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VOX: MARATHON ISSUE
A Publication of:
• WTUL Marathon Schedule and 24 Hour DJ Weekend • Is RIGHT WRONG? by Tom Connor • Interviews with Statutory Triangle and Fisher Cat • Jail Time: Written from Behind Bars by Karl Lootens
Letter from the General Manager
Hey Loyal Listeners, Its Patrick the GM again, introducing your favorite VOX periodical. As you may notice, this issue’s theme is “Time”. Aside from the corny jokes (“it’s Time for you to donate to WTUL!”), the theme really is central to whats happening at the radio station you know and love. We’re on the cusp of digitizing our music, changing our programming schedule, getting more involved in the
community, and getting ready for another exciting Marathon! I’ll keep this message short since I know its time (har har) for you to read the rest of the Vox. Sincerely, Patrick Townsend General Manager WTUL New Orleans 91.5
Andrew Bizer, Attorney at Law The Mushroom Skully’z Recordz
Tom Connor Deborah Dixon Myrna L. Enamorado Chris Holdgraf Ray “Moose” Jackson Karl Lootens
I read the Vox today while at work. I felt oddly... reconnected to this city. WTUL is my favorite thing about New Orleans; well, that and La Divina Gelateria’. This issue made me feel still isolated and kind of fucked up, but I’m not the only one who feels that way. So, maybe there’s hope, right? Whether it was feeling like almost 70 of the 83 who were socially deleted- being rejected over and over again by people for whom I feel the same way- or nearing a panic attack at the thought of someone more socially awkward than myself whom I almost want to meet but fear what that
encounter could turn into, I felt like the Vox was reaching out to me. I’m not a target, not a demographic, not conspicuous enough for a label, but not so bland I can’t be sold. I’m just in my twenties, looking for something to read for a short time, and maybe drink a cup of coffee. Thanks for being there. Thanks for being. Much Love, Peace, Eliza T.
Assistant Editor Editor-in-Chief
Myrna L. Enamorado
Our featured poet lasst issue was credited as Stacy Balkun, whereas it should have been Stacey Balkun. Sorry Stacey!
WTUL New Orleans, 91.5 FM Tulane University New Orleans, LA 70118-5555
Office: (504) 865-5885 Studio: (504) 865-5887 www.wtulneworleans.com email@example.com
Tells us what you think. Send comments to firstname.lastname@example.org.
(Cover Design by Myrna Enamorado.
1 – Letter from the General Manager and Fan Mail - List of Contributors
Table of Contents
8 – 24 Hour DJ Profiles 9 – Interview with Fisher Cat
by Myrna L. Enamorado
3 – Merchandise Page (Please support us!) 4 – Letter from the Editor
10 – Spring 2010 Programming Schedule 11 – Beautiful Freak
by Chris Holdgraf
by Deborah Dixon
5 – “Is Right Wrong?”
by Tom Connor
14 – Hole (poem)
by Myrna Enamorado
6 – Interview with Statutory Triangle 7 – WTUL MARATHON SCHEDULE
by Myrna L. Enamorado
15 – Bitter Ink (cartoon)
by Ray “Moose” Jackson & Brian Zeigler
Jail Time by Karl Lootens
WTUL’s 2010 Special Gift Catalog
WTUL New Oreans 91.5 FM is New Orleans’ only free-form non-commercial radio station. We’ve counted on you for 50 years to make donations.
Make a Donation to WTUL. Get a gift. Your donation helps to keep WTUL going. The more you donate the more you receive. Get the total package of everything WTUL for only $200.
WTUL Songs from the Basement, Vol. 8 Compilation CD Our annual local compilation CD
(Donate at least $25 for this gift)
(donate at least $50 to be eligible for this
WTUL 2010 Marathon T-shirt (not as pictured)
gift + Compilation CD)
All orders over $50 will also receive WTUL buttons and bottle openers
(donate at least $100 for this gift + marathon tshit + compilation CD) WTUL Old School Block Logo White Logo on Blue T-shirt
(donate at least $150 for this gift + old school block logo shirt + marathon t-shit + compilation CD) WTUL Messenger Bag NEW!! Non-woven gray messenger bag w ith headphone design
(donate at least $200 for this gift + old school block logo shirt + marathon t-shit + compilation CD) WTUL Looking Back on 50 years Coffee Table Book Photos, stories, etc. collected from alum and current WTUL staff compiled in full color 7x7 coffee table book
Contribution form: Name: Address: ____________________ ____________________ ____________________ Please send to: The Vox WTUL New Orleans 91.5 FM Tulane University Box 5069 New Orleans, LA 70118 Phone: ____________________ AMOUNT CONTRIBUTED: ☐ $500 ☐ $250 ☐ $100 ☐ $50 ☐ $25
Or Donate online @ wtulneworleans.com
I lost a good friend today.
