Brianland

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Whatever the particulars of any all-encompassing multi-day music festival you’ve been to — this one takes place in New Orleans.  When the festival music is over each night, instead of driving into a traffic jam or walking to a campground or checking into some generic hotel, you’re living in history and set loose in New Orleans.  And with apologies to New York, this is the REAL city that never sleeps.

And it’s a music town with more great clubs than you’ll ever be able to hit with shows that start at all hours of the day and night so you can be hearing live music until the sun comes up if you want.

But the Fest itself is something that takes place over two consecutive weekends at a “Fairgrounds” that’s normally a horse racing track.

They’ve been doing it for over 40 years and have got it down masterfully in every regard.  And because it’s so good, people keep coming back and a group mind of kindness has evolved and runs through everyone from the groundskeepers to the headliners.  I call it “The Random Acts of Kindness Festival” because that’s what it is.

Whereas most festivals give booking preference to out-of-town acts, Fest is the opposite.  Rather than being shut-out, local musicians come home from world tours to be central figures, doing 2 shows on a slow day.  This is a celebration of The Musicians’ City, and nobody misses the party.

The Festival Grounds:

This was the big beautiful surprise to me — how much I LOVED being on those grounds.  It’s only open 8 hours a day — from 11AM to 7PM.  And the most fun days are the two Fridays and the Thursday when you kinda have the place to yourself with about half the crowd of the weekends.

That The Grateful Dead are the most ubiquitous band represented on t-shirts, flags etc. (“I saw a DeadHead sticker on a stop sign.”) makes sense because DeadHeads created their own culture within their audience-world.  The same thing has happens at Fest — in large part because the same people have been going year after year.

It’s hard to convey — but it’s utopian.  Every single person is SO nice you won’t believe it.  It’s a music festival for cool adults.  And the field is designed so brilliantly — again, over 40+ years of evolution.

At each end of the giant oval they have a main stage.  One of them had your Bruce, Petty, Beach Boys, Eagles — and the other end had your Florence & The Machine, Bon Iver, My Morning Jacket, Fiest — so all the young people into the newer music are at one end, and the slightly older demo is all the way at the other.

Then in the middle there’s a Congo Square stage with sort-of more all black artists, and another stage that’s basically bluegrass styles and wooden music, and another stage that has traditional New Orleans music.  Then there are 3 main giant tents that have rows of chairs for about a thousand people or more — one that’s all gospel, one that’s all blues, and one that’s all jazz.

There are 12 stages in all, all running simultaneously.  And you can get anywhere really easily and quickly.  The opening day I was listening to Bon Iver at one end of the fairgrounds, looked at my watch, headed to the Beach Boys at the far end and was there in four minutes!

And the festival is famous for running the stages like clockwork — I’ve never experienced anything like it in a lifetime of going to shows and festivals.  Sets start and end the minute the schedule says they will.  And all the performers buy in, and nobody overruns their slot — except sometimes the final headlining acts of the day will run a few minutes past 7:00.  Or in Bruce’s case, 25 minutes past.  😉

At the two main stages they mark off an enormous area in front of the stage as standing room only — so, the people who want to bring chairs and camp out for the day can’t take the area right in front of the stage.  And it causes turnover in the standing area cuz people don’t wanna go and stand there the whole day.

95 different local restaurateurs are providing the food so it’s all different and really good and not your normal food vender crap at all.  Like, you can’t buy a hotdog or hamburger anywhere on the site!  And there’s about a dozen giant tents selling beer to go, and also booths that sell champaign and wine.

And there’s about 40 gazillion port-o-potties, plus this giant grandstand building with regular porcelain bathrooms if that’s your need.

But those are all just the physical amenities — what’s really special and unique is the mindset of everyone who’s there.  You could say it’s like being at a church revival in that everyone is joyous and extremely polite and reverential and in love with each other like everyone’s on ecstasy or something.  And friendly — my gawd!  Most everyone has traveled from somewhere far away to be in this special place and so you’re all united in the mindset of joy and gratitude and camaraderie with like-minded music lovers.  I also call it “The Good Ears Festival.”   And I thought I knew a lot about music, but holy heck!  I am such a musical novice!

The thing I missed the most when it was over were the people — both the soulful locals and the intrepid visitors.  Fest is not peopled by the idiots on Bourbon Street or young loogans chasing the pop band of the day, but rather by people with really broad musical minds who travel to hear musicians from all over the world they’ve never even heard of playing and blending every strata and style of music imaginable.

It’s Dr. John playing with Bruce Springsteen. (above)
It’s Ani DiFranco playing with the Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
It’s Pancho Sanchez playing with Terence Blanchard.

And it’s a festival full of people who “get it.”

One of the most interesting things I noticed was — there’s all these stages going on with vastly different styles of music and in front of every one of them people are having epiphanistic experiences.  You’ll be having yours somewhere — and meanwhile someone is in tears of salvation at a gospel show, someone else is catching some South American band you’ve never heard of saying it was the musical highlight of their life, others are second-line dancing in finger-waving joy at a party at a brass band stage, others are jaw-dropped in rapture at some one-time-ever jazz combo, and others are standing playing air guitar at some thunderous blues stage.  And when the day is over and you think you’ve been in the magic spot for the best possible music — every single person you talk to will have been at an entirely different series of performances and feel exactly the same way that they were at the once-in-a-lifetime magic moment spot.

And with the shows all being held in daylight — in a complete contrast to almost every performer’s regular gigs — they can see the faces of everyone in the audience, and respond in energetic kind.  They’re performing in our house — at a great party.  This isn’t their concert in some arena.  This is in the people’s field on sacred ground at a special festival with an audience who have more discerning ears than just about any other place the musicians ever play.

It’s hard to grasp just how big and awe-inspiring and fun this whole thing is.  I’m trying to put it into words, but you really can’t.  There’s something literally divine about this place — something intangible, transcendent, spiritual, and life-affirming that has to be experienced to be believed.  And even then you won’t believe it.

The Night Shows — aka “The Jazz Fest Endurance Test”

So, what happens is — you get out of Fest a little after 7:00.  Which looks sumpthin like this, if you’re the last person leaving:  🙂

As soon as you walk out the gate, you’re in this residential neighborhood of old houses — most of them bungalows with nice big peopled porches — and in this couple block area there are numerous street parties going on, including around a corner bar named Liuzza’s that’s selling beer and Bloody Mary’s out a back window faster than you could sell ice cream in a desert.

The general rule of thumb is to hang with these hangsters for a while and let some of the crowd melt back into the city and then you can jump on a bus, or streetcar, or cram in a cab with a buncha other crazies and for $5 each head to the Quarter.

One of the many Jazz Fest evolutions over time has been advent of a site called JazzFestGrids.com which lists in a grid form starting from before Fest until after it’s over, every club in the city and every show they have every day and night.  It makes it super easy to scan through every show in the city to pick your poison for the evening’s dosing.

It seems like there’s about a hundred clubs and they almost all have 2 or 3 shows a night — basically an 8:00, an 11 and a 2AM show.  So, if you don’t make it to two different clubs in a night you’re sort of slacking off.  But at an absolute minimum you go somewhere and hear something that blows your head off.

And a great n hilarious thing is — so many of the shows are not even bands!  They’re just 3 or 4 different cats from different combos who are playing together that night in a one-off.  It’ll be some jazz horn player from the west coast with some rock drummer, some blues guitarist, and some B3 funk player.  Then, after the set, they all gotta leave because they’re each going to some other gig to play with a completely different line-up for the next time slot.  And this goes on for two freakin weeks!

But you have to pace yourself because you gotta be back at work at 11:00 the next morning.  And have proper footwear.

That’s why I call it “The Jazz Fest Endurance Test.”  😉

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For more on New Orleans and the Jazz Fest Adventure check out my “Gorgeous Gumbo” riff on it.

Or here’s The Acts I Caught At Jazz Fest.

Or here’s a recent Adventure with Dr. John in Toronto.

Or here’s another Adventure involving Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan.

Or here’s the “The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday” Adventure.

Or here’s the best of the best live music performances ever as curated thru RockPeaks.

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by Brian Hassett

karmacoupon@gmail.com

BrianHassett.com

Here’s the artists / bands / ensembles I caught at New Orleans Jazz Fest over the last week . . .
Thursday, April 26^th, 2012 (1)
— the Honey Island Swamp trio – at the Ogden Museum of Art

Friday at Jazz Fest (11)
— The Classic New Orleans Revue – with “Carnival Time” Johnson and all these other famous musical voices of the city — the perfect grounding start to Fest – from right in front of the front audience rail with the early Fest dancers

— James Andrews (Shorty’s brother) – just rocking it in the Blues Tent including second-lining around the room

— The Dixie Cups singing “Iko Iko” and “Take Me To Church On Time”

— Seun Kuti (Fela’s son) only for a couple of songs, but he was great!

— Chuck Leavell & Friends including Bonnie Bramlett – whole set from 5^th row center

— Bon Iver – great diversity in players & sounds

— Beach Boys – nuthin’ but hits – John Stamos joined on percussion

— Cubano Be-Bop – with Pancho Sanchez and Terence Blanchard

— Joe Krown – Wolfman Washington – Russell Batiste trio

— Robert Randolph & Family Band – from the front row of the VIP balcony

— The Grateful Dead’s Bill Kreutzmann, with Little Feat’s Paul Barree & Fred Tackett, Anders Osborne, Papa Mali, Billy Iuso – doing Friend, Franklins, Dixie Chicken–Tennessee Jed, Lovelight :-0 — from the center VIP podium

Saturday (7)
— Jon Cleary – thinking he sounds a lot like Dr. John, then he sits in with The Doctor for his entire set tomorrow!

— Voice of the Wetland Allstars – Dr. John, Tab Benoit, Cyril Neville, Johnny Sansone, Johnny Vidocovitch, Anders Osborne, etc. – dead center 20 feet from the front of audience rail

— Cee Lo Green – doing “F… You”

— Carolina Chocolate Drops – doin’ “Goin’ Down The Road Feelin’ Bad”

— Midnite Disturbers – with Stanton Moore, Treme Brass Band and others

— Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers – dead center 20 feet from front rail

— Allen Toussaint quartet – in a 50-seat jazz club

Sunday (11)
— Batiste Brothers – doing “Wonderful World” then “Black Magic Woman”!

