Dr. John in New Orleans (10/29/09)

Got a chance to hang with some “Treme” folks last night at House of Blues.

The great Dr. John played a charity gig to benefit the New Orleans Musicians Clinic.

’Twas my first time seeing Dr. John. And he can still spank the hell out of those keys, though he moves a bit slow getting to the bench. (Dude has been making records for 50 years!)

He had plenty of guest stars with him: George Porter, Jr. (of the Meters) ... James Andrews (whom I just mentioned earlier this week)... Irma Thomas...

Dr. John rocked such old crowd-pleasers as “Tipitina,” “Goodnight, Irene” and “Let the Good Times Roll.” Speaking of crowd-pleasers, the packed house went bananas as guest vocalist/trumpeter Andrews led the band through “Oo Poo Pah Doo,” a New Orleans R&B classic.

I left early, because at this point in life, for me, nothing tops sleep. Long about 10:30, I was standing there thinking, “Oooh, I’mo fuck that mattress up tonight. I’m gonna sleep gooood.” Wound up missing Irma Thomas, and I’m told she was fantastic.

Maybe the longer I’m in New Orleans, the more stamina I’ll get. Meantime, let me spin a couple of platters on my Vox blog...

Click here to hear Dr. John’s 1972 recording of “Let the Good Times Roll” (a.k.a. “Come On”). Click hear to hear Earl King’s original version from 1960.

My thanks to photographer Dino Perrucci, who allowed me to post one of his shots from the show. Dr. John strapped on a guitar for “Let the Good Times Roll.” (Come to find out guitar was his first instrument.)

Out and about in New Orleans

Last night I was hanging with the Crescent City’s renowned DJ Soul Sister. We went to House of Blues and checked out a new artist named Mayer Hawthorne.

Based on the cute video for his single “Maybe So, Maybe No” (embedded below), I presumed Hawthorne was British.

At the show, with his velvet blazer, silk tie and Buddy Holly glasses (plus the whole nerdy-white-boy-into-soul-music thing), he seemed the perfect English douchebag. Except no British accent.

In reality, Mayer Hawthorne (born Andrew Mayer Cohen) is from Ann Arbor, Michigan... so his Motown love came from the soil. (“Maybe So, Maybe No” is a 40-year-old tune written by Detroiters Tony Hester and Richard “Popcorn” Wylie.)

Hawthorne had a tight, funky four-piece band backing him up. He pleased the folks who came to see him. But his vocal chops... I mean, for a soul singer...

Put it like this: If a black dude tried to get over with that level of singing talent... it’s unimaginable. Simply wouldn’t happen. Dude would be driving the band van.

Chris Rock in L.A. (04/26/08)

I have dez to thank for motivating me to get off my haunches and go see Chris Rock at the Gibson Amphitheatre.

I caught him on Saturday, the last night of a four-night stand. Place was packed. I even saw a couple of celebrities... unlikely celebrities, I would have thought, for a Chris Rock show: Two older Jewish cats who are big names in show business.

I won’t make you guess who... but I’ll reveal their names in the comments section, just in case you want to wonder for a minute.

As for Rock’s material, I’d give it a C+.

The first part of his set was devoted to the presidential race. He joked about John McCain’s age. (“He used to own Sidney Poitier!”)

He joked about Hillary Clinton’s marriage. (“She’s gonna work in a office that her husband got blowjobs in? There ain’t enough redecorating in the world for that.”)

He boosted Barack Obama. (“We have never seen a brother this cool and legal. He’s on some Don Cornelius shit.”)

Rock didn’t break much ground with his discussion of the N-word either.

“For the first time in the history of the world, white men have to hold their tongue.” And if white guys don’t like it, Rock proposes this: “Wanna trade places? You scream ‘nigger,’ I’ll raise interest rates.”

The back half of his set, as usual, was devoted to sex stuff. Let’s just say he didn’t take blowjob humor to new horizons. But the crowd was happy, all in all.

No doubt this tour will result in a new HBO special.

