Greetings! I come to you in the best of spirits tonight, as we've actually had two nice days in a row, and our basement is finally starting to dry out!Also, it's skunk season, and one of the Kelp kanines was recently sprayed; I admit that the fact that this is good news says more about how bad this particular dog used to smell than how good it smells now, but that still spells progress as far as I'm concerned.
Speaking of progress, former Wellfleet resident (and member of the much missed No Sientos) Eben Portnoy has hit on a catchy idea: he's currently playing a series of shows in which the members of his band the Napkins are being killed off one at a time.
This is clearly a charming and innovative concept. After all, how many times have you been watching someone singing, thinking, “gosh, I wish he'd blow up”, only to have that not happen?
If nothing else, this is a promotional gambit to be reckoned with, and Eben's press releases about these shows have been a gold mine of interesting reading. Why, last week, in a fit of press agent zeal, he even invented the word “triumphance”, as in “it is with a heavy heart that I bring you this news [of the impending demise of the Napkins], yet with a heaviness imbued with a shining glimmer of triumphance.” If only Colonel Parker could've lived to see this!
Portnoy went on to say that the band would “eviscerate themselves in a gruesome public display during their mini-tour of terror” to promote their new Cd, “Love Hurts”, “a fresh- sounding EP primed to jump-start the posthumous careers of this hot-blooded young band.” Now that's promo!
My next door neighbor Denzel O'Sullivan was on hand for the first show last Friday at the Berwick Research Institute in Roxbury, and said that the announcer Mike Gibbons “told the story of the Napkins and their pact with the devil to become the world's greatest rock and roll band, but failed to read the fine print regarding a sacrifice of blood. Then, during the climax of the final song "Maya", as Eben sung out the words "with a whole lot of blood!" again and again, bassist Nick Sherman's chest hemmoraged and, sputtering streams of gore, soaked him, the stage, and the crowd. As he grabbed his chest the pool grew and darkened. He finally collapsed, twitching, with the ending of the chorus; but, loyal to his band, he finished the song before passing out.”To which one can only add, yay!!!
Then, last Tuesday at the Midway in Jamaica Plain, tragedy struck again: after the Napkins had (surprisingly) made it safely through their set and while the next act (the Put Out Kings) was doing theirs, Eben was himself suddenly accosted and then dispatched by the Put-Out Kings lead singer, who apparently also pulled out his intestines.
I know some of this seems a little far-fetched, but these young men are not, as far as I can tell, the sort to play fast and light with the truth -if Eben says the other band pulled out his intestines, they probably did. He does later go on to write that “my nose is filled with the smell of rotting meat and my vision grows dark” and signs the release “Hail Satan!”, but I think you can put that down to youthful exuberance.)
By the way, who told the new editor that i wasn't writing about local music? I didn't appreciate that one bit, and I know one of you did it, and when I find out who, they're gonna get a whuppin'. Now I actually have to write about local music, right here in the local music column, and you know darn well that's no good for any of us. How humiliating! Just leave the new editor alone!
Friday, May 23, 2003
Friday, May 16, 2003
Jazz Fest, Part 2
Well, and here we are again with the exciting part two of our New Orleans Jazz Fest '03 coverage, or, almost, we are, anyway. And I'm Thurston Kelp, your jazz fest correspondent embedded in New Orleans, dressed up funny and ready to eat! (Of course, I'm using the word “embedded” here in the usual sense of “chatted with some of the musicians.”)
First, a word about why the Jazz Fest is so important to anyone seeking local music news: please know that I never once forget that this is, after all, very much a local music column, sometimes even with news about actual events alleged to have happened on this particular side of the bridge -and i take those responsibilities seriously. The local tie-in here, of course, is the Orleans-New Orleans connection: Orleans is a small, quiet town on Cape Cod, while New Orleans is bigger, noisier, more generally apocalyptic and insane, and not on Cape Cod. Where did we go wrong?
New Orleans is currently leading us in music, money, food, murders, football, magic, and voodoo; we're still leading them in quiet and beach, though. Still, we should try to keep up. Orleans should have a Jazz Fest, if only for the misunderstandings and confusion it would cause. Come on, everybody, let's get together and put on a show!
Which brings us back to, know your competition: after the first five bands on opening day (which is all I managed to cover last time), we made perhaps our best new discovery of the fest, which was Patrice Fisher & Arpa with Chiko & Rogerio of Brazil, a New Orleans/Brazilian hybrid featuring harp, violin, piano, nylon string guitars, a couple of horns, electric bass, and drums playing Ms. Fisher's gorgeous and thoughtful arrangements. They were most notable for being so tight, so sublime, and so oblivious to funk. Among Ms. Fisher's many recordings is “Wanderings” (Broken Records, available at Gourd.com), which features Chiko & Rogerio on 2 cuts.
Then over to the Blues Tent (via the Gospel Tent, of course; after a while, you learn to do as much as you can via the Gospel Tent) for a bit of Bob Margolin and Pinetop Perkins (guitarist Margolin had a nice, hard, stinging tone, and they managed to play a version of “Kansas City” that captured both the spirit and the letter of the original band track, which seemed almost shocking after all these years of bastardizing -who ever would have thought a simple, faithful version of “Kansas City” could sound so enlightening and refreshing.
Allen Toussaint, who is pretty much the Godfather figure of New Orleans rock'n'roll, played twice at Jazz Fest; we caught him in his jazz quartet disguise, which was one he had not tried previously. The set was casual, elegant, and pleasant -cool jazz for a cool day (Thursday was the only non-sunny day, which kept the crowd down a bit and made for very comfortable conditions;. actually, the whole weekend was notable for its unseasonable lack of serious heat or humidity.)
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun; the light, the way, woot, lawdey! -it's Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's some serious wife I have there.
She must have spotted me thinking that, because at that point she deserted me for Lucinda Williams; meanwhile, I was resolute in my determination to see Fats Domino, who I had never seen before, and who has always been one of my heroes. He also performs very rarely, and even less outside of New Orleans, so I figured I'd better not miss him. Sure enough, he was absolutely wonderful, timeless and un-changed, playing perfect, untouched arrangements of all his hits (when he did choose a higher note in “Red Sails in the Sunset”, the move was stunning by contrast), never once stopping for a breath between hits, still perfect after all these years.
So, OK, it's taken me two columns to tell you who we saw on the first day; better go into overdrive: Dylan was wonderful on Friday, playing almost nothing but keyboards, and smiling frequently (!!!) He played a version of “Mr. Tambourine Man” where he seemed to be singing as badly and perversely as he possibly could, sometimes cracking himself up in the effort; yet his band played it so beautifully that it somehow worked, mysteriously and profoundly. Then we watched the U.N.O Gospel Choir transform the Gospel Tent from a snooze into an eruption, as we rushed the stage like we'd seen the light.
We loved the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra, all 30 or so of them, dressed nautically and playing pop music of the twenties and thirties (with a name like that, it hardly matters what you sound like); and I was told that Sam Butera, Louis Prima's famed sax man, was a riot on Saturday (I had to leave early, darn it.)
Sunday's highlights included a wonderful clarinetist named Tim Laughlin, who played nicely chosen standards with a beautiful, round tone (Tim also has a bunch of albums out -try timlaughlin.com); a procession of great zydeco accordionists including D. L. Menard, Sean Ardoin, and Mingo Saldivar at the Fais Do-Do Stage; serious gospel from some of Richard Smallwood's background singers; the Rebirth Brass Band, Dr. John, Ornette Coleman (who I still don't really understand), and the Plastic System Band of Martinique.
When we left, there were so many amazing people playing in the clubs on the Festivals' days off that I could hardly bear to leave; next year, I may in fact refuse. People should all go to this; please, please, do yourself a favor and go next year!
First, a word about why the Jazz Fest is so important to anyone seeking local music news: please know that I never once forget that this is, after all, very much a local music column, sometimes even with news about actual events alleged to have happened on this particular side of the bridge -and i take those responsibilities seriously. The local tie-in here, of course, is the Orleans-New Orleans connection: Orleans is a small, quiet town on Cape Cod, while New Orleans is bigger, noisier, more generally apocalyptic and insane, and not on Cape Cod. Where did we go wrong?
New Orleans is currently leading us in music, money, food, murders, football, magic, and voodoo; we're still leading them in quiet and beach, though. Still, we should try to keep up. Orleans should have a Jazz Fest, if only for the misunderstandings and confusion it would cause. Come on, everybody, let's get together and put on a show!
Which brings us back to, know your competition: after the first five bands on opening day (which is all I managed to cover last time), we made perhaps our best new discovery of the fest, which was Patrice Fisher & Arpa with Chiko & Rogerio of Brazil, a New Orleans/Brazilian hybrid featuring harp, violin, piano, nylon string guitars, a couple of horns, electric bass, and drums playing Ms. Fisher's gorgeous and thoughtful arrangements. They were most notable for being so tight, so sublime, and so oblivious to funk. Among Ms. Fisher's many recordings is “Wanderings” (Broken Records, available at Gourd.com), which features Chiko & Rogerio on 2 cuts.
Then over to the Blues Tent (via the Gospel Tent, of course; after a while, you learn to do as much as you can via the Gospel Tent) for a bit of Bob Margolin and Pinetop Perkins (guitarist Margolin had a nice, hard, stinging tone, and they managed to play a version of “Kansas City” that captured both the spirit and the letter of the original band track, which seemed almost shocking after all these years of bastardizing -who ever would have thought a simple, faithful version of “Kansas City” could sound so enlightening and refreshing.
Allen Toussaint, who is pretty much the Godfather figure of New Orleans rock'n'roll, played twice at Jazz Fest; we caught him in his jazz quartet disguise, which was one he had not tried previously. The set was casual, elegant, and pleasant -cool jazz for a cool day (Thursday was the only non-sunny day, which kept the crowd down a bit and made for very comfortable conditions;. actually, the whole weekend was notable for its unseasonable lack of serious heat or humidity.)
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun; the light, the way, woot, lawdey! -it's Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's some serious wife I have there.
She must have spotted me thinking that, because at that point she deserted me for Lucinda Williams; meanwhile, I was resolute in my determination to see Fats Domino, who I had never seen before, and who has always been one of my heroes. He also performs very rarely, and even less outside of New Orleans, so I figured I'd better not miss him. Sure enough, he was absolutely wonderful, timeless and un-changed, playing perfect, untouched arrangements of all his hits (when he did choose a higher note in “Red Sails in the Sunset”, the move was stunning by contrast), never once stopping for a breath between hits, still perfect after all these years.
So, OK, it's taken me two columns to tell you who we saw on the first day; better go into overdrive: Dylan was wonderful on Friday, playing almost nothing but keyboards, and smiling frequently (!!!) He played a version of “Mr. Tambourine Man” where he seemed to be singing as badly and perversely as he possibly could, sometimes cracking himself up in the effort; yet his band played it so beautifully that it somehow worked, mysteriously and profoundly. Then we watched the U.N.O Gospel Choir transform the Gospel Tent from a snooze into an eruption, as we rushed the stage like we'd seen the light.
We loved the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra, all 30 or so of them, dressed nautically and playing pop music of the twenties and thirties (with a name like that, it hardly matters what you sound like); and I was told that Sam Butera, Louis Prima's famed sax man, was a riot on Saturday (I had to leave early, darn it.)
Sunday's highlights included a wonderful clarinetist named Tim Laughlin, who played nicely chosen standards with a beautiful, round tone (Tim also has a bunch of albums out -try timlaughlin.com); a procession of great zydeco accordionists including D. L. Menard, Sean Ardoin, and Mingo Saldivar at the Fais Do-Do Stage; serious gospel from some of Richard Smallwood's background singers; the Rebirth Brass Band, Dr. John, Ornette Coleman (who I still don't really understand), and the Plastic System Band of Martinique.
When we left, there were so many amazing people playing in the clubs on the Festivals' days off that I could hardly bear to leave; next year, I may in fact refuse. People should all go to this; please, please, do yourself a favor and go next year!
Friday, May 2, 2003
Jazz Fest, Part One
I think I should tell you something, right at the top, before you've even decided whether to read this or not, which is that I'm afraid I might have had too good of a time last week to be able to write properly at the present time. I feel there's a good chance this week I might have trouble using regular words, because of all the deeply silly things I have engaged in quite recently. And, by the way, Jazz Fest was swell this year.
I'm referring, of course, to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, which I attended half of last weekend (you could attend the second half today -Friday, May 2nd- - if you're resourceful enough.) My experience has been that that is probably a good idea. I've been lucky enough to get down there every now and then -perhaps eight or ten days spread out over a couple of decades -and I've never had a bad day yet.
The fun starts before you even leave, too, because it's great to be going for a change instead of not going and hating the ones who are (like usual.) It feels nice to be on the receiving end of all that hared every once in a while.
Then there's the obvious advantage of being anywhere else other than here, the most obnoxious, rainy-snowy-sleeting what-the-hell pain in the neck weather location practically in history apparently so who would ever want to go to New Orleans (which was, as it turned out, beyond perfect and sublime in every regard: sunny, cool, and comfortable, and,... well, it's just there, it's not here, and it's just so riveting in its total foreign there-ness. I like it.
Did I mention the food and the music? Well, they had food and bands. It was cool. (Why did I return? Why?)
I knew this would be a good one at the airport when one of my music biz friends got searched and detained at one of the security points. It's always heartening to see one of your friends get in trouble -for one thing, it improves your own odds -so I was already in a really good mood.
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun, the light, the way, woot, lawdey -Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's no parka!
Many bands play at this thing -about 50 a day, on ten different stages, most of them with ties to the area, but lots from far away as well -and it's hard to resist the temptation to try to see them all for thirty seconds each. I started off with this method, but my group to a man forsook me once my planning got out of control on day 4 (some quite angrily, with great swearing and gnashing of teeth.)
Again, I fed off their hatred. Here's my analysis:
Thursday: Got there about an hour late, so missed the first round, and started with a dumb cover band (actually, the only cover band I've ever seen at the Fest, and not the only bad advice I got from the local critic's picks) in whacky costumes called Bag of Donuts, only to find out later that we plainly should've been watching the Wild Tchoupitoulas instead. We stopped the bleeding at the Gospel Tent, of course, with the Friendly Five Gospel Singers (the first rule of the Jazz Fest is, when in doubt, go to the Gospel Tent, which is usually both more rocking and less populated than the rest.
From there we cruised Kenny Neal, who started with a clueless medley of “I'm Ready” and “Little Red Rooster” that had us heading for the aisles in no time, just in time (after our first helping of Crawfish Monica) to catch our first major find, the Hackberry Ramblers, a cajun group who have been together for seventy years. At least two of the “boys” are in their nineties, and they were rough-hewn and personable as they sang my favorite line of the Fest: “I wish I had died as a baby” (which sounds particularly disingenuous coming from these guys.) They also played the funniest cover- “Proud Mary”- and instigated the first of many outbreaks of the dreaded Public Radio Boot Dance.
Then we crossed back over to the Blues Tent to see Big Al Corson, who was large in every respect, again via the Gospel Tent, then crossing back again (we were rookies, and made lots of needless crosses on the first day; by the end we had those pretty much eliminated) to catch a few songs of Austin's Tish Hinojosa, who was quite good albeit relatively refined.
And that did it for the first half of the first day (continued-)
I'm referring, of course, to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, which I attended half of last weekend (you could attend the second half today -Friday, May 2nd- - if you're resourceful enough.) My experience has been that that is probably a good idea. I've been lucky enough to get down there every now and then -perhaps eight or ten days spread out over a couple of decades -and I've never had a bad day yet.
The fun starts before you even leave, too, because it's great to be going for a change instead of not going and hating the ones who are (like usual.) It feels nice to be on the receiving end of all that hared every once in a while.
Then there's the obvious advantage of being anywhere else other than here, the most obnoxious, rainy-snowy-sleeting what-the-hell pain in the neck weather location practically in history apparently so who would ever want to go to New Orleans (which was, as it turned out, beyond perfect and sublime in every regard: sunny, cool, and comfortable, and,... well, it's just there, it's not here, and it's just so riveting in its total foreign there-ness. I like it.
Did I mention the food and the music? Well, they had food and bands. It was cool. (Why did I return? Why?)
I knew this would be a good one at the airport when one of my music biz friends got searched and detained at one of the security points. It's always heartening to see one of your friends get in trouble -for one thing, it improves your own odds -so I was already in a really good mood.
I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun, the light, the way, woot, lawdey -Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's no parka!
Many bands play at this thing -about 50 a day, on ten different stages, most of them with ties to the area, but lots from far away as well -and it's hard to resist the temptation to try to see them all for thirty seconds each. I started off with this method, but my group to a man forsook me once my planning got out of control on day 4 (some quite angrily, with great swearing and gnashing of teeth.)
Again, I fed off their hatred. Here's my analysis:
Thursday: Got there about an hour late, so missed the first round, and started with a dumb cover band (actually, the only cover band I've ever seen at the Fest, and not the only bad advice I got from the local critic's picks) in whacky costumes called Bag of Donuts, only to find out later that we plainly should've been watching the Wild Tchoupitoulas instead. We stopped the bleeding at the Gospel Tent, of course, with the Friendly Five Gospel Singers (the first rule of the Jazz Fest is, when in doubt, go to the Gospel Tent, which is usually both more rocking and less populated than the rest.
From there we cruised Kenny Neal, who started with a clueless medley of “I'm Ready” and “Little Red Rooster” that had us heading for the aisles in no time, just in time (after our first helping of Crawfish Monica) to catch our first major find, the Hackberry Ramblers, a cajun group who have been together for seventy years. At least two of the “boys” are in their nineties, and they were rough-hewn and personable as they sang my favorite line of the Fest: “I wish I had died as a baby” (which sounds particularly disingenuous coming from these guys.) They also played the funniest cover- “Proud Mary”- and instigated the first of many outbreaks of the dreaded Public Radio Boot Dance.
Then we crossed back over to the Blues Tent to see Big Al Corson, who was large in every respect, again via the Gospel Tent, then crossing back again (we were rookies, and made lots of needless crosses on the first day; by the end we had those pretty much eliminated) to catch a few songs of Austin's Tish Hinojosa, who was quite good albeit relatively refined.
And that did it for the first half of the first day (continued-)
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