— Trombone Shorty – Dave Koz joins him – dead center 10 feet from front rail

— Dr. John – with Jon Cleary for the whole set!  and the E Street Band all watching from the wings – dead center 10 feet from front rail

— Yolanda Adams – dead center 6 feet from the rail

— Bruce Springsteen and his New Orleans E Street Band! and Dr. John joining in! – dead center 10 feet from front rail

Here’s a sweet 90-second audio clip of me leaving the site after Bruce’s set — Brian post Springsteen comments – great

— Trombone Shorty – leaning on the front of the stage for the whole show!

— Karl Denson, Stanton Moore, Will Blades – essentially standing on the stage over Will Blades shoulder at the Blue Nile

— Herbie Hancock with 4 different ensembles involving Terence Blanchard, Kermit Ruffins, Dr. Michael White, Ellis Marsalis, the Treme Brass Band, and others – 10 feet from front of stage at Congo Square at sunrise to start International Jazz Day. 😉

Monday — Tipitina’s “Instruments a’ Comin'” show (9)
— two different 100-member marching bands!  – from the curb beside them

— Donald Harrison and the Tips Band – playing Miles Davis outside – from the sidewalk next to them

— “Wolfman” Washington – aaa-ouuuu – and then Henry Butler backed by Wolfman & band doin’ Prof. Longhair – on front rail of tiny Tips

— Galactic – joined by Glen David Andrews,  and Corey Glover – on front rail

— BIG – russell Batiste – Ivan neville – george Porter band – 3 feet from rail

— Dirty Dozen Brass Band – middle of half-full house

— Honey Island Swamp Band – with Papa Mali, an 11-piece band doing “Gotta Serve Somebody” – from middle of half-empty room at 1AM on a Monday night

Tuesday — “New Orleans Musicians For Obama” (12)
Entire benefit experienced from front row of VIP balcony!

— Caesar Brothers Funkbox – doing “Love The One You’re With”

— Kermit Ruffins – joined by Irvin Mayfield and Leroy Jones, including a jumpin’ “Iko”

— Claude Bryant – the guy I sat with.

— Fathers & Sons of the New Millennium – The Batiste Family Band

— Dumpstaphunk

— Papa Mali with Trombone Shorty, Cyril Neville, Kipori Woods, Rockin’ Dopsie and others

— Wolfman Washington, joined by Deacon Jones for “Statesboro Blues”

— Rejected Youth Nation

— Brass-a-holics

— The Meters reunion, with Dr. John in for Art, and Big Sam

— Cyril Neville’s Funkalicious – from the floor

— Marcia Ball with 8 horn players and Marie Muldour – from the floor

Wednesday (3)
— The Iko Allstars – in the Rusty Nail courtyard

— Absinthe Minded – doing “Got Stoned And I Missed It” by Jim Stafford at inside bar at Rusty Nail

— Honey Island Swamp Band – in Rusty Nail courtyard

Thursday — last day at Jazz Fest  (10)
— Dukes of Dixieland – guy on brass clarinet ! doing “Wonderful World” and loads of Louis Armstrong songs!

— George Porter & his phunk band Runnin’ Pardners – 3 feet from front rail

— Ivan Neville’s Dumpstaphunk with Ian Neville on guitar – all the waiting Florence fans totally blank-faced to George and Ivan! 🙂 – 10 feet from rail

— Ani DiFranco with The Preservation Hall Jazz Band ! — best surprise of the day!! – never would have got to hear them if not for Ani

— Esperanza Spalding – started 40 min. late then upright bass didn’t work! 🙁

— Florence & The Machine – the audience was like being at a high school dance at an all-girls school

— The Iguanas – great – Latin-Caribbean blend

— Jimmy Buffett – “Margaritaville” and “The Last Man Standing” – the last song I heard at Fest  🙂

— guy on grand piano doing “The Weight” for Levon at Jean Lafitte’s – the oldest bar in America – everybody gathered around the piano singing along – last (non street music) song I experienced in N.O. 😉

That’s 64 total artists/bands/ensembles, almost all of whom had additional masters join them on stage – for an average of 8 different all-star bands every day for 8 daze!

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For the full Adventure Story of this festival, check out my dispatches from the front — Gorgeous Gumbo.

Primer of how to do Fess for someone who hasn’t been — check out this First-Timers Planning Guide.

Or for more Adventures in Music — you may want to check out the (Route) 66 Best live performances ever captured on film.

Or how The Grateful Dead came to play my 30th birthday.

Or the night Dylan showed up at Springsteen’s show at Shea Stadium in New York.

Or when Neil Young returned to Massey Hall in Toronto.

Or when Paul Simon doing Graceland in Hyde Park in London.

Or Furthur came back and reprised the Dead at Madison Square Garden.

Or when the Dead, Janis, The Band and others took the Festival Express train trip across Canada.

Or the night I was hanging with Dr. John’s band in Toronto.

Or here’s the day I finally “got” Bob Dylan. 

Or the night we all lost John Lennon. 

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by Brian Hassett      karmacoupon@gmail.com        BrianHassett.com

It’s 4AM on Frenchmen Street in New Orleans —

on a dosey-doe night of subterranean hideaways and pirate characters right outta “Treasure Island” and hanging in the Blue Nile next to Will Blades the young Hammond B3 master as he works the keys and valves and peddles to Karl Denson on sax and Stanton Moore on drums on a stage so small the players could shake hands without getting up,

and after the magic music’s over, I’m thinkin I should just go to Congo Square now for the Herbie Hancock all-star sunrise concert that we were all staying up for — they’ll be people there early setting up so it’ll be safe in this historic park as sunrise blossoms in this ever-blooming city.

So, I go in search of a cab, and this couple from Michigan are lookin too, and we finally find one.  I get in the front, the couple in the back, and Boom!, we’re off to the Quarter to drop them off and then take me to Congo Square!

Everything’s gone blissfully since I’d been in New Orleans for four daze.  I call JazzFest “The Festival of Random Acts of Kindness” because that’s what it is.  The traveling out-of-towners are my kinda people, and the locals are blowing my mind in their friendliness and positive approach to life.

So, we drop off the couple, and the unofficial rule-of-thumb during JazzFest is — when there’s multiple people in a cab, everybody pays 5 bucks.  So, we stop, and the cabbie asks the couple in the back for $10.  The dude only has a 20.  And the cabbie says he can’t break it — which registers as weird.  “What working cabbie late at night during JazzFest can’t break a twenty.”  Then he asks me if I have a 10.  Which, even in my crazed haven’t-slept-much-and-just-seen-God-Yolanda-and-Bruce mind — strikes this old New Yorker as odd and that he’s trying to get me to pull out my money to see what I got.  If this little moment and insight hadn’t have occurred, I may not have acted fast enough on what was coming ahead.

The couple come up with a 10-spot, pay the cabbie, get out, and we start driving to Congo Square, which is just on the other side of Rampart from the Quarter.  I realize if I’m headin to the park for a while I wanna load up on some beers n smokes, and ask the guy to stop somewhere along the way.  This actually gave homeboy his opening.  “You want me to take you to a place that has beer and cigarettes?   Yeah, okay, I can take to you a place that has beer and cigarettes.  I take you there.”

And even though he’s got a scarred and scary face, everything’s gone so perfectly over the four wild daze in this great city of New Orleans, I’m goin’ with it, and we’re actually having a nice long talk about Yolanda Adams.  Gospel music. The grace of God.  And he says he knows of her, and we’re talkin The Spirit and how music and spirituality and this city go together.

I have a vague sense of how far Congo Square is, and it feels like we’re kinda goin’ too far, and I eventually said something but he goes, “No, it’s just up here for the place with beer and cigarettes.”

Finally he turns off Canal somewhere, and on the corner we’re turning there’s an open 24-hour store with neon beer signs and everything, and I’m lookin at it n goin’, “Hey, that place looked like it had beer & cigarettes.”

And when I turn back to the new road ahead, we’re now driving underneath a freeway — way-the-hell far away from the Quarter and Congo Square — and it’s completely black for as far as you could see.  There’s a tall brick wall running along the entire right-hand side of the street, no streetlights, everything under the freeway is black — and suddenly all the warnings I’d read about crime in the city came flashing back.  This is it.

He says, “There’s a place up here with beer & cigarettes.  I take you to it.”  … after we’ve just past one.  And I immediately look at the door for the handle.  And of course it’s an unfamiliar car and it’s totally dark and I figure I only got one move.  Like, if you grabbed for something and it wasn’t the handle . . . he’d know what you were doing.

So, I’m secretly eyeing the door trying to figure out the handle while still looking up ahead where it’s just black dark nothingness as far as you can see, all the while pretending like I don’t think anything’s wrong so he’s not suspecting anything.

The guy’s going fairly fast, and I’m thinkin jumping out would prolly result in injury.  Like — you could end up worse off.

But there’s nothing ahead and it’s only getting worse by the second.

Then he unexpectedly slows down — at the first opening in the tall brick wall — and starts to drive into … a cemetery!
At 4 in the morning.
In the worst neighborhood in America.

At the slowdown on the corner I think, “This is it” — and lightning-reach for the dark shape I’ve guessed is the door handle, pull it, and thank God the door opens!  I hear the guy yell, “Hey!!”

I look down and it’s a gray gravel-dusty road surface, and in this nanosecond-flash realize that the ground is stationary and is just sitting there like always — only the car is moving . . . so I’m just stepping out onto that solid ground.

I fling the door wide open, and step out of the car just like you do every time, but bending knees a bit and shooshing right into it like letting go of a bumper after taking a hoppie in winter in Winnipeg, and barely even spilling any beer from the Blue Nile cup!

I immediately run back to the corner of the totally black road under the underpass and it was like the horror days of old New York — just scary as shit.  He’d taken me into the middle of the Treme which is freakin’ Harlem circa ’75 and there’s homeless encampments and no lights and nuthin but slimy black scariness in every direction.

To my left is a 10 foot brick wall and a cemetery, behind me is a badguy and miles of blackness, and to my right is a lightless ghetto.  All I could see were the lights of distant Canal Street straight ahead the way we came, two long city blocks away.

I’ve just been diagnosed with a bad heart, I haven’t slept in a day, and I’m in the middle of the worst neighborhood in The Murder Capital of America.

I only got one chance — maybe I’ll die tryin’ but it’s all I got.  So, this very white guy in shorts starts running through Harlem at 4 in the morning — the hour of which may have been my saving grace because it was Sunday night into Monday morning and my old New York life taught me that this unique time deadzone is usually devoid of even the badguys.

I won the 1500-meter foot race at River Heights Junior High, but that was a lotta beers n butts ago.  But I got no choice and no other chance or direction home.  And so I’m just running this black-of-night marathon towards the light, and apparently the whole time with my freakin beer in my hand!  But fuck it – I didn’t wanna die of thirst!

And I’m running it like a football player for a touchdown, reading the field in front of me, watching for anyone coming out of the darkness or any car coming at me or anyone coming from behind.

And about a hundred feet from the lights of Canal the guy drives back lookin for me just as I was expecting him to do sooner, but when he sees me at the lights he actually yells, “Hey you owe me money!” before he screeches away.  If I hadn’t gotten as close to the corner as quickly as I had I believe the phrase would have been, “Give me your money.”

I kept running.

And made it all the way home for a refresh and what-the-hell-just-happened?!?!, and back out the door for Herbie at sunrise.  Nuthin was gonna stop me.  I was still one of the first people there and right at the lip of the stage for my hero Herbie Hancock, plus Terence Blanchard, Ellis Marsalis, Kermit Ruffins, The Treme Brass Band, a massive African drumming collective, Harry Shearer and a buncha others including me blessing International Jazz Day at its very birthplace.

No bastard’s gonna stop me when Herbie Hancock is on the line.

And that’s the whole everlovin’ story of that.

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For more Adventure Tales, you might enjoy . . .

The Setting A Driving Record up First Avenue in New York story.

or … the wild physical confrontation both Al Franken and I got caught up in at a Howard Dean rally in New Hampshire.

or … the time I jumped on the Pittsburgh Penguins team bus during the playoffs.

or … that whole Long Island mansions Adventure with Steve Winwood, Sheryl Crow, Tom Cruise, Spielberg, Tim & Sarandon.

or … scammed my way into the “On The Road” premiere in London in the courtyard of a palace.

or … snuck backstage at the world premiere of the new “On The Road” in Toronto and met up with Walter Salles.

or … our whole Adventure together at the New York premiere.

or … there was the greatest single night in New York’s history — when Obama first got elected.

or … the worst single night — when John Lennon was murdered.

or … there was the time The Grateful Dead came to town and played my 30th birthday party.

or … the night I went out in the Village with Jack Kerouac’s old friend Henri Cru on his 70th birthday,

or … went running with the Olympic torch when Canada was hosting in 2010.

or … the time I snuck in to Dr. John and ended up hangin with his whole band.

or … the time I found that cat while out waterfalling on the Niagara Escarpment.

or … the time my mom and I got trapped in the worst hospital in Italy and barely escaped with our lives.

or … of course one of the great multi-day Adventures of all time — Obama’s first inauguration.

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by Brian Hassett

karmacoupon@ gmail.com            BrianHassett.com

The Glorious Gumbo that is New Orleans

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Every big city in the world has a jazz festival — but when someone says “Jazz Fest,” unless otherwise qualified, they’re referring to The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival that’s been running every year since 1970, including the year after k.  And btw, New Orleanians don’t utter the name of that storm, much like John Lennon fans will never mention the disease that killed him.  There’s a lot of funky customs in this gumbo of a culture that the rest of us just ain’t accustomed to.

I’ve been hearing about Jazz Fest ever since I first came to America in 1980 — always longingly, envious of those who went and returned with stories of a modern Woodstock set in an ancient world to the melodies and endless flavors of jazz.

For the first time, the path is cleared for me to go, and I’m goin’!

When I first opened the NOLA Jazz Fest website with the endless list of acts appearing this year — the first name that jumped right out at me from the blurry haze was gospel singer YOLANDA ADAMS — seemingly in all-caps even though it really wasn’t.  This is the musical artist I’ve most wanted to experience live in the world — and she pretty much never does live concerts in non-religious settings.

And the second name that jumped right out was ESPERANZA SPALDING — the young jazz prodigy who’s actually touring everywhere this summer, but I’ve never seen her — and the whole idea of seeing these artists in the musical city they most admire is the lagniappe, as they call an extra special gift down in Nawlins.

So, this is the beginning of the journey to see Yolanda, and Espe, and Springsteen, and Petty, and Dr. John in his hometown, and the new local voice of Trombone Shorty, and the pedal steel rock of Robert Randolph, and The Beach Boys with Brian Wilson, and all the various Neville Brothers, and Herbie Hancock at sunrise in Congo Square, and dozens of geniuses whose names and sounds I’m only getting to know.

I’ll lay down here what I can get down as it goes down down there.  But it’s all Up from here.

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Waking up in Canada — it’s 2 degrees.
Going to sleep in New Orleans — it’s 72 degrees,
of separation
from Neil Young’s high school,
to Louis Armstrong’s Airport.

In the jingle-jangle morning I come rollin into Nazareth
Feeling like some half-past Dead
playing on the day stages and the night clubs.

Sorry New York — but you got Giuliani-ized and capitalized and poke-in-the-eyes blind;
This is the Real City that never sleeps.

I don’t know where my home is
I’m like a Bird
And I’ll fly away — to where my soul is.

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I get to Atlanta – go to use laptop – it’s totally virus infected – dead, useless. “Oh no, I really wanted to do some writing on this trip.”
Get to NOLA, research only Apple store in town – gonna screw my whole day and gawd knows how long to fix.
I think in the AM — maybe should just try again.
And Lo, the magic of Nawlins!! Homeboy’s working like a lucky charm!
Imagine, John.

I am now a disciple of this India House Hostel – coolest place I’ve seen since Amsterdam. It’s like somebody was on acid for a month painting this place. Huge crazy party with Aussies, Vancouverites, Oregonians. I’m home.
The address of the house I grew up in in Winnipeg — 112 Queenston.
The address of the house I’m living in in New Orleans — 112 Lopez.
It’s so obvious. 😉

About midnight I go roaming nocturnal NOLA streets for some beer. Jazz joint Chickie Wah Wah (named for old Nawlins song) is done for the night, but I go in to scout the room, meet the owner, he says “Where ya from?” Apparently I said the magic woid “New York” – where he was born and raised – and we fall into the Stories of Old New York – and so he locks the front door – and me his cat and his giant dog hang till 4 AM – him playing all these choice recordings he’s made over the years, tellin insider stories of many of the local musicians I’ll be hearing in the next 8 daze – feeding me local Abida beer the whole time on the house – and showing me the water mark 6 feet up the wall where the flood came to.
It’s hard to stand on a street in a normal neighborhood in some city like the one you’re in right now and know that it was water over your head everywhere. Everywhere. Ya just can’t really grasp it.
Off to meet Ambassador Asher at the Pennsylvanian Embassy and my first N.O. music night – the Honey Island Swamp Band at the gorgeous art gallery. But this whole city is an art gallery.
Will share more as the paint is applied.
But I don’t think it ever really dries into a static picture here.

———————————————————————–

A Tale of Four Cities —

I wake up in this hippie hostel – coolest place in the world – for the OffBeat – those who can’t afford to travel, but who can’t afford not to. They’re all passionate and crazy and sharing and giving and trusting and beaming and hugging.

Then I go down to the Convention Center / Big Hotel area and it’s people almost scared of others, looking away rather than turning and smiling, people who are painfully aware they’re not in their hometown and are clearly uncomfortable and wary.

Then I go to this fancy affair at the Ogden Museum of Art – and oh-my-gawd the contemporary art is unbelievable!!! — I’ll post pics when I can. Better than a lotta stuff I’ve seen at MOMA & such. But besides that and the Honey Island Swamp Trio crowd there’s all these New Orleans blueblood museum members — the cufflinked manicured pretty men, and the dimpled mannequin-pretty blonds with their cherry-sized rings.

And then running through it all are the happy faced black people who all look about 20 years younger than I think they really are. Their city was wiped out and their government did nothing to help prepare for or fix the disaster and these locals who lost everything or their family members did are just raging with joy rather than bitterness. I don’t get it. If that happened to my city I would not be accountable for my actions I’d be so insanely mad.

So . . . there’s these four wildly disparate groups and significant percentages of the populous of New Orleans at any given moment.
And I’ve been dancing in all four circles and haven’t even been here 24 hours yet.
B.A. Neville

—————————————————————

Meet friendly old white-haired black man, with many a tooth that has long since been liberated, and we’re talkin ‘bout the flood and how he coped, and how so many areas were bone dry and others had water to their rooftops.
And then we get around to music and I figured he must have seen the original Meters, and he goes, “Have I seen The Meters? The Meters played ma high school dances. They were *our* band. I grew *up* with The Meters,”
and you can see him drifting off to that romantic idyllic land of childhood with Art Neville n the boys at his school gymnasium, and I’m getting goosebumps just listening to him, and I look down at my forearm and they’re all the way from my wrist to my elbow as I’m listening to his warm time-traveling reverie, so I hold my arm up and say, “Look at this,” to show him how I’m truly feeling his story.
He looks at my arm and goes, “Yeah, mm-hmm. Well, look at me.”
And he holds up his brown arm next to my beige one — and we’ve both got raging dueling goosebump arms in the hot New Orleans sun.

———————————————————-

First day at Fest — and it was “Fun Fun Fun”

I intentionally and beautifully opened my Jazz Fest with the perfect choice from the 12 stages — the New Orleans Classic Revue with all these old original cats playing all the traditional famous songs of the city. Into James Andrews — Shorty’s brother doing this insane jazz set, walking the band thru the crowds and everyone second-lining.
Into The Dixie Cups including Iko Iko and everyone waving hankies in the air.
Into African Seun Kuti (Fela’s son) doing this wild happy dancing African juju music.

into being 5th row center in the Blues Tent for Chuck Leavell and friends including Bonnie Bramlett doing a wild blues talking song with Chuck and a massive horn section collage of Bonerama and the N.O. Nightcrawlers.
Into Bon Iver — 9 piece multi-instrumentals — great for the kids – the ones with ears attracted to this place. 😉 The bookings are frickin brilliant.

into the climax of the Beach Boys’ 15-piece band greatest hits jukebox. Singing us out of the festival grounds with it’s “Fun Fun Fun” in the sun.  And that’s a big — Oh Yeah!

———————————————————-

Robert Randolph — House of Rules, New Orleans —
front of the VIP balcony, the low rail leaning over the floor, dead center, and with a personal waitress and seats — and did I mention seats? Which are rarer in this freakin town than any kinda herbs you can imagine!
An’ so, RR wails, 20 chicks from the audience on stage shakin’ it to “Shake, Baby Shake,” general mayhem, fist pumping air, show ends, but Musical Jones still not satisfied.
And there’s still sumpthin brewin’ . .

Head out the door — good luck catchin a cab in a peak Friday French Quarter!
But . . . ! :-0 !
“The Republic, please,” for the Grateful Dead-Little Feat members’ new ensemble — and a glorious frock for the flock it is too!
Get there using last $7 on cab, but it doesn’t matter cuz — there’s a huge “SOLD OUT” across the box office window.
Way-bummer.
But head to the doors not givin’ up —
and then
confusion in the Midnight Hours —
and when heads are turned I’m in the out door !
😉
climbing into a skyscraping Franklin’s Tower, and a . . .
Dixie Chicken sailing into Tennessee Jed ! and then back to Dix-ie-land!
Who saw that comin?!
Then Papa Mali comes out and they Pigpen a 15 minute Lovelight.
and it’s 3AM on the Crescent Coast.
and I’ve slept 12 hours since Monday.

————————————————-

Home after Day 2
Experienced:
Jon Cleary — a lot like Dr. John — meaning Great! Very New Orleans sound and soul.
into front n center for The Voice of The Wetlands All-Stars — the 9-piece all-star group with Dr. John, Cyril Neville, Anders Osborne, mighty master Johnny Vidicovich on drums, Johnny Sansome on Parker-like harp solos, some guy wailing on electric fiddle, and a washboard solo in the middle of a rock song!

into up front for Cee Lo Green doing his hit “F You” which was actually pretty darn good. I’m not fan, but there was a palpable positive groove goin’ on there.

into Carolina Chocolate Drops who I loved cuz they’re really instructional — explaining the music or (weird) instruments played or the song in its historical context in a very low-key way like they’re playing in your living room — not non-speaking horn players or big-gesture rock stars.

into the Midnight Disturbers — this all-star ensemble that only forms once each year for JazzFest and had Galactic’s Stanton Moore on drums, and the Treme Brass Band out front, and all sorts of famous horn players whose names I didn’t catch.

Tom Petty had started but I go to The Gospel According to Jazz cuz besides they’re great — a drop-dead be-bop sax player and George Duke but neither of them were listed on the special guests and no one was in the tent almost like it was cancelled, so I went back to join my friends at the front for Tom Petty.
And it’s sardine-packed around the perimeter but I know there’s space where I’m goin’, and do the old weave-thru-the-openings and made it all the way back to my old Wetlands buddies front and center 20 feet from the rail with a ton or room to dance (and smoke and drink and hug and make funny faces) for the whole 2nd half of Petty’s occasionally psychedelic set which included J.J. Cale’s Traveling Light.

Thing I Learned — is that at every stage it is absolutely magic for the people who are there at THE place in the world they should be. People are jumping up and down losing it to the Treme Brass Band. Cee Lo Green is hosting a dance party for all his close friends. Biker-dudes are high-fiving each other at some rare song Tom Petty plays after he talks for 5 minutes about how special New Orleans is.

And 8 hours a day there’s 12 of these stages manifesting magic at every one of them.

————————————————————————————————

I am completely puckin puddled.
I was front row center for every act I wanted to see today.
:-0 I’m freakin’.
Not expecting this – but the ecstatic transcendental moment happened at Springsteen, 2nd last song, “Rocky Ground” into … “When The Saints …”
I was trying to hold back from crying even during this “Rocky Ground” then just gave up trying when he went into Saints.
It’s about the gifts of God – however you name the thing that is way bigger than us.
And I was maybe 10 feet back from the front rail, dead center, with tons of room to dance.
I know. It’s insane. A long story – but started with meeting new old family in the same location for Tom Petty last night.
Me and this krewe were both people of our word and returned the next day. ☺
So – get totally set up with the brothers – no, one brother, and his girlfriend, and their veteran couple pals.
It’s this Stanley Tucci doppelganger and just as hardcore cool as you can get – and we’re locked in.
So, when I had to leave the front to go see my girl Yolanda in the middle of the day and into the start of Bruce, he was like, “That’s your spot,” pointing down definitively.
So, 45 minutes into Dr. John I split to hear my Savior. I audio recorded the whole thing.
oh yeah and so – Yolanda is an almost All a black audience.
I’m the only white guy in front of the stage.
And we’re all Baptist testifying and A-men-ing.
And the black folks are completely grooving on me, almost leading the stand-up and dancing.
It was … amazing. Absolute dead center, five feet from rail, but nobody’s even there and I actually sit in somebody’s seat when I want, and she ended by insisting that everyone get up and dance – and I’d been just about the one guy doin’ it from the start – it’s all these gospel people in the seats they carried in with them.
Go to Bruce when she’s over – the back of the track prolly two football fields from the stage – is just impassably packed.
But I do my routine all the way around the crowd to my secret side-front entrance, buy a six pack of beer n some waters, an’ put em in a bag of ice, and head into the Woodstock field of Bruce heads, a half-hour into his 2½ hour show.
and weave my all the way through to my family at the front — where I could almost touch him when he came out into the audience.
And it was All Gospel. I mean, parts of it, and the way I heard his spirit-reaching songs. He was singin’ about Jesus and saviors and Spirit . . .
and so … I had never been brought to tears yet in the whatever-it’s-been here roller coaster … until the 2nd last song of the final night of this first weekend.
Oh – and he’s gone all Nawlins – replacing Clarence with a 5-line horn section a la this city of horns.
And doing all these old classics of the city and the Spirit.
The one guy who made tears roll down my cheek.
I couldn’t even see for a while.
I’m just sayin’.

[KGVID]https://brianhassett.com//wp-content/uploads/2012/04/P1000906.mov[/KGVID]

Now heading to Trombone Shorty in a club and a little dosey-do into Herbie Hancock & friends at Congo Square at sunrise.
There Is a God. And he or she lives in New Orleans.

—————————————————————–

in a dreamy North African opium den
dim lights, a starry ceiling, curved tent-like rooms and arches —
nuthin but musicians and vipers and vampires
standing beside a stage smaller than your kitchen
playing to a floor smaller than your dining room
with sax giant Karl Denson blowin large, groove giant Stanton Moore crackin drums, some new cat on the B3 right beside me pullin the levers and pumpin the keys, and some BB King kinda guy sittin on the side rippin oldtime guitar
as the song evolves and peaks —
and then the tide goes out and it gets lowdown but doesn’t breakdown
just Stanton and the B3 making the waves with different off-beat crashes that wane to a flat surface then splash up again and everybody gets wet and goes “ahhhhh!”
along the coastline of Frenchmen Street at 4AM.

———————————————————-

Happy International Jazz Day!
As sunrise lightens the French Quarter’s quiet streets and shuttered windows
and the bright colors of the doors come back into view
I head into adjacent Congo Square
the birthplace of this thing we call Jazz.

I’m in there way early — maybe 20 people in the square as Herbie works it out with the young drummer, just playing grooves and pushing each other around the sound.
MAN can that guy play the piano!
Then standing right on the line of African drummers all dressed in white summoning up the spirits and sounds of the Earth below into the sky above.
And Harry Shearer’s hosting, and some woman tells a brief history of the Square and how it all started on this sacred ground centuries ago.
And there’s more of these old-school New Orleans bluebloods serving pink champaign and dressed to the 9s at 6 in the morning.

Then Herbie takes us dancing with the “Watermelon Man,” and in flows his old band from back in the day, and Terence Blanchard on trumpet, and the master clarinetist Dr. Michael White, as they take us all out for “A Night In Tunisia,”
and then Kermit Ruffins took us for a walk on “The Sunny Side of The Street” before The Treme Brass Band instructed us most clearly to “Do Whatcha Wanna” — which I believe is the official anthem of New Orleans.
Or at least it should be.

———————————————————–

How about Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody”
for 15 minutes — by an 11-piece funk rock band?!
including a guy playing a long harmonica solo with one hand and the Hammond B3 with the other, blending the two sounds in his own most singular duet.
And about 10 minutes in, a guy comes out and does a spontainteous rap around the theme and suma Bob’s lyrics.
at Tipitina’s last night — the Instruments a Comin’ benefit show — where the night started with nearly an hour of two marching bands outdoors with about 100 young players each all on instruments bought by the Tips Foundation.

Before Honey Island Swamp Band ripping Dylan, it was Galactic (with Corey Glover from Living Color) and Wolfman Washington (with blind piano master Henry Butler sitting in) and then this all-star one-off with Ivan and Ian Neville, Russell Batiste on drums, and the legendary George Porter on bass — and for all of it I was front row leaning on the stage.

And out where the marching bands were, there was this whole scene with the audience and the evening’s musicians mingling on the sidewalk talkin music n love. And the amazing thing is — I’ve only been here about 5 daze and had a TON of different friends out there to talk to!

——————————————————————————-

You know that seat on the edge of a horseshoe balcony overlookng everything that’s just the perfect distance from the stage? 
That was my seat last night. 😉

The day I got here, I pre-scouted Generations Hall where the Obama benefit was to be held, and met Herman the house manager who gave me a tour thinking I was with the Democrats advance team. sho nuff.

The big day rolls around and I head over way-early also cuz there’s some problem with all the tickets and they have to be refunded and then resold as a donation to the Obama campaign.

But I get there and of course foreigners can’t contribute to political campaigns — so since we had bought tickets in good faith in advance, they just let all non-Americans in for free! Unreal.

So, I’m just about the first person in this massive 3,000 capacity former warehouse — now 3 large upscale performance spaces connected together with wrought-iron balconies and multiple weird hang out areas.

From the pre-scout, I knew the floor in the big room would be packed and standing only, and around the horseshoe balcony there’s a line of chairs overlooking the floor and at the stage.

I go up and literally have the pick of any seat in the house and chose the very best one with a pillar to my back and just the right distance from the PA & stage. And it comes with a little table!

Of course the balcony turns out to be the VIP / $500 a ticket place — now with guards at the bottom of the stairs, but I’m already up with an open buffet featuring all these different Cajun delights by some famous chef, and my own bartender!
One of the performers, Clyde Bryant joins me (“Oh, hi. I’m Bryan without the ‘t’.”) and he shares the evening’s schedule. 😉 ah-ha!

Before the ticket screw-up they’d sold over 2,500 tickets. But with the mess-up, lots of people never came and I asked the doorman with the clicker at the end of the night and he said only 886 people came in! So it was very space-friendly.

Obviously the musical highlight was the reuniting of all the original Meters except for the most elder Art who’s not in great shape and Dr. John took over the keys and they played the song of every moment of my trip — “Right Place at The Right Time” ☺

Everybody who played had other people come out and join them creating innumerable one-time-only combos all night — Trombone Shorty and Big Sam blowin in and out, Cyril Neville banging everything all over the place, Deacon Jones rippin guitar, Rockin Dopsey doin’ the splits, Leory Jones wailin’ thru n thru . . .

Allen Toussaint doin’ that song about Never Leaving New Orleans.

The Caesar Brothers doin’ a funk Nawlins “Love The One You’re With.”

Kermit droppin’ a huge “Iko” bomb.

and Marcia Ball playing with EIGHT horn players, then joined by Marie Muldour who is actually much blacker than she appears and was getting down and bluesy dirty.

and once again a lot of the musicians were hanging in the courtyard and I got to thank a hero of mine Ziggy Modeliste for changing drumming and being the de facto bandleader of the massive crazy reunion, and suma the horn players for evoking The Spirit and making me dance — which is what this town was born to do.

—————————————————-

By Far the two most common shirts seen around New Orleans JazzFest —
#1 Grateful Dead; #2 The Beatles !! — The best live + the best studio bands!

The Most Common Instruments played besides the foundations —
#1 trumpet; #2 Hammond B3 ! played on every freakin’ stage! Unquestionably my favorite specific instrument ever constructed – and I got to stand over new master Will Blades’ shoulder as he wailed on it, valves, pedals n all, at the Blue Nile. 😉

—————————————————–

Back on terra Canada – ou and my ears are still ringin’.
My body feels like I just played two football games a day for the last week.
I was so jazzed on the jazz I never realized I was a punching bag running a marathon – except people were standing along the route passing out beer instead of water.

JazzFest is like Facebook where you make friends with just the click of a smile.
And I got hundreds of ‘em.
And I know right where they’ll all be next year – cuz no one who ever goes to Jazz Fest doesn’t go back.
😉

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

For a Primer of how to do Fess for someone who hasn’t been — check out this First-Timers Planning Guide.

Or for an idea of the diversity of acts you can experience in Nawlins — check out the List of Acts I Caught in just this one trip.

Or for more Adventures in Music — you may want to check out the (Route) 66 Best live performances ever captured on film.

Or how The Grateful Dead came to play my 30th birthday.

Or the night Dylan showed up at Springsteen’s show at Shea Stadium in New York.

Or when Neil Young returned to Massey Hall in Toronto.

Or when Paul Simon doing Graceland in Hyde Park in London.

Or Furthur came back and reprised the Dead at Madison Square Garden.

Or when the Dead, Janis, The Band and others took the Festival Express train trip across Canada.

Or the night I was hanging with Dr. John’s band in Toronto.

Or here’s the day I finally “got” Bob Dylan. 

Or the night we all lost John Lennon. 

=========================================

by Brian Hassett      karmacoupon@gmail.com        BrianHassett.com

The  Maltese  Fall

.

It’s Friday, May 15^th, 1998, our final port of call, Valletta, Malta, the ancient capital, site of The Great Siege, home of the thousand-year-old Knights of St. John, the nomadic Christian healers who were granted refuge on the island by the Emperor of Spain in 1530 for the rent of two Maltese Falcons a year, and where hundreds of these noble Knights’ brass & marble tombs checkerboard the cathedral floor where Mom fell and broke her shoulder in two places and cracked her kneecap across the middle.

Okay, so what happened was . . .

We’d gotten off the ship late, about 1:30 in the afternoon, having slept through our morning shore excursion, and we were just taking it easy on our final island day before disembarkation in Rome.  We took a cab from the ship for $11 American dollars, the Unofficial European Currency, and rode past the old walls with cannonball and mortar wounds spanning 5 centuries of wars, past the wide moat now a pasture and garden, to the head of Republic Street, the spine of the Valletta hump.

We walked along the sporadic sidewalk having a celebratory time, reflecting on the trip in a comfortable flowing last day groove.  It was so obvious we were having a good time together we were even talking about how good a time we were having together talking.

The old predominantly-pedestrian streets were uneven and Mom kept stumbling a little, having to watch either the ground or the stores, but sadly never both.  We stopped by a friendly bank and looked in a phone book for my old superintendent who returned to Malta and I found about 30 Paul Grima’s in town. The tour continued.

We walked into the beautiful side rooms that stretch off the nave and each is a complete work of art unto itself with sculpted ceilings, statues, plaques and design.  We reached the last one, the furthest point toward the altar we could, and climbed up the final two stairs to listen to the Cathedral’s heart, and I smile and whisper, “We should take a picture.”

Mom says, “Okay.  Let me take one of you,” as she usually does.  I pulled our disposable and by now only camera out of my black sidebag and hand it to her.  She looks at it, holds it up like generally framing a shot, and I go, “Maybe take it from back there,” pointing to the wider perspective.  Mom says, “Okay,” and starts to walk there forgetting we’ve gone up the two shallow church-style steps and suddenly tumbles forward, her white sun-protecting suit timbering straight down like a tree, her left knee cracking the cold marble first, then she bounces toward the other side, her right shoulder pounding hard into the slab, her hands splay, the camera slides and her head crashes into the stiff wide brim of her Tilley hat, sunglasses go flying and she’s crying a winded “Ouuuuuu.”

As soon as she comes to a stop, she rolls from her right side to her front, then over on her left.  I’m still on the top step watching in split-second shock, running quickly through, “This isn’t happening,”  “She’ll be okay,” “Am I seeing this?” “Noooo.”

“Oh Brian, I think I broke my shoulder,” she says, and I run down beside her.

“You didn’t break your shoulder.  I didn’t hear anything.  You kind of rolled into it.”  But she wasn’t looking so good holding her right arm and all.  “I’ll go get an ambulance. You stay still.  I’ll be right back,” and I ran off, jogging through the peaceful, somber church, trying not to alarm either praying parishioners or swiveling sightseers.  I ran to a guy at the desk of the pay-for-a-Caravaggio museum wing.  I tell him mom’s just fallen and we need an ambulance and this sort of throws him for a good Malta Minute but he says he’ll call.  When I run back to Mom it seems a whole bunch more people have suddenly entered the church, probably on a bus tour from our cruise I figure as I cut across the floor as invisible as a streaker, then right in front of me a woman with a panicked look comes running out of the room where Mom is.  I tell her its okay, I’m her son, an ambulance is coming, and keep running past her.

A few people are now gathered:  a blond Dutch girl steps forward saying she’s an officer from the Rotterdam and helps in the comforting.  We roll her on her back onto the oh-so-solid marble floor.  A middle-aged man in a blue work shirt rushes in with the guy I told to call the ambulance and he cocks his head sideways and looks at Mom slowly.  “Is an ambulance coming?” I ask.

“Yes, yes.  I am in charge of the church,” the super-looking man says.

“Well?” I ask, and they both rush out to either call or to check on it.

We keep Mom stable, gathering in her stuff.  People come in, see this woman on the floor and some just go right on with their touring, examining the walls and statues quite leisurely, then stealing glances at their fellow traveler wounded on another tour of duty, felled in the crevasses while following in the paths of the ancient masters, reaching for the holy chalice, the source, the peace, the memory, the answer to take home and live by – or to die as we try by.

Fortunately we were up near the heart hearth in the furthest little side room of the church or we’d be obliged to set up a ticket booth to control the crowds. It became the St. John’s pilgrimage of the day to see Mom.  Then in the distance we finally heard the cavalry’s bugle (or “ambulance siren”) cutting across clip-cloppitty Malta, breaking like a beacon of daybreak over our nightingale’s knightbed.

An orange jumpsuited ambulance guy comes in and is very nice but says he can only take her to the Malta Hospital, in fact also letting slip in his broken English that that’s the only way he can get paid.  All along Mom’s been saying her shoulder’s broken and her knee really hurts — but she wants to go back to the ship and no where else, and is determinedly sticking to this despite her pain, horizontal countenance, and the insistence of the uniformed ambulance corps.

So finally the little orange Maltian handwrites a note that I sign saying we refuse to go to the hospital, and then he and the super and everybody in the room gets swept up in the spirit of this lady in white on the middle of the marble floor and we all begin working to get her back to the ship.

The Maltian wheels in his stretcher past the newly assembled two-bus throng, and after great anticipation it’s Mom and I who emerge from around the granite column curtain, get wheeled through the crowd, then out into the white-light square where the ambulance’s warning lights have been spinning on this sunny and peaceful May afternoon.

They wheel Mom to the curbside cab I caught, and she hops into the left front seat beside the driver in this English-style car and country.  The extra-nice driver reminded me of the poet Andy Clausen as he joyfully drove us out of the square and down the hill to the Rotterdam.  After we lowered a grimacing Mom into a slippery wheelchair she leaned over and asked me in a whisper if I gave the driver a nice tip.

Then this prick of a white-suited Security asshole from the ship said he wouldn’t help lift her up the few stairs because he was afraid of being sued or something, so, ignoring him, I quickly grabbed the cab driver, a T-shirt vender, one of the Indonesian crew, and myself and we lifted the chair up the few stairs to the gangway, and we were finally back on Mom’s ship.

The Indonesian crewmate pushed her to the Infirmary where Linda the nurse I’d talked to as we pulled into Gibraltar and after Barcelona was on duty.  After Mom found out we had spoken, she always wanted to get a tour of the ship’s Infirmary – only not this way.

It turned out the ship’s doctor was from Brockville, Ontario, the insurance company was from Waterloo, and the patient was from Oakville!  After the X-rayed perspective, the doctor came in with the old “I have good news and bad news.”

“Tell me the bad news first,” Mom said, without the slightest hesitation.

“Your right humerus has two fractures up near the shoulder, and your left patella (kneecap) has a one-sixteenth inch crack through the middle,” he says, with a pause.  “The good news is both can be repaired.”  But Mom never even heard good news part.

They stabilized her onboard and she traveled the rest of the way in a bed of pillows in our cabin.  As soon as we get to port, they said, they’re sending an ambulance along with a local port guide expert translator to take us to an English speaking hospital in Rome.  All is well if we can just “hold ‘er steady,” as we mariners say.

That night was the ship’s formal Farewell Dinner in the dining room, so we had it delivered, and the next day was a full day at sea before disembarking in Rome on Sunday morning.  (Cruiselines often schedule the final day of long cruises as an “at sea” day so everyone can pack their formalwear, pull their voyage-ravaged selves together, and get rid of the last of their money onboard before the early morning disembarkation.)

I made my final rounds around the ship during Mom’s painkiller downtime, and as part of my closing night ceremonies I laid me down on the off-limits front bow beneath the scattershot stars until after several soaring flights of peace they eventually sent someone with a flashlight to fetch me – and Lo it was the same Dutch officer from the fallindown cathedral!  So we had a warm final twinkle like the stars, and my final evening of “The Mediterranean Mellow” cruising peace sailed off into the distance.

It was all to end in more ways than one as soon as we rolled down the gangway and were placed in the back of the first ambulance.  Linda the nurse stuck her head in the open side door like we were trapped on a helicopter landing pad at a M*A*S*H unit.  With the chaos of disembarkation raging all around us, she squeezed my arm goodbye and wished us luck and I got choked up trying to say “Thank you” and she knew how close to the edge I was all along.

There was some momentary delay in us pulling away and just before the side door slid closed for good I hopped out and asked the closest red blazer holding a clipboard, “If I need any help with this while I’m here, where should I call?” sort of surprised he hadn’t offered, and damn glad I wrote the number down correctly.

Things were mostly tolerable until the moment the ambulance doors closed and we pulled away from the ship.  Then it turned out there were no actual shock absorbers on the ambulance, so it was like riding on steel wheels over cobblestones in a Middle Aged carriage.  I kept reassuring Mom a smooth street was ahead but one never came.

I had been looking forward to seeing Italians again ever since my great hit in Florence, and sure enough, the attendant was a stunning 19-year-old Cindy Crawford, and the driver was jet black-haired Alec Baldwin.  Except they spoke maybe 7 words of English between them, but then who really cares?  Cindy’s chewing gum about a foot from my face and starring at me like I’m a pet in a cage. She leans over and says something to Alec with bad-day-at-the-office enthusiasm, and he echoes in downtrodden kind.

Something seemed askew but everything was new so I didn’t have a clue.

We get to the hospital, and within seconds realize no one in the emergency room can speak a word of English despite their earnest efforts to learn English by immediately lighting cigarettes and starring into our medical report from different angles.  In less than a minute I’d whispered to Mom, “Don’t worry, we won’t be staying here,” and went off to find a telephone.

I put 500 lire in the lobby box, but of course the number the redcoat gave me was out of order.  Okay  ….  Glad I got it down right.  I head into the Admissi Officio or whatever where the only girl in the entire place with as much as fragmented English is chain smoking behind bulletproof glass.  Between drags we reach some port supervisor who assures me that the Holland America ship we just got off is not in this port.  “You know, that ten-story ocean liner with 2,000 people that just disembarked?”

“Aaaaaa, let’s see …  hmmm … nope.  Not here.”

So finally I spelled it real slow, he found it, and we got connected to a Holland America Port Agent who made it perfectly clear they weren’t supposed to deal with passengers and left us hanging for hours under the exposed ceiling wires and broken lights dangling above us in this hellspital. While we were waiting for nothing to happen, we watched stray vulture-dogs prowl around the entrance, and I went to the only bathroom, which had no soap, paper towels, or toilet seat.

We were left waiting at first in what Mom finally realized was the Operating Room.  There was a light overhead and the basic operating equipment of a Third World country in the 1940’s – cotton curtains, a ceiling fan with dust caked on the side that spins, paper towels for “scrubbing”, and cigarette butts on the floor.

Although we didn’t know it at the time, while Mom was up being X-rayed, someone in the Emergency Room unzipped her purse and stole her wallet with all our Canadian money and God knows what else.

For the last two hours we were there, they left her on this stainless-steel gurney, which after a while we managed to turn into a seat by propping two of the big suitcases behind her so she had something to sit against.

About three hours later an ambulance arrived, immediately demanding $1,200 U.S. up front to take Mom to the Rome-American Hospital.  When we finally fight it all out and we’re ready to get out of hell, the “doctor” in the ambulance tells us its illegal to take luggage in an ambulance (a lie) and demands we either take it out or he’s driving away (with the $1,200).  Another fight ensues – there’s Mom on the stretcher in the back, three Italian assholes out front, with some stressed-out department store mannequin wannabe “port agent” strutting like a pigeon on a cellphone who said in her broken English as soon as she arrived, “We don’t care about you,” and later when I mentioned that no one in the thousand dollar ambulance could speak English while transporting an English patient to an English hospital, she said, “What do you expect?  You’re in Italy.  Learn Italian or go home.”

So, it was super so far.  We called a cab in the form of a van and had to pay it $130 (U.S.) up front to take our luggage and me the 45 minutes to Rome.

Mom was stabilized on the painkillers the ship had given us.  There was now some teenage boy who hopped in the ambulance as translator and I get in the cab with the luggage and off we go from Hell to Rome, which may not be that far a trip, depending on your view of Rome.  10 minutes in, the cellphone in the van-cab goes off and it turns out the ambulance doesn’t know where the Rome-American Hospital is….

So the ambulidiot tells the luggage van to drive in front of him, then puts on his siren full blast expecting the van driver to part Italian traffic until we’re kamikaze-pinballing along rural Roman roadways past sheep and abandoned 19^th century homes and I begin wondering how we would ever have gotten there if we didn’t have our illegal luggage.

About 3 PM we finally arrive at the Rome-American Hospital and the Admissions woman smiles and asks in nearly perfect English if we’d like a room with a couch-bed so the patient and I could stay together!  Mmmmmmmm-

Mom completed her hat trick of X-rays, but this time finds herself in a state-of-the-art photo facility.  I find her lying on a stretcher with a big smile on between two friendly Italian male nurses, Luigi and Marco. The first of several excellent orthopedic doctors comes by, confirms the two chips off the old humerus and the sidesplitting kneecap, and for the first time Mom’s talking about having the operation here instead of getting home as fast as we can.

Later that night the Chief Orthopedic Surgeon walks in and Mom immediately starts choking on her dinner.  “I didn’t think I was that ugly,” he smiles, sticking out his hand.  “I’m Dr. Falez.”  ( “Our Savior,” in Canadian.)  He’s just finished two years at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix and Mom has an immediate good hit off him.  He’s a nice friendly bilingual bicultural intelligent speedy and happening kind of guy.  We like him.

Then in comes the big-smiling globetrotting Danish sleep doctor (or “anesthesiologist”) which is exactly what Mom used to do at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester.  They discussed methods, drugs, pioneers, and he explained how nowadays there isn’t the long and drowsy recovery period since they give patients shots to wake them up again immediately afterward.

Mom has confidence, I drink the wine they bring us with dinner, and surgery is set for 7 PM tomorrow – our first full day on dry land in weeks.

On “Operation Monday,” Mom couldn’t eat because she was going under a general anesthetic due to the dual operations – both hemispheres, both halves.  A) she had 3 broken bones floating around inside;  B) she’d been on painkillers non-stop for 4 days;  and C) now they were now starving her all day!  It turned out she got to have a “trip” in Rome after all.  “Look! There’s a spider coming down on a web,” she said pointing, and I’m squinting at thin air.

“Look, there’s a pair of them sliding on ice.  I’ve been watching them for a while.”

“Oh, I’m not even going to point these ones out.  These are my private ones,” she says smiling into the corner.

It was so cute.  She was seeing all sorts of movies on this flight, and seemed to be enjoying a window seat.

Around 6:15 the white team came in and wheeled her off.  I kissed her goodbye, wished her luck, and she said, “I’ll see you when you get back.”  🙂

While she was gone I repacked our luggage until 9:30 when I heard a paradiddle of many men’s shoes in the tiled hall and the doctor and his team came bursting in the big hospital door with beaming smiles and hands outstretched saying the operation went well and that I can go down to Intensive Care and see her.  They explained the procedures – two screws here, a wire wrap there – and they were out the door again in a minute.

I went down to see her but poor old Mom was scared ‘cause she was really trippin’ now.  “I feel like I’ve eaten a whole bunch of ice cream, and I just couldn’t eat anymore,” she said.  “Where am I?”

We hung for a while in The Zone, I held her hand, we smiled and she felt better.  After a while I pointed out how, “All the other patients were sleeping quietly and maybe you could be a good girl and do that too.”

“Noooo.  No, Brian.  I’m so full.”

She slept the night, and I went back to the hotel room, I mean hospital room, feet up on our private balcony listening to Aretha strokin’ the spirit while sipping colorful tequila sunrises over banquets of spring flowers, scripting melodious flights of Italian impressions in the lines of a leaf-green notebook.

When morning had broken the recovery began.  With the patient stabilized, I bolted in and did the old Rome-In-A-Day routine, spending two hours in the Sistine Chapel, catching the most amazing building in town – St. Peter’s Basilica – went roamin’ the Roman Forum, combing the Coliseum, contemplating on some columns crumbling in a park, drinking Heineken overlooking plazas of tourists and dregs dressed in Roman soldier’s garb posing for pictures.  At the Spanish Steps, the locals cheered an amazing amazon model in a spandex leopard-skin bra and ultra mini-skirt, shoulder tattoo and spiked heels stalking up and down the Steps.  Then I meditated in a park on a hill overlooking the city, and finished up at the old Washington Square Park-like Trevi Fountain of youth.

The next day Mom was okay to go so we flew up the Italian coast, over the Alps, and back to Toronto in four palatial Business Class seats.

Everything seems stable for the moment, and Mom seems to be in great spirits.

Jest keepin’ ya toasted.

Brian

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For more Adventure Tales, you might enjoy . . .

The Jumping Out Of A Car While Being Robbed, Kidnapped or Killed Story.

or … Setting A Driving Record on First Avenue in New York.

or … the wild physical confrontation both Al Franken and I got caught up in at a Howard Dean rally in New Hampshire.

or … the time I jumped on the Pittsburgh Penguins team bus during the playoffs.

or … that whole Long Island mansions Adventure with Steve Winwood, Sheryl Crow, Tom Cruise, Spielberg, Tim & Sarandon.

or … scammed my way into the “On The Road” premiere in London in the courtyard of a palace.

or … snuck backstage at the world premiere of the new “On The Road” in Toronto and met up with Walter Salles.

or … our whole Adventure together at the New York premiere.

or … there was the greatest single night in New York’s history — when Obama first got elected.

or … the worst single night — when John Lennon was murdered.

or … there was the time The Grateful Dead came to town and played my 30th birthday party.

or … the night I went out in the Village with Jack Kerouac’s old friend Henri Cru on his 70th birthday,

or … went running with the Olympic torch when Canada was hosting in 2010.

or … the time I snuck in to Dr. John and ended up hangin with his whole band.

or … the time I found that cat while out waterfalling on the Niagara Escarpment.

or … of course one of the great multi-day Adventures of all time — Obama’s first inauguration.

===============================================

by Brian Hassett

karmacoupon@ gmail.com            BrianHassett.com

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th 

Or

Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned At A Grateful Dead Concert

            The weekend of my 30th birthday, four old friends drove from Winnipeg to New York to help celebrate it, and the Grateful Dead flew in from San Francisco to play.

It’s a curious story how the Dead have ended up following this displaced Canadian around all these years.  I first heard them at an older friend’s house when I was about 16.  Of all the musical vibrations emanating through my teens, I’m still not sure why it was these guys who were strumming the rhythm of my inner pulse.  Why wasn’t it The Beatles, The Stones, Elvis, Bruce, or any of the other aural entities who captured my peers’ ears?  Why was it the Grateful Dead, a San Francisco acid-rock band from the sixties, and not some Canadian beer-rock band from the seventies?  I mean, I’d barely even heard of acid, let alone knew what it was, let alone done it at one of their concerts.  And I’d certainly never been to San Francisco.  Fifteen years later, I’m still amazed that what struck me then, continues to strike me today.

After I first heard this otherwise unknown band in Winnipeg, I held their sound between my ears and went off in search of their records.  The stores in my farm implement outpost didn’t have a Grateful Dead section.  Most didn’t even have them under “Misc – G.”  Finally in some basement New & Used joint I found one, and the journey began.  At the time, no one else I knew was listening to them.  I mean no one.  And since they weren’t on the radio or anything, it was difficult to put their records on at parties.  I remember it got to the point where I would plead to get one side played, which would give me a fix for the night.  Even then, before I’d ever seen them, or even thought that I would, I was living on nightly fixes.  Little did I know the size of the future doses.

The concept of seeing a band live wasn’t even in our frame of reference.  In Winnipeg, we weren’t too sure what a concert was, and were hardly aware that they existed.  So few tours came to town, the ones that did were more like a traveling exposition that everyone felt obliged to attend but didn’t quite understand.  And it seemed like the Grateful Dead were something that happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

But one afternoon, there in a 7-11 on the corner of this lily-white elm-treed neighborhood in a mid-western prairie town, I was flipping through a Rolling Stone magazine when I came across a two-page photograph of a huge crowd of people that looked like an aerial shot of Woodstock─only the caption read, “150,000 people rise for The Dead.”  I later learned this was the famous Englishtown, New Jersey concert, and I was looking at the heads of many of my future friends.  I remember crouching there, slurping a slurpee out of a plastic hockey cup with the condensation dripping to the floor, looking at this black & white spread of people pushing toward the stage, and realizing it wasn’t for Jimi Hendrix and a cast of hundreds.  “The Dead again?  Who are these guys?”  A hundred thousand was nearly the population of my town.  I realized then that something was definitely going on in America that we didn’t know anything about.

These odd little experiences began piling on top of each other out there on the frozen tundra.  There was the time that out-of-town band played at The Zoo and covered their tunes.  There was that poster on the wall at the babysitting place.  There was that chapter in Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

After high school I bought a van, with my subconscious mind muttering, “This’ll get me to a Grateful Dead concert.”  The next spring, friends and I drove to Vancouver and settled in.  Before long, word filtered up that the band was playing in Seattle.   The show was sold out by the time we heard about it, but I remember phoning and pleading, and somehow getting to mail them a money order because the extra soundboard pulls or something would be going on sale in a week.  Either way, from our naive little apartment on the wrong side of the border we were able to procure our first tickets to a lifelong adventure.

The initial show was general admission, and there was this unusually comfortable conformity in the amount of space each person took on the floor.  The Deadheads we talked to all seemed surprised that this was our first show.  We were wondering, “What do you mean?  Isn’t it yours?  Why do these people all think this is strange?  Why are they grinning at us like that?”

After a summer of starving out west, I ended up in college in New York, whereupon the Dead promptly came to town for eight shows at Radio City Music Hall.  Suddenly the phenomena I’d brushed up against in Seattle was in town for a fortnight.  What were once misunderstood expositions was now a visiting circus!  And what a spectacle it turned out to be, with the camped-out American hippies pulling off a coup at music’s Palace of Versailles!  This was the sacrificial whiplash of my indoctrination, where The Innocent Canadian gets snatched up and flung through the American Animal House Fraternity, with everyone plastered on a 20 year bender of social freedoms.

And now, on this most recent birthday weekend, as I danced across the threshold from my first three decades and into the next, the house band was playing once again.

My old school buddies from Canada and I arrived in the parking lot at noon for a 7:00 show, joining tens of thousands of tailgaters already in full twist.  Every car, hatchback and van was smothered in transparent Dead decals, every window exposing the backpacks, cloths and gear of a moving army with too few vehicles.

Various periods of the band were playing from stereos in every direction.  Wherever we stood, dancing licks from some incarnation would dominate, until we wandered on and a different one would weave into focus.  The most deadicated were blasting crystal-clear speakers perched on rooftops, inspiring you to linger a little longer when the tune was sweet.

There we were, broiling on the blacktop of a steel-filled parking lot in the devastating heat of a Greenhouse summer, with beers and juice were for sale every few feet, and grilled-cheese sandwiches twice an aisle.  The visiting foursome had never been to a Dead show before, and despite my fervent preparations, they were still stunned silent.  But after we had encircled the Giant coliseum once, they seemed to have internalized the dancing shuffle and oft-interrupted pace, and were singing the collective tune of the kind, kind day.

Granted, there were overripe school kids guzzling beer, and here we were in our thirties, but there was no question that they were us and this was the culmination of a personal dream.  From those little tid-bits in a 7-11, and chance platters at a pal’s place, I was finally able to pull a group of old friends into the Kaleidoscopic Dancehall after all these years.  I’d spent much of my teens trying to convince everyone we should move to California.  The Great Migration never took place, but now some latter-day version was.

The long, circular asphalt stroll somehow condensed the years gone by.  Here, far from the madding Mounties, were free-styling Americans ─ that most shocking group in the eyes of Cautious Canucks ─ who were smoking joints, tossing frizbees, and GOING FOR IT, something that’s as foreign to Canadians as all-English labeling.  Here were my four porcelain-white brothers a million miles from the jaywalking tickets of home, sashaying through the breast bouncing, sun worshiping euphoria of a world they’d never seen.

I wish I could have time-traveled the optimistic faces of my youth into the land I discovered later, but then who doesn’t?  In New York I was able to find what we’d been striving to build on our own on that frozen permafrost.  I’ve never been able to share, except on occasional weekend outings, the findings of my Expedition South of the 49th.  But now, here we were, crossing the boundary between the plans of our twenties and the work of our thirties, and the faces and flames were together once again to share it.  It’ll be a different picture at the next decade’s dawn, but for now, as youth was burning away like that last slurp of gas from an empty tank, at least the car was full of the same faces as when the journey began.

Not everything was perfect.  It was stupefyingly hot, and a couple of the gang didn’t quite get The Big Picture, but that’s part of it too.  It’s what we are not that defines us as clearly as what we are.  We weren’t of one mind back then, and we weren’t that weekend on the tarmac.

But what we were was together, and if there’s anything homo sapiens crave, it’s more of the same.  If you can gaze into the human mirrors of your childhood every couple of years, you’re never going to grow too old, or wander too far astray.  If you can’t tell how fat you’re getting by trying on your pants, invite your soulmates over for coffee and check the waistline.  You can be full of shit, but they’ll see it.  You can blow your balloon as full as you want, and they’ll pop it.  Your carefully stacked rationalizations will topple in a breeze of your own reflection.

And it’s a joy.  It’s a joy when you wake up to find you that you’ve been doing something right all along.  And it’s even a joy to see where the sails need trimming.  Only old friends can bring that into focus.

And so it is with any band, … or novel, or movie, or canvas.  Good art grows with you.  If it’s real, it’s there for a lifetime, and you’ll grow up in its landscape.  Charlie Parker when you’re 50, or van Gogh at 60, will still inspire a celebration of life, but they’ll be in a different shade than today.  All the tingles you ever felt are still there for the rekindling.  The masters of eternity knit with the golden thread of our spirit, and have weaved a little of each of us into their song.

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For a reprise of the Jerry Happy Birthday Adventure, check out the 2014 Not Fade Away story.

Or here’s the Merry Pranksters at Yasgur’s Farm Adventure.

Or here’s an excerpt from my forthcoming book on Kerouac, the Dead and Kesey — arriving at Red Rocks for a show in 1982.

For more Adventures in Music — you may want to check out the (Route) 66 Best live performances ever captured on film.

Or the New Orleans Jazz Fest ride.

Or the night Dylan showed up at Springsteen’s show at Shea Stadium in New York.

Or when Neil Young returned to Massey Hall in Toronto.

Or Paul Simon doing Graceland in Hyde Park in London.

Or Furthur came back and reprised the Dead at Madison Square Garden.

Or when the Dead, Janis, The Band and others took the Festival Express train trip across Canada.

Or the night I was hanging with Dr. John’s band in Toronto.

Or here’s the day I finally “got” Bob Dylan. 

Or the night we all lost John Lennon. 

=========================================

by Brian Hassett      karmacoupon@gmail.com        BrianHassett.com

Every Day Is A Gift

by Brian Hassett

Every day you’re alive is a gawd-damned gift.  And that’s the whole shot, as Gregory Corso would say.

Try adding up all the times your Indomitable Spirit was challenged but did not topple in a deathly firestorm of adversity.  There’s probably been a hundred of them, and many more when you were a couple of seconds from Ka-Plooey and never even knewy it.

Remember all those times you were so depressed you almost killed yourself — or those premonitions which never came true about dying on some trip — or the ice patch skids you blindly avoided — or the hiking adventures where you barely made it back — or the other car that went out of control just seconds away from you — or your pilot who just missed last call at the bar because his cab got stopped at a red light because the car in front was going slow because the driver was arguing with her boyfriend when it was really a total misunderstanding — or the mugger who just missed the subway train and got to your neighborhood five minutes later — or all those times you said to yourself, “God, get me through this and I’ll be good forever” — that if only one of these had ended in death — which odds are would happen at least once in the hundred close calls — you’d be gone.  But you’re still here!  And living with that second chance at life that nobody really gets but every dying person prays for with all their might.

You’ve got that chance.  Feel blessed.  You are.  God, or whatever you call it, gave you a chance to go on, to do what you’re here to do, to add to The Big Picture the way you were meant to.

You’re still Alive, and no matter what happens today or tomorrow, it’s okay, because you’re not even supposed to be here anyway.

Every moment, every smile, every vista — is a pure gift, and don’ you-ever for-get it.

Remember all the good things that happened in the last year?  Then think of all the time you spent worrying and complaining and being pissed off or depressed about things.

Everything worked out the way it was supposed to, and the only mistake you made was the time you wasted and the Stress-Death Cards you collected by worrying about it.

And in the next year, all sorts of amazing and wonderful new things will happen that you have no idea about today.

You don’t have to worry about a thing.  And you certainly don’t have to worry about today, because Christ man, it’s a gift.

Simply unwrap, and play.  Batteries included.

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For some other inspirational tales and riffs . . .

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Visiting Vincent van Gogh

Sans Sons — A Song In Names Only

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

Brian’s Christmas Blessing

The Sneaking onto the Pittsburgh Penguins Bus Story

The Obama Inauguration Adventures

Winifred Mitty — Walter’s wife

The Day I Heard The Tambourine Man

A Song of Enid I Sing

The Toronto “On The Road” Adventure Story

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

The Jumping Out Of A Car While Being Robbed, Killed or Kidnapped Story

==============================================

Brian Hassett           karmacoupon@gmail.com          BrianHassett.com

.

May your lights be bright and your resilience strong,
May your thoughts be poetry and your voice be song.
May your dreams be vivid and your days be bold,
May your riches be measured in human gold.

Happy Shopping Daze — 
But
the best gift you can give is the gift of time,
and love and attention and conversation and fun and activities and help and kindness.
Stuff is cool — but you’re cooler!
Share your presence and presents will open where there were no presents before.

“Life should Not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid across the finish line sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, ‘WOO HOO, What a Ride!!’”
(author unknown)

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For some other inspirational tales and riffs . . .

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Every Day Is A Gift

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

The Sneaking onto the Pittsburgh Penguins Bus Story

The Obama Inauguration Adventures

Winifred Mitty — Walter’s wife

The Day I Heard The Tambourine Man

A Song of Enid I Sing

The Toronto “On The Road” Adventure Story

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

The Jumping Out Of A Car While Being Robbed, Killed or Kidnapped Story

==============================================

Brian Hassett           karmacoupon@gmail.com          BrianHassett.com

It was a grey newspaper day during “papers” week at Camp Cleanup — digging through layers of mounds of newsprint and letters and notes like an archeological dig, uncovering the strata of history in this ancient city of my life.

Overnight, the cat tipped over an old Safeways bag full of newspapers from a closet shelf.  On top were a bunch of various John Lennon copies from December 1980.  I figured that would be the whole stash;  but after I dusted away an inch or so I uncovered an unexplainable collection of different papers from 1959 — a New York World-Telegram, a Chicago Times, and a Minneapolis Tribune.

I flipped through the New York and Chicago ones looking for the major story these were saved for — but there’s nuthin — just a random day’s edition like someone picked them up on a cross-country trip.

The last paper was the Sunday Minneapolis Tribune with all the different sections, including not one but two magazines.  One was a Picture Magazine — a routine Parade thing — although it did have a cool page about the new singing sensations Paul Anka, Fabian, and Bobby Darin!  But it was already late in the day and my eyes were glazing sepia after an endless flipping flow through the yellowing pages of antiquity.

The last thing in the pile was the This Week magazine — which looked like the TV listings.  I flipped through it hoping for a story on Dobie Gillis or American Bandstand, but of course it wasn’t a TV guide.  There were only 3 channels back then!  It’s just another news magazine with ads and recipes and bowling stories from the fake Father Knows Best ‘50s — my numb finger flipping through the same numbing fluff, next page, next page, and the next page I flip there’s the headline across a 2-page spread —

“Wouldn’t that be funny if this was about acid…” I think,
before my eyes have time to scan to the bottom of the page
and see

In 1959.

You can click on any of these pictures and they go big.

I love the quote above — “Music is often played to stimulate memories and fantasies.  And patients are told to ‘go with the music,’ that is, have fantasies suggested by the music.”

Check.

“a psychic energizer”  🙂
“The most common experience of people who have taken LSD may best be described as ‘mystical’ or ‘religious.'”

It turns out the writer, Joe Hyams, is the guy who famously first broke the Cary Grant / LSD story earlier in 1959, and then he got sued by the movie studio, but later they totally settled and Hyams ended up writing Grant’s authorized biography.  Long story.  But he got interested in the subject because Cary Grant told him about it, so he began researching the drug, and here he safely writes about what he’s uncovered without mentioning any famous movie stars.

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Some related discoveries and adventures and visions . . .

The eternal admonition to — Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

The naked truth — Love Is

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

The very dosey train trip across Canada — Festival Express

The Boys still Makin’ Magic at The Garden

The Woodstock-like trip of Obama’s Inauguration 

The poem Where Wayward Jekylls Hyde

The trippy Long Island Mansions Adventure.

===================================================

by Brian Hassett            karmacoupon@gmail.com         BrianHassett

The Ballad of the Profiteers

.

You’re suckin’ on / your money’s teat,
When nothin’s left / for folks to eat,
You’re livin’ high / down on Wall Street,
Crushin’ dreams / beneath your feet.

How come it is / and why it’s not,
The biggest thieves / are never caught,
When all you are / is what you bought,
And what’s inside / just ain’t a lot,

You’re singin’ the Ballad of the Profiteers,
You’re sailing your yacht on a river of tears,
You’ve been scorchin’ the Earth for all these years,
You’re the skill-less, soul-less profiteers.

You don’t make anything / except for money,
You don’t find anything / to be that funny,
You’re only friend / is a hired bunny,
And you’re drowin’ alone / in your milk & honey.

Selfish is / as shameless does,
And profits are / your only buzz,
You cast aside / whatever was,
You have no love / and it’s all because . . .

You’re singin’ the Ballad of the Profiteers,
You’re sailing your yacht on a river of tears,
You’ve been screwin’ us all for too many years,
You’re the skill-less, soul-less profiteers.

You’d push your mother / down in a hole,
If it added to / your bankroll;
You’re all fluffed up / like a perfumed troll,
That thinks it scored / The Golden Goal.

Life doesn’t start / on Monday morn,
It began on the day / when you were born,
When you looked outside / with so much scorn,
Then skipped the dance / with The Golden Horn,

cuz …
You’re singin’ the Ballad of the Profiteers,
You’re sailing your yacht on a river of tears,
You’ve been fuckin’ us over all of these years,
You’re the skill-less, soul-less profiteers!

repeat as needed

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You can read this and 50 other Political Adventure Tales like it in my 2020 book Blissfully Ravaged in Democracy — Adventures in Politics — 1980–2020.

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Some other poems . . .

Where Wayward Jekylls Hyde — The Mighty Bama-Rama Rap

Sittin’ On My Roof In New Orleans

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Love Is

Sans Sons — A Song In Names Only

A Shakespearian Cassady

The Royal Woods of Cassady County

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

Smokin’ Charlie’s Saxophone

A Song of Enid I Sing 

The Boys Who Grew From Northern Lands

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by Brian Hassett       karmacoupon@gmail.com       BrianHassett.com

Or here’s my Facebook page if you wanna join in there

https://www.facebook.com/Brian.Hassett.Canada

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