McCoy Tyner with Savion Glover in San Francisco (03/14/08)

Bay Area jazz writer Andy Gilbert hooked me up like I haven’t been hooked up in a while.

McCoy Tyner has been high on the list of musicians I’ve wanted to see in person. On Friday night, Tyner’s trio performed at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco. And there I was in the front row.

The surprise was tap dancer Savion Glover, who has been touring with Tyner for the past month. It’s a breathtaking collaboration.

Glover functions not as a dancer but as a fourth musician... a master percussionist trading licks with the drummer, with the bass, and with Tyner’s thunderous piano. Glover gets a wide variety of sounds out of his kelly-green tap shoes.

Early in the show, while Glover stepped jauntily to “Blues on the Corner,” he had a smile permanently fixed on his face. I did too. Looking around, I saw everybody in the audience with the same smile.

Glover and the band earned a standing ovation for their performance of “African Village,” one of Tyner’s signature tunes. It’s a thrill to watch the sweat rain off Savion Glover’s face.

Based on Tyner’s tour itenerary, no more shows with Glover are scheduled. But if that changes, I’ll let you know. You have got to see this if you can.

George Carlin in L.A. (10/05/07)

The last time I saw George Carlin live, it was in Las Vegas around the turn of the century; he was working his “You Are All Diseased” material.

It was a weird show. I felt he was showing contempt towards the audience. For one thing, he kept looking at his watch. You got someplace to be, George? We paid Vegas prices to come watch your ass.

His last HBO special a couple of years ago was an unbearably misanthropic riff on death, suicide and the worthlessness of human beings. I was like, “Damn... is this what happens when you get sober?”

But Carlin is a living legend of American humor. When I saw he was coming to the Gibson Amphitheatre last Friday night, I was curious. By the time I pulled the trigger on buying a ticket, it was Thursday morning. I was hoping I could still get a seat. Figured I might be up in the rafters. Still wanted to see him.

Turns out I got – literally – the best seat in the house. Front row center. In a 6,000-seat theater. I was crotch-sniffing distance from the guy. Three young fellows sitting right next to me had copped their tickets that day. Just walked up to the box office.

I overheard from a couple of good-time Charlies also seated in the “pit” that the promoter was hustling to fill up the venue. A lot of radio-giveaway tickets, et cetera. Guy behind me said he bought his ticket three months ago, through a broker, for $250... more than four times face value.

I mention all this for a reason.

Mr. Carlin, now 70 years old – (“I’m a little bit like herpes. I keep coming back”) – walked onstage with a red folder. Inside were typewritten pages. Those pages had red-ink markings on them. (Front row center rocks!)

Before he got rolling, Carlin explained that he was polishing the new material for his next HBO special... to be broadcast next March. Carlin told us not to be upset if he consulted his notes; he writes very precisely, he explained, and by him checking his notes, we would be hearing the material “as it was intended.”

Okay. But still, to pay $70 for a comedy concert (let alone $250) and basically watch the guy rehearse... I mean, he did about half the show holding a piece of paper. I was a little put off by that.

Carlin was pretty funny, though. How could he not be? He is serious about jokes, and he knows how to write ’em.

But he’s shooting at the same targets as with “You Are All Diseased.” The self-esteem culture, the “worship of children,” the worship of God. He’s not into the whole God thing. At. All.

I didn’t take notes so I can’t share any jokes. But come March, when George Carlin returns to HBO, don’t expect anything you haven’t heard before. And if he visits your town between now and then, be forewarned about those typewritten notes.

Now, let’s go back 35 years – half a life ago for Carlin – to one of his routines called “Black Consciousness,” from his 1972 album “Occupation: Foole.” Click here to hear it on my Vox blog. It’s still relevant. (I have a kid-memory of Carlin doing this routine on “The Flip Wilson Show.”)

You can purchase “Black Consciousness” for download, or other bits from “Occupation: Foole,” by following this link to Amazon.com.

