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Sometime Post-Mardi Gras 2010

Finally the noise has come down to a level where one can hear a little. There’s still a general background buzz of around 105 db, but one can begin to hear one’s neighbor. The eyes are able to focus at last. The shattered nerves and strained heart and limbs are almost mended. It’s been possible to turn the heat off these last few days, and it looks like we are finally a-hurrying into spring.

No doubt one has read all one can about the months of January and February 2010 here in New Orleans. I was here almost the whole time, but I cannot summon many particular events. We had the great wisdom to schedule the first recording session for the new sea shanty record at the Saturn Bar following the conclusion of the NFC championship game on January 24. The whole city was walking on eggshells and most started drinking early. I was a nervous wreck because of the game, but not for the obvious reason. Were the Saints to beat the Vikings to advance to the city’s first super bowl berth in 43 years, it would be like an atom bomb went off, sending shock waves of hysteria from the Superdome emanating outward until the whole of Greater New Orleans was frothing at its collective mouth. Conversely, if the Saints should choke, the collective despair that would be visited upon the city would cause almost certain paralysis. The pall would be so great that many would be convinced that the sun would never rise again. How then to harness these most powerful emotions to record sea shanties? The genre encompasses both great exuberance and great pathos, but we had bet on the outcome engendering more exuberance than pathos. The music that we had planned on covering was lively and joyous, and we didn’t have many tragic ballads to fall back on.

I didn’t watch much of the game. My stomach was in knots and it was taking all my will not to drink too much. The printer was refusing to work and I needed to get the lyrics to “Paddy Doyle’s Boots” in everyone’s hands. For most of the game I was outside the bar pacing or bent over with my head in my hands trying to get enough oxygen. I was in the bar for the last minutes, however. The place was pretty packed and the emotions were off the charts. What started as a small group gathering on Sundays to watch the game with Eric had grown week after week until there were dozens of people crammed up to the bar to watch the 2 widescreen TVs (there were actually 3 TVs, but one was not hooked up to the satellite, and got the local broadcast 3 seconds earlier than the other two, so half the bar would know about the outcome of a play before the other half, causing psychic turmoil. Eric was forced to turn it off). For the deciding field goal in overtime I couldn’t watch and was walking away from the TV into the other room. When Hartley nailed it for the win the whole place went berserk. The image I will always have is of the room where the bar and the TVs are erupting like forty alka-seltzers in a half-pint of water. The air above the crowd was filled with missiles—bottles, food, full drinks flying in every direction and crashing into the ceiling. Hugging, kissing, slapping and all the usual grabbing. Stomping and screaming. Furniture overturned, people and clothes drenched. As everyone carried on I went to check in with Goat, who said the mics and the gear were all ready to go. All we needed was Carlo and his drums. Carlo was at the game. Given the expected mayhem in the vicinity of the Superdome we figured it would take about an hour for him to get down to the Saturn Bar, enough time for the extraneous football fans to clear out of the Saturn Bar, and for the chorus to settle down just enough to focus on the business at hand.

Of course that never happened.

Carlo got there much quicker that we’d expected—or so it seemed. All I know is I was getting my guitars and music stand ready to go and in he came like a hurricane holding his drums high over his head spouting some shit about the game and about the Saints destiny in general. I seem to remember he entered to some sort of fanfare, and that there was applause or something—my memory is quite hazy. I think I had ceased to abstain from drinking at this point—not that it made any difference. In a few minutes we had Carlo’s drums set up and everyone in position and were going to begin the session with an a capella version of “Paddy Doyle’s Boots”. We called for quiet in the bar, but there was absolutely no chance. Nobody had left. They were all still all over the place whooping it up in the bar and chattering on the balcony. When we realized that the majority of the people in the place had no idea that a recording session was going on we just decided to go for it and damn the consequences, the reasoning being that there could be worse things than capturing the verbal fallout of the greatest single moment in the city of New Orleans up to that point. The thing was turning from a piece of Art into a Document, and to hell with it. For the next two or three hours we screamed and hollered with feverish abandon, and what we may have lacked in skill we made up for in sheer gusto. There are moments on that recording that will raise the hairs on your neck, as will be seen when we get around to finishing and putting out the fucker.


May 18 2010
As this is now several months past the events described here, my memory is not very reliable. Now, after the NFC championship game there were two weeks to get through before the Super Bowl, and Mardi Gras was gearing up. Looking trough my calendar from that time—late January to early February 2010—I see that I had a gig most nights. The Tin Men played our annual Krewe du Vieux parade show at DBA where I think I lost 5 pounds. The Tom Paines made a disastrous attempt at gaining a foothold at the Apple Barrel, playing for tips on Saturday afternoons until it became clear they had no use for us. Mainly I remember a city with a strange look in its eye. Most everyone (there was one guy I knew who steadfastly insisted he had not and would not watch a football game) was preoccupied somehow with the Super Bowl game to be played on February 7th in Miami, football fan or not. Even Kourtney, who is no admirer of the gridiron, was busy doing the graphics for Carlo Nuccio’s “Glory Bound” Saints song CD. Lots of people really didn’t know what to do and were fretting about things like where and how to watch the game. Fear of jinxes and general superstition were running rampant. Josh Cohen went on at great length in a bar to me how we should all just go on with our regular Sunday football watching routines; if you usually watch at a bar, go to the bar--if you watch at home, stay at home. He was pretty emphatic about this and gave some sort of analysis of vibrations and patterns to support his injunction.

On Super Bowl Sunday Kourtney had to work at Mimi’s to help run the projector, so I was left to my own devices as to where to watch the game. Over the course of the season I had watched about half the games. Most of the ones I saw early in the season were at home on TV with the sound down very low while folding laundry or cleaning the room or attending to some other task. I went by the Saturn Bar early in the season for a bit of one game and saw Eric Broyard, Quintron and a few other people sitting quietly, for the most part, in their stools. I went back over to the Saturn for the New England game and it was a totally different scene, with at least forty people there. Eric had gone out and gotten a bunch of pizzas. CC Adcock was there with a fabulous girl. It was a scene. From then on, when I could make it I’d try to get over there to watch at least some of the game. For the Super Bowl Eric was going to put together some kind of spread with pizza along with some other food. I also knew about another party in the neighborhood hosted by the folks who run Iris, the amazing restaurant in the French Quarter. The food at this party was sure to be excellent, and I would have scads of friends there. But I was torn: What about Josh Cohen’s Super Bowl Mojo Directive?

I thought about it for two seconds and headed over to Ian and Laurie’s. They had a roast pig! TVs in every room! Free beer! All my friends were there! I sat down in their front room to watch the kickoff. By halftime with the Saints down by four and with the fate of the city at stake I put down my plate full of gnawed bones and quietly left on my bicycle to return to the Saturn Bar. By the time I was settled in and had a drink in my hand and some sort of a vantage point at the end of the bar halftime was over and the game about to resume. The Saints started doing better and soon I was joined by Luke Allen. We ordered some whiskey and before long we noticed that whenever we put our go-cups of whiskey down something bad would happen for the Saints. As long as we kept the cups in our hand things would go the Saints way. Given our well-honed sense of civic duty we determined to keep those whiskey glasses in our hands for the rest of the game. Bailee behind the bar was very helpful in topping off our cups as we held them aloft and before you knew it the Saints had won the Super Bowl. If I had known it was going to be that easy I would have done it years ago. When you look back on the 2010 Super Bowl you have Bailee Broyard and Josh Cohen to thank. As well as the good people at John Jameson and Son Distillers Dublin, Ireland.

Of course now there was Mardi Gras to get through, but before that was the not insignificant matter of the parade scheduled to be held on Tuesday February 9 to celebrate the Saints’ incredible season (the parade was to be held regardless of the outcome of the Super Bowl game—the Colts had fourteen people waiting for them at the airport in Indianapolis upon their return). The parade was to follow a Mardi Gras-style route downtown around Lee Circle and over to Canal Street on Tuesday evening. The problem for me was this was exactly the time for the weekly Tom Paines happy hour show at the Circle Bar. The entire New Orleans metro area was expected to attend—about a million people—all crammed into the Central Business and Warehouse districts, as well as the adjacent French Quarter. It was decided that rather than fight traffic all the way there only to park several miles away we would simply walk from our homes in Bywater, make stops for cocktails along the way and generally make a day of it.

We made it through the French Quarter and the CBD and were getting to Lee Circle just around dusk. The circle itself was too crowded to think about trying to make it up that way, so we went around the block to attempt the approach from the Uptown side. There the crush of humanity was unimaginable. When we finally reached the building that houses the Circle Bar we encountered a complete impasse. There was simply no moving forward. We tried to hand our guitars through the window, but this proved unsuccessful. Twenty-five feet ahead, at the door of the bar, someone-presumably the doorman-noticed us and gestured for us to hand our instruments over the heads of the people crammed between ourselves and the door, crowd-surf style. Ordinarily neither Jonathan nor myself would take a chance casting our livelihood into a sea of strangers, but this is a testament to the level of goodwill saturating the city. We strained to get our guitars over our heads and passed them forward, and watched as they made their way up to the doorman. It took us another thirty minutes to get that last twenty-five feet, and by that time it was dark and the parade was starting. I was feeling something beyond thirst when we were finally safely inside, but after a cocktail or two we were ready to play some folk music. Amazingly, if you fill people with enough alcohol, and the mood is just right, they will dance to almost anything. Folks were finally dancing to Mississippi John Hurt again, as is proper, and I was treated to two unbelievable sights: people shaking it at a folk show and the gleam of the Vince Lombardi Trophy out the window of the Circle Bar shining down from atop a Mardi Gras float.

