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Category: Jazz Or Bust Tour

Tour Diary: Homeward Bound?

Published 11 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 10-11) NEW ORLEANS, LA to AUBURN, AL to THE ROAD — Two days of touring packed into one diary entry. This part of the tour was mostly spent on buses across Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia and then north. By tomorrow, I’ll be in Brooklyn.

I left New Orleans in a driving rain. It rained and thundered every single day that I was there. I don’t mind that weather at all, although the walk I mentioned to the Treme for the first of Uncle Lionel’s second lines was a little wetter than I might have liked.

I almost didn’t leave at all. I don’t know if my phone alarm didn’t ring or if I didn’t hear it, but what woke me was a text message sent from the taxi company I’d called the night before, telling me my cab was on the way. I jumped off the couch, changed my clothes and latched the straps on my backpack just as the cab honked outside.

We got to union station at 6:45 a.m. for my 7:45 bus. Unfortunately, for the first time on this long trip, I wasn’t able to board the bus, which was completely full. In fact, about a half dozen passengers who had regular tickets (unlike my pass) also had to wait two hours for the next bus. We all made it on that one, though, and away we went to Alabama.

I arrived in Opelika, Alabama, at 7:45, where my friend Patrick picked me up and took me to his house in Auburn. I chatted with Patrick and Susan and, happily, with Charlie and Jamie, two of Patrick’s sons. They hadn’t fallen asleep yet, and I guess they heard me come in. I was sorry to miss John, the youngest of the McCurry Gang, but very glad to have a chance to laugh along with Charlie and Jamie. They’re great kids.

It was important to me to stop in Auburn on my way north. I made very strong connections there — Patrick and his family; Rachel, whose house I stayed in; and Tina and Maddie, who both work at The Gnu’s Room. I saw the McCurrys and Rachel last night, and saw both Tina and Maddie this morning when Patrick and I spent time at The Gnu’s Room.

At The Gnu’s Room, Patrick and I talked with Zack, a 19-year-old guitarist who is trying to decide whether to go to music school in New Orleans or not. I argued strongly against it and Patrick joined me, although we both acknowledged the reality that Zach would likely end up in school soon. I won’t spell out the entire conversation here, but our general point was that he should just move to New Orleans, get a day job and work on playing music for a year. After a year, he’ll be a Louisiana resident and school will be much cheaper if he still wants to go. He may also find that in that year he establishes himself and finds regular work as a guitarist and that school isn’t necessary right away. We both talked about leaving music school with a six-figure debt and a piece of paper that means nothing in the music performance world.

Patrick then took me back to the Greyhound station in Opelika. I hadn’t noticed it when getting off the bus the night before, but the Greyhound station is actually just a gas station and convenience store. The same guy sells you cigarettes, potato chips or bus tickets. And the bus itself was a slightly longer van, not a full bus. I rode it from Opelika to Columbus, GA, back into Eastern Time. I changed there for a bus to Atlanta, and then barely made my connection in Atlanta for my bus to Richmond. I’m on the bus right now as I type this. I change in Richmond for the bus to New York. The total travel time from Auburn to New York is 26 hours or so.

Oh, and I almost forgot. My pal Clint Mullican in Knoxville told me that when I got to Alabama, I needed to try Grapico, a grape soda you can only get there. I forgot the first time through, but I got some today.

Heading back north is bittersweet. It will be almost like going home, except I don’t have a place to call my own. I’ll be staying with friends, with my sister, in a hotel, and then, when I go to Pennsylvania, in the home of people I’ve never met. They’re friends of a friend and they’re going out of town for two weeks and offering me their home. Amazing, right?

I’ll also miss the traveling, even though I’ve been quite lonely on the road. And I think a few big things will probably get worked out in New York and Pennsylvania that will determine the course of the next year or more of my life. So I’m a bit nervous about that.

On the sweet side, I get to see many people who are extremely precious to me, including my kids. I’ll be spending an entire month with them, by the far the longest stretch of time we’ve spent together in the past two years. And I’ll see other people whose importance in my life can’t be overstated. All of that makes me very happy.

The tour will resume again at the end of August. I’m not sure which direction I’ll go in, although I think it makes the most sense to go through the Midwest and Rockies on the way to the Pacific Northwest and California, then head to the Southwest and Texas and maybe back to New Orleans. That route should follow the nice weather, putting me in the South in the late fall. But I need to figure that out and set up places to stay and people to interview.

I’ll leave you with a photo of my little Buddha statue, taken at Rachel’s house in Auburn, AL.

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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Tour Diary: Go-Go, Cello, Second Line

Published 10 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 9, 2012) NEW ORLEANS, LA — I didn’t have any plans for my final day in New Orleans. But plans found their way to me anyway.

The only thing I knew I needed to do was make today’s show, featuring DC saxophonist Brad Linde. You can hear it here. And I thought I’d show up at Bacchanal on Poland St to hear Brad Walker play. Other than that, I wasn’t sure how I’d spend my time.

I wandered around the Quarter a bit, found myself at Mama’s on Frenchmen Street enjoying some of the tastiest falafel I’ve had. Very scrumptious tahini dressing on the salad, too. And no iceberg lettuce, which, as we all know, is the greatest evil the world has ever known. As I tweeted the other day, every time someone serves me iceberg lettuce, I feel like I’m being punished.

Then I spent a few hours in Cafe Flora mixing the show. The people behind me were planning a poetry reading. The people across from me were playing scrabble. I was producing a jazz podcast. For a brief moment, Cafe Flora was beatnik nerd central.

