Very superstitious

If this superstition doesn't exist it ought to: When you're a big music star playing a giant open-air venue like the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, don't turn over the mic to let your daughter sing. Also, avoid long drum solos. And if you're somehow not with it enough to avoid Pitfalls A and B, at least have the sense not to make both mistakes consecutively. Very bad luck.

That's what Stevie Wonder did yesterday during a disappointing set at a rainy JazzFest, with the effect that by the time he got to one of his big 1970s hits, "Superstition," most of the energy had leaked out of the show. To only slightly rewrite that lyric: If you don't believe in things that you ought to understand, you suffer.

Midway through Wonder's set one guy standing next to us decided he'd had enough. "This is putting me to sleep," he said. "I've gotta go find something else," and he took off in search of another stage.

It was too bad, too, because the concert started off promisingly enough, I thought. Wonder began by introducing his beautiful daughter Aisha Morris, who is one of three backup singers with his band (she was the baby splashing in the bath in the 1976 hit "Isn't She Lovely"), and made a short, not overly ingratiating speech about the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, the recent loss of his mother and the state of the world. He then launched into a very good rendition of "Love's In Need of Love Today," followed I think by "Higher Ground," and everything seemed cool. The band sounded great, the sound mix was good, Stevie's singing was strong and true and there were none of the long, wiggly-voiced departures that he can fall victim to.


Somewhere along the way, though, he went off course. It might have been the way overlong, tedious version of the hit "Ribbon in the Sky," with lame requests for audience participation complete with separate sing-along parts for men and women. Ugh. He wiggle-voiced around that tune for about 20 minutes, and then let Aisha sing a song by herself -- double-ugh -- and then launched into another long song I didn't know that featured a five- or six-minute drum solo. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

I was a big Stevie fan as a kid and I'm still a big appreciator -- I own and still listen to four of his classic 1970s albums -- but I had trouble hanging in there. He kept saying, "Are you ready to go home," an invitation for the crowd to shout "no" and for him to keep playing, but I kept saying, "yeah, sure."

Michelle, characteristically, got even more directly to the point. "He better play some fucking hits or I'm outie," she said.

We were standing pretty far back in the huge crowd, in what must have been the unofficial "smoking" section; all around us the pungent smell of reefer was in the air. A 40s-ish guy behind us took a deep breath: "I'm getting fucked up just standing here and I'm not even smoking."

The weed, the rain and the waning music made for a strange Woodstocky scene back in our section: a bunch of little girls, maybe 9 to 12 years old, took turns running, sliding and falling down in the mud; a trio of stoned, skanky, college-age chicks, one with a giant gut exposed by her bikini, danced in the mud too, but somehow managed not to fall down. One by one, small groups of rain-soaked beer drinkers packed up their tarps and coolers and flagpoles (to help friends find them) and trudged off to competing venues before Stevie finished.

As the rain came in intermittent sheets, the music improved. He did play a medley of hits and the crowd got back into it, although I thought it was a little sad that the biggest response was for "Signed, Sealed, Delivered I'm Yours," recorded in 1970 just barely when he had stopped being "Little Stevie Wonder" and before the big artistic breakthrough of the "Talking Book," "Innervisions" and "Fulfilligness' First Finale" albums.

After my favorite performance of the set, "Boogie on Reggae Woman," Wonder brought up New Orleans legend and JazzFest regular Irma Thomas to perform with him. That should have been a high point but it fell short too. Irma wasn't in very good voice, and Stevie had to keep prompting her with the lyrics to his songs, including some big hits. She might have been the only person in the audience who didn't know the words.

Elsewise, though, it was a nice JazzFest day, despite the rain. The food is always delicious -- crawfish Monica, yum; trout Baquet, excellent -- and we ran into our friend and M&M regular, Sandy (yet another of the old Driftwood college paper crowd, pictured with Michelle and Freda at the top of this post). He had allowed us to park at his house, just blocks from the festival grounds, sat with us during a good Richard Thompson set, and invited us over to his place for a dinner of homemade gumbo, which I think we surprised him by accepting. Tasty.

A couple final thoughts on JazzFest: They've jacked the prices so high -- $50 per ticket -- that it's no longer the great bargain or all-inclusive party that it used to be. More like an upscale party for yuppies like us. And compared with the 2006 JazzFest that we attended, the first one after Katrina, the place didn't have the same inspiring mix of resolve and hometown spirit. Everyone seems tired of recovering from the storm.

Prices, weather and disappointments notwithstanding, Michelle and I plan on going back tomorrow to catch a tribute to Mahalia Jackson in the Gospel Tent, the Raconteurs at Gentilly Stage, a few minutes of Rebirth Brass Band at Congo Square and Preservation Hall Jazz Band at Economy Hall Tent, and the Neville Brothers, to close out the festival, at the Acura Stage.

With a nod to LaurieSue, who mocked M&M's easy grading scale and then promptly declared four "nurse caps" for a new kung-fu movie: Stevie Wonder's set, 2 gliomas; Friday JazzFest overall, 3 gliomas.

Econo moment

I lie in bed at the Econolodge (catching up on my M&M reading). The truckers and cars whiz by on the 1-40 below, at a rate of about 1 per second. They are loud, a roar. I don't know how I slept, but I did, soundly.

Through the whooshing sounds I hear a lady's voice: "Amber! Amber!" Is that what she's saying? She calls again. "Dancer! DANCER!" I can't tell.

Has she lost a cat or a dog? Not a kid I hope. Woosh. Wooosh.

Bad place to lose a dog.

