I was nineteen when I fell in love with the Big Easy and it’s an affair that has bested time, distance, and natural disasters; and like Louis Armstrong, I know what it means to miss New Orleans. I miss the wrought iron balconies, the musky scent of magnolias, the waxy banana leaves, and decadent crawfish etouffé. But more than what I see, smell, or taste, I miss what I hear—the music—of the Crescent City. There’s always a jazz band blowing brass into the swampy air and bustlers working to make my hips swing a little more as I walk the Quarter. I once paid a homeless man $10 to sing R&B classics while I waited for the trolley to take me back uptown. He didn’t have any teeth but he still had some chops.
This weekend is the last half of New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, a thick gumbo of musical styles and traditions with twelve stages, food booths, and collapsible bars stewing on the Fair Grounds Race Course, a mere ten minutes from Bourbon Street. The first half of Jazz Fest showcased bands like Joe Cocker, Drive By Truckers, Spoon, Wilco and Erykah Badu. This weekend promises to be even bigger, and the following acts should not be missed.
Ben Harper (Thursday, 5:30 pm, Acura Stage)
Ben Harper is a music festival staple. It seems like you can’t have one without the other. After Jazz Fest, Harper and his Relentless 7 will headline Beale Street, and then Sasquatch, Bonaroo, Southside, Hurricane, Austin City Limits in October…
Kermit Ruffins (Friday, 3:55 pm, Gentilly)
If you missed Ruffins last weekend, you have a second chance to hear his trumpet this Saturday. His new album Living a Treme Life pays homage to his hometown of Treme, one of America’s oldest African American neighborhoods in Orleans parish, and now, the title of a new TV series directed by David Simon (The Wire, Homicide). Ruffins is a consultant for Treme and is also a central character in the pilot season.
Sugarland (Friday, 5:30 pm, Acura Stage)
The duo is nominated for six CMT Music Awards (the country equivalent of MTV) including Video of the Year for All I Want To Do, a summery ditty about playing hooky. Buy a hand grenade and sing along.
Tony Bennett (Friday, 5:45 pm, Gentilly Stage)
Listening to Tony Bennett will be more interesting than watching Anthony Benedetto paint. The two men, musician and artist respectively, are actually just one. Apparently, the lauded crooner has been painting for as long as he has been singing and his portrait of Duke Ellington hangs in the Smithsonian.
Aaron Neville/ The Neville Brothers (Saturday, 3:30 pm, Gospel Tent/Sunday, 7:00 pm, Acura Stage)
I don’t know much, but I know you shouldn’t miss the Neville brothers. That may be, all you need to know.
Kings of Leon (Saturday, 4:55 pm, Gentilly Stage)— Their single Sex on Fire catapulted them from opening-band status to the cover of this month’s Rolling Stone. Their rock star status and Caleb Followhill’s skinny jeans should draw a ridiculous crowd.
Bon Jovi (Saturday, 5:00 pm, Acura Stage)—Come on…it’s BON JOVI. Plus, wouldn’t you go just to see if the humidity will turn Jon’s famous coif into a dandelion? Look for Sugarland’s Jennifer Nettles during Bon Jovi’s set. The two collaborated on the hit country-rock single Who Says You Can’t Go Home.
Neil Young (Sunday, 4:55 pm, Acura Stage)
Aretha Franklin is out and Neil Young is in. Listen for tracks from Young’s new album Fork In The Road as well as crowd favorites.
Allen Toussaint and Trombone Shorty (Sunday, Foundation Gala)
Toussaint plays piano, Shorty plays the slide trombone; Toussaint graces vinyl covers, Shorty could be in a music video. One is old school and one is new, but both are amazing in their own right. See the two perform side by side at the Foundation Gala, the festival’s capstone event.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Ghosts at Great Lake Swimmers
Last night, I saw Great Lake Swimmers at Stubb’s. It was my first time to hear the band, my first time at the venue, and also my first time to go to a show without work or friends to keep me company. I wasn’t there to write a review. I was there to witness a unique event; to be inspired; and to be transported from my present life to another world created by the music—a place where storm clouds scuttled over still dark waters.
I had been seeing a man for six months who I had grown to really, really like. The only thing that stopped me from loving him is the fact that he didn’t want me to. He had his reasons for staying away—he was moving, he had just gotten out of a serious relationship, etc. He was being kind by keeping his distance and hopefully, someday soon, I’ll realize that he did me a huge favor.