Just as I was finishing the show, my pal DJ Soul Sister tweeted to ask where I was. I told her and she said she was on her way to pick me up. We had no plans to meet or anything, but who can resist DJ Soul Sister? Not I!

I finished my work, packed up my stuff and stashed it at the apartment, and waited in front of Mimi’s for DJSS, as I’ll abbreviate her, to pick me up. That was an appropriate place to wait, because Mimi’s is where DJSS holds court every Saturday night, spinning rare groove funk for the dancers on the second floor.

She’d just come back from DC and a deep exploration of the go-go scene, and I knew she was approaching because I could hear old-school go-go blasting from her car speakers. That’s how I always want to be picked up on the street corner from now on.

With no fixed destination in mind, we cruised around the city. Particularly uptown, a part of New Orleans I hadn’t made it to. DJSS showed me the Dew Drop Inn, home to thousands of classic shows by local and national acts. Now closed.

She also took me by Tipitina’s, now a nonprofit that is still dedicated to supporting local music. Those of you who’ve listened to The Jazz Session since the beginning may remember that I used to do a “Cause Of The Month” and the Tipitina’s Foundation was the first one.

We headed over to the Treme, where we spotted the sign for Ruth’s Cozy Corner. It’s a house now, but the neighbors renovated the old sign.

When I got out of the car to take the photo above, I heard brass band music from down North Robertson Street. And just like that, we were in the middle of my third second line for Uncle Lionel in two days.

Once again, the band and crowd surged into a club, this time into the Candlelight Lounge. Then we marched and danced down the street, ending up for a few minutes in front of Kermit’s Treme Speakeasy, site of the first of yesterday’s second lines.

After a while DJSS and I broke away and went back to the car. Then she dropped me at Bacchanal to hear the music. The band was led by guitarist Jonathan Freilich and featured cellist Helen Gillet, saxophonist Brad Walker and percussionist Anthony Cuccia. I thoroughly enjoyed Freilich’s compositions. I was also impressed by Walker’s playing. He sounded a lot like Ernie Watts to me (a sound I love) but with a much different harmonic vocabulary. And Walker and Gillet sounded fantastic together. She’s a monster on the cello. Extremely creative as a soloist and accompanist.

I dug the whole Bacchanal vibe. Outdoors, lanterns burning, good food, good music. Good conversation, too, with my housemate Scott and also with Brad’s partner, Carly. A great way to end my first trip to New Orleans.

Tomorrow I go to Auburn, AL, for the night. Then the loooooong trip from there to New York. I leave at 11:45 a.m. on Wednesday and arrive in New York at 2:20 p.m. on Thursday. That’s a lot of time on a bus.

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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Tour Diary: Didn’t He Ramble: Remembering Uncle Lionel Batiste

Published 9 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 8, 2012) NEW ORLEANS, LA — Today I spent the day dancing and singing in memory of someone I’d honestly never heard of before this morning.

I like to think I know a little bit about New Orleans music, but that’s all I know. I’ve listened to a fair amount of music from this city over the years, but I don’t have nearly the familiarity with the city’s royalty that locals or even many frequent visitors have. So although I’d seen photos of Uncle Lionel Batiste before, I didn’t know who he was and had never heard his name until Scott, the guy I’m staying with, told me this morning that he’d died.

Uncle Lionel Batiste was the drummer for the Treme Brass Band. He died this morning at 80 years of age. He was, for many people, the heart and soul of the brass band tradition in New Orleans. His photo is everywhere — in clubs and restaurants all over the city. He is revered by many local musicians and, if today is any indication, beloved by the people of New Orleans.

I walked through a torrential downpour from my apartment on Port and Royal all the way over to Basin Street in the Treme, the oldest black neighborhood in America. According to WWOZ’s Twitter feed, Rebirth Brass Band was going to play a sendoff for Uncle Lionel at 3 p.m. To get there, I had to walk through Louis Armstrong Park, where the names of many New Orleans musical luminaries are set in the stone walkway, including the name of the man who first made me want to come here, 30 years ago:

I arrived about 45 minutes later, soaked to the skin despite my umbrella, at Kermit’s Treme Speakeasy, a club run by trumpeter Kermit Ruffins. As I walked in, the man walking in ahead of me said, “They gonna be some dignitaries up in here.” But there weren’t all that many people inside. And no band. And it was 3:45 already. But this is New Orleans, where time runs at a pace that would give Einstein fits trying to explain it.

Most of the seats were taken, but one table had an open seat and I asked the couple sitting there whether I could join them. They said yes so I sat, dripping, on a seat. I eavesdropped, of course, and heard the woman ask the man who he had interviewed today. So during a break in conversation, I introduced myself and asked him whether he interviewed people for a living. His name was Basil, and he told me he was a documentary filmmaker currently in town working on a project about the US Army’s PR efforts. They’d sponsored the Essence Music Festival this weekend, which is why he was here.

He asked me what I did for a living and I said I interviewed jazz musicians and was traveling the country doing that. The woman across the table said, “Wait, are you also a poet?” Turns out she knew who I was and liked my poetry. What a small, crazy world. I am so unfamous that those moments are always surprising and, let’s be honest, gratifying. Danielle turned out to also be a documentary filmmaker. And we were joined later by Aaron, yet another documentary filmmaker. I guess I need to buy a video camera.

The three of us — Basil and Danielle and I — got on very well. We had a lot in common and had a great conversation. It’s funny how when I’m feeling the loneliest, sometimes life drops wonderful people right into my little world. To prove my point, here are the two books Danielle had with her:

Buddy Bolden and Michael Ondaatje. Not bad, right?

