooklyn Bridge opens to Flatbush. At least five of the Star Wars movies opened in May. Babe Ruth hit his 714th, Mount Saint Helena sent fire and brimstone, the first telegram was sent, the first Academy Awards and Napoleon Bonaparte was declared Emperor of France. What chance do we have to top any of those?
Well, as John Fogerty (him too) once said “Put me in coach!!!” I say let’s do absolutely nothing, nada, zip, zilch in May except exhibit our madness. I mean, how do you top Everest’s two firsts (man and woman), maybe by taking your sock monkey on a date?
Send some late Valentine’s cards (it’s never really too late), sing off key (on purpose, loudly), walk with a limp on the edge of the sidewalk. Slurp your soda, double cheese on that chili, sing ‘ a hundred bottles of beer on the wall’ break away from the cobwebs of spring, the coma of winter and the anxiety that summers hold for us. Go buy something and then give it away. Say “hi” to the street-sweeper, cajole a curmudgeon, curse a villain and send an email to the newspaper telling them that you want the front page rid of sport stories (after all, isn’t that why they have a sport section?).
Order egg drop soup (I think I’ll have some now), leave a note on the door and enjoy the walk to get it…take your fortune cookie seriously, very very seriously.
Engage an elder in conversation, ask advice (don’t take it). Give your cell phone a time out, give up politics for a week, eat the sushi that you’ve been avoiding, give up drinking for a day or two; find out who your friends are and congratulate them on their wise choice of company. Be full of yourself! Take a lemming to lunch.
Take a drive across the lake (any lake), plan a crawfish boil, have a dinner party, a wine tasting, learn to tango (it takes two), light a candle… tell your cat a joke.
Take a month out of the year (how about May?) and ask yourself what you want from life. Stay in love against all odds, tip big, have a spaghetti dinner with garlic bread and cheap red wine. Settle a dispute, learn a fact, reignite that book club, call up someone you know just to ask how they are, give up cigarettes for a day, stop lying to yourself.
Invest in small business (have a Lucky Dog), get some new pajamas, dust off that Billie Holiday lp, learn a new song, speak with a foreign accent, get a beret, go to town, spoil somebody (start with yourself), engage in thoughtful dissertation with a colleague and expose yourself as a proponent of southern fried mendacity. Read some Tennessee.
Rent Ol’ Yeller, taste the dog’s food to see if you’d eat It, bake a loaf of bread, have a Pimm’s Cup at the Napoleon House, visit the zoo, have a banana split with someone, shave only on one side, go to a show, show up early, show up late…”show me the way to go hooooooommme”.
Remember, May comes but once a year, same time, same place. The fifth month, not to be confused with a month of fifths, speak up for what you believe in; like wearing a tie when you don’t have to, a vest, a funny hat (not stupid…funny), have a double dip of life. All the important stuff has already been done in May. Today, yes today, look someone in the eye and say “you will always have me”.
P.S. that egg drop soup sure tastes good!
By
Phil LaMancusa
blah
Or
Blah
Okay, you’ve been to the second week of Jazz Fest. Mother’s Day is coming up and then Memorial Day and whoosh… you’re into hurricane season! My, how time flies since you turned the clocks ahead, we must be having fun. All of our lent season debts are paid, all of our New Year’s resolutions given up and it’s not quite bikini season so we don’t have to watch our waistlines just yet. So, just what are you doing in May to make life worth putting make up on for? Nuttin’ Honey?
Did you know that in May of 1872 Frederick Douglass and Victoria Woodhull declared their candidacy for the office of the President (and Vice ) of the United States? The first African American AND the first female candidates on the same ticket. It makes you wonder why we can’t all just get along.
So, what are you doing in May? Cinco de Mayo anyone? Baseball’s first perfect game was pitched in May. James Brown and Stevie Wonder were born in May as was Rock and Roll specifically, with the release of Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around The Clock’. Columbus discovered Jamaica in May, Mon. Nessie had a first sighting. Lewis and Clark go under way in May, De Soto reached the Mississippi in May, Joan of Arc defeated the English at Orleans, Germany surrendered after the second world war and Salvador Dali was born.
I say that May is a month that we do something more special than just wear our panties on our heads. Mickey and Minnie Mouse (when did they get married?)made their first appearance in May. We gotta do something!!
Let’s win the lottery! Let’s rebuild New Orleans! Let’s wake up the sleeping government! Let’s… nah, let’s do nuttin’ Honey.
Yeah, let’s not do much in May, birth month of Orson Welles, Gary Cooper, Billy Joel and George Clooney. Face it, it’s already been done in May.
