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.”