Rest assured Mardi Gras came off just fine, as usual. A little cold this year, but just fine if you were in the sun. There was some grumbling about having to endure Mardi Gras twice in one week, but most folks took it in stride. Me, I lost a bicycle somewhere between Super Bowl Sunday and the following Tuesday, but then again I never did like that bike all that much.

I should probably mention here that my record “How to be a Cannonball” took Album of the Year honors at this year’s Big Easy Awards. This is probably due to Gambit Weekly’s foreknowledge that I would be on an airplane at the time of the ceremony and would therefore be unable to comment on the mashed potatoes, or any other aspect of the buffet (which I hear was quite lovely). Many thanks to the Gambit and all you nice people, including but not limited to the Threadheads, who lent me the money to make the record in the first place.

If you made it to Chazfest 2010 thanks for coming. And thanks to Peter Horjus Christine Horn and Anne Churchill who did the door and Rob Schafer and Kimberly Lancashire for schlepping ice. The folks behind the bar deserve great credit and their names are Whitney and Brett Babineaux, Meg Lousteau, Ian McNulty, Geoff Coates, Adam Cohen and Bill Malchow. Thank you Cathy Hughes for your help in the merch booth. Special credit goes out to Karley Frankic, who not only helped with the merch booth, but secured all the city and state permits. Extra special big thanks go out to Dannal Perry who did so much to help organize so many aspects of the event. Thanks to all the bands and all the vendors for helping the day come off without a hitch. We love you all!

Should probably just get into the general news here. The Tom Paines CD is finally out thanks to some key loans from nice folks including the Threadheads (thank you all). The record is classic American Folk Music and was produced by Mark Bingham at Piety Street Studio. It sounds terrific and you should have one. They are available on this website and will be available on iTunes soon. I recommend getting the actual hard copy, so that you can see the outstanding artwork whipped up by Kourtney Keller, and check out Johnny and myself chilling with the founding fathers.

The Tin Men are about to embark on a quick trip up to the Northeast, along with the shy and demure Debbie Davis, to back up Paul Sanchez in Washington D.C. at a place called 6th & I on Thursday June 3. We will also be at the Michael Arnone Crawfish Festival somewhere out in Jersey June 4 and 5. Details about these shows are on the “shows” page here at www.alexmcmurray.com

While I’m up in the New York area, I’ll be doing a one-off show at The Living Room on Ludlow Street in the city Sunday June 6, where I’ll be joined by some great NYC musicians including but not limited to Bill Malchow. Again, details are on the site.

Also in June is another West Coast trip. On Sunday June 13 I’ll be at the Live Oak Park Fair in Berkeley, Café Van Kleef in Oakland on Thursday the 17th, and Saturday June 19 at the Mojo Bicycle Café on Divisadero in San Francisco with Glenn Hartman. I have been promised a trip to Napa and I’m looking forward to it.

Summer is here. Look for a string of dates in the Northeast late July into early August. Stay tuned to www.alexmcmurray.com for details as they accumulate.

Oshkosh did not inspire. But, strangely, Atlanta did. Here's how.

I've never really thought about gun violence before, but what I want to do is rush a TSA rep, seize his gun, shove it in my mouth and yank the trigger. I hope they carry big guns, like 45s, so I can get a big arc of blood and brains behind me. A cone of skull fragments and gray matter and purple clots around seventeen feet long and nine feet wide at its largest point. I want to do this as close as i can to the security checkpoint. But a better scenario has my death ritual taking place in the queue for customer service. That site of extreme disregard. That dantesque endpoint of nullity, frustration and rage. When the brain-snot flies, this shall be a fitting arena. They say the forty-five is a loud gun, and I hope they're right. I want to wake people up and get blood on their shirts. Up to now I've been more interested in hostage situations. A siege sort of mentality. No more. What I seek is a humongous explosion and a spraying of blood and bits. Like lump crabmeat infused with melted purple crayons all over people's faces. A pornographic shit-mess. I can't feel otherwise. Two days of actual and potential air travel, along with its ancillary terminal attendance and the raft of lies I've endured have brought me to a place I never thought I'd be. As miserable as I've ever been I'd never dreamed of suicide, but now I'm sweating I want to do it so bad, and I want to do it all over the representative at the customer service desk of AirTran Airways at Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta, Georgia. Mayhaps then AirTran will wither upon its sick, dead vine and people might once again consider walking from Greenville to Macon. Rather than sit in this God-Damned hellhole of an air terminal. People might once again start buying mules and keep closer to home. Maiden aunts might be of more use and people might have more children for fear of the diptheria. A more agrarian society. I frankly don't care. What I want is to violently and hellishly end my life with a huge explosion at Hartsfield International Airport and set my brains free to soak the ceiling tiles near gate C-4. Never have I considered the pointlessness of life and of consciousness until my term here began. It is a sickening and soul-destroying scene and I enjoy only the bitter sadness of that man who may never again know his home. I am glad we have no children. They would never learn to trust a father who is always glances away to the ceiling to check the status of a phantom flight. There would be no understanding in those eyes. Daddy is a sick, paranoid man who imagines himself as the agent of some sort of Oddessy where perhaps if one were allowed to drink on sunday, one might see things differently.

When I am gone place the Coca-Cola logo on my headstone, together with the Dead Kennedys' insignia. Rub some stale chicken wings into the freshly-turned earth with your foot. Be sure that the Beach Boys are playing loud and that a folding table filled with an assortment of loaded handguns is nearby, for I would hate for anyone to miss the spirit of the thing. Shoot six saddled white horses in the brains and refer their owners to customer service. Do this in My memory and address all refusals with an elbow to the nostril. My sister Mary is duty bound to throw a party, even though she is a teetotaler. Nonetheless she understands these things well and will probably surprise you with her sense of the apropos, and the bizarre. There shall be zebra and hippo rides at the wake, along with an adrenochrome and jimson weed booth. Her husband is in the service and has a well-honed sense of the bizarre, so expect mustard gas and mortar rounds. In his carefree youth he worked as a butcher. Bring game. Like I said. Anything Goes.

Bullshit. Now four hours until I'm denied the next plane. Phone out of gas and the charger is in the checked baggage.

I tried sleeping in a quiet spot that soon became a deplaning zone. The woman who yesterday told me the wrong gate for my connection to new orleans has been replaced with a reptilian bitch who told me to get my legs out of the way of the deplaning passengers. Only my Dadaesque fatigue kept me from kneeing this person in the solar plexus and extracting vomit and bile from her wizened throat. I should have stood next to her and reminded each of the deplaning passengers that this representative from the airline might be lying to them, carelessly, maliciously, stupidly or otherwise. "C-4?", I might echo..."Actually it's X-98!!! This woman here said that the flight to Charlotte is departing from gate B-9, but I can tell you for a fact that it is leaving from the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral later this fall". If I jumped in the air and landed on her chest with my right knee over and over for three or so minutes would I work through this terrible anger and unspeakable frustration? Probably not. And I'd get blood and matter all over the only pair of pants I have right now. If I were to go to the wishing well right now, which is only over at terminal T, I'd throw a bad check for thirty dollars in the hole to be transported to East Texas, where they have the decency and honesty to transport those they hold in contempt from a chain suspended from the back of their pickups. James Byrd truly suffered in his final, apocalyptic undoing. But I envy the feeling of awful clarity he must have felt as the chain-link noose went around his neck. I like to think he looked at those pink devils in the eye and said something like "At last! Some honesty!" And this was a man known as "The best trumpeter in Texas".

Oh Jeez! An hour and a half until my next standby flight. Better go start asking questions. A business such as this cannot be left to its practitioners.

 

Well golly it has been a while, hasn't it? Which is a good thing because so much has been happening, there's just no time to write it down. I've been working just about every night throughout the spring with all the various projects--Tin Men every Wednesday at the DBA, Tom Paines every Tuesday at the Circle Bar. Matt Perrine's Sunflower City has been playing here and there, as have the Happy Talk Band. I hear Schatzy is thinking about making another CD, and the Geraniums have gigs coming up real soon. Ingrid Lucia and Paul Sanchez both keep me pretty busy, and even 007 rears its head once in a while. We just did an "Alex McMurray" show last weekend where I was joined by Carlo, Matt and Bob, so we did a lot of the old stuff as well as stuff from my new CD and it was a hell of a time. That band (what to call it? the Retired Bowlers League? Fingerpuppet?) will be returning to the DBA Friday Aug 28.