Root Beer invented, Levi’s patented as well as Corn Flakes. Bonnie, Clyde and Anne Boleyn got theirs. Carson, Cheers and Mash had their farewells. Jesse Owens breaks six records in 45 minutes. No body ever told you this stuff, huh? I say take May off and take your casserole to coffee.
Birthdays? Dennis Hopper, Reggie Jackson, Busta Rymes, JFK, MR T, Joey Ramone, Jewel, Melissa Ethridge, Lenny Kravitz, Janet Jackson and Lisa ‘left eye’ Lopez!!!
Go back to bed with a lemondrop, loser!
The Saxophone was invented, Eiffel Tower opened it’s elevator, Golden Gate opened to Main County and the Brooklyn Bridge opens to Flatbush. At least five of the Star Wars movies opened in May. Babe Ruth hit his 714th, Mount Saint Helena sent fire and brimstone, the first telegram was sent, the first Academy Awards and Napoleon Bonaparte was declared Emperor of France. What chance do we have to top any of those?
Well, as John Fogerty (him too) once said “Put me in coach!!!” I say let’s do absolutely nothing, nada, zip, zilch in May except exhibit our madness. I mean, how do you top Everest’s two firsts (man and woman), maybe by taking your sock monkey on a date?
Send some late Valentine’s cards (it’s never really too late), sing off key (on purpose, loudly), walk with a limp on the edge of the sidewalk. Slurp your soda, double cheese on that chili, sing ‘ a hundred bottles of beer on the wall’ break away from the cobwebs of spring, the coma of winter and the anxiety that summers hold for us. Go buy something and then give it away. Say “hi” to the street-sweeper, cajole a curmudgeon, curse a villain and send an email to the newspaper telling them that you want the front page rid of sport stories (after all, isn’t that why they have a sport section?).
Order egg drop soup (I think I’ll have some now), leave a note on the door and enjoy the walk to get it…take your fortune cookie seriously, very very seriously.
Engage an elder in conversation, ask advice (don’t take it). Give your cell phone a time out, give up politics for a week, eat the sushi that you’ve been avoiding, give up drinking for a day or two; find out who your friends are and congratulate them on their wise choice of company. Be full of yourself! Take a lemming to lunch.
Take a drive across the lake (any lake), plan a crawfish boil, have a dinner party, a wine tasting, learn to tango (it takes two), light a candle… tell your cat a joke.
Take a month out of the year (how about May?) and ask yourself what you want from life. Stay in love against all odds, tip big, have a spaghetti dinner with garlic bread and cheap red wine. Settle a dispute, learn a fact, reignite that book club, call up someone you know just to ask how they are, give up cigarettes for a day, stop lying to yourself.
Invest in small business (have a Lucky Dog), get some new pajamas, dust off that Billie Holiday lp, learn a new song, speak with a foreign accent, get a beret, go to town, spoil somebody (start with yourself), engage in thoughtful dissertation with a colleague and expose yourself as a proponent of southern fried mendacity. Read some Tennessee.
Rent Ol’ Yeller, taste the dog’s food to see if you’d eat It, bake a loaf of bread, have a Pimm’s Cup at the Napoleon House, visit the zoo, have a banana split with someone, shave only on one side, go to a show, show up early, show up late…”show me the way to go hooooooommme”.
Remember, May comes but once a year, same time, same place. The fifth month, not to be confused with a month of fifths, speak up for what you believe in; like wearing a tie when you don’t have to, a vest, a funny hat (not stupid…funny), have a double dip of life. All the important stuff has already been done in May. Today, yes today, look someone in the eye and say “you will always have me”.
P.S. that egg drop soup sure tastes good!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Jazz Fest Notes from New Orleans
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Fair Game
Or
The Way That Jazz Goes Down
I’ve come to believe that memory inhibits creativity and spontaneity. I kind of know this from experience; at least I think that I do.
For example, decades ago, a younger me, down on my luck, took a temp job as a dishwasher. I was sent to a club to bust suds.
There I was, up to my elbows in plate scraps, bemoaning my fate, when through the kitchen wall (adjacent to the audience) came the sounds of a gifted jazz artist and… viola, I had an epiphany. I was there, yes I was, (or at that time I was here, the lines kind of get fuzzy). And I was actually being paid to listen to one of the all time great performers of my time!
I remember this, and I remember Ahmad Jamal coming into the kitchen to scam a bite and me feeling special and a part of it all. I remember it like it was yesterday.
From that moment forward, I became a musiholic. I ate, slept, woke, dreamt, and lived music. No artist was too obscure, no venue was out of bounds, no form was ignored, no rolling stone was unturned, and I even put a full Nelson on Willie.
I started to, and still do, listen to Dylan and Dvorjak, The Beatles and Beethoven, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Doctor John, Otis Redding, Neil Young, B.B. King, The Spinners, Smokey Robinson, Clyde McFadder, Eric Satie, Bessie Smith, Peggy Lee, Marvin Gaye, Nat Cole, Elvis, The Dixie Cups, The Grateful Dead, The Doors, Vladimir Horowitz, Mendelssohn, Santana, Brubeck and a thousand other artists that you can but hope in your dreams to appreciate.
Listen up! I was actually paid to tend bar and see Miles Davis perform, not once but a half a dozen times (at least)! Top that!
But, I also recall Jazz Fest being twelve dollars, phone calls being a nickel, bus rides being a quarter and my pay being not much more than it is today.
Where does that leave me? I’ll tell you. In a quandary and quagmire. Am I still gonna try my damnedest to get as much time off from work to blow my hard earned to be out there at the Fair Grounds to cram more music into my already overloaded skull? You bet your sweet ass I am!
Do I understand why thirty five years of profit can’t be accounted for so that prices go up, tickets become more inconvenient to procure and Mother Nature more unpredictable, for the privilege of seeing performances by legends of the music world and be actually there when they do their thing? Yep.
Every year I make whatever sacrifice it takes to be there or be square. Sure, there are forces at work beyond my control or understanding that put on the greatest show on earth; but I’ve got to be there! My life, my soul and my heart beats to the sounds of Johnny Vadokovitz (SP) on drums at the Jazz tent. The Dixie Cups and The Dixie Chicks melt my shorts and to be in the Gospel Tent is truly a religious experience. And I’ve got to be in the audience! This year, as in all previous, The New Orleans Jazz And Heritage Festival will not be televised …Jazz Fest is LIVE!
My policy is to get tickets and worm my way into as many and any hours that I can squeeze in, I pour over programs and maps, make the necessary strategic plans to see my favored performers and then upon arrival scap it all and go where the sounds take me. And I travel light, fast and able. There’s gut in my strut, glide in my stride and no shame in my game.
Okay, I hate the car lot in the space where a stage should be, I don’t understand why the beer doesn’t give me a buzz or how come this year they’re going to build bleachers for high rollers to get a better view than us shmucks on ground level. I don’t know why thirty something’s carry poles with flags and travel in packs. I wonder why folks buy tickets and then claim real estate with blankets, folding chairs and tarps and treat you like a trespasser and interloper should you tread on their sacred ground. I also can’t fathom why people carry so much gear with them, like chairs and backpacks and jungle fashion. And you know what? I don’t care.
In my own warped mind, I don’t think that they really get it. This is not Survivor Twelve, it’s the friggin’ Jazz Fest!
Dig this; a few years ago my step was losing its pep, my ocean was losing its motion…my get up and go was getting’ up and goin’. So I spy this rain tent, you know, one of those misting places that you stumble upon and can never find again?
So I go in out of the din and the glare and all of a sudden it gets quiet; I mean real quiet. The fine mist of cool jetted water is not quite wetting me as much as it is centering me. I can hardly make out the shapes of people around me but I’m sensing that there are them and we’re headed in the direction of this light at the end of the tunnel, if you will.
Nobody’s in a hurry, so naturally I’m not either (you know, go with the flow..?)
So, I’m cruisin’ thinking everything’s cool and this light is getting brighter, all of a sudden I can see the forms in front of me and we’re headed for this opening and we get closer and closer and it starts to open up……SHAZAM!!
The sounds of people having a great time, music all around us, the sun is shining and I smell food cooking. My body temperature welcomes the Sun’s rays and I believe, yes I do, that I have just gone to heaven!
Every year I start my Festin’ with a dozen raw oysters and the hoisting of a beer to my loved ones who’ve passed on or merely passed on by and hope that their heaven is at least as good a time as mine will be; and like I said: be there or be square. See you at the Fair.
By
Phil LaMancusa
Fair Game
Or
The Way That Jazz Goes Down
I’ve come to believe that memory inhibits creativity and spontaneity. I kind of know this from experience; at least I think that I do.
For example, decades ago, a younger me, down on my luck, took a temp job as a dishwasher. I was sent to a club to bust suds.