Also below the Wafflehouse, with its promise of pecan waffles and maple syrup. With strawberries on top. I watched the yellow Wafflehouse signs go by at a rate of one per half hour or so yesterday, my taste for a pecan waffle growing with every sighting. Marketing. It works, bitches.

Mark's done in the shower. Amber, Dancer, Panther -- has either been found or given up on. The lady with the deep smoker's voice has stopped her yelling. The trucks and cars never stop. Whoosh.

Another day, 2 more states (nearly 3)

I love all the travel advice in the comments. Thank you, M&M-ers.

Despite the apparent consensus, though, we decided to continue heading east out of Oklahoma City on Interstate 40, into Arkansas and toward Memphis, at which point our plan is to turn south on I-55 and make a straight shot to New Orleans.

Other than extremely strong southerly winds throughout Oklahoma, today was a beautiful day for driving, with clear skies and surprisingly (to me) pretty country in Oklahoma and Arkansas. We're both amazed at how much the landscape changes from day to day. Yesterday we saw hour after hour of high-mesa and red-rock desert; today we drove through the gentle hills of the Texas Panhandle, the wavy grass fields and red dirt of Oklahoma and the lush woods and horse country of Arkansas. Not a mesa in sight.

We thought we'd pull up somewhere around Little Rock for the night, but Michelle had an adrenaline rush and we kept on going -- almost all the way to the Tennessee state line. I don't know how she did it; I'm exhausted, and all I did was sit there. We're now tucked into a nice little EconoLodge in West Memphis, Ark., across the river from Memphis, and we hope to visit the Stax Records museum or maybe Graceland in the morning before we shoot south.

I keep meaning to post accounts of our poker adventures, or pics of lunch with Terry at Manhattan Beach and Miriam in South Pasadena, or our bitter riff on Starbucks' bungled marketing plan, or our cool new blog feature -- an "overheard" category -- but by the time we settle in for the night it's too late. That stuff will have to wait.

Here are a couple of quick pics from today's travels:


One of the first things you see when you cross from Texas into Oklahoma on this route is a sign advertising the largest cross in the Western Hemisphere. ("Exit for a spiritual experience you'll never forget.") Well, we got lucky. You could see the cross from the freeway, no exit required. I'm not sure how long I'll remember the spiritual experience, but I do recall that the actual cross, the one in the Bible, was in the Eastern Hemisphere, for whatever that's worth.


Oklahoma City. These are the bastards who are stealing the Seattle SuperSonics basketball team, and this Ford Center, on I-40, is where they'll play. I say "bastards" because people in Seattle are all upset about the team's moving. I couldn't care less, honestly. Good luck to the team and the OKC. I'm personally fine without either of them. The Oklahoman newspaper today was promoting a sports columnist who was taking great pleasure in poking the Pacific Northwest.


You're driving through Oklahoma, surrounded by cows, you ought to have a steak, is what I say. We finally found the perfect-looking joint, Big Jake's Cattle Co., although it was actually two miles inside the Arkansas state line. Sure enough, the menu featured a vast array of beef meals. Michelle ordered The Big Jake, a center-cut steak that the menu promised to be "the best eatin' of your life." I wasn't all that hungry. In fact I was going to order the "petite steak" but since they described it as "perfect for the ladies or the little fellas" I decided to go with a top sirloin instead.

They accidentally gave me Michelle's order, and I have to say that was one pretty tasty steak. But the best eatin' of my life? I don't know. I can think of quite a bit of eatin' this good or better on this very trip: the feast at Kaye & Val's, dinner at the awesome Bellagio buffet in Las Vegas, the Pete's turkey sandwich and Trieste cappuccino and Mama Matassa's manicotti ... and that's without even getting to the best Harley Dog in Kingman, Arizona.

More meals, wheels and photos tomorrow.

7 states, six state lines ...

OK, time to hit the road. More to come.

11 days, 7 states, and counting ...

We just pulled into a little roadside motel in Amarillo, Texas, called the Camelot Inn, styled sort of like the Excalibur in Las Vegas, only a fraction of the size -- and price. We got our comfy but flashless double for $43, which includes free donuts and coffee in the morning and, surprise, free wireless.

It's been a long day of driving for poor Michelle though. We realized that our leisurely sightseeing along Route 66 through Arizona yesterday set us back a bit on our mission to reach New Orleans by Friday's JazzFest lineup. So we pushed on tonight farther than we planned.

Good couple of days, though. Today began at the Motel DuBeau, pictured above -- really now a youth hostel, the DuBeau Hostel -- a vintage 1930s-era stop on old Route 66 and our cool Flagstaff, Ariz., find. We drove across Arizona, into the beautiful mesa country of New Mexico, with a quick walk around old downtown Gallup and a stop for lunch at the famous and picturesque Hotel El Rancho just east of town. We played cards for a short while at Route 66 Casino (everything here milks the name) outside Albuquerque and then crossed into Texas to Amarillo.

That makes seven states -- Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas -- since we left home on April 19.

Fun, but a long day. Tomorrow back on the road to Oklahoma City, and we're still debating the best route from there: south to Houston then east to New Orleans; or east to Memphis and then south to New Orleans. Thoughts, experienced travelers?

Here are a few shots from the past couple of days.

Michelle in Vegas:

Mr. D'z, the awesome roadside diner in Kingman, Arizona, on Route 66, which really deserves its own post. It caters to bikers, like a lot of places on this highway, and advertises "Best Harley Dog in town!" I ordered one up. "I hear you make the best Harley Dog in town," I said to our waitress, Ginger. "Well, it's the only one, really," she said. I figured. Pretty good hot dog, though:

The storied El Rancho, host to movie stars once upon a time. The sign says, "Charm of yesterday, convenience of tomorrow":


Typical sight on today's long drive: