On the Dissent website this week, Jeff Faux and I responded to Michael Walzer’s attempt to articulate a “left” foreign policy position. You can read that here.
I assume my Nation column is still behind a paywall, but maybe not, depending on when you read this. It’s called “Obama’s Pundit Problem,” with the subhed: “Critics like Maureen Dowd of the Times live in an Oz-like dream world.” You can (maybe) read it here.
Jazz Fest 2014
My myriad mishaps notwithstanding, I did manage to catch three afternoons of music at this year’s New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival after my accident. Here’s what I saw:
The secret to having a great time at Jazz Fest, in this man’s opinion, is to spend as much time as possible inside the tents: gospel, blues and especially jazz whenever possible. Outside in the sun, people tend to drink a lot and not pay too much attention to the music. Also this week was really hot. Inside the tents, they have chairs, a lovely soft mist coming from the roof, a carpet on part of the floor to soak up the echoes and people who are paying attention.
I caught a few minutes of the end of Cowboy Mouth’s set. They were horrible.
In the Jazz Tent, Nicholas Payton played backed by guitarist Derwin Perkins, bassist Braylon Lacy and drummer Russell Batiste Jr. Per usual of late, Payton played both trumpet and keyboards, occasionally simultaneously. He also sang. I could have lived without that. Every song was a number, beginning with “1” and ending with “6.” He was followed in the tent with a set by Pharoah Sanders. The veteran of Coltrane’s late band was a great deal more melodic than I expected and his band, pianist William Henderson, bassist Nathaniel Reeves, and drummer Joe Farnsworth. moved along marvelously, joined by trumpeter Marlon Jordan on a beautiful version of Billy Eckstein's' "I Want to Talk About You." It was a beautiful sound and it didn’t hurt that Sanders looks a lot like what you would expect Moses to look like, if he had been black, which maybe he was,
Sadly, I did not see as much of Sanders as I might have because I had invested in Charles Bradley in the Blues Tent. Charles, who is sixty-five years old, puts on a show that draws heavily on the old James Brown/Wilson Pickett/Otis Redding school of performance, which makes sense because he is their peer, and he did not get a chance to enjoy himself as a soul star for much of his life which has been no picnic, I’m telling you. He was ok, but the songs and the screaming and the sweat ran together. Also, maybe this is my fault, but I found it weird that his whole band was white.