So I was at the concert to forget. But instead of forgetting, I remembered:
I remembered my first concert experience. It was at Fair Park Music Hall and my boyfriend at the time had gotten us floor tickets to see Incubus (circa Pardon Me) who was opening for Deftones (circa White Pony). The lineup promised a good time for all. It gave me the opportunity to drool over Brandon Boyd and he got to hear Chino’s vodka-fueled screaming first hand.
Before Incubus came on, we managed to get to the barrier that separated the stage from the audience, a feat that required luck, finesse, and a mercenary attitude. While I was quite proud of my accomplishment, my rookie self learned that the mosh pit—with its ricocheting bodies, jabbing elbows, and random shoes flying around—is a rough place, especially for a petite, 16 year-old girl. Luckily, my boyfriend (who really wasn’t much bigger than me) stood guard and pushed off any sweaty bodies that were hurling in our direction. I relished his protective attitude but I liked it best when ballads slowed the moshing down enough to let him put his arms around me and then I would sweetly lean against him.
We went to a lot of concerts during the course of our six-year relationship. Music was our common denominator and our time together fostered my interest in music and also jumpstarted my lead-singer fanaticism. (He was the lead singer of his band). We spent hours in his room—white Christmas lights glowing—listening to Radiohead, Pavement, 311, Roger Miller, Air, Sparta, Wu Tang, Mos Def and A Tribe Called Quest. To this day, I can’t hear “Bonita Applebum” without thinking of him.
The relationship ended before my senior year of college and we didn’t speak for a long time, both of us needing space to grow and discover new bands of our own. But by the end of the substantial grieving period, we somehow managed to rewire our old romance into a new friendship. We check in on each other every few months and during our brief conversations, we always talk about what we’re listening to.
I stood next to a young couple at the Great Lakes Swimmers show. The boy was behind his girlfriend with his arms around her and his chin rested on top of her head. They made a sweet picture and they made me remember how nice it was to lean on someone after standing alone for a long time.
I had been seeing a man for six months who I had grown to really, really like. The only thing that stopped me from loving him is the fact that he didn’t want me to. He had his reasons for staying away—he was moving, he had just gotten out of a serious relationship, etc. He was being kind by keeping his distance and hopefully, someday soon, I’ll realize that he did me a huge favor.
So I was at the concert to forget. But instead of forgetting, I remembered:
I remembered my first concert experience. It was at Fair Park Music Hall and my boyfriend at the time had gotten us floor tickets to see Incubus (circa Pardon Me) who was opening for Deftones (circa White Pony). The lineup promised a good time for all. It gave me the opportunity to drool over Brandon Boyd and he got to hear Chino’s vodka-fueled screaming first hand.
Before Incubus came on, we managed to get to the barrier that separated the stage from the audience, a feat that required luck, finesse, and a mercenary attitude. While I was quite proud of my accomplishment, my rookie self learned that the mosh pit—with its ricocheting bodies, jabbing elbows, and random shoes flying around—is a rough place, especially for a petite, 16 year-old girl. Luckily, my boyfriend (who really wasn’t much bigger than me) stood guard and pushed off any sweaty bodies that were hurling in our direction. I relished his protective attitude but I liked it best when ballads slowed the moshing down enough to let him put his arms around me and then I would sweetly lean against him.
We went to a lot of concerts during the course of our six-year relationship. Music was our common denominator and our time together fostered my interest in music and also jumpstarted my lead-singer fanaticism. (He was the lead singer of his band). We spent hours in his room—white Christmas lights glowing—listening to Radiohead, Pavement, 311, Roger Miller, Air, Sparta, Wu Tang, Mos Def and A Tribe Called Quest. To this day, I can’t hear “Bonita Applebum” without thinking of him.
The relationship ended before my senior year of college and we didn’t speak for a long time, both of us needing space to grow and discover new bands of our own. But by the end of the substantial grieving period, we somehow managed to rewire our old romance into a new friendship. We check in on each other every few months and during our brief conversations, we always talk about what we’re listening to.
I stood next to a young couple at the Great Lakes Swimmers show. The boy was behind his girlfriend with his arms around her and his chin rested on top of her head. They made a sweet picture and they made me remember how nice it was to lean on someone after standing alone for a long time.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Ostentatiousness at the American Country Music Awards
When Amber asked me if I had seen what Carrie Underwood wore during her performance at the ACM, I thought that she was implying that Underwood wore another slinky number from Bebe. I couldn't have been more wrong.
It was a little...much.
"It's like lava," the singer said. Yeah...the kind that swallows whole villages. Her bedazzled microphone was the perfect accessory.
It was a little...much.
"It's like lava," the singer said. Yeah...the kind that swallows whole villages. Her bedazzled microphone was the perfect accessory.
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