Somehow I missed the fact that there’s a new New Orleans documentary on the scene–and it looks fantastic. Centered on the history of the Faubourg Tremé, it’s got great music, great footage, great names attached to it–Brenda Marie Osbey, Leni Sloan, Lolis Eric Elie, and Wynton Marsalis, to name a few–and best of all, it’s celebratory, not mournful. As the website says:

Faubourg Tremé is arguably the oldest black neighborhood in America, the birthplace of the Civil Rights movement in the South and the home of jazz. While the Tremé district was damaged when the levees broke, this is not another Katrina documentary. Every frame is a tribute to what African American communities have contributed even under the most hostile of conditions.

Also, no Chris Rose. Seriously, check it:

CLICK HERE TO SEE THE TRAILER
Since Wordpress sucks for embedding media

(Thanks Xeni and BoingBoing!)

I never really know what to blog about when I visit home these days. I want to report on things like an excellent meal at Drago’s or the difficulty of tracking down and affording enough crawfish to be worth firing up the boiler this season, but it just doesn’t seem important enough when people are getting water in their houses all over again.

But then again, life in the city continues, and it’s not all disaster all the time. Right? …right?

Right. I guess. Anyway, I’ve got pics of the Jefferson Parish pumping station safe-houses to share in a post tomorrow or next day. So it ain’t drinking and dancing and biscuits and jelly 24/7, either.

Anyway, last night was a Thursday night. I have a usenet acquaintance who’s been telling me for years that next time I’m in town I need, really requisitely need, to go to Vaughn’s of a Thursday night when Kermit Ruffins is holding court. And when Katrina touched down, one of the laughably out-of-perspective trivial thoughts that crossed my mind–you know what I’m talking about, the less important losses you babble about to distract yourself from the big losses–was, “Damn! I waited too long and now I’ll never get to do that!”

But in fact it is a thing still doable, and my husband and I done did it last night.
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Carrollton Station hosts a benefit for Engineers Without Borders featuring Dash Rip Rock, Susan Cowsill, Motorway, BarStool Logic and my lovely friend, Amanda Walker. Please join us to help international engineers bring healthy drinking water to the people of Nicaragua. $5 (or more, if you wish) at the door. Sunday (11/12), 7pm, 8140 Willow St. (at the end of the tracks) in Carrollton.

I just returned from The Kerry Irish Pub on Decatur where Truckstop Honeymoon is playing. They were hit hard by Katrina and had to move to Kansas where they still reside while they rebuild here in New Orleans. That story can be found here.

In case you are sad, you missed the show tonight, turn that frown upside down and go see them tomorrow at d.b.a. on Frenchmen.

Like my friend, Tom Henehan. Actually, Tom was a little bit “out there” before. In a good way. Here’s the latest from him:

Tom Henehan
folk / country / blues / dylan / the band / the dead
and other such Old Hippy Shit
All Proven Material ~ No Originals! Cringe-Free Listening Experience Guaranteed

ONE HOUR ONLY!
Monday, July 24, 8 pm
Neutral Ground Coffee House
5110 Daneel (Way Uptown)
No Cover! No Booze! Cheap!!

I’ve been doing this one night a month for a while now, with very few folks showing up. (I didn’t even send out a notice last time ~ my bad!)

Free AND Cringe Free! Only one hour! How can you beat that?

Well, Jazzfest is finally over (actually, it was over a few days ago, but let’s not be technical here). I’m writing from recovery, a necessary step after 10 days of debauchery and abuse. K, a mightier soul than I, has gone on to Los Angeles. I believe she has scheduled a high colonic and a meeting with Madonna’s Kabbalah advisor to exorcise the Jazzfest demons.

We made it through the last 2 days, valiantly, though we were a bit unsteady as we teetered down the jetway to our Delta chariot. An evening hangover is **not** pretty. It may also have been the large shrimp bread we inhaled while killing time at the gate. Or perhaps the spinach and artichoke casserole that was ingested on the run out of the fairgrounds. Maybe a leeetle too much dairy product.

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My first day at Jazz Fest started Friday at 5AM with a flight out of DC’s National Airport and ended about 22 hours later when K (no, not that bitch K who everyone here, understandably, is so upset with) and I realized that perhaps we should call it a night after we backed out of a toll booth on the Mississippi River bridge at about 2AM. In front of a po-lice ossifer. That was after a series at least 4 U-turns in which we had endeavored, quite unsuccessfully, to find the approach to the bridge, on the Algiers side of the river.

Algiers has become popular with musicians and other cheap-rent-seeking folks who fled New Orleans after Katrina. However, I don’t think the cheap rent lasted long.

K and I had been lured over the bridge by a chance to see the Campbell Brothers perform with a bunch of local musicians, including Anders Osborne (Warning - music autoplays), a Swedish transplant and slide maestro, and his sousaphone player, Kirk Joseph.
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