A farewell by Deborah “Lady Iyann” Dixon
We’d never met. Yes, I am one of those weirdos that lives on online forums. Real-life people suck. Anyway, I happened to stumble upon one of these forums, a roleplaying one, late last May. I was totally new at roleplaying (yes, I am one of those weirdos too), and she helped me get acclimated, taught me the do’s and don’ts. Given that most people sink or swim at this, I thought it was really sweet of her to take the time to do that. Well, maybe I love too easily or she just has one of those lovable personalities, or more likely a combination of both, but I grew irreversibly attached to her over the ensuing months, and I presume I earned at least her respect, because it takes an iron will to stick with someone like me for this long. Anyway, a couple of months ago, she told us (me and our newly mutual friends) that she had been diagnosed with a ridiculously rare form of cancer. The doctors gave her five years. I actually told her not to grieve about five years, because after all, five years is a long time, and technology makes huge strides in that long a period. Of course, it hasn’t been five years. As I write this, I still don’t entirely
understand what happened. I know chemo had been dealing her some serious blows, but if I had really thought about it, maybe I would’ve created an opportunity to say goodbye. But I didn’t, and after missing her, that’s what hurts the most. I’m trying to remind myself that she’s doing much better wherever she is now- no pain, no need for oxygen or morphine. But, of course, I’m selfish enough to make this about me. I miss her so much. The point of this bloggy essay thing is that none of us have the sort of time we think we do. I once read an email that said, “Life is not short. Life is the longest thing that can happen to you.” That’s true, but that doesn’t make life long. That doesn’t make sitting on a death sentence any better an idea. That doesn’t give us the right to waste time, to watch if flit away, to assume that the doctors are right. As my friend said, “The greatest gift any of you can give me is the gift of living your lives to the fullest, of letting as much joy, love and laughter into your lives, day in and day out, as possible given the circumstances of the day. Be happy, enjoy your lives, not make the best of yourself, but what makes you the happiest.” I’ll have to try that, though the world seems a little emptier of happiness these days. Take care, my friend.
Letter from the Editor: Another Year Passes
by Kyle Barnett
So here it is…time to fill a space. A blank space. Like the VOX editor space before I inhabited it. Like the universe before there was a universe. The unwritten page has so many possibilities in comparison to the written one. But that doesn’t make emptiness a virtue. So, don’t let your response to the continual calls for donations to WTUL be a blank one. Just go to www. wtulneworleans.com and fill out the blank donation form. Don’t forget to fill in the credit card info. In turn we will send you some of the stuff on the previous page. Cool stuff. Right? Plus you’ll just have the satisfaction of supporting the only relevant radio station in New Orleans.
To contact the editor send an email to: email@example.com
Is Right Wrong?: Struggling with Mardi Gras Etiquette in a Hot New Orleans Summer
by Tom Connor
I reached the second floor of the bar, and as was usual for this time of night on a Saturday, it was packed. I paused at the top of the stairs and scanned around for my friend, Leigh, and in the process I took in the whole scene. My lungs hated the smoke, but the rest of me loved the place. Not only was it one of the less pretentious bars on Magazine Street, it was also a great place to drink when in warm weather. The prices could have been better, but I could forgive them for that. I had only reflected on this for a moment when I saw the group I was there to meet, clustered as they usually were around a table in the corner. I started walking over, winding and twisting around people as I went, but after about ten steps I froze, my eyes locked on one of the girls standing with my friend. The night had taken a turn. Standing roughly five-ten (plus heels) she was hard to miss to begin with, and her curly hair, made gigantic by the August humidity, only increased her visibility. Still, even without those markers, my eerily-good memory for faces had set off the first alarm and I briefly considered a full retreat to avoid the awkwardness that was sure to come. As I weighed my options, I reviewed the case in my head. I had first met the girl that stood before me, a friend of another friend, several years prior, at one of the uptown parades during Mardi Gras. I should clarify that I use the term “met” loosely; what actually happened was that I happened to be looking in the right direction as, beset with a drunken bloodlust for beads, she pulled the left side of her shirt and bra halfway to the bottom of her ribcage, exposing a part of her anatomy I’d normally have to pay for dinner to have access to. Not that I was complaining - at the time I was pretty happy with the situation and mentally high-fived myself in celebration, then went on with my night and forgot about it. It was the following weeks and months took the situation into the weird category. As it turned out, this particular flasher was not only a Tulane student, but apparently had the superpower of booking all of her classes in the same buildings and at the same times as mine. I was literally seeing her four and five times a week, and it