DUBAI

Probably the strangest highlight of the year was a trip to Dubai I made with Susan Cowsill and Russ Broussard back in late March. They had been asked to play and speak at an international conference on education called "Education Without Borders". From what I could gather from the literature, students and presenters from over 200 countries participated in this series of lectures and entertainment events over three days. They wanted Susan to speak about their Katrina experiences, plus she's a Cowsill...The most surreal scene was the opening night gala at the Atlantis Hotel, where we were on a bill with Ladysmith Black Mambazo and Riverdance. Ladysmith were amazing and could probably kick any band's ass in the world (literally--they do a lot of kicking) and the band that backed up Riverdance was quite good. And it's true-they don't move their arms. It was like a CYO awards banquet, with 12-top tables set up in a massive ballroom. One of the emirs came out first to speak. He led with a joke, something about thanking the Westerners for bringing the weather with us (there was supposed to be a closing night gala as well out in the desert with feasting, tents and camels, but had to be cancelled due to weather. It rained almost the whole time we were there with strong winds as well. Very unusual for that part of the world).

The best part probably was the time spent in the air and in airports. They flew us business class, where they do nothing but feed you and ply you with drink. In the airports as well we could go to those first-class club rooms where there's always food, internet, coffee, free booze and CNN. I am always reminded of Withnail's line about the perks of the upper classes, "free for those who can afford it, very expensive for those who can't".

We didn't really see anything in Dubai other than what one could glimpse from one's ultra-deluxe suite, or from the hotel restaurant. The bar had few windows, as I recall. I did get the chance to go to the "Mall of the Emirates" and take a look at their indoor ski slope, but it was a mall like any other, except the men and women mostly wore the dishdash or abayah, respectively. From the highway you can see those construction projects that are still ongoing with the global economic shitfight. Teeming throngs of subcontinentals in blue jumpsuits and orange helmets digging holes and pouring concrete. They say that 25% of the worlds cranes are in Dubai and for once I say they may be right.

NEW CD/THREADHEADS

Reaction to the new CD "How to be a Cannonball" has been very positive. I'd like to once again thank the Threadheads, as well as the other investors, for helping to make it happen. Also all the musicians, the gang at Piety and especially my fabulous wife Kourtney Keller who did the bomb artwork. There should be some reviews coming out in the next few months and hopefully they will be favorable. So far no one has come up to me and said "This is shit" to my face, but hope for the best and expect the worst, as they say.

Most of the band from the CD played with me on my set at the fairgrounds the second weekend of Jazzfest and they all kicked ass on the new shit, especially "Where K-Doe Lives", which people seem to like. By some miracle I actually remembered all the words and in the correct order. The comments I've heard have been quite lovely and are certainly humbling. It's great to see one's name on the Jazzfest lineup along with some real legends.

CHAZFEST/JAZZFEST

Chazfest 2009 was, it is believed, an unmitigated success. Outside of a few power problems, everything went off without a hitch. No major schedule snafus or serious problems with neighbors or police. I don't even think they ticketed for parking on the neutral ground. All the food was dee-lish and we had perfect weather. What more could you ask for? I ate half a valium at about 10:30 in the morning and was able to take things much more in stride than in past years. There were even several moments when I enjoyed myself. Kourtney had to go for final critiques for several hours in the middle of it, but by the time she got back the thing was running on its own momentum and we could kick back and hang with the people. Thanks to all who helped out especially Karley Frankic our permitatrix, Dannal Perry our MajorDomo, Perter Horjus and Robin Pennell our crack security squad, and all the Farmers. 

OSHKOSH

Once again this year I'll be joining the Paul Sanchez Rolling Road Show at the Riverfest in Oshkosh, WI, only this time I'll have some gigs of my own as well. The shows will all be at a place called O'Marros in Oshkosh www.omarrospublichouse.com Friday it'll be with Paul Snchez and Saturday it'll be a sea shanty thing. That's July 9, 10 & 11.

OGDEN

The Ogden Museum of Southern Art www.ogdenmuseum.org has been kind enough to invite me to play at its "Ogden After Hours" series. It's a nice civilized thing where the band sets up in the lobby of the museum and plays for 2 hours. George Ingmire, the filmmaker and WWOZ radio DJ will host the event and will interview me for around 20 minutes in his inimitable avuncular style. I'll be joined by Brian Coogan, a damned fine piano player and solid citizen. I'm hoping the museum setting will provide some much-needed gravitas for the program of music I plan to present. In my mind I am referring to it as "Alex McMurray...A Retrospective". Having received no grants of any kind for this work I will be free to poop on my guitar. Don't miss this one!

NORTHEAST TRIP

The dates are still being filled in, but at this time the Great Northeast Summer Trip is a Go. The first date is July 24 in NYC at some pizza joint called Two Boots in, I think, Brooklyn. There is a DBA Williamsburg show on the 25th, followed later that night by the Go Cups at the Rodeo Bar. All the dates are on the "Shows" page, so I'm not going to list them here. We're going to go as far as Portland, ME and will be back in New Orleans by the 20th of August.

I think that's it. No quasi-fictional humor piece this time. Sorry. Maybe if the lightning strikes in Oshkosh...

We had a few much-needed weeks away for the holidays but hit the ground running. I've played just about every night since january 10 with no let up, and the calendar is full until mardi gras, pretty much. Which should be a great thing, but my promoter's muscles are a bit atrophied. The Tuesday happy hour thing with the Tom Paines is a lot of fun, but nobody comes out. Started up the Theater of the Damned again last night and no one showed up until almost 9:30, which is understandable because there was absolutely no promotion, nothing in the listings, nothing at all. I would send a mass text but I hate it when I get them and have no idea how to do it to begin with.

            But there was a funny moment about ten after eight, while Bailee, Cindy and myself were sitting at the Saturn Bar watching "Hell's Kitchen" on tv, waiting for people to show up, when in walks this woman in a long overcoat. She made her way slowly to the bar and looked at me like she knew me. I probably had met her at a show but really have no idea. She said, "so is it happening?" I guess I could have assumed that she meant was I playing or not, but the question was put with such an air of intrigue that I couldn't help but reply, "Is what happening?" "There's nothing about it anywhere", she said and she definitely had me there. (Now, the good people at the Saturn bar have been especially generous to me and my various projects, but one thing they don't deal with is putting shows in the listings. It's just not something they do. I realized this long ago and have always tried to do it myself, but it takes a little bit of foresight and diligence, two qualities sometimes in short supply.) There was an awkward pause and then Bailee asked if she could get her anything. The woman thought for a moment and said "I can't drink until he plays". I said that we were waiting for people to show up, waved my arm towards the empty barroom and mentioned that it was only ten after eight. "we're waiting for people to show up." She stayed around for another minute and then walked quietly out the door. I felt pretty bad after that and ended up going up and playing for the literally empty room for about forty minutes until a couple dudes showed up. (Something exciting is happening outside my window. Children are climbing in the trees. A couple of them are as high as the second story and they're still climbing. They're egging each other on, each one boasting that he can climb higher. "look how high i am!" one just shouted. Only one of two things could happen now--they could climb back down safely or fall the 25 or 30 feet. My heart is racing. I can hardly take the excitement!  My nose is pressed to the window like it's a knothole in the bleacher fence at an old ballpark. It's a cold winter day and little boys are playing outside in winter coats carrying sticks and shouting to one another. One of them is going up the next tree. They are going to climb all the trees! These may be the first trees to be climbed in Orleans parish since the seventies. There is no getting around the fact that it's the danger that is so exciting; the very real possibility that one of these kids may very well fall out of one of these trees, fall twenty or so feet to the ground and break his neck. This would be very big news around here for quite a while. The death of a child is always shocking. I can recall like it was yesterday the time a childhood friend of mine was struck and killed by a commuter train as he walked home from baseball practice. He had been waiting for a train to pass so he could cross the tracks. When the train went by he started forward not knowing another train was behind it coming the other way. Such violence occurring to a third grader is impossible even to imagine, and his family was devastated, having to move to the other side of town where they couldn't hear the train whistle.) So the theater of the damned is just that: an arena of the unwell. I think I'm going to give it a rest in March and maybe crank it up again on a bi-weekly basis in April.  Freilich's crack about Jesus' building his own cross when he heard I was building a stage for the Saturn Bar has a little more resonance now than when he first uttered it last October.        

            Flash forward a few days. I'm out in Henderson, LA, near Breaux Bridge where Mark Bingham is putting the finishing touches on the record we started last November. Mark decamped out here after the latest rock star invasion of his studio. It's really rather nice. The Tom Paines did some recording out here a few weeks ago. Looks like my record will be called "How To Be a Cannonball", which seems like the kind of lesson I could teach. As I sit on the porch writing this I can hear playback coming down the stairs and it's Tim Green playing a most epic saxophone solo, sounding like David Sanborn and the Carpenters in a knife fight in Alphabet City 25 years ago. Wait...Karen just kneed Sanborn in the balls and sliced open his nostril. Yeah man! This record has a certain cleanness to it that I like, and I seem to sing pretty much in tune, which helps. I look forward to people hearing this record. Lord knows it's been a long time in coming. I also look forward to going out there and trying to get this music in front of people. NYC and the Bay area will be my first stops, with a longer Northeast trip in late July and early August, but anyone out there who wants to have me come to your town drop me a line and let's see if we can work it out. If I can get there and back and break even or better I'm your man. That means Anywhere USA. I'll do house parties, whatever.