Kid Creole & the Coconuts in L.A. (10/03/07)

I’m happy to report that Thomas August Darnell Browder, a.k.a. August Darnell, a.k.a. Kid Creole, made a triumphant return to Hollywood Wednesday night.

The Kid rocked Sunset Blvd. with three fresh, firm Coconuts from overseas... and a freelance band from Long Beach. The Key Club was full of friendly faces giving him nothing but love. By the end, they were dancing in the aisles... conga lines, the whole shit.

I’m really curious as to what this gig was about. A showcase of some kind? There seemed to be a lot of badge-wearing “V.I.P.s.” Is Kid Creole trying to kick-start his recording career in the States, after years of living in London?

I does not know. But he also played a gig last night in San Juan Capistrano. I tell you, a few more shows like the one Wednesday night, and people are gonna start buzzing.

After 16 years without a major-label deal, Kid Creole probably can’t maintain a regular touring band, I figured. The surprise came when one of Wednesday night’s opening acts – local jam band Delta Nove – stuck around as the Kid’s rhythm section.

Not a problem, because Delta Nove smoked during its own set... a pastiche of heavily percussive white-boy funk with elements of reggae, D.C. go-go and New Orleans gumbo.

For the Kid Creole set, the band came out spankin’ the familiar hits like “The Sex of It,” “I’m a Wonderful Thing, Baby” and “Endicott.”

And what about the Kid? Oh, the Kid was sharp. From his gaucho hat to his two-tone shoes. Not to mention the purple zoot suit in between. He can still move, he can still sing. He can still command a stage.

The Coconuts were new, but their stage choreography I remember from two decades ago. Hey, if it works, it works.

Kid Creole’s longtime sidekick Bongo Eddie was up there doing his thing. As a hype man, Eddie is no “Sugar Coated” Andy Hernandez, but he certainly helped Kid Creole feel at home onstage.

The 90-minute set (including encore) featured “Stool Pigeon,” “Don’t Take My Coconuts,” “No More Casual Sex” and “My Male Curiosity.” Plus an oldie I wasn’t familiar with – “Gina, Gina” from 1981.

Let me leave you with the studio version of “Gina, Gina,” streaming on my Vox site. Click here to hear it.

I’ll let y’all know the next time Kid Creole & the Coconuts perform stateside.

The Brand New Heavies in L.A. (08/26/07)

After stumbling upon that Brand New Heavies concert on Fabchannel.com last month, I decided to get off my ass and check out the band live at House of Blues Sunday night.

The Heavies may not be virtuoso musicians, but they are a feel-good party band that gets the job done, and the fans were ready. They were especially ready for N’Dea Davenport, the star of the show, who rocked the older and newer material with power.

I really like how she’s put her own stamp on Stevie Wonder’s “I Don’t Know Why I Love You.” And my favorite cut off their last album – “Sex God” – is a killer concert number, thanks to Davenport’s dramatic performance.

After a one-hour set, the Heavies did a 20-minute encore, starting with a poppin’ version of the White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army.”

Good to see the Brand New Heavies still got some life in ’em. No doubt there’ll be more albums and plenty more gigs to come.

In the coming days and weeks, BNH will be opening for Macy Gray on the “Big and Heavy Tour.” (They’ll be in Forth Worth tomorrow night, and from there hitting Louisiana, Mississippi, Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Columbus, New York, Baltimore and D.C.)

If you want to see a Fabchannel clip of the Heavies performing “I Don’t Know Why I Love You,” click here.

And I’ve got the album version of “Sex God” streaming on my Vox site; click here to check it out.

Lisa Lampanelli in L.A. (08/18/07)

Well, I got off my ass and went to check out Lisa Lampanelli at the Wiltern Theatre on Saturday night.

I was curious about two things. 1) What type of audience does she draw? 2) So soon after the Flavor Flav roast, would she dish any behind-the-scenes dirt?

The crowd was an amazing mix. Lots of older couples (which surprised me, given the raunch factor of Lampanelli’s act). Lots of gay guys (they seem to travel in packs of four) and lesbians. Lots of Asians and Latinos, not so many black folks (considering she does so much racial humor).