began to feel like I was being haunted by the ghost of titty past. The strangest part was that the more I saw her around, the more I began to feel guilty. At the time I couldn’t explain it, but it amplified a small amount every time I passed her in a hall, even though I was about 99% sure she had no idea who I was. It was the type of quietly nagging shame that comes from getting away with something, like cheating on a test and then setting the curve. I couldn’t understand why, but the whole thing was bothering me. Then one day, out of nowhere, it came to me. I didn’t feel bad about the flash itself, but rather I felt incredibly awkward that there had been zero acknowledgement of the situation on my part, so the whole thing felt like a secret I had to avoid bringing up. To make matters worse, I had also failed to hold up my end of the showing-your-tits-contract, which dictated that I give her some beads, and in some ways that made the situation worse. Before me was an etiquette problem unique to New Orleans: what, if anything, should you do when you’ve seen the breast (not both, just the one) of someone loosely connected to your social circle and did not provide the requisite beads, if that person has no idea who you are or that you have that kind of knowledge? I was sure this had to be something others had experienced, or at least that’s what I started telling myself in an attempt to mask the fact that I was vastly over-thinking the issue. Still, seeing as how New Orleans, and Uptown in particular, is such a small community that you’re bound to run into the same person again and again to begin with, it did make sense that there should be a right and wrong way to handle this kind of thing. I felt better having finally been able to put my finger on what was bothering me, but I wanted to rectify the situation as gracefully as possible. The normal remedy would have been to clear the air, or in this case bring it up to the girl and repay the beads, but I would have to make sure to do so in as casual and un-creepy a way as possible. Maybe lead with a compliment? I pictured myself walking up to her one day, maybe on a quiet Sunday afternoon, and introducing myself. “Hi, my name is Tom. I saw your left boob last Mardi Gras, and I just thought I’d let you know I thought it was top notch. Oh, I also owe you this,” I’d say, and as I produced a string of beads from my pocket I’d continue, “anyway, so, what’s that, Faulkner you’re reading there?” It was a decent plan, except that even in my head it usually ended with me attempting to explain social niceties to a uniformed police officer, so I decided that probably wouldn’t be the best approach. Facebook, with its lack of any actual interaction, was an even worse option, and stymied at an impasse I decided to simply do nothing and pretend it hadn’t happened. Sure, I was bucking tradition and still hiding what I knew, but I was also avoiding a restraining order, and that outweighed all other considerations. Over time I fell into a habit of just avoiding eye contact, and after some time I stopped seeing her altogether. In a triumph that would give hope to sloths everywhere, lack of action had solved my problem. That was all undone that Saturday night, standing there in that smoky, crowded bar, looking at that same girl standing there talking to my friend. To make matters worse, since I was already a little drunk, I didn’t fully trust myself to handle the situation without saying something stupid, so I decided to exit as quietly as possible. As my leg muscles began to shuffle my feet backward , my friend Leigh saw me and started to wave me over. With retreat impossible, I brushed my hair off of my forehead and started walking over with a casual smile on my face. The issue had been forced. Or so I thought, as fate decided to go easy on me. As it turned out, the girl I was ready to run screaming from the room to avoid was so completely plastered that she could barely stand, and was largely being baby-sat by the others around her. Conversation seemed as if it would have been a miracle since standing up straight seemed to be enough of a challenge, so I decided to play it cool. We stood facing perpendicular directions, and two red-bull-and-vodkas later, I had reinstituted my strategy of ignore and evade, but the humor of the situation was too delicious not to bring up. Once I was sure the girl behind me wasn’t listening, I leaned in close to Leigh and told the story, in its entirety, directly into her ear, as quietly as possible. I was about halfway through when I started to realize again how strange I sounded for having paid as much attention as I had to the whole thing, but after I finished Leigh looked at me, looked at her friend, and started laughing. I took the fact that a well-adjusted adult female also found it funny as a good sign. “So, what are you going to do?” Leigh asked me. “I don’t know, I’m not really sure how to bring it up. Probably nothing.” I took a sip of my drink and had an idea: “Maybe ask her to see the right one? It seems like such a shame to only have half the collection.” We laughed together and I was reminded of why I love having Leigh as a friend – as someone who could be a little weird herself, she always seems not just to understand, but to appreciate odd situations, which I tend to have an abundance of. Her advice isn’t always sage, but it is always practical: “Yeah, if you had the full set, the eBay value would probably go up,” she replied. Out of curiosity, I asked Leigh what the girl’s name was, and found out it was Amanda, which I thought was disappointingly common. After all that buildup I had been hoping for a Dagmar or Hildegard, but hey, you can’t have everything. As I stood there with the fact that, by some definitions, the name was the second most personal piece of information I knew about this person, I felt a bump on my shoulder and turned around. Amanda and her half of the table were heading off to another bar and were saying their goodbyes. With blood full of liquid courage and taurine, I saw an opportunity and decided to break the ice once and for all. Reviewing my previous options, from completing the collection to expressing aesthetic appreciation to simply upholding tradition, I decided to again utilize my original strategy and pretend the whole thing never happened. “Did we meet?” Amanda asked as if seeing me for the first time, and I could tell right away she was even drunker than I thought she was. Either her eyes weren’t focusing on me, or each had suddenly become interested in a different one of my ears. “We actually met before, awhile ago,” I said, grabbing her arm to steady her as she started to list dangerously to one side. “We have, where?” she asked, steadying herself and squinting right at me. “Well, like I said, it was awhile ago. Sorry, I’ve got a weird memory for faces,” I said, and continued on to name our other mutual friend, but I decided to leave it at that. After a moment’s conversation, it turned out neither of us really talked to that particular person anymore, though we were both pretty sure that she still lived in New Orleans. These realizations together amounted to a set of facts that neither Amanda nor I found particularly interesting, and when her friends were ready to go, so was she. “Well, we’re leaving now,” Amanda said, swaying toward her friends, “nice to have… met you… again.” She blinked at me, then turned around and walked away with short, choppy steps. “You too,” I said to the back of her head, and turned back around. Years in the making, the conversation was short, pointless, and entirely uninteresting, the type that is replicated millions of times every day by those waiting for their friends to find their purses and close their tabs before moving on to the next venue. Still, I was grateful for the anticlimax, and for the fact that I had finally broken ice that only I was aware of and only I even cared about. Having a personal piece of information about Amanda had created a very strange and involuntary intimacy, and I was happy to have mentally dismissed it. To have done so without being arrested made me pretty proud of myself, and I ordered another round. As I leaned against the table playing with the ice in my drink, I was suddenly sure that though I probably wasn’t the first person to have been in a situation like that, I was almost certainly the first to have put that much effort into it. I took a sip, looked around, and realized that I had answered my original question (the correct answer was to do nothing), but I was troubled by the implications that it carried. To do nothing meant that simply ignoring a flash would release one from any expectation, including throwing beads, and I realized that my trek had lead me to a conclusion that could tear at the heart of Mardi Gras itself. I pictured legions of beadless women and disinterested men wandering aimlessly around Bourbon Street like zombies, while frightened and confused police stood dumbstruck and called for backup. It was a terrible reality, one that I didn’t want to live in, and I was at a loss for a way out. Of course, it was equally possible that I had learned nothing, was overthinking again, and would be in another situation like it before too long. Either way. I took another sip of my drink, mentally high-fived myself in celebration, then went on with my night and forgot about it.
ME - So I saw you at your debut show at the Spellcaster and you made quite an entrance. There was fog everywhere and you came down from the ceiling while the papparazzi took pictures with big mechanical lenses. Did you feel that something historic was happening like you were being born? Stevie - I felt like drinking a tall glass of milk. Rhodes - Yeah, i felt like i was dropping out of Lady Gaga’s birth canal. ME - Do you ever get fazed by fame? Stevie - I’m famous? That’s news to me...I paid my water bill in change last month. Rhodes - Yeah but then i just leave the 6 block radius of the bywater where nobody knows who i am. ME - How far would you go to protect your privacy? Stevie - Pretty fucking far. Rhodes - Missouri. ME - Today is your 83rd birthday and you are still going strong. Can you share some words of wisdom with your audience that looks up to you with blood smeared eyes? Stevie - Be on time…punctuality is everything. Strive for perfection. Less is more. Also, if you have ‘blood smeared eyes,’ you aren’t getting enough iron. Eat a couple handfuls of raw spinach. ME - You’re such a newband and you already got signed. Can you tell us how that happened? What are the benefits to being on a label as opposed to self releasing your music? Stevie - We’re not signed. People like Neil Young are signed and have 5 year contracts and that sort of thing. Have you ever heard the story about how he fucked over Warner Brothers by making a Rockabilly and Electronica album in the Eighties? Pure genius. I think somebody is putting out our record in the future, quite possibly very soon. Rhodes - It happened because of the aforementioned birth canal show. There are no real benefits. Just make weird music that will appeal to Austrians.
ME - You changed your name from Statutory Triangle to Statutory Pancake. Is that a reference to Voodoo? Stevie - We changed our name to Statutory Pancake? That’s also news to me. We are changing our name, but haven’t settled on anything yet. Everything is a reference to Voodoo. Rhodes - No it’s a reference to breakfast. ME - Are you religious or just suicidal? Stevie - Yes, I’m suicidal...somebody get me a shotgun and I’ll blow my fucking brains out for the media to lap up like a sick dog. Isn’t everybody suicidal at some point? Bottom line is this: if today I feel like
by Myrna Enamorado
Rhodes - Devo, Magas, and Juvenile. ME - What is the best thing that happened to you in the last decade? Stevie - Let’s see…trashing posh hotels in the CBD with aging celebrities, dining at Red Lobster, and Voodoo Fest 2006...I can’t elaborate upon that one. Sorry. Rhodes - Graduated High School, ‘09. Katrina. Discovered pharmaceuticals. I got a furby one year. I don’t know, a lot of great stuff happened, its hard to pin point just one. ME - Geographically speaking your identity is very tied to the South and New Orleans specifically. Do you feel mystically tied to this place? Stevie - No, no, no. I don’t feel attached to any particular place, save for Michigan or Chicago (in a fucked up way), much less ‘mystically tied’....but yes, I am partial to the South. Rhodes - Yeah, I feel pretty “mystic”. I recently discovered how hard it is to live anywhere that drinking in the street is illegal. I lived in Missouri for a year and had an identity crisis. I don’t want to be in a place that doesnt have drive thru daiquiri stands. So yeah, I always end up being pulled back into the swamp. ME - What about your environment has shaped your music?
jumping off a cliff, tomorrow I’ll be sitting in the lap of God. That’s life. I sold my religion on Ebay. Clark - Those two things have nothing to do with each other unless you’re Dostoevsky. Rhodes - Why does it have to be one or the other? ME - What music did you listen to in 2009? Stevie- Kap Bambino. French ‘electro’ band I’m quite fond of. I saw them in Chicago with Magas and my friends, Lazer Crystal...totally psychotic... Bad Party--from Detroit, MI. CHECK OUT all these bands, they are the shit. Other than that, modern music is quite dull. That King Khan show was a hoot though. Ever drink liquor out of a purse? I did that night. I listen to A LOT of talk radio, specifically Radio for the Blind…88.3 FM, WRBH. And of course, the Gun Club. The lead singer died in 1996. They are my favorite band of all time.
Stevie - Poor nutrition, abject poverty, corrupt politicians, tourism, fashion that fell straight out of the early Nineties, inclement weather, violence, violent hippies, funky Jazz, fire, rampant drug abuse, the lack of any truly good record stores, marching bands, Elysian Fields, and Mardi Gras. Need I say more? Rhodes - Its the jazz. What is in the future for Statutory Triangle? Stevie - The cover of Rolling Stone. Rhodes - Don’t know about that one you’ll just have to wait and see. ME - Are you gonna live forever? Stevie - Of course! Rhodes - With all the recent medical breakthroughs I feel like I might truly be part of the generation that stops aging after 27. So yes, I will live forever, unless I get cancer.
WTUL 2010 Marathon Schedule
March 12-14; Foburg Fest
WTUL co-sponsors the first Foburg Festival with NOIR Collective with WTUL sponsored shows are at La Maison at 10pm each night: Friday, March 12 – Blue Party, Gamma Ringo, New Grass Country Club and Wazozo. Saturday, March 13 – MyNameIsJohnMichael, Sun Hotel, Reno Bo and Booty Trove. Closing out the Frenchmen Street festival on Sunday, March 14 – Silent Cinema, Dr. Manhattan, Chris Rehm, Oso Closo and Meg Roussell.
March 20; One Eyed Jack’s – QUINTRON
Ballzack and Oddoms and Madd Wikkid open for Quintron and Miss Pussycat.
March 20; Pocket Park– 2nd Annual Vinyl Fair – 10am-5pm
Ballzack and Oddoms and Madd Wikkid open for Quintron and Miss Pussycat.
March 18; Rocco’s (11pm) –Throbbing Thursdays
(18+ show) WTUL DJs spin live at Rocco’s on Maple St. from 11pm-close.
March 22; Rocco’s (11pm) –Throbbing Thursdays
(18+ show) WTUL DJs spin live at Rocco’s on Maple St. from 11pm-close.
March 19-22; 24 Hour DJs
(See profiles on page opposite.)
Come to Pocket Park, nestled in between the Lavin-Bernick Center and McAllister Auditorium, where three DJs will post 24 hour live-sets back-to-back and will be asking non-stop, over the Release party for WTUL’s annual compilation CD featuring loair and to passersby, for donations for WTUL. cal artists. To procure this CD just flip back a couple of pages and send in the form with $25 or go to wtul.fm to donate. Please come out and support them. . Or...just show up to the party. Whiskey Dix (1753 Saint Charles
March 27; Whiskey Dix –Songs from the Basement Vol. 8 CD Release Party – We Landed on the Moon, Jak Locke, Sick Like Sinatra
March 19; Flying Dutchman
Avenue b/w felicity and polymnia) .
Co-hosting night of entertainment with New Orleans Opera Association at the Flying Dutchman.
March 28; Maple Leaf (5pm) –Hootenanny
The Howdies, Luke Winslow King, The High Ground Drifters.
WTUL Marathon 24 Hour DJ Schedule
Your 24 HOUR DJS
Each year in an attempt to raise funds for the station three WTUL DJs are elected by popular vote to serve as WTUL’s sole on-air representatives 24 hours straight. 24-hour shifts begin Friday March 19 at noon with Rachel Wenzel. Listen at 91.5 FM or on our webstrem at wtulneworleans.com.
Friday, March 19 –Saturday, March 20
DJ: Rachel Wenzel, WTUL Assistant General Manager Years on WTUL: 4 years Favorite Bands/Musicians: So many favorites. I do the Americana Show. I also love Sleater-Kinney, Sufjan Stevens, Bound Stems, Tegan and Sara and Dirty Projectors. Plus so many more. Most Hated Band/Musician: There is no music I hate, but I really don’t understand jazz or Britney Spears. Hobbies: I love to travel and want to see the world. I dance like a fool. I also like to try all kinds of arts and
Sunday, March 21 – Monday, March 22
DJ NAME: Hunter King; Program Director Favorite Band/Musician: It’s probably Bo Diddley Most Hated band/ Musician: oh jeez, I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to turn NOFX off when I hear it. Counting Crows kind of hurts too. Other Hobbies: I got in a shouting match about the how the ipod touch’s solid state hard drive has no effect on sound quality at a high-end audio store yesterday. I want to do that again.
crafts, but I always seem to start a project and can’t seem to finish it. I finished knitting a scarf once, that was a nice feeling. I enjoy chasing boys in plaid shirts. . . . with beards.
Saturday, March 20 – Sunday, March 21
DJ: Da D-Train Years on WTUL: 4 years Favorite Bands/Musicians: A Tribe Called Quest, Iggy Pop and/or The Stooges, Lou Reed, and Outkast. Most Hated Band/Musician:NICKELBACK, EMO GENRE, AND JAMES TAYLOR Other Hobbies: Finding great tracks, Checking out live music, eating slimjims, making fun of hipsters.........., rooting for the Florida Marlins, cooking up some mean ass garlic fries! Quote: “The person who knows how to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused.” ----- Shirley MacLaine
CALL THE DJs TO DONATE @ 504-865-5885 or online@
Fisher Cat invited me to their practice space before the big books to prisoners benefit show at Allwayz Lounge and we had a little conversation…..it followed as goes….. ME - If you could ride on the back of an animal what animal would you ride on? Perry - A Fisher cat. Probably a whale because it is so big and powerful and benevolent and it would probably just be rad. Jackson - I don’t know. I would be into a sloth possibly because they don’t move very fast so it wouldn’t bother you in doing what you’re wanting to do in your time because sometimes you don’t want to be riding on the back of an animal. Perry - Well in this case you do. A cheetah that is the fastest. Jackson - Antelope cause they jump really good too ME - What is your favorite movie? Perry - Tampopo is a Japanese movie that is really good and it’s all about ramen. And the Battle of Algiers is also a really good movie about the Algerian revolution. It’s brutal. Jackson - I like Dirty Work with Norm McDonald and Chris Farley. ME - What do you think of the New Orleans music scene? Nathan - I think that there are many scenes including but not limited to what you might call the native music scene, which also coincides with the tourist music scene, but not entirely cause you got your second lines on the one hand and you got your French market bourbon street voodoo zydeco jambalaya on the other hand. Perry - And there is an indie rock scene.
by Myrna Enamorado
Perry - It’s like a whole like a whole experience it’s not just like a show at a bar or at a venue it’s an event. Jackson - And you don’t have to have some specific draw because the idea is not to make money. The ideas is to have a good time If people come and don’t pay it’s not an issue. Normally you don’t pay at all. So it’s just for fun. Perry - There was the one show that home boy put on and everybody got sick afterwards Jackson - Everybody was inhaling toxic fumes. Nathan - “It was one the best nights of my life Perry - Yeah totally. There were candles and a giant spray painted bird. Nathan - They spent like a month or two months just painting and clearing out this warehouse for this show. Jackson - Yeah it was beautiful. Perry - It was so much more than a show it was a happening ME - Do you hate porcupines? Jackson - No we don’t hate porcupines they just happen top be one of the fisher cats natural prey. Prey doesn’t necessarily entail hatred. Perry - We eat porcupines. Nathan - We happen to be the only thing viscious enough to take on a porcupine. We are hard-wired to jump out of a tree and flip it over and disembowel it. ME - Do you have any rituals before you perform live? Perry - Jackson smokes a lot of pot. We are all really stressed out and something breaks.