            Ok that's it for now. Be well.

The usual apologies for not writing/promises to write more often, etc. I know there are a few of you who like to read the diary. I think that's great and that's the reason I like to spend at least a little time on it, and not just use it to channel sheer blather. I like for there to be some inspiration in the thing. Below are the scraps and shavings of several attempts to get the diary page going again. I have only a rough idea of when these were written or what frame of mind I was in, but it should give you an idea of how scattered my brain has been this past year

July?

If you were my neighbor you would be facing real madness by now. Whoever is running the railroad next door has either left a locomotive on the wrong part of the track or a switch is busted somewhere. The air is filled with the never ending din of clanging bells day and night. This goes on for days at a time. The railroad is trying to make the denizens of the vicinity of St. Claude and Montague insane, it would seem. The folks around the corner have a strange look to them, like they haven't slept in a while. Late at night when we go to bed there it is. In the day when there's a lull in the traffic there it is as well.

 

August?

The other day i noticed a month long gap in my calendar. This will send a chill down the spine of any professional entertainer, but its especially galling when you book yourself and can't place the blame anywhere else. I said to myself "let's use this time wisely. What are some rainy-day projects we've been meaning to get to?" The press kit was an obvious hole in my showbiz arsenal, so I decided to make sense out of that bleeding morass of clippings and photocopies, rusty staples and paperclips.. I started digging through the piles and after a few seconds the table was covered with scurrying bugs--roaches and silverfish and lord knows what else. What more perfect metaphor for my show-business career, I thought to myself. Instinctively. Grinning ruefully at the perfection of this metaphor before me for my showbisness career I reached for some newspaper and began to roll it up into a weapon with which to smite the offending bugs, but stopped myself. Haven't these insects, I reminded myself, expressed more interest into your misshapen career than even the most desiccated show-business professional? Are not these bugs making a home in your history? Despite various claims to the contrary, dear reader, I do not possess a heart of ice...

 

September?

And balls to this. It has been many months since I've looked at this god-forsaken diary page. I will do all I can as an American to bring about its dismantling. It has been a burden for too long for my family. My strength is gone and so are my people. We are bewildered and grasping at social entitlement programs like medicare and medicaid, which are buckling under the strains of so many uninsured ...

 

October?

Jesus God it's time to give it a rest. And I shall make Mr. Jimmy (not his real name) my role model. And of course you know Mr. Jimmy. Now here was a man who opened up grocery stores in the most economically depressed places on earth and seemed to turn a profit.  Here was a man who, with the ever present aid of his demure and winsome wife Linda, drove home the idea of a safe and clean place to get food--grains and vegetables. canned goods and dried beans. Booze and mops. Soap and Newspapers. You would have thought that a business like this would have been a proud legacy for a man like Mr. Jimmy and his wife Linda, but some immense stink has descended on our little neighborhood. One day out of the blue Dora's closed its doors and not even a slot to lodge your complaints.

All of you in the Greater America can in no way appreciate the day when I saw the local grocery wrested from the brutal hold of the Jordanian nazis who rendered simple bananas into tortured slugs not even fit for the trash. Who broadcast an ugly orbit of shit feelings with each transaction. Warm beer. Flies. Hostility. Despair and Terror accompanied each purchase of Orange Fanta or boiled peanuts. The gaping maw in my gut--the sickening sort of rage that I feel is the result of that scab bastard pulling the braces off the teeth of this neighborhood. No more of Mz Linda's daily fresh cilantro! No more the daily deliveries from Klienpeter's  dairy in Baton Rouge! Ice cream! Orange juice! Go fuck yourself! No more Raisin Bran or biscuits. Gone the comprehensive display of latin American spices...

 

Today

hmmm...so goes several false starts of a diary page over the last year or so. Much has happened: Mardi Gras, French Quarter/Jazz/Chaz Fests, a brutal summer and presidential election, shows in NYC and the Bay Area, car calamities and other events large and small. Now we are on the edge of winter and lots of stuff is looming on the horizon. The Fingerbowl is going to play again at One Eyed Jack's this Friday. The show will be recorded for possible release, granted that we remember the songs. There is always the threat of a new Tin Men cd, and the Valparaisos may just have to do another one as well. An outfit called the Threadheads has agreed to produce a cd for me doing my own songs (several other friends have shown their support as well), which will begin next week over at Piety. The Theater of the Damned continues over at the Saturn Thursday nights at 8 and the Tom Paines are still doing happy hour every tuesday at the Circle Bar. These are No Cover shows, so not much risk. Also look out for the Mama's Boy reunion show at One Eyed Jack's on Saturday Dec. 6.

Whoa, this is sad. Almost five months since the last diary posting. While I am Extraordinarily Busy, there is really no excuse for this. And you would think that I'd be fixing to burst with news and information, but that isn't the case. Sure there are the usual updates, such as the news that there was another performance of sea shanties on November 2, which was triumphant and epochal. The Valparaiso Men's Chorus got its collective shit together and learned another set of music not on the CD. I harbor the faintest of hopes that we can make another CD. I can't see why not. Maybe the chorus could go out and sell magazine subscriptions to help raise the money. I think it would be cute to see Fayard and Starnes knocking on doors and putting on an earnest face. We could offer people Ranger Rick and Boy's Life. If those magazines still exist. Perhaps a sailing magazine or one devoted to piracy (even though we are not a pirate band). We have been offered a slot at the Offbeat Best of the Beat awards show. Hopefully we can field a quorum.

Outside it is a nice mix of rain and wind. High quality late November weather and a hell of a day to lose a window in one's car. We were driving over to Henry's birthday breakfast over at Elizabeth's when all of a sudden going down Gallier the driver's side window exploded with great fanfare and noise. Kourtney and I just about shit our pants, thinking we were shot. The window fell off its track a few weeks ago and last night I jammed it into a spot from which it could not be moved, in a frenzy of Bayou Classic traffic trying to find a parking spot by the casino. I guess it was wedged in there pretty good since it only took a little bump to make it shatter. Now it is covered with a garbage bag and its raining and my wife had to drive out to UNO where the campus is pitch black due to a power failure. She just called to say she's coming back home. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses and play your Nick Drake records. Yeah. I feel like if it wasn't for the car I'd have nothing to think about, it feels so much at home in the very front of my imagination.

In other news, I finally broke down and ordered another 1000 Banjaxed CDs, although I wanted to use that money on making a new recording. There is no reason not to do both, except for money, which will always be the lamest excuse for not doing anything. But no matter. There will be Banjaxed CDs for all who desire them in just a few days. One thing there won't be are 007 CDs, at least not "Studied Rudeness", because we are almost done recording a new one. We have been down at Andrew Gilchrist's "House of 1000 Hz" rocking the steady. We have only a few overdubs left to do and then mixing and mastering. The good folks at Discmakers will be soaking us down soon and you will have the new 007 in your hot little hands just in time for the post-christmas rush.

So there it is. there will be more CDs soon of all sorts of stuff. Did I ever mention the story about how my father once asked me about my future? I was out of college about a year or two and floating around in a kind of brownian motion, halfway expecting and hoping for a career in music. It was in the living room of the ancestral home in New Jersey and he asked me almost thoughtfully what were my plans for my life. Now, one thing about my old man is he can take a joke, so I took a moment and thought about what would be my reply to this very charged question. "I was thinking I would go to law school", I said. He then looked at me with an expression very close to anger and told me, sternly, "I'll break your fucking legs". I think of that every time I'm loading bass amps into a car.

The usual apologies for not posting one of these for so long, etc. What can I say? Its been a big spring and now that its officially summer i can see the days stretching out ahead of me like a wild highway out in Utah. They're tearing up the street in front of the house and there's dust everywhere and that beeping sound whenever the heavy trucks go in reverse. They repaved St. Claude Avenue less than five years ago and we're all wondering why they're doing it again so soon, especially as it was one of the better preserved thoroughfares. Maybe it's part of a maintenance schedule but graft is the more logical explanation, especially when you know Burgundy Street just two blocks away has been a nightmare for years. You don't even want to ride your bike down Burgundy. But even Burgundy pales in comparison to the condition of just about every street north of St. Claude (the virtual demarcation line of the Corps' floodwater). There you seem to be transported to some forgotten little town abandoned by Okies or the Army years ago. Its an eerie feeling until you remember that that's exactly what it is, and you wish you had a humvee to get up to Claiborne Ave. so you can cross the bridge over the train on your way to Mid-City to buy groceries.

But this isn't going to be that kind of piece. The Culture of Complaint went out of style years ago. But what is that godawful smell? Its like someone bottled the air in Elizabeth New Jersey and pressurized it to use as paint remover. They're blowing out the sewer lines down at Schatzy's. Whoa.

OK. Chazfest, anyone? Kourtney and I want to say "thanks" here to everyone who came out to the second annual Chazfest and an even bigger thanks to all the people who helped put the thing on. It was a gargantuan undertaking and came off with hardly a hitch. It was like that theory of cosmology where a deity designs and constructs the universe and then essentially flips the "on" switch, leaving the rest of eternity to observe or catch up on paperwork. Just substitute the Chazfest staff for God, a party for the universe and a Thursday in May for Eternity and the result is pretty much the same. I'm going to try to do a big shout out here and try not to leave anybody out. Number One in the hit parade is our wonderful friend Dannal Perry who was Above and Beyond in every way, going so far as to go down to that Den of Snakes City Hall with me on the morning in question and encouraging us to fly in the face of Wisdom. We don't need no stinking badges. Next up in our pantheon of heroes are Jay Holland and his "Sound Ninja" Reid Billingsley who ran the main stage with the discipline and prescision of nazi stormtroopers, but without all the bad vibes. Rob Davis brought six thousand pounds of P.A. equipment in and out of the place and worked his ass off (I found your hand-truck, rob--give me a call) while Trevor Brooks brought a whole mess of backline. The second stage was masterminded by the one and only Jeff Treffinger, ladies and gentlemen...Mike Biagas brought the main stage....All the gang at Sweet Olive LLC--thanks for letting us invite thousands of people over to your place. To all the good people at Pot O' Gold--you are in our thoughts. Tom Beeman did the shirts. Do you have yours yet? Special thanks to all the residents of the Truck Farm for putting up with major disturbances and especially for helping out. All the bands at both stages got on and off in a timely manner and for that we thank you. All the vendors--the food was dee-lish top to bottom. All the volunteers deserve special praise for keeping the beer moving and extracting the donations. Bob our intrepid web guy who secured www.chazfestival.com for us--you're the man! Contact Chuck Morton for all of your insurance needs. Rhonda at Funrockin! for foiling the shirts--they are a big hit. Eric and Bailey at the Saturn Bar were kind enough to bring us some ice in the mid-afternoon. I know I'm forgetting somebody. Last but certainly not least thanks to Chaz and Jessica for loaning us the name Chaz and that pretty visage for our iconography.

 

 

Somewhere in there we put out the shanty cd. I think it was the week between French Quarter Fest and Chazfest, so naturally it was a breeze. Eric and Family over at the Saturn Bar were generous enough to let us bring out-front hooliganism into their bar, and so we thank them for that. Most commonly heard comment on the Valparaiso Men's Chorus "Guano and Nitrates" cd release party: "I never felt so much like I was on a boat". It's true--I think it was during "So Early In The Morning" that I looked up from the lyric sheet that I was using to see the drunken multitude swaying all the way up the stairs. The room was packed and everyone was swaying like condemned buildings and singing at the top of their lungs. Beer and snot running down people's faces. There was the smell of burning rope and grown men were crying like babies and heaving over the side. Out of sheer necessity, we went ahead and did the set a second time and it was even more over the top. By then people knew the score and learned that they didn't need to know the words. Any and all concern for decency and dignity was by then jettisoned. I truly believe there was a moment when we could have decimated an equal or greater number of Scottish football fans.

(But even this didn't even come close to the scene earlier that day. The night before the shanty deal went down we were hipped to what was going on right under our noses right here in New Orleans. Over at the Holiday Inn by the Superdome they were having a thing called Pyratecon '07, which is the annual North American pirate convention. I am telling you this and it is no lie--there is a strange network of pirate fetishists out there, maybe even in your community, maybe even in your own family, for whom "talk like a pirate day" never ends. That there was a pirate convention here in town the day we're celebrating seaborne song was just too weird to ignore so we went over there with some flyers and some cds to press some flesh. It was a regular warm spring day on Loyola Street but milling around the entrance of the Holiday Inn were a bunch of people in pirate costumes smoking cigarettes and drinking out of what appeared to be flagons. They told me to just go up to the eighth floor and there they all were, sitting behind folding tables selling scabbards and scrimshaw and wench gear. I was looked at a bit funny at first because of my strange non-pirate wear, but overall they were nice folks who regretfully would be unable to attend our soiree, as they had their big ball that evening. Downstairs there was a bunch of pirates hanging around the bar. I even knew one of them, or one guy seemed to know me. They're considering having us play at pyratecon '08. You can go to myspace.com/pyratecon and let them know how you feel about that.)

Otherwise they shaved some moles off my head last week. I've got some stitches holding my scalp together, but I think I'm gonna live. Currently I'm looking around for for something I don't need, if only to have the opportunity to say "I need that like I need a hole in my head", and have it really mean something for once. I am pleased to report that as I survey the porch here on the Farm I am surrounded mainly by useful things, so it will have to wait.

Have a great summer everybody.

I suppose I must admit I've fallen down the rabbit hole. Things have been Strange and Paradoxical of late, due to a little mission I agreed to take care of for a friend. I'm not sure I have the time, space or even the inclination to go into it right now, but I offer it as a lame excuse for why there hasn't been a diary entry since last summer. This thing has been chewing up my days and gorging on my psyche. I noticed only yesterday that I had not a single gig booked for Mardi Gras; that the entire spring was a blank. Usually these things happen as a result of six weeks of acting like a nineteen-year-old. Not so this time. At any rate, after two days on the phone and several hours in front of the computer I think the ship is listing a little less. If you know me you know what the thing is that has become my albatross, my Vietnam. Perhaps I'll get into it later, but the thought of telling this story properly--doing the kind of thorough job it deserves causes the bile to rise in the throat. I'll just keep this one light and news-y, so I can get back to bailing the pus out from below decks.

First off, there will be another Chazfest. It will be on Thursday May 3 at the Truck Farm. Same place as last year. Rain or shine. We haven't picked any bands yet, except the Tin Men. We'll have the website and all that good stuff. Stay tuned for details.

I swear by all that is holy the shanty cd release party is going to happen. The thing has been mastered. We just need to manufacture the suckers. Anybody out there run a record label wants to put out some weird stuff fast? Anyone with a few grand they feel like throwing at my problems drop me a line and let's get it together.

007 morphed into 00Doug which begat Evening Highs which evolved into Folk Rock Trio from which came 00Alex. Any way you slice it, these terms mean (more or less) that Doug Garrison will be playing drums, Joe Cabral is on the bass and sings, Jonathan Freilich plays guitar and i do the same as well as sing. Sometimes we are enhanced by John Fohl, Brian Coogan or Johnny Sansone. Sometimes we play rock steady, sometimes Mexican music, sometimes my stuff. We have a lot of shows coming up in a lot of places so check the calendar.

As far as 007 (the Jeffrey Clemens-flavored variety) is concerned, the big news is that we're going to be opening for Toots Hibbert at the House of Blues on Thursday May 3 at 8:00. I know that's the same night as Chazfest, but this is a gig you can't not do. The man is a living legend and still kicks out the jams. Too bad I'll have to miss his show but its such an honor to share the stage with one of the main architects of that sound. Maybe I'll stay for one. 007 will be playing at the fairgrounds Sun. May 6 and at DBA Mon. May 7 as well.

The Happy Talk Band record is just about done but still needs to be mixed. Look for a Jazzfest release, as Luke Allen & co will be rocking the fairgrounds Fri. April 27. I think we have a slot somewhere around noon.

The Tin Men are playing more often in the new year. We had a great show at the Saturn Bar the night before new years', and we're going to be at DBA Sat Feb 3 after the Krewe de Vieux parade.

Today’s a fine bright day and my thermometer reads ninety-six degrees. The grass is running riot and needs cutting, but I’m going to blow it off for another day. The lawn guy* is off somewhere in the Northern Midwest and has left the task to me and our landlord. Yet the sun shines on him still, as well as my overheated car and the president downtown making speeches, allegedly admitting that mistakes were made. Good for him. Later he’ll come by the truck farm for a beer and he’s going to offer me some coke. But I’m going to just say “no”. “No, George,” I’ll say. “I’m just enjoying the luxury of this fine day and my overheated car. Now take that stuff inside and do it in the bathroom like normal folks do. I’m a public figure—a minor entertainment personality—and I’ve gotta watch what I do and say, because it always comes back to haunt me sooner or later. I don’t enjoy the same luxuries as you, George.” The cool thing about George is he usually takes this kind of talk in stride. Unlike my other friends, he doesn’t mind being told what to do. He fools people with that Texas “swagger” thing, but all you have to do is bark at him a bit and he steps back into line. Knowing that you can count on things like that makes it easier to deal with this uncertain world.

     People today are asking where you were a year ago today and what you were doing. The first time this question was put to me last night I couldn’t help but wonder at our species that has figured out how to calculate to the second the Earth’s position in relation to the Sun. As my friend Keith would say, that’s pretty rad. Spinning on the same axis in the same spot in space as when Anderson Cooper was buying his first pair of Wellingtons 365 days ago. I know he’s going to be sporting some fancy footwear later at Vaughn’s, but it will pale in comparison to the bondage gear he usually prefers in his more informal moments. Chaz bought a special dog collar for him to wear with the word “Coop” emblazoned near the chain clip in stainless-steel studs. Anderson won’t stop talking about the times spent in the sling at the Phoenix last year. Whatever it takes to take the edge off, I always say.

     This sort of scurrilous gossip won’t endear me to the cable news channels. That their star journalists come to New Orleans to admonish the locals on-camera, then run off to blow their per diems on cock fights and Vietnamese rent-boys is well known, though rarely discussed. If the heavy hitters of the news media relish their time spent in New Orleans, if for no other reason than to Take it Out and Let it Eat, we’ve long turned a blind eye down here. Never mind the rumors of NBC’s Brian Williams’ flagellating himself with a soft-shelled crab po-boy uptown in broad daylight a few months ago, or CNN’s Wolf Blitzer’s meth-fueled rantings about the Pope at St. Louis Cathedral not long after the famous “chocolate city” speech. These things don’t merit much more than a cursory glance.

    And so it’s a week and a half after I wrote the above and that guy I mentioned, Keith, has gone on to the next life. Although I don’t believe in any of that shit. Pretty un-rad. I’m going to close this thing and go wash my hands. Maybe go buy a nice bottle of French Bordeaux and get weird.
Sic Transit Gloria.

I was thinking about the president a lot about a month ago. You see, I was clearing a lot of brush from out the back of our house in preparation for Chazfest, and since that’s what W. does for kicks out at his ranch in Crawford TX, I felt that I was perhaps getting on a parallel vibe with The Decider. And what’s more, I had Spinal Tap’s “Heavy Duty Rock and Roll” going through my head almost all day every day. Probably because the tool I was using is a Milwaukee brand Heavy Duty Orbital Super Sawzall (there is no substitute), with the words HEAVY DUTY emblazoned across the chassis and the carrying case. So I was in a good frame of mind most of the time as I ripped through dead trees like a laser with this vicious piece of hardware, while imagining my old pal The Decider pedaling by on his mountain bike. “Heavy! HEAVY! Duty! DUTY!!! Heavy Duty a-ROCK AND ROLL!!!” I happily sang to myself while my fine machine chewed through dead tree-flesh. I’ve got to hand it to the President of the United States—he sure hit the main nerve when he came up with that wacky pastime. There is no more mindless and satisfying pursuit than clearing brush. There’s the noise of the machine and the sting in your muscles, easily measured progress and a clear path before you of what still needs to be done. The knowledge that the brush and the trees are going to keep growing and dying brings a little Zen flavor to the whole enterprise. Never is there a need for careful analysis or measured foresight. I say that when he inevitably retires, we can hook him up with, perhaps as a severance package, his own landscaping rig, with a big steel mesh trailer behind a doublie. He’d have dibs on the gig out at Arlington National Cemetery, of course. Or we can set him up as a greenskeeper at some obscure golf course where no one knows him. I think it would be a slam-dunk.

But we shall not lock our hearts in chests of silver, dear readers, nor shall we bind them with golden chains. This forum is really about show business, and if this space morphs into any kind of polemic I urge any and all to correct me. There is no use for vengeance in this world. Out of my window I see trees and the dappling sunlight that filters through. The only sounds are the birds and the ceiling fan, and Dave Van Ronk singing “Brian O’Lynne”. The kegs from Chazfest still linger in the yard, along with the empty wine bottles from last night’s wake. In a few minutes I’ll go to the house where I used to live to collect the last of my things. I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for now. The house I’ll leave unlocked since I’ve lost my keys. I will, however, change out of my pajamas, cheap clothes I’ve had since high school. They say that they found the robe over there that I got in the seventh grade. I tried to throw that thing out when I moved to New York, but I guess it never made it to the trash. Maybe that was a mistake. I think I’ll hang on to it for a while. Wear it while I’m burning trash and drinking bourbon. The world was made of sadness and stinks like old clothes.

Fast-forward  three and a half weeks. It rained today for the first time since Chazfest. That’s good news, as Jeff put down some grass seed yesterday. The lawn’s looking good, I must admit. Pirner came by to cut the grass the other day. He’s really got a feel for lawnmowing. I heard a great story in which Dave played one of Bill Clinton’s inaugurations. They were waiting in the oval office for Bill and he breezes in eventually. Dave looks out the window and points out to the president that the lawn needs cutting. Bill says that he’ll call someone about it, at which time Dave asks if Bill is going to play any saxophone with the band. Bill’s response was “you play the music and I’ll play the president”.

There is no music news that I can think of.. The Tin Men had a nice trip up to New York. If you made it out, thanks for coming. I have a feeling there’s going to be some recording soon, but I can’t say why. I have hardly any gigs coming up except another New York swing, this time with Kourtney. I’ll be in The City and Portland, ME. Also the Circle Bar on Wednesdays through the twelfth of July. I’ll be back the ninth of August. I wonder who they’ll get to do the Wednesdays.

I’ll close here, as there’s nothing I can think of that’s the least bit entertaining. Drop me a line with any questions or comments.
alex

And balls to this internet thing.

Yes. That sounds good. . It has been a while since we’ve cranked up this website, but now’s the time, children. Now’s the time, indeed. And since the interweb is working, and I feel something resembling gin-lust, it’s probably time to get something down, for whatever reason.

 A good place to start might be that my wife (an incredible woman, mind you. Staunch is the word that comes to mind. She could bend roofing nails with her gaze while coaxing sunflowers out of poisoned soil. She could re-create the world from memory and bring dead dogs back to life. Don’t cross her) and I moved from the sylvan climes of Williamsburg Brooklyn back home to the land of our meeting New Orleans. The move was kind of sudden—we’d been talking about it pre-k, but decided after we’d secured a Bunyonesque space in the nine that it was put up or shut up time. Compared to NOLA New York just doesn’t seem that interesting. But what the hell? We had a blast up there and for me it was great to play with some new people and in some new places. Bill Malchow and Brad Gunyon are total motherfuckers. But to wash dishes to finance your music fix just don’t seem right.

 I won’t go into the saga of our journey South. Suffice it to say that cats can get out of those cages, if they’re ornery enough. Along the way it changed from winter to spring and when WWOZ started to come through on the radio of the Penske truck, and the glow of the city became visible in the sky at about 8:00 pm on the twin-span—have you seen that?—shit just started making sense. We had time to wash our faces and change our socks before heading to the Circle Bar for the first Wednesday night gig. I had so stones and had to call it a night after one set, but the pattern was re-established. In the land of the Weird He was King who had clean socks and a clean face—at least that night. And the attendance was perfectly sparse, so I don’t think anyone got hung up.

 Somewhere around the end of February they had Mardi Gras and that was kinda fun. All in all, as far as Fat Tuesday was concerned, I’d have to give it an A-plus. The weather was stunning. The whole carnival season was tinged with such heavy feeling for everyone—I never saw people verklempt at the Krewe du Vieux before. I’ve never been one for parades, really, but this year it seemed like a Civic Duty. We got to hear that rarest of things at the Muses parade—some real live New Orleans high school marching bands—and I swear to god I almost wept like an altar boy after a particularly harrowing Station of the Cross.

 The Bass Parade came off in grand style as well, even with the glaring absence of one of our founders Joe Cabral. People just started showing up at the R Bar around 2:00 or so. I brought an acoustic bass to which I rigged up an improvised strap with clothesline, and once again I was the loudest guy there, which is the main trick with the bass parade. I’ll try to include some photos of the hallowed event on this site, but there might still be some floating around on www.nola.com.

 On Fat Tuesday I went as Canada. I sang the anthem in both English and French most of the day. The worst part was people thinking I was the USA because I painted myself red.

 So what’s new? You may ask. Well, the cars running again after a quick $400.00 infusion to fix the starter along with some other things. The weather has been super fabulous as well. We give the destructo-tour to whomever is visiting. The lower nine is getting kind of touristy, actually. We can’t get the phone company or the cable company to come hook us up to the interweb where we live, which goes a little way towards explaining the huge gaps between updates. Hell—it’s almost the middle of April as I write this, and the last thing I remember writing here was around Halloween. Forgive me, gentle reader. The vagaries of the local communications utilities have conspired against Yours Truly. But those who follow these pointless ravings on this site are by now accustomed to huge gaps in The Tale. I can hear you calling Bullshit through my back porch window. All the way from up in Maine or the Dakotas, or wherever in Hell it is you live. Actually, what I am in fact hearing from my porch window is Andre Williams argue with some guys from the 40s next door behind the studio. I think they’ve been drinking all day and they’re getting into the Rock and Roll. Sort of like spitting fire into your rum salad. I’ll bet it’s going to sound sublime.