Oh, and one other thing before I continue with the main story. I ordered fried chicken, and rice and beans with pork. I know, I know. I’m a vegan and I don’t ever do things like that. But there was something about the day and the place and, let’s face it, the fact that I was very hungry. It was weird eating meat. I wasn’t grossed out at all. I never am by meat. I was mostly apathetic about the experience. It tasted good. I don’t want to do it again. But I don’t feel awful about having done it.

Anyway, after a while we heard the sound of a trumpet from outside. That was our cue to spring up from the table and head out to the sidewalk, where Rebirth was in full effect. I don’t know if you’ve ever been five feet from a brass band, but it’s quite an experience. I’ve been close to quite a few amplified brass bands over the years (Dirty Dozen, Soul Rebels, Stooges, others), but this was on the sidewalk, no amps, tons of dancers, all soul and passion and emotion and love and respect. This was music that lifted you off the ground and rooted you to the earth at the same time.

Uncle Lionel’s brother was there, too, dancing and hugging folks. There were news crews filming and dozens of phones raised to capture pictures and videos. I saw tearful faces mixed in among the joyful faces, too. It was very powerful.

Most of what I know about the New Orleans tradition where death is concerned comes from books and movies. And I don’t really know what part of the process today represented. But I’m a huge fan of joyously celebrating life, particulary when it’s the passing of a beloved elder member of the community. Of course it’s sad, and I’m not downplaying the need for grieving, but death also affords us a time to reflect on the joy the person brought to our lives. And in the case of Uncle Lionel, that was apparently a lot of joy.

Basil and Danielle and I danced in the street while a light drizzle fell. Luckily the downpour had stopped by this time. After maybe 30 minutes Rebirth stopped playing and everyone went back inside. We realized after a while that nothing else was going to be happening for quite some time. I left to get some work done, while Danielle and Basil and Aaron (who had joined us by this time), went off to have fun.

A couple hours later I met them at the Spotted Cat, a live music club on Frenchmen Street. The Shotgun Jazz Band was playing trad jazz and people were dancing.

When they took a break, the four of us walked down Frenchmen Street. Danielle said she’d overheard someone say there was going to be an event for Uncle Lionel on Frenchmen Street, but we couldn’t find anything. Well, not at first. After we’d walked around for a while, we heard some trumpets coming from up the street. A crowd quickly gathered and before we knew it, another second line had formed. The band and the crowd marched up and down the street, dancing, singing, shouting, raising hands, clapping, rejoicing.

More and more people joined the throng. There must have been a couple hundred people marching up Frenchmen. Then we were back in front of the Spotted Cat, and the entire band, with as much of the crowd as would fit, took over the club for a few minutes.

Now the streets were packed with people, so many that the police had to occasionally clear a path for cars to pass. We marched around the corner onto Royal Street, where the singing and dancing and playing continued. I recognized one guy from the Stooges, and also Washboard Chazz, but I don’t know who made up the rest of the band.

I was so moved to be part of the whole experience. I think the way we treat our elderly is indicative of who we are as people. Here in New Orleans, from what I saw today and tonight, the elderly are respected and valued for what they have contributed and still contribute. It was a truly beautiful thing to see.

After a while things died down and we four returned to the Spotted Cat, where we checked out a few songs by Pat Casey’s band. Then I went home to prepare for a morning interview. Though while I was typing this it was rescheduled.

I’m heading out of New Orleans on Tuesday night. I’m going to New York for a week, then to State College for about a month to spend time with my sons. Then I’ll start the tour again, probably at the end of August at the Detroit Jazz Festival, if all goes as planned. And, again if the plan comes together, I won’t be alone.

By the way, I took a ton of photos at both events today. Here are links to the two photo albums:

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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Tour Diary: Lizards And Spiders And Thunderstorms

Published 8 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 7, 2012) — “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men / Gang aft agley,” said Mr. Burns (no, not that one) and he was right.

My plan on this tour was to spend July in New Orleans then head north to spend August in Pennsylvania with my kids. But it turns out my sons are out of town for two weeks in August, so now I’m working on leaving New Orleans this week so I can spend part of July with them, too.

And truth be told, that’s not the full story. As I wrote the other day, I’ve been struggling with how lonely I am on this tour. I really need to spend some time in the company of people who love me, and these days that means being in either New York City or State College, PA. As I mentioned, I’ll be traveling with someone for the second leg of the tour, and I think that will make things much easier.

It’s not just the loneliness, though. This week I really realized for the first time that I am, in fact, homeless.

Robert Frost famously wrote, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” And at the moment, I don’t have a place like that. I don’t speak to my parents. The situation is State College is tricky because of my former wife’s family and their intense dislike of me. My sister, with whom I do speak, lives in a small place in Manhattan and can’t house me. And the woman I’ve been dating now lives at home since we lost our apartment in Brooklyn, and her folks don’t like me either. Makes me sound like a monster, doesn’t it? I’m really not a bad person, but you’d hard-pressed to find people related to me by blood or marriage who share that opinion.

So these last few days, when I’ve wanted more than anything to just go where people I love are, it’s been made clear to me that I can’t choose to do that. I keep coming back to Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, which I’m reading now. He was on the road for an extended period, but he had a home back in New York to which he could return at any time. And, as I mentioned in an earlier post, he had a dog. Companionship and the possibility of return. Those are two huge factors, for me at least, in a successful extended road trip.

Yesterday was another low-key day her in the Crescent City.

I got some very tasty vegetarian pho soup over at the Lost Love Lounge. Wrote another poem there, too. Fact: There is no correct pronunciation of “pho” and you will always say it wrong when you order it.

Then I spent a couple hours reading at Flora’s Cafe, a coffee shop right around the corner from where I’m staying. I had the “Iced Tea Especiale,” a blend of jasmine, earl gray and cranberry juice.

While I was there, a twentysomething woman named Honey came in with a friend. She was wearing a skirt with a fluffy tutu over it, a tanktop and a tiara on her head. She had that raspy voice I associate with drinking and smoking that many people get no matter their age. She was chatting with the barista and with a few of the customers, when suddenly she said this: “There’s no way to avoid causing suffering in the world or in your own life, but with awareness you can lessen it.” Wisdom is everywhere, if you keep your eyes and ears open.

Another New Orleans truism: Every store and bar has a cat. Here’s the cat from Flora’s:

After the cafe, I hung out at the apartment for a while, then decided to go see The Amazing Spider-Man. Right as I made that decision, another of New Orleans’ daily thundershowers started. The rain was really bucketing down, and I decided to stay in. Then it let up for a few minutes so I went for it. And of course I was about two blocks away when the bucketing resumed. But I had an umbrella and it was a warm rain. Nice, actually.

SPOILER ALERT! I probably won’t actually spoil anything in this paragraph, but I will make a few comments about the movie, so if you don’t want to read them, just skip to the next paragraph. I liked The Amazing Spider-Man. Both Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone were well cast, and I enjoyed the look of the movie. My major complaint is that every franchise reboot has to retell the origin story. Really? He was bitten by a wonky spider. He has superpowers. We get it. Can we just start from there? Or even give a little history in flashbacks or something? Instead we spend the first half of the movie figuring out how he becomes Spider-Man and watching Peter Parker learn to use his powers and watching the classic story of Uncle Ben. Oy. But it was good and I enjoyed it.

END OF SPOILER SECTION

BEGINNING OF GRUMPY OLD MAN SECTION

Now a few words about the theater where I saw the movie. I went to the Theaters At Canal Place, right on the main tourist strip downtown. The ticket cost $17, which is even more than New York. The theater had at-your-seat food service. Menus and everything, and servers who took your order and brought your food. I didn’t get anything, of course. I was still in shock from the ticket price and I’m traveling on an austerity budget. However, the fact that were servers and that you could summon them at any time using a button at your seat, meant that all during the movie there were people walking in front of the screen delivering drinks and food. This wasn’t stadium seating, either, so they really were walking in front of the screen. For $17, I don’t expect to be repeatedly taken out of the movie by the sight of a head traveling in front of the image.

END OF GRUMPY OLD MAN SECTION

I walked home from the movie. It was a warm but gorgeous night and people were out in droves. That means “crowds,” right? I walked up North Peters Street, which is one block removed from the main drags and was a little quieter as a result. I like cities at night, particularly when you’re a little off the beaten path.

So that was my day. I’m not sure what this week will bring. Probably a loooooong bus ride back north. And the search for housing. And some time with people I love. But who knows?

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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POEM: worth the weight

Published 7 July 2012 by Jason Crane

worth the weight

I threw myself on the mercy of the court
the jester caught me in his motley arms

when I hit the road again I may bring even less
reduce to my life to what fits in a small backpack
everything else has already been stripped away

there is a romanticism in being lost, in not knowing
whether this hole in the ground has a bottom
or whether it comes out on the other side of the Earth

I weigh the thrill on one side of my scale
fill the other dish with the heft of a normal life
then leaven this reflection with pho and jasmine

on this rainy Saturday afternoon in July
I’m in the back room of the Lost Love Lounge
I’d reach for my phone, but I’m not sure who to call

7 July 2012
New Orleans

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Tour Diary: I Am Become Hipster, The Destroyer Of Fashion

Published 7 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 6, 2012) NEW ORLEANS, LA — A low-key and enjoyable day in New Orleans today, followed by an even lower-key and enjoyable night spent relaxing on a couch.

I started off today in search of a small notebook. I have a larger one that I use every day, but I wanted a small Moleskine to slip into my pocket for days when I don’t carry my backpack. The small one I brought is just about full, so I looked on the Moleskine website for sellers and walked from the Marigny over to the French Quarter to find the store.

I guess the site hadn’t been updated in a while, though, because the store wasn’t there. So I decided just to stroll around again. I looked in a few used bookstores and found one — Crescent City Books — that also serves as the location of Black Widow Press. I bought Caveat Onus, a book of poems by Dave Brinks, one of the leading lights of the New Orleans poetry scene. This was stupid for two reasons: I can’t afford to be buying books and I have no way to carry extra stuff in my backpack. But I bought it anyway. I like supporting small presses and I love supporting local poetry. I may end up mailing the book to Brooklyn to be stored in my UHaul space, but I’ll at least read it once before I leave New Orleans.

I asked the guy in the bookshop to recommend a place to sit and read. He sent me to Napoleon House, an old restaurant at the corner of Chartres and St. Louis. The place had tons of character, with peeling walls, lived-in tables and white-shirted, aproned waiters. I had some iced tea and read for a while before heading out on my next errand.

Last night, Jeff Albert told me about Meyer The Hatter, a hat shop on St. Charles Avenue that’s been in business since the 1890s. It reminded me a lot of J&J Hats in New York, where I used to by my fedoras back when I wore them about a decade or so ago. I had no intention of buying a hat, but Jeff said I should at least check it out if I’m into hats, which I am.

Well, I think it took all of two minutes before I was trying on caps. The clerk (like everyone working there, part of the Meyer family), walked me through several different models of cap. He really liked the very first one I tried on, and so did I. But I went through quite a few more, trying different patterns and also trying a couple Kangols. I can’t make a Kangol work at all, and most of the patterned hats made me look too much like an elderly golfer. I thought getting something was a good idea, though, because I’m constantly walking in the sun and getting really burnt and probably a bit sunstroked, too. I ended up going with an Italian-made linen cap. Here it is:

I’m not sure I needed any help in completing my journey toward the dark side of hipsterdom, but this cap has certainly pushed me over the edge. Ah well. Why fight it? As I pointed out once on Twitter, there was a moment when I was reading Kerouac and listening to 50s jazz while wearing sandals and traveling the country by bus. I’m a walking cliche.

After the bookstore and the hat shop it was time to head back. Just in time, too, because storm clouds were gathering and the thunder was rumbling. There’s been a thunderstorm every day here since I arrived on Monday. That’s my favorite kind of weather, so I’m not complaining. It got darker and darker as I walked up Royal all the way back to Port Street, where I’m staying. I don’t know how I beat the rain, but I did by a few minutes. It started pouring just after I reached the apartment.

I did some work on the tour, primarily scheduling interviews with New Orleans musicians. I’m trying to get a real cross-section of players from the modern jazz, free jazz and traditional jazz worlds, with some non-jazz folks thrown in for good measure.

The rest of the night I just relaxed, watching movies and reading. Sometimes I just need a domestic night. My host was working tonight so I had the place to myself, and I decided to stay in and enjoy it.

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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Tour Diary: We Comin’ To Getcha!

Published 6 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 5, 2012) NEW ORLEANS, LA — What a night of music! Three clubs, four sets, ending up with the mind-crunching funk of the Stooges brass band.

The day got off to a hot start. I wanted to mail a package at the post office. The only trouble is that New Orleans — or at the least the area I’m in — doesn’t have many post offices. The closest one was a 2-mile walk to the Bywater. “How hot could it be?” I thought. It was 95, 53% humidity, 103 on the heat index. Hot. And although there were trees along much of the route, very few of them provided any shade at all. Most were either short palms or set too far back from the sidewalk.

By the time I reached the post office I was dripping with sweat. But I mailed my package, cooled down in the air-conditioned post office, then walked all the way back along a slightly different route. My clothes looked like I’d bathed in them. Oy.

Back at the apartment, I wrote an essay about loneliness, then started mixing today’s show featuring Scott Burton of the Richmond (VA) band Glows In The Dark. Then I moved my stuff across the courtyard to the place where I’ll be staying till Monday. On Monday I move back to the first place.

I hung out for a while with Scott, the guy I’m crashing with now. We chatted about his move from Los Angeles to New Orleans and some of the writing projects he’s working on now. He headed out to a coffee shop around the corner and I finished making the show. Then I sent out a bunch of interview requests to folks like Irvin Mayfield, Kermit Ruffins and the Rebirth Brass Band, among others.

Around 9:00, Scott and I headed to Mimi’s to hear some music by Anthony Cuccia. From what I heard tonight, Anthony is a keyboard-playing singer/songwriter. The band was a trio with Jimbo Walsh on guitar and a bassist whose name I don’t know. They all sang, too. The band played mostly original music plus songs by The Band and T. Rex.

After a while Scott and I walked to the Allways Lounge to hear two bands — Tate Carson’s Carbon Trio followed by The Log Ladies. Both bands were excellent examples of forward-looking improvised music.

Tate Carson was one of the first folks to contact me when I got to New Orleans. He listens to The Jazz Session and invited me to come check out the band. I’m so glad I did. The hook-up between Tate, drummer Brad Webb and keyboardist Jesse Reeks was truly something to hear. This was a band that was less about finding the one than finding the one-and-a-half. As I said via Twitter during the gig, “Every downbeat is an adventure with [Tate Carson]’s band. They’re so far behind the beat you can measure the Doppler shift. Very cool.” I was particularly impressed by Brad Webb’s drumming. Another tweet: “Brad Webb plays drums like a wind-up Freddie Mercury doll. That is a compliment.” As far as I could tell, the band played original (and very catchy) music that managed to be both exciting and intellectually stimulating.

Next on the bill were The Log Ladies, a trio with bassist Jesse Morrow, drummer Dave Cappello and guitarist Chris Alford. Once again I was impressed by the writing and by the sharply defined group sound. The band has an identity and they know it. Cappello was like a Big Easy Han Bennink, crashing through an off-kilter backbeat that managed to groove and confound at the same time. Alford is a compelling soloist who uses his effects pedals well. And Morrow really held down the low end while still finding places for some excellent arco work in line with Alford’s guitar.

The Ladies were joined for three tunes by trombonist Jeff Albert, who’ll be touring Texas with them later this month. I loved the guitar-trombone combination. Adding Jeff really brought an organic, visceral sound to the mix, giving the band even more punch and guts.

Jeff told me that the Stooges Brass Band was playing across the street at the Hi-Ho Club, so I walked over there and was instantly grateful for the tip. This is the kind of music I came to New Orleans to hear. Well, this and the classic New Orleans piano music. The Stooges were loud as hell and funky as all get out and a floor full of dancers were doing everything but actually having sex. It was awesome. Somebody described brass band music to me today as “dated.” I don’t know if I agree, but I do know that it’s thrilling and intensely human and I love it.