There I was, up to my elbows in plate scraps, bemoaning my fate, when through the kitchen wall (adjacent to the audience) came the sounds of a gifted jazz artist and… viola, I had an epiphany. I was there, yes I was, (or at that time I was here, the lines kind of get fuzzy). And I was actually being paid to listen to one of the all time great performers of my time!
I remember this, and I remember Ahmad Jamal coming into the kitchen to scam a bite and me feeling special and a part of it all. I remember it like it was yesterday.
From that moment forward, I became a musiholic. I ate, slept, woke, dreamt, and lived music. No artist was too obscure, no venue was out of bounds, no form was ignored, no rolling stone was unturned, and I even put a full Nelson on Willie.
I started to, and still do, listen to Dylan and Dvorjak, The Beatles and Beethoven, Tom Waits, Aretha Franklin, Doctor John, Otis Redding, Neil Young, B.B. King, The Spinners, Smokey Robinson, Clyde McFadder, Eric Satie, Bessie Smith, Peggy Lee, Marvin Gaye, Nat Cole, Elvis, The Dixie Cups, The Grateful Dead, The Doors, Vladimir Horowitz, Mendelssohn, Santana, Brubeck and a thousand other artists that you can but hope in your dreams to appreciate.
Listen up! I was actually paid to tend bar and see Miles Davis perform, not once but a half a dozen times (at least)! Top that!
But, I also recall Jazz Fest being twelve dollars, phone calls being a nickel, bus rides being a quarter and my pay being not much more than it is today.
Where does that leave me? I’ll tell you. In a quandary and quagmire. Am I still gonna try my damnedest to get as much time off from work to blow my hard earned to be out there at the Fair Grounds to cram more music into my already overloaded skull? You bet your sweet ass I am!
Do I understand why thirty five years of profit can’t be accounted for so that prices go up, tickets become more inconvenient to procure and Mother Nature more unpredictable, for the privilege of seeing performances by legends of the music world and be actually there when they do their thing? Yep.
Every year I make whatever sacrifice it takes to be there or be square. Sure, there are forces at work beyond my control or understanding that put on the greatest show on earth; but I’ve got to be there! My life, my soul and my heart beats to the sounds of Johnny Vadokovitz (SP) on drums at the Jazz tent. The Dixie Cups and The Dixie Chicks melt my shorts and to be in the Gospel Tent is truly a religious experience. And I’ve got to be in the audience! This year, as in all previous, The New Orleans Jazz And Heritage Festival will not be televised …Jazz Fest is LIVE!
My policy is to get tickets and worm my way into as many and any hours that I can squeeze in, I pour over programs and maps, make the necessary strategic plans to see my favored performers and then upon arrival scap it all and go where the sounds take me. And I travel light, fast and able. There’s gut in my strut, glide in my stride and no shame in my game.
Okay, I hate the car lot in the space where a stage should be, I don’t understand why the beer doesn’t give me a buzz or how come this year they’re going to build bleachers for high rollers to get a better view than us shmucks on ground level. I don’t know why thirty something’s carry poles with flags and travel in packs. I wonder why folks buy tickets and then claim real estate with blankets, folding chairs and tarps and treat you like a trespasser and interloper should you tread on their sacred ground. I also can’t fathom why people carry so much gear with them, like chairs and backpacks and jungle fashion. And you know what? I don’t care.
In my own warped mind, I don’t think that they really get it. This is not Survivor Twelve, it’s the friggin’ Jazz Fest!
Dig this; a few years ago my step was losing its pep, my ocean was losing its motion…my get up and go was getting’ up and goin’. So I spy this rain tent, you know, one of those misting places that you stumble upon and can never find again?
So I go in out of the din and the glare and all of a sudden it gets quiet; I mean real quiet. The fine mist of cool jetted water is not quite wetting me as much as it is centering me. I can hardly make out the shapes of people around me but I’m sensing that there are them and we’re headed in the direction of this light at the end of the tunnel, if you will.
Nobody’s in a hurry, so naturally I’m not either (you know, go with the flow..?)
So, I’m cruisin’ thinking everything’s cool and this light is getting brighter, all of a sudden I can see the forms in front of me and we’re headed for this opening and we get closer and closer and it starts to open up……SHAZAM!!
The sounds of people having a great time, music all around us, the sun is shining and I smell food cooking. My body temperature welcomes the Sun’s rays and I believe, yes I do, that I have just gone to heaven!
Every year I start my Festin’ with a dozen raw oysters and the hoisting of a beer to my loved ones who’ve passed on or merely passed on by and hope that their heaven is at least as good a time as mine will be; and like I said: be there or be square. See you at the Fair.
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