 OK. Now for some real news. We’re having the first annual Chazfest here at the Farm on Thursday May 4 so be there. www.chazfestival.com . The beer will be cheap and pray to god or whoever it is you pray to that it doesn’t rain. We’re going to have our own cops, toilets, the whole shebang. This is my first foray into concert promotion and even I have to admit my heart goes out to Quint. And Quint, if you’re reading this, stop by that day and we’ll have a quiet drink alone upstairs here at the house. Just you and me. I’m going to take back all those things I said about you and maybe even ask you for a job, because all my friends I couldn’t fit into the schedule are treating me like a leper. But fuck those guys, eh, Quint? Fuck them and their cheap bitterness. They just don’t know the angles. Guys like us, we gotta make the tough calls EVERY fucking day of our LIVES. Fuckin-A. And you know, Quint, I’ll even bust out some of the good whiskey and as the shadows lengthen in my sanctum sanctorum we’ll walk to the window and feast our eyes about at all that which I have created. Over the din a silence will come through the room and I’ll put my left arm around your shoulder as I take a pull from the glass with my free hand. That’s right. And I’ll say to you, “My man. See those fuckers down there shaking it in front of my stage? See those dumb sons of bitches lining up for my bathrooms? Drinking that piss beer? They think they’re having some sort of Authentic Experience.”

And you will bring that good whisky around in the glass with your left hand and raise it to your eye and wink.
     “They always do, my man,” you will say.  “They always do.”

 

It was the Chinese, I think, who came up with the proverb "may you live in interesting times". Well, maybe it wasn’t a proverb at all, but a curse. Something one might say to a rival or an adversary. Nonetheless, it was this phrase that stuck in my mind when Kourtney and I took our first look at post-Katrina New Orleans a few weeks ago. A very interesting place. You should go take a look. Another thing that got into my head was those Hindu guys and their notion that the Gods created us for their own amusement. I’m sure I’m mistaken, but somewhere down the line I heard that Krishna or Vishnu or whoever set up this proscenium one day and peopled it with people, wound them up and let it rip and now they’ve got a never ending Laverne and Shirley going on while they loll around the universe and eat papaya salad or whatever it is they eat up there. Now that I think about it, I find that it’s a shame that this hurricane/deluge didn’t happen to the Chinese or the Indians, who are much better equipped to deal with it. Here in America our homegrown ecclesiastical mechanism is capable only of imagining a vengeful God who’s only delight is visiting His wrath upon the sinful. This idea is so hilarious that it gives me faith in this great nation. If Jesus could come back and see what people are doing in His name, he would never stop throwing up. Max Von Sydow said that. We live in a state of Irony. Ho ho…Big Ideas here. I know what you’re thinking…He’s drunk—he’s inhaling something…but what the hell. As long as I’m dropping names I think I’ll invoke the venerable Albert Einstein, who made the bold assertion that "God doesn’t play dice". Well, Al, I beg to differ. In fact, I say that God doesn’t only play dice, He plays blackjack, counts cards, shoots pool and does a little loan-sharking on the side. And that’s why I love Him. My god is a fun God, albeit a little slippery. Go down to the lower 9 and check out the barge that parked itself on the school bus next to the "no dumping" sign. A finer feeling of communion cannot be had at any price, in my opinion. Me and the Hindi agree on this, and it makes it easier to breathe.

Another great thing about Katrina is now everyone has something to talk about. In our five short days there we got some jist of the overall conversation. "How’d you make out?" is a good opener and if things get stale you can always whip out "Who’s your tree guy?". All my shit came out fine and dandy. We are three doors down from the river, after all. We were lucky in that it didn’t smell as bad as it did at first. It was also nice and quiet. Freilich was ruminating one day that the overall tone of the city was like summer, but even quieter. He imagined a "fifth season" when summer finally rolls around, sort of like a moon of Pluto, where everything actually stops. That sounds like the place for me.

It’s also nice to finally hear broadcasters pronouncing the words "New Orleans" more correctly. They have finally spent enough time in that wounded city to jettison the classic mispronouncement "New Orleenz", and not warp it the other way with an exaggerated "Naulenz". I even overheard an NFL broadcast the other day that didn’t have that trademark four-syllable "New Or-lee-yinz" they’ve been using for years. So you see, life is just full of little blessings!!!

I’m not making any threats, but it seems the New York adventure is coming to an end. Compared to New Orleans this town is just plain boring. In fact, just about all of the US of A is pretty boring, as are the vast majority of North Americans. Not like the Northern Irish or the Banglideshi, who always have something to talk about and dance better than us, frankly. "Love it or leave it", you might say, and I would tell you that I tried to, and being half-Canadian wasn’t good enough for the Canadian Consulate. Quintron said it very well when he said that New Orleans is still one of the weirdest towns in the world. Friction and stink make for great art, they say. And while I am not an artist, but an entertainment personality, I will say here that the situation is excellent. I might even come up with a Mardi Gras costume this year.

Can anyone tell me where I can get a best-ham sandwich?

Hello everyone. I finally have a little free time to piss away on the diary. Obviously there’s a lot going on. I have been running the two nights of New Orleans Band Hangs every Tuesday and Wednesday, and it’s a different lineup every night. Also working the job washing the glasses and taking out the trash. But I am fed and the bills are paid and there are new tires on the car.

Standard Time has been in effect for a week now and with it comes the old familiar gloomy feeling. Like when you put on the winter coat for the first time. Everyone seems to love the fall (some would say Autumn) but I don’t. All around me I see only Death and Football. Both are inevitabilities, but it is probably the NFL that depresses me the most. It’s a sad and weary spectacle of pure boredom punctuated occasionally with hypercharged pituitary cases flinging themselves about to the tune of that stupid Gary Glitter song. And if Freddie Mercury were alive today to witness the whorish gang-fuck his song has become the soundtrack to, he would never stop throwing up. At least when I had season tickets to the Saints we were all in the front row and didn’t have to watch the game. Just drink enough to forget that it was noon on a Sunday (!!!) and you just paid eight dollars for a slice of cold pizza. Every once in a while Fish would let you know that it was third down and it was time to shriek, then you could go right back to socializing and screaming obscenities at the place-kicker, who had the misfortune of practicing kicking the ball into his little net not ten feet away from us. Chris Rose summed New Orleans up best when he wrote in his column that Katrina could never be the death-knell of a city that has been rooting for the Saints for thirty five years. Well put, my man.

These are Strange Days indeed. I never figured I’d find myself in a band with Rob Wagner, Shatzy and a character named Simon Lott who is a truly Strange Man. The other night at Micky’s Blue room I had brought my acoustic guitar and we were playing a country tune of mine. The solo section came around and now we’re hearing a soprano saxophone. I think that’s pretty messed up, me. In all seriousness it has been an honor to be playing with those guys as well as Martin Krushe, Scott Murchison, Evan Christopher, Brian Coogan, Coco Robicheaux, Dave Easley, Matt Perrine and Washbord Chaz, Glenn Hartman, Benjamin Ellman and the irrepressible James Andrews. The NYC cats have been great too. Dan Green on Dave Dreywitz on bass, Brad Gunyon and Claude Coleman on drums. "This next one’s entitled ‘Ooh Ooh Pah Doo’ (just trust me, dude. It’s in E flat and it’s a blues. I’m gonna count it off…)" Everyone’s just rolling with it including the audiences who have been shaking it properly. And people are still showing up. Cass Faulkner and Brian Seeger came by the other night and might be here for a little bit. I talked to Luke Allen the other night. He was quite drunk and said he needed a gig, a band and some floor space. I hear Lynn Drury might be on her way as well. Strange days indeed…

Perhaps the strangest moment of all was the New Orleans contingent of the Halloween Parade. We had the Rebirth and the Hot 8 rolling down Sixth Avenue with some lady buck-jumpers, Henry Griffin running the show and a whole lot of confused New Yorkers holding umbrellas. I’ll never forget the stunned looks on the faces of the spectators behind the police barricades. I don’t think they knew what to make of it. But for me the best moment was seeing the Hot 8 at a place called Bait and Tackle in Red Hook. They were an hour late and I heard that someone asked, "how long does it take for them to set up?" The dropping of the jaws was about what you would expect when they finally hit the stand. I’ll come right out and say it—I had to fight back the tears when I saw a newly fattened-up Keith "Wolf" Anderson take his first solo of the night. I’m getting kind of emotional even as I write this. On the break we got to swap war stories and generally shoot the shit and you would swear we were all You Know Where. And now we all know there is a There there. And while we are all here and there, the There is Everywhere. And I believe in my soul that the situation will be excellent, me.

Yeah you right.

Well they say there’s a hurricane going on in New Orleans today. All my television offers is The People’s Court. My phone gets no incoming calls. For some reason I can’t get online. I seem to have drifted into a paradise of ignorance. All I know is that my friend Yvette has assured me that my 1960 Fender Concert amplifier is safe on the second story of her house. All in all, I’d say the situation is excellent.

We had some tours lately, one with 007 and another with the Tin Men immediately afterwards. Before I say anything else I’d like to talk a little about a place called Grape Street in Philadelphia.

If you read my last diary entry, you will recall a little rant about a certain club that stiffed the Tin Men last spring. I didn’t use the name of the club because I had to play there again with 007. You will also recall that in that rant of several months ago that I had in mind some actions that I was going to take with their representative, should I have the ill fortune to cross paths with him this time around. In all the hubbub leading up to these tours, I forgot to get a copy of the Pennsylvania State Civil Service exam, which I meant to give to their factotum, as a small gesture of my esteem. I think my purpose was to shove it up his ass or somesuch.