What crossed my mind, watching this diverse crowd get seated, is that “diversity” isn’t about how different we all are. It’s about how similar. All these different types of folks came here for the same experience.

If they gave Nobel Peace Prizes to filthy, loudmouth bitches, Ms. Lampanelli would be most deserving. She brings human beings together.

And insults the shit out of them.

Boy oh boy... there is nothing this woman won’t say. And if you’re not bothered by at least one of her jokes, you’re probably a sociopath. If the AIDS joke doesn’t do it, the deaf joke will. If the Down Syndrome joke doesn’t offend you, then the rape joke definitely will.

(Yes, I said rape joke. Which went something like: “It’s a great way of cheating if the guy is hot.”)

It was like a pagan ritual of transgressive utterance. Shock comedy as aerobic workout. I laughed myself hoarse, even though much of her material (too much) was rehashed from her “Dirty Girl” cable special/DVD/CD.

I tried to write down some of her best lines, but the meaning doesn’t transfer to the printed word. It’s all about her stage persona, and the vibe of the crowd... it’s about the ritual.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have much to say about the Flavor Flav roast, except for this crack about Flav’s physical size: “Either him or Katt Williams is a pygmy. I thought one of ’em was gonna blow a dart right in my ass.”

For a dose of Lisa Lampanelli in a more free-wheeling format, listen to this clip of her on Penn Jillette’s radio show, where she and Penn got good and bitchy about Jerry Lewis, Nathan Lane and Sandra Bernhard. (Lampanelli links to it from her own website, www.insultcomic.com.) It is hilarious.

Prince in Las Vegas (01/27/07)

What would the ’80s have been without Prince?

The dawn of Reagan’s America coincided with the dusk of disco and the coke-exhaustion of P-Funk. America needed a new groove. What we got was a second British Invasion, when bands like Spandau Ballet, Tears for Fears and Depeche Mode made the whole world forget that the Beatles and the Rolling Stones ever existed!

But we did have Prince. And even the Brits had to bow down to His Royal Badness.

Prince was there at major signposts of my young adulthood. His first single, “Soft and Wet,” was played at my high-school homecoming dance, senior year. I made sure of it because I drove home to get the 45; the sorry-ass DJ didn’t have any black music in his crate.

In college, I witnessed Prince’s “Controversy Tour” – his first arena tour as headliner, with Zapp and Roger Troutman opening.

“When Doves Cry” is one of the few songs where I vividly remember my first time hearing it on the radio. I was driving to my sister’s house in Columbia, Md. “When Doves Cry” was so unlike anything I’d ever heard, I literally had to pull the car off the road and just listen until it was over.

In ’87, I used the lyrics of “Sign ‘O’ the Times” in a writing lesson while teaching a group of 15-year-olds in the D.C. summer jobs program.

I even did my hajj to Minneapolis in ’88. Didn’t meet the man, but did write a nice piece for the Washington Times about the city’s music scene and gold-rush atmosphere, both single-handedly inspired by Prince.

Now, I can’t say I stuck with Prince through the ‘90s. Even a pop genius only gets a certain amount of time to ride ahead of the culture, and then the culture catches up, then it passes him. Pop music, conquered by hip-hop, left Prince’s ass behind 15 years ago. (About when Dr. Dre released “The Chronic,” I’d say.)

But we still have Prince. And I will say this: If I ever had to sleep with a guy – I mean, absolutely had to do it – Prince would be the one.

In November, he opened his own nightclub in Vegas at the Rio. It’s called 3121. Prince performs there every Friday and Saturday night. (Till when? For the foreseeable future, I suppose.) I figured last weekend would be a great time to see him, since he’s getting ready to play the Super Bowl halftime show. Figured he might be whipping his band into fighting shape.

Here’s the deal: tickets cost $125 apiece, and that’s for “standing room.” A seat at a table will cost you more than $300 (but you also get a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot).

Damn, Prince… $300?! Couldn’t I just blow you and we call it even? Wait, forget that. For $300, Prince should suck my dick.