It’s going to be hard to not see only brass bands and solo piano gigs for the next three weeks. And funk bands.

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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POEM: sing to me, Woody Guthrie

Published 6 July 2012 by Jason Crane

sing to me, Woody Guthrie

sing me a song of American roads
dust bowls and farmers and
flint-eyed women hugging
children to their tired hips
give me a sign to find my way
along this endless road
take me to the heart of a nation
that yearns to be better
for I am ready to sing a new song
ready to add my voice to the chorus
sing to me, Woody Guthrie

27 June 2012
Raleigh NC

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Tour Diary: Lonely Planet

Published 4 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 4, 2012) NEW ORLEANS, LA — I always wondered why those guide books were called “Lonely Planet.” Then I went on the road.

On the 4th of July, I celebrated my independence by watching cheesy movies, eating unhealthy food and drinking rootbeer. And I did it all by myself. I’m not writing this to attract sympathy or pity, but because the idea of loneliness is on my mind a lot these days and I thought it might help me — or someone else — to write about it.

Loneliness is insidious. It’s something I was dealing with even before I left on my tour, but being on the road for 5 weeks has only heightened it and pointed out to me just how much I need people in my life on more than a temporary basis.

A couple months back, I came across the UCLA Loneliness Scale, a simple series of questions intended to measure how lonely you feel. Let’s just say I didn’t score well, unless the object was to get the high score, in which case I’m a champion.

I think many people who read this and compare it to what I do for a living might be surprised. I spend most of my time around people, often talking about meaningful things and exploring what it means to be human. Until recently I lived in one of the world’s major cities and I had at least one (and at the end, more than one) roommate for the past 18 months. Before that, with the exception of a short time at the end of my stay in Albany, I lived with the same person for 15 years. And eventually with two kids as well. Before I was married, I lived by myself for a little while in Tucson. Before that, a roommate. Before that, one year in college, also with a roommate. Before that, Japan with a family. Before that, at home with my parents and sister. So for nearly my entire life I’ve lived with other people. And yet this is no barrier whatsoever to loneliness. I’d go so far as to say it can accentuate the problem.

Because loneliness isn’t about being alone. I am sometimes quite happy to be all by myself. We all need that kind of downtime in our lives. Time to process. Time to reflect. Time to play your own music at full volume no matter what anyone thinks. Just time to be in your own world.

For example, I look back on my recent solo canoe excursion in Tennessee as a joyous event, even though I was completely alone while doing it. I relished the quiet, the solitude, the hours of calm amidst the frenzied pace of the tour.

No, loneliness is more — and worse — than not having anyone around. I think it comes from a fundamental feeling of disconnection from your environment and the people in it. From feeling like you’re not part of a community. This isolation is often slow to make itself known, but once it grabs hold of you it’s very hard to dislodge.

Jen, the woman to whom I was married for all those years (and with whom I’m still close friends) and I often remarked that we never had many, if any, friends in the places where we lived. We were friends with one another, and sometimes we’d have social acquaintances outside the home, but very often we had no one in whom we confided anything or with whom we shared the joys and sorrows of our lives. I think the problem was more accute for Jen than for me, because I tend to be very disclosive. As soon as I meet someone who feels like a friend, I drop all the normal filters that people have that stop them from revealing too much. Just ask anyone I’ve met in the past, oh, 20 years or so.

For me, though, I think the situation really came to a head when economics caused Jen and our sons to move from Albany to Pennsylvania, while I stayed behind. I moved into a basement apartment downtown. And thus began my first time living on my own since a brief few months in 1994.

There were some good points. The feeling of complete control over my environment, for one. But after a while that level of control wore thin and I began to long for the disruptions caused by the presence of other lives, other minds, other bundles of emotions. I began to feel completely isolated from the world, even from the few friends I had. Once I lost my job, this feeling intensified.

I early 2011, I moved to New York. I stayed with my parents and sister, then moved in with a series of roommates and eventually, when economics made this a necessity, with the person I was dating and her roommates. And then, as most of you know by now, this situation fell through and I was faced with having no place to live. And thus was the “Jazz Or Bust” tour born.

If you’ve been following my daily diaries, you know that I’ve met a series of wonderful, kind, generous people on this tour. I don’t for a minute want to suggest anything other than that. I can’t begin to describe, let alone repay, the kindness I’ve been shown on this tour.

But being with people is not the same as feeling connected. There were two very important people in my life in New York and I miss them both terribly. The phone and email and Skype can’t replace that. I’ve been living apart from my kids for more than two years now, and that’s taken its toll on all of us, even though I do my best to be as present in their lives as I can. And even simple things like not sleeping in my own bed, or having keys to a place to call my own, begin to add up after a while. Heck, Steinbeck knew enough to bring Charley when he went on the road.

I’m not sure this post is going to end with any great theory or words of wisdom. After I leave New Orleans, I’m hoping to spend most of August with my sons in PA. Then I’ll start the second leg of the tour, and I think someone will be coming with me. If that happens, it’ll make all this that much easier.

One thing I can say is that if you have someone in your life, let them know how important they are. And work hard on your friendships. Because someday you may realize that they’re the most vital part of your life.

Meanwhile, I’m going to work hard on enjoying my time here in New Orleans and on starting the second part of the tour with fresh eyes and a renewed hope. Having said everything I just said above, it’s still true that I’m excited to be out here on the road, experiencing America and finding all the wonderful people I never would have met otherwise.

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Tour Diary: How The Heck Do You Say “Marigny”?