It’s too bad that I didn’t have the document, but it makes no difference as I made it clear to the band that I would have do dealings with the management. My hostility towards this place would surely get the better of me, and in the end would not have been productive at all. The gig was set up through persons in Philadelphia who have regular dealings with the club, who had assured us that there would be absolutely no question of our getting our guarantee.

In the end we did not get our guarantee (a very modest sum, I can assure you), but only a portion of it. The first I heard of this was after we had loaded up the van and were ready to depart for New York. I’m pretty sure I laughed when I heard the news. This world is pretty tough, even without the lying, scumsucking, soulless cunts at Grape Street Philadelphia.

Let me be Perfectly Clear: GRAPE STREET PHILADELPHIA RIPS OFF MUSICIANS.

Grape Street is located in Manayunk, sort of a trendy, Philly version of Williamsbug, Brooklyn. They had us on a bill following two metal bands and a sort of jazz combo. We went on after midnight on a Wednesday, charged us for our drinks and food and were generally hostile, especially about parking. This club sucks ass—Don’t go.

Extreme Touring

This is my new term for booking a tour on the day of the gig. If you were interested in how July’s Woodstock shows went with the wack band opening up for Buckwheat Zydeco and the Subdudes at the Joyous Lake, I can tell you that we didn’t get our guarantee. The promoter said he’d mail me a check when his online ticket sales came through. That never happened. But I was hopeful because I knew that the Tin Men were scheduled to play there in August for the promoter’s birthday party, as well as the club gig. As it happened, Chaz’s wife, Jessica, was surfing the interweb and came across the Joyous Lake website. Seeing no Tin Men listed, she e-mailed the club and got a response from them to the effect that we had cancelled. This is on Friday afternoon as we were preparing to leave for upstate. I made some calls and finally got to speak with the woman who does the bookings for the place. She talked to me for over a half an hour about this promoter character, who vanished owing a lot of people a lot of money. He goes by three different aliases—Scot Stanley, Scot Blend, and Scot Dion, and pulled similar capers on the West Coast. He is Irish and told Matt Perrine he’d been taking elocution lessons in order to lose his brogue. The booking lady (Janet Morra—a very nice woman who was a big help in filling thye gaps in our knowledge) intimated to me that she’d heard that Scot and his family were involved with the IRA. He owes money to a bunch of bands including several New Orleans acts. He also owes money to backline companies and music venues. He’s pulled scams involving online ticket sales. And we were supposed to play this guy’s birthday party. This is where Extreme Touring comes in.

What we did was call every place we could think of and ask if we could play that night. Will Beam of the Meeting House at Cold Spring, NY came through for us on the Friday night, and Mike Mikkelson of the Black Swan in Tivoli, NY, let us play on both Saturday and Sunday nights. To these two fine gentlemen we owe our heartfelt gratitude. From what would have been sheer disaster we salvaged our weekend rather nicely. And the shows were pretty cool. The Cold Spring show was especially rewarding because these people had absolutely no idea what to expect when we came rolling in with the tuba and the washboard. They scratched their heads a little at first, but when it was all over we made some fans and sold some CDs.

P.S….But all this was pre-Katrina. I’ll have to save the post-Katrina stuff fro later. I’m just too inundated

Alex - Video Diary Entry - Play (1.4Mb QuickTime)

It’s nice to finally be able to get a moment to do a diary entry. I’ve been busy as hell, and nothing sticks in my head right now, so I’m just going to try to catch up. There have been a lot of things in the past few months that have happened where I said to myself, “gee, there’s something for the diary”, but for the most part it’s good that I didn’t put them down as they were at least in one case a totally vitriolic rant about the scumsucking, lying, venal cunt who screwed one of my bands out of some money at a certain club that, unfortunately, I’ll have to play at again. Suffice it to say, this piece of dogshit will get a large piece of my opinion shoved very far up his ass as soon as this certain gig is over and whatever pittance this slimeball deems fit to hand over is duly delivered. Take it from me—Showbiz is an ugly trade. Sometimes I wish I had taken my father’s advice and taken the civil service exam right straight out of college. But I am not a Morning Person and would probably never last at, say, the Parks Department, or the County Assessor’s Office. I have never had the knack of running a fiefdom and coming down on hardworking honest folks like you and me. This fuckhead I’m talking about has all the qualities you’d find in a meter maid or a loan officer, so perhaps he’s really found his niche booking a club. But perhaps I’ll bring along an application for the civ test, so this asshole can at least know that there’s something for him out there suitable for his temperament. I can see the exchange going something like this: “Hey you guys were great! You had 60 people paid minus the 70/30 split minus production costs. Plus you guys drank $106.00 worth of tequila. Here’s $19.75”. To which I will say “Holy jumping George! Thanks a lot, pal! We LOVED playing here tonight! By the way, do you remember me from last spring? Probably not but I remember you and I brought along an application for the Civil Service Exam. I’ll bet with your intelligence and experience you could easily get a position peeling gum up off the sidewalk. You and your club obviously need this money a lot more than us, so why don’t you keep the $19.75 and use it towards your application fee? Either that or shove it up your ass?”

But this will not be that kind of ugly submission. No. I’m feeling fine and light today. Last night I got to do a gig with Dave Driewitz and Claude Coleman at The Delancey, and it was fucking stellar. We fucked just about everything up, but it was like a blitzkrieg. The shit was Up and Loud, and my broken left hand didn’t even hurt. Those guys are real pros and know a thing or two about the business of Rock And Roll. Kevin O’Day was in town with Anders Osborne and Magnetic Ear, who played after us, and he sat in on the F-bowl tune My Money and completely kicked its ass. I thought I’d never want to hear that shit again but it was worth it that one time. Maybe we’ll play it again in about five years.

Other shit that’s been happening is the Tin Men just played a wedding in Malibu, CA last weekend in the midst of sheer opulence. O.K., so we had to play a Billy Joel song and Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer”, but after we got that shit out of the way we kicked their asses. The sound company, in their inestimable competence, forgot to bring a guitar amplifier (although I’m sure they charged the family for it), but that didn’t matter. The guests were, for the most part, completely bewildered and transfixed. I don’t think what the Tin Men bring is available at all in Phoenix, AZ, or in the rack at the register at any Starbucks. The role of the Tin Men is to Confuse and Enlighten. We achieved that rather handily.

So. The new website is coming along pretty good. I’ll have the paypal and cdbaby shit going soon, as well as some more pictures. Maybe even some video. The guy who’s helping me with all this sent me an e-mail today to let me know that he’s putting the software I need to run this thing myself in the mail today. That means I’ll be just about 100% self-sufficient until something goes wrong, as it inevitably will. Drop me a line if you’ve got any suggestions or problems.

Not too much happening in July except Dave, Claude and myself going up to Woodstock to open for the Subdudes and Buckwheat Zydeco on the 15th and 16th (see “shows” for details), and some sort of aggregation to perform at John and Peter’s in New Hope, PA on the 23rd. August will feature tours by the Tin Men and 007 in the Northeast. Also the next New Orleans sojourn will be in September. Stay tuned for details.

That’s about it. I’ll try to have something more entertaining next time, but I’m not making any promises.

I suppose I should make an entry into this web-deal. Nothing really in the way of news. Just waiting around for some lady at the hospital to call and interview me about getting into Medicaid. Its 10:15 in the morning and I've been up for an hour. I think I would give my right eye for a cigarette.

Its Mardi Gras time again. Balls to this. Neck deep in assholes from Teaneck to Tacoma, all parking themselves between me and where I have to go, and not a red cent in their fanny-packs. Yessir, it's a one hour commute between Gallier and Canal streets these days. Does anyone out there know anything about flamethrowers? Send any and all info/schematics/prototypes to 615 Gallier st. nola 70117. What I've been craving is a big, mean-looking fire-spitter. Jellied gasoline flying across Bourbon St. Pale, waxy tourist-legs soaked with burning liquid fire. Shazam!

Perhaps I should do this a little later in the day.

Well kids. If you tried to come see me play in January 2004 you were shit out of luck for the most part because i caught pneumonia in NYC and spent 2 weeks in the hospital. All manner of fucking tubes and wires coming out of me. I looked and felt like something out of science fiction. But I'm out now and they say I am going to live. Managed to get one in at the Lakeside Lounge Tues 1/20 (thanks everyone for coming out), which went well, although my voice sounded a bit like Peter Brady's. The big story is that they put me on The Patch, so no smoking. The tradeoff isn't as bad as it could have been, for The Patch gives you the most vivid dreams about mathematics you can imagine. As i was warned by Jim Merrill up in Maine. I'll be back in New Orleans Feb. 4 to go back to the Old Grind at the Circle Bar. Where i shall share all the news of my trip with the stalwarts. As always, no cover charge. 11 pm sharp.

This Just In. Stay tuned for possible dates 1/29 and 2/3 at Mickey's Blue Room in the East Village. D.B.A. in NYC would have the number.