“French Quarter Fest, and other musical highlights”
Oh no, it happened again. I’ve fallen behind on these posts. And now I have a cast on my right hand and struggle to type. So…the next few posts will be short on words.
Our flight attendant friend, Amy, was in town on Tuesday for a layover. We met up for a delicious dinner at Kingfish, and then a cocktail in the lovely Peychaud’s patio.
We experienced a large storm on Wednesday – tornadoes doing a lot of damage in nearby towns. Our only casualty was the jasmine plant on the side wall – blown down by high winds.
The weather improved significantly on Thursday, and we enjoyed French Quarter Festival – a free music and food festival with stages around the Quarter.
We started with Lena Prima at Jackson Square. She’s the daughter of Louis Prima, a famous singer from the 50s and 60s.
Her Tom Jones medley was a crowd pleaser.
We walked over to a river front stage and saw Alex McMurray put on a great show:
That was followed by the Cuban Latin fusion of Los Guiros. Such a great variety of music:
Chris Thomas King’s blues skills were the last offering we caught at that stage:
We moved to the large stage and caught fun sets from Bonerama (4 trombones) and Ivan Neville and friends with a fun Talking Heads cover:
We spent a bit of time at the festival again on Friday, catching the wonderful New Orleans Suspects:
Diana attended our neighbour, Augie’s, 3rd birthday on Friday afternoon.
Kenny and Kara joined us at the Maple Leaf on Friday night for the South Austin Moonlighters. A very talented band from Austin. Their guitars and harmonies were awesome:
What an amazing few days of enjoyable and varied music. One of the big reasons that we live here.
Saturday was a rest day, and then we met the Krewe to celebrate Denny’s birthday and watch the Pelicans basketball.
My book was “The Comedians” by Graham Greene. Here’s an online summary:
“Haiti, under the rule of Papa Doc and his menacing paramilitary, the Tontons Macoute, has long been abandoned by tourists. Now it is home to corrupt capitalists, foreign ambassadors and their lonely wives—and a small group of enterprising strangers rocking into port on the Dutch cargo ship, Medea: a well-meaning pair of Americans claiming to bring vegetarianism to the natives; a former jungle fighter in World War II Burma and current confidence man; and an English hotelier returning home to the Trianon, an unsalable shell of an establishment on the hills above the capital. Each is embroiled in a charade. But when they’re unsuspectingly bound together in this nightmare republic of squalid poverty, torrid love affairs, and impending violence, their masks will be stripped away.”
I really do enjoy some of the descriptions very much:
“Mr. Smith, who wore a shabby raincoat turned up to guard his large innocent hairy ears, was pacing the deck behind us, one lock of white hair standing up like a television aerial in the wind, and a travelling-rug carried over his arm.”
An exchange that reminded me of all the hassle associated with Louisiana and the Napoleonic law structure:
“Then he ought to be brought before a magistrate and put on bail. i will stand bail for any reasonable amount.”
“Bail?” the Minister said. “Bail?” He turned to me with a gesture of appeal from his cigar. “What is bail?”
“A kind of gift to the state if a prisoner should not return for trial. It can be quite a substantial amount.” I added.
“You’ve heard of Habeas Corpus, I suppose,” Mr. Smith said.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. But I have forgotten so much of my Latin. Virgil. Homer. I regret that I no longer have time to study.”
I said to Mr. Smith, “The basis of the law here is supposed to be the Code Napoleon.”
“The Code Napoleon?”
“There are certain differences from the Anglo-Saxon law. Habeas Corpus is one of them.”
“A man has to be charged surely.”
The origin of the title:
“There’s something about him I don’t believe, not altogether. I was reminded, when I talked to him, of a time when I was young and I persuaded a London restaurant to take me on because I could talk French – I said I’d been a waiter at Fouquet’s. I was expecting all the time that someone would call my bluff, but no one did. I made a quick sale of myself, like a reject with the price-label stuck over the flaw. And again, not so long ago, I sold myself just as successfully as an art expert – no one called my bluff then either. I wonder sometimes whether Jones isn’t playing the same game. I remember looking at him one night on the boat from America – it was after the ship’s concert – and wondering, are you and I both comedians?”
The ambassador said, “Come on, cheer up, let us all be comedians together. Take one of my cigars. Help yourself at the bar. My Scotch is good. Perhaps even Papa Doc is a comedian.”
“The ambassador said, “We mustn’t complain too much of being comedians – it’s an honourable profession. If only we could be good ones the world might gain at least a sense of style. We have failed – that’s all. We are bad comedians, we aren’t bad men.”
I always enjoy Greene’s work, and this one is pretty relevant now, given the disaster that is Haiti.
No more music this week.
Coexist peacefully, with patience and compassion for all!