Published 4 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 3, 2012) NEW ORLEANS, LA — My first full day in New Orleans lasted well into my second full day in New Orleans, which I think means I did it right.

It did not start auspiciously. As has been happening recently, I stayed up till nearly 3 a.m. I set an alarm for noon so I could hear a radio interview I did the other night that was being broadcast today in Alabama. I needn’t have bothered. I awoke at 7:30, read an email that made me a bit testy, and that was it. Up for the day.

I stayed on the couch for quite a while, doing some work for the tour, killing time, being in a daze, etc. The radio piece (an interview by Kyle Gassiot) came on at 12:10. Kyle’s a pro — he even used the theme song to my old radio show as the intro music for the segment.

Then it was time to get off my rear end and go exploring. With no particular destination in mind, I started to walk. After a while I looked at my phone to figure out in which direction the French Quarter lay and I started walking there down Frenchmen Street. I’ve written a poem about Frenchmen Street and heard about it from my pal Jeff Albert, who runs a music series in a club there. Walking down it, though, I was finally in touch with the colors, the sounds, the smells.

A guy stepping out of a bar into the hot July sun tried the old saw: “I know where you got them shoes.” But my friend Naomi had already warned me about that one. It’s a joke designed to allow the teller to say, “You got them shoes in New Orleans.” (As in, “that’s where you’re currently in possession of your shoes.”)

I stopped in a sushi place on Frenchmen and had lunch — various kinds of veggie rolls and some miso soup. A little while later, still on Frenchmen, I took a break from the heat in a cafe.

From there, I couldn’t really tell you where I walked, except to say that it was the touristy bit. The part of New Orleans where the visitors outnumber the locals on the sidewalk. I walked much of Bourbon Street because it seemed like something I should do. But I think once was enough. If I wanted to hang out with people from Ohio, I’d go to Cleveland.

By chance I came across the Iron Rail Book Collective. I can’t carry books because I’m backpacking, otherwise I could have found a lot to purchase from the store’s collection of leftist, anarchist reading material. I also spotted a copy of a book by Daniel Nester, a poet and writer I know from Albany. The book is about the rock band Queen, so I’m not sure how it factored in politically. I bought a gift to mail to a friend and also an Iron Rail pin to join the others on my backpack. (Packing tip: If you’re backpacking, put a small backpack inside the bigger one so you have a bag to use without having to carry the huge beast.)

I found some really beautiful postcards in a shop past the tourist section. They were designed by a local artist and they caught my eye in the display window as I walked past. Some of you tour donors will be receiving those postcards.

After four or five hours wandering around, it was time to head back to the air conditioning in the apartment where I’m staying. I did that, had some dinner, then waited for trombonist Jeff Albert to come by. I’d had some packages sent to his house — poetry books and business cards — and he was kind enough to bring them by and also to take me with him to his gig at the Blue Nile.

Jeff runs the Open Ears music series there, a series designed to bring adventurous improvised music to New Orleans, a town known primarily for other kinds of playing. Jeff books the series and sometimes also plays in it. Tonight was one of those times. Jeff was joined by saxophonist Joe Calabra, drummer Doug Garrison and guitarist Jonathan Freilich. They played a series of duets, mixing up the members of the band, then played a second set as a quartet. One thing I noticed was that even in this free setting, the music often found a pulse, something I yearn for in a lot of free playing in New York.

Jeff was kind enough to introduce me to many of the folks he knew at the club. I also had another small-world experience. My poetry book was published by FootHills Publishing. On their large roster is New Orleans poet Dennis Formento. During the set break, it turned out that Dennis was there at the club, sitting one table over. I learned this when Jeff (who didn’t know that we were on the same imprint) brought Dennis out to the balcony to meet me. Crazy.

After the gig I stuck around to talk music with the band. We had a debate about whether there are identifiable musical characteristics that mark music as being from New Orleans. And we ended the night in fine style, with Jeff blasting “The Job Song” by the Industrial Jazz Group (with my pal Jill Knapp on vocals) over the bar’s sound system.

I got home a little after 2 a.m. I’m back on the couch where I started as I type this diary entry.

You may have noticed a small Buddha statue cropping up in these photos. I carry it with me everywhere, but I always forget to take pictures of it for my series, Buddha In The Modern World. Today, though, I remembered. The photo earlier in this post is in Jackson Square. The one to the left is a special request from my friend Kim, who wanted a shot of Jeff and Buddha on the balcony at Blue Nile. And down at the bottom of this post is a shot of Buddha visiting a relative in a curio shop on Royal.

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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Tour Diary: Do You Know What It Means To Reach New Orleans?

Published 3 July 2012 by Jason Crane

(July 2, 2012) AUBURN, AL to NEW ORLEANS, LA – Today, after wanting to come here for nearly 30 years, I finally made it to New Orleans.

I started the day bright and early, bouncing (read: trudging) out of bed at 5 a.m. I showered, packed, and headed into the living room where I was greeted by Rachel, who keeps farmer’s hours. She handed me a bag full of her delicious black cherry tomatoes for the road. Thanks, Rachel!

My pal Patrick was kind enough to pick me up at 5:45 to take me to the Greyhound station in Columbus, GA. My bus wasn’t till 8:25, but Auburn is on Central Time and Columbus is on Eastern Time, so our 45-minute drive actually added up to an hour and 45 minutes. Oh, and someone I saw on the side of the road inspired the first poem of the day.

I made it in plenty of time and had my bag checked through to New Orleans. That was the first truly exciting moment of the day. The bus was on time and we left Columbus without a hitch. The bus was full so I had to share a seat, but it was no big deal. I also found out from the driver that I’d be staying on that same bus all the way to New Orleans, which was convenient.

