Eye Candy

New Orleans, LA
Jazz Fest 2010

      


I remember way back when Big Sam used to own the Funky Butt over on Rampart.  I used to go in there to hear him and his Funky Nation play and wonder why this guy wasn't playing at Jazz Fest, or all over the country for that matter.  It was the best kept secret in the city.  This was back when Big Sam was really BIG Sam, before he lost a bunch of weight and started going to the gym all the time.  He was always one of the most charismatic performers New Orleans had ever seen.  Now he's all buff, and fine as a motherfucker:

            

      

                  

                              

The secret's out, too.  He's all over the place now, drawing a huge crowd at the fest last week.  Last time I saw him in San Francisco, the Boom Boom Room had people spilling out the door.  I saw him at d.b.a. not too long ago.  I was going to say hello on the break, but I realized I was going to need a machete to hack through the tangle of shrieking females clinging to his feet.

Hmm.  Maybe some other time.

Check them out here.  See if you can make it to their next show.  Bring your dancing shoes, and lots of energy.  Have fun!

It's here...

            

Let's make a deal

I've already explained a little bit about jazz funerals to you here.  So this is my plan:

Let's start out at St. Augustine, my favorite Sunday morning hot spot.  We'll wander our way down to the Quarter, parade through Jackson Square, end up somewhere on Frenchmen Street.  Dancing will rule the day, and I think a costume party would be in order.  There should be umbrellas twirling, white handkerchiefs waving.  For fuck's sake, don't wear black.  As I said, think costume.  Think colorful.  I want you pie-rootin' your ass up and down the street decked out in all your finery, just like it was Mardi Gras morning.  Blue skies, the sun will be shining and the band will be playing...

Yeah you right!

Things I love about New Orleans

Getting picked up at the airport by your best friend and going home to share a bottle of wine.  Then leaving the house to begin a night out at one-thirty in the morning, because that's when the party is really getting started.  Going from bar to bar on Frenchmen, each band better than the last.  Running into friends everywhere.  Drinking, dancing, living, loving.  Flirting.  Feeling more alive than I could possibly feel anywhere else on the planet.

No city in the world can compare.  Last night confirmed it.  For better or for worse, there's just no fucking place like home...

Long overdue

Today I marched in one of the most significant jazz funerals this city has ever seen.  We've waited a long time for this one.  Best jazz funeral ever.  Whose death were we marching for?  The 'Aint's, of course.

The coffin, in all its glory...

                
We shall wear paper bags on our heads no more.

Yes.  We're STILL celebrating the Superbowl down here.  We'll be celebrating all year.  Forty-three years we've waited, OK?  We'll celebrate as long as we damn well please.

Some of you are asking, "What's a jazz funeral?"  Allow me to explain.

Around here, we don't have funerals.  We have parties.  We don't spend the day mourning a loved one's death.  We spend a day celebrating their life.  How does New Orleans like to celebrate things?  With music and parades.  What else?

A jazz funeral starts off somewhat somber.  The band generally breaks into "A Closer Walk With Thee" as the procession leaves the starting point.  But it's not long before they start to funk things up a little bit, and the funeral party following behind starts dancing.  It looks something like this:

The whole thing ends with a big party with even more music and dancing.  That's our reaction to pretty much everything around here.  Music and dancing.  It's a pretty good life.

Who dat!