So anyway, I was in there Saturday night with my standing-room ticket. Although the doors open at 10, they tell you when you pay that Prince won’t start playing till after midnight. Whatever, because Prince’s hand-picked mistress of the turntables (and the Mac laptop), DJ Rashida, was mixing it properly… old-school faves like “So Ruff, So Tuff,” older-school shits like “I Know You Got Soul,” and all kinda hot numbers from Prince’s vast repository (“Sexy Dancer,” “A Love Bizarre”…)

And I was digging the visual accompaniment on wall-to-wall video screens: clips of Josephine Baker, Bill Robinson, the Nicholas Brothers, Cab Calloway, James Brown, etc., dancing in time with the music.

Still, the Red Bull was starting to give out by the time Prince hit the stage at 12:30 a.m., Sunday morning. It was indeed a thrill to see him in such an intimate setting, a beautifully designed circular space, packed with fans.

He started out with a little bit of old (“Girls and Boys”) and a little bit of new (“Lolita”). Then the band went on an extended vamp of “Down By the Riverside,” New Orleans style, and Prince took off walking. Backed up by beefy bodyguards, Prince did a walking tour of the seated tables that encircle the dance floor. That was kinda cool, seeing him pass five feet in front of me, then sit down in somebody’s booth. I guess that’s something else you get for your $300… the chance he might stop by your table for a minute.

“What y’all want to hear?” Prince asked when he got back on stage. After some noisy response, Prince said: “Early in my career, when I would ask that question, people said ‘Somebody else!’ ” Okay, so Prince is no Bette Midler with the stage patter. But then he strapped on a wireless bass and said, “I’ma play something new. Let’s see if y’all can hang with this.”

In the chugging instrumental jam that followed, Prince drifted back to the tables again, and he took off his bass and handed it to a guest, who proceeded to thump-‘n’-pop it for a few bars while Prince stood on a tabletop, fanning him. Not being close enough to see who the mystery guy was, I had to wait till Prince got back to a microphone and said, “Larry Graham in the building!”

Prince then threw us a little “Kiss” and segued into some “Musicology,” which took on the flavor of a J.B. tribute. Especially when the horns started blowing the “Pass the Peas” riff. This was the cue for another special guest, will.i.am of Black Eyed Peas, who rapped for a while as Prince disappeared and a bunch of chicks from the audience came onstage to shake dem asses.

I didn’t pay to hear will.i.am, but I wasn’t mad. I did pay to be at a happening spot, and these little surprises created the feeling that we were all just hanging out in Prince’s playpen. It was cool.

Cooler still when a drum machine kicked in and Prince sang “Forever in My Life.” And even cooler yet when that turned into Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People” and Graham came out of the audience for a proper showcase.

Highlight of the night for me was “If I Was Your Girlfriend,” one of Prince’s best-sung songs ever. But after that, dude was saying “good night” and shit. He’d only been onstage for an hour!

Oh no no no, bruh-man… I know you ain’t done yet! No, he wasn’t. Although for some reason he went through the motions of making it an “encore.” You know… exit the stage, dim the lights, wait a couple of minutes. Then back he came to play “Purple Rain,” a song I’ve never been in love with.

By the time he was finished for real, it was about quarter to 2, and Prince said: “You’re welcome in my house any time, all right?”

Yeah, bitch, whatever. I just paid $125 to hear you perform for 75 minutes. What’s that, $1.70 a minute? Just open a phone-sex line, Prince. Save money on the electric bills.

Afterwards, I read reviews of Prince’s opening weekend at 3121. Each of those two nights, he threw down for two solid hours, then he and the band went over to his adjacent restaurant, the Jazz Cuisine, and continued to jam till 5:30 in the morning.

Well, during Saturday’s show Prince did say, “We’ll be at the Jazz Cuisine all night long, come join us.” But by then I was dizzy-headed from standing on my feet for four hours straight, and it was past my bedtime anyhow, so I went back to my hotel.

But, hey… I did have Prince.