Or would have been, but the bus’s power outlets weren’t working, meaning that charging my phone and computer during the 9-hour trip would only be possible at the stations. We had very short rest stops, so there wouldn’t be much charging time, and I needed my phone to work when I got to New Orleans so I could find my way to the place where I would be staying.

For the first half of the trip – through Mobile, I think – I had a quiet young woman sitting next to me. For the next section, I had a similarly quiet soldier heading home to Fort Polk in Alexandria, LA, with his baby daughter. She was pretty quiet, too. And very cute. And for the final couple hours I was accompanied by a goateed skateboarder. A real slice of life, my seatmates were.

Around Mobile, AL, I got my first peak at the Gulf Coast. I then had a much more extended look as we reached and then passed Biloxi, MS. What a thrill! I’ve read about the Gulf Coast and written poems about it, too, but today was the first time I actually looked on it with my own eyes. (And yes, I’m thinking of Vader at the end of Return Of The Jedi right now.)

I was so excited once the coast was in sight that I was bouncing around in my seat, taking pictures out the window of the fast-moving terrain. The last hour or two to New Orleans took forever. They felt like the culmination of a nearly life-long journey.

When I was about 8 or 9, I think, my grandpa, Bernie Flanders, took me to see two New Orleans jazz giants, Pete Fountain and Al Hirt. Ever since then, I’ve wanted to visit the Big Easy. It took me roughly 30 years, but I made it.

We passed over marshland on big arched bridges, then hit the long bridge over Lake Ponchartrain, which I’m sure brought a gasp from me:

And then we were in sight of the city. The first unmistakable sight was the Superdome, home to so much tragedy and triumph. And then we started seeing the famous streets like Rampart and Calliope. The bus dropped us off at Union Station, probably the nicest Greyhound station I’ve been in on the tour:

It’s actually a bus and train station, which I’m sure accounts for its condition. Had I ever hopped on the Crescent City in Penn Station all those times I so desperately wanted to, Union Station would have been waiting at the end of the trip.

I got in a cab and asked the driver to take me to Port Street, where I’m staying while I’m in town. He turned up the radio and off we went. And yes, there was good modern jazz playing on the radio courtesy of WWOZ, which I listened to without a computer for the first time in my life. What an amazing feeling!

More famous names: Charles, Royal, Bourbon, Dauphine … the list goes on and on. I was trying to play it cool with the cabbie. Thank god Port is an easy one to pronounce. I’m afraid to say any street names aloud because none of them are said they way they look on paper. I hate sounding like a tourist, even though I am one.

In about 10 minutes I was at my destination. Thunder was rumbling nearby as I got the keys to the apartment I’m staying in from a neighbor. Here’s the first photo of me in New Orleans:

I’m staying in a couple places, but for a few days I have this amazing spot all to myself. What a delight:

After relaxing for a bit, I looked online for nearby restaurants and ended up at the Lost Love Lounge and its backroom Vietnamese restaurant. I had an incredible Kung Pao tofu bahn mi. The setting and the food inspired a poem, which you can read here.

Then it was back to the apartment to Skype with a friend and make today’s show, featuring saxophonist Brandon Wright. Here it here.

I also posted the audio of my poetry reading in Auburn, courtesy of Southern Public Media Group.

Tomorrow I’m going to catch up on sleep and then start exploring. If you’re near a computer at 12:10 p.m. Central Time (1:10 p.m. Eastern Time), be sure to tune in to WTSU 89.9 FM from Montgomery, AL, to hear me interviewed by Kyle Gassiot. Kyle’s one of the good guys. Here’s the link to the stream: http://bit.ly/vrN3EZ.

(If you’d like to support my tour, you can make a one-time donation and get great thank-you gifts HERE. If you’d like to become a member of The Jazz Session and make recurring monthly or yearly payments, you can do that HERE.)

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POEM: kung pao tofu at the lost love lounge

Published 3 July 2012 by Jason Crane

kung pao tofu at the lost love lounge

the counterman says his name is Johnny
his soft down-under accent
suggesting a curved and interesting path
to this backroom Vietnamese restaurant
hidden away in a corner bar on Franklin

my bahn mi has a kick I didn’t expect
my tongue burns as I send text after text
trying to convince her to drop everything
hop the first south-bound bus and join me
here where the blue door leads to a garden
shielded from the street by a narrow alley
with a weatherbeaten wooden gate

two cats are prowling the stone path
keeping watch over the goings-on
wondering at my unannounced arrival
they eye me suspiciously as if to ask
for some proof of my good intentions
but all I can offer is a Ziploc bag
full of black cherry tomatoes pulled
just the day before from the garden

the cats don’t want them so I smile
leave the interview empty-handed
pull the blue door shut behind me
sit shirtless on the couch, pecking away
at these words that fall short
of meaning what I need them to mean

2 July 2012
New Orleans

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POEM: dark blue nightgown

Published 2 July 2012 by Jason Crane

dark blue nightgown

I saw a woman in a
dark blue nightgown
walking along the edge
of an Alabama highway
head wreathed in a cloud
of smoke from a cigarette
there was a storm coming
and no obvious shelter
nor any place from which
she could have originated
perhaps she was the ghost
of Woody Guthrie
returned as the Earth Mother
or the corporeal soul
of a murder victim
doomed to wander the roads
then the rain started
and like a thin mist of fog
over the tarmacadam
she slowly faded away

2 July 2012
between Auburn AL
and Columbus GA

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