Nathan- Which is the most publicized because indie rockers control the alternative media. And then there is a drunk punk scene which is pretty crusty which mostly hangs out in the 9th ward and the bywater. Perry- And there is a Bro metal scene which hangs out in the hiho. Jackson - And the Saturn bar Perry - And it all comes together sometimes in interesting ways.
ME - Do you ascribe to one of those scenes? Nathan - We try to do our own thing It’s hard to say what the music scene is like because it is so varied and so fragmented. But mostly we try to avoid playing bars because they are kind of boring sometimes, but we will play a bar we’re not dogmatic Perry - Or snobby. Nathan - But mostly we just play generator shows in abandoned buildings. Jackson - And that’s more fun because you have more control of what you are doing.
WTUL SPRING SCHEDULE 2010
You can see this issue of the VOX and past issues on our website at wtul.fm
Beautiful Freak: New Orleans City Park by Chris Holdgraf
Beautiful Freak In terms of dollars and cents, New Orleans’ City Park is expendable. It is not essential to the streets and houses that skirt its boundaries. The Park’s borders aren’t characterized by towering walls inscribed with the names of multitudinous companies and benefactors that contribute to its commercial success. It isn’t a giant revenue machine, nor a tourist trap that will bring in customers from all over the world. To someone who would judge the prosperity of a city by the amount of cash it is able to generate, City Park isn’t much of anything, really. And yet, to anyone who’s seen its expansive territory, this giant plot of land elicits a strange compulsion to ensure its future, to fortify a prosperous and generously long life for its green and oftentimes chaotic tenants. The Park stands for a commitment to something that has deliberately avoided the “progressive” and lucrative path towards tourism and modernity that the rest of the city has adopted. The heart of City Park feels like making your way through a battle between two distinct enemies. The crisp, clean, well-groomed beauty of the face of City Park versus the aberrant vibrancy of an unchecked Southern wilderness. The casualties of this continuous struggle can be seen all over the park – one-time picnic areas are now overrun with weeds and vines, resting areas have been distorted and unevenly thrust towards the sky by the constantly shifting Louisiana soil, buildings show their age prematurely as they continue to fight back the encroachment of creeping vines and steadfast roots. For instance, City Park Botanical Gardens was constructed in the 1930s as one step in a multi-faceted approach to beautify City Park and create much-needed jobs, the Botanical Gardens initially served as a testament to the city’s ability to keep the overgrowth of nature to a minimum. Straight and narrow paths were lined from one end to another, blotches of trees and shrubbery were confined to the garden’s exterior, even natural water formations were harnessed into a pristine rectangular pond, underscoring the ordered logic of the new gardens. However, such picturesque formality was naive in its ambition to change the Southern Louisiana natural landscape. Now, it is difficult to tell which areas of the park are for people and which are for wildlife. Park benches swell with the extra pressure of vines and flowers creeping through their wrought-iron sides, stone man-made ponds show the wear of being subject to countless floodings over the years (commonplace for a city located in nature’s equivalent of a cereal bowl), even walking paths have swelled and burst open to reveal steadfast roots of mighty southern oaks. Such reclamations possess an eerily powerful beauty and reminds us that if we think we can do whatever we please without a thought for what we have displaced, we’d better think again. One begins to question whether this plot of land is really City Park, or if it’s actually the Park’s City, a sprawling landscape that surpasses the gray in a defiant testament to the once natural landscape of New Orleans. A half day’s work of fifty people may result in a barelyrecognizable alteration of the land, and as if such indiscernible progress wasn’t enough to deter the ambition of the workers’ daily grooming and upkeep, it is an alteraas you see fit. Within its vast boundaries lies a plethora of lush green and thriving wildlife that serve as an homage to the muggy swamps and snaking bayous that once covered all of Southern Louisiana. With wide-open fields of thick grass, perfect for an afternoon football game or a family picnic, the park seems to invite everyone to come and enjoy the natural beauty it has to offer. Passing through the grandiose front driveway lined on either side with newly-planted saplings and ending in the famous New Orleans Museum of Art, the front drive immediately branches into a multitude of possibilities. Take a left to the tennis complex, the single largest group of public courts in the city and host to events and training for both inexperienced and seasoned players. Take a right, and you wander into a cleared field that doubles as a cross-country circuit and on to the greenhouse dedicated to growing plants for distribution to New Orleans schools and other locations that don’t have the green participation that City Park enjoys. These examples are only a small sampling of what is available, plenty more opportunities for leisure and utility can be found in these areas near the most accessible southern edge. However, if you’re looking for something more adventurous, more ambitious, more “wild,” venture straight ahead into the heart of City Park. Making one’s way North through the inner core of the park, one can walk the winding hiking trails through dense forest, search for unique and dazzling insects and animals native to the park’s grounds, relax by one of the serene lagoons skirted by stretching bushes and creeping vines, even bring the binoculars and scout out what is still called “the best birding spot in New Orleans.” All of this doesn’t come close to uncovering the vibrant life to which the park serves as home. The massive expanse of land is riddled with beautiful explosions of sprawling southern live oaks that serve as a symbol for New Orleans and its dazzlingly erratic beauty. Reaching far past the base of their sturdy brown trunks, their branches dart to and fro, zigzagging along the ground as if on a mission to explore, to seek out an unattainable goal that is forever destined to lie just outside of the tree’s perimeter. For those that wish to get to know the city of New Orleans without being required to give anything in exchange, City Park offers a beautiful alternative to the frenzied consumerism of the New Orleans you see in tourist brochures. Hidden away in the back alleys and shadowy doorways of our disheveled city streets lies a
tion that will be lost to the growth of plantlife in just a few weeks. This imbalance of power is disconcerting to humans (and certainly to a city planner). We’re supposed to be dominant. We’ve got the concrete, chisels, chainsaws, trucks. Hell, we’ve even got dynamite, but we find ourselves in a stalemate with the flora and fauna of City Park. Why not just end this everlasting battle in one fell swoop and be through with it? Such questions constitute another battle that is going on in the communal mind, in lawbooks, and in business contracts. It’s a simple question. Why not just raze City Park, clear off the land, and build a nice combination of housing and business, create jobs, encourage commerce? Sounds great, sounds like progress, but then you stop and a little voice in the back of your head quietly protests. Look at the magnificent and fragile creature with which you are dealing. City Park is the perfect place to enjoy your day
side of the city that exhibits a different personality than that of the national icon that is “The Big Easy.” It is a face borne out of the collective realization that oftentimes the only people you have to count on are those who suffer the same slings and arrows that life in a city that’s supposed to be submerged will throw at you. It is not a dependency on business or industry, but on the kindness of strangers, on those who are situated right next to you. This mutual reliance is seen in the openness of City Park’s borders and its continued insistence on being a public good that is offered, without charge, to the entire city of New Orleans. Maybe there really is no such thing as a “free lunch,” but City Park can certainly provide a fantastic location to enjoy it. Constructed during the depression as a part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA) project’s attempts to curb unemployment and a plummeting economy, City Park was constructed with the New Orleans’ citizen in mind. Serving as a point of convergence at the intersection of several disparate neighborhoods, it is impossible to say the park belongs to any one neighborhood. It rests as a kind of anchor between a panoply of communities that range from the ornate splendor of Esplanade Avenue to homes that are marked with the destitution and decay of poverty. Existing as a commonality that draws all of Mid City together, the park gives off the feeling that it is not the property of one neighborhood or one group of people, and that it has no owner unless that owner is all of New Orleans. The wide-open nature of city park creates a mixmatch of economic, cultural, and ethnic backgrounds. As a city that prides itself on its blend of Cajun, French, Spanish, and African culture, the daily interaction of people from completely different backgrounds is an integral part of life in New Orleans. Littered amongst the towering mansions of uptown’s fanciest districts lie the dilapidated, run down remnants of public housing projects and low-income homes. Passing through the busy night air of the French Quarter floats the smells and sounds of the blues, jazz, reggae, salsa, even punk culture, all existing side by side. Just as these cultures meet and play off of one another in the dazzling lights of the quarter and Frenchman street, the open grounds of City Park allow a place where all walks of life come and enjoy all it has to offer. This combination of diverse backgrounds serves not only to humanize those whom we see less often than we should, but also to foster the feeling of unity among the patrons of City Park. Regaling in the lush grandeur of the majestic southern oaks, peacefully relaxing by the serene lagoons, stewing gumbo in the warm fall air, such experiences at City Park are not simply enjoyable, but also represent dispelling the differences of your income or your family name or your neighborhood and feeling, above all else, a New Orleanian.
With all of the benefit that makes the park open, it also shoulders a heavy burden. The park’s position in the public sphere brings with it both the good and the bad of collective ownership. Just as it does not cater to any one particular type of individual, City Park does not have an overreaching protector to ensure its success. Instead, the longevity of the land and its services is wholly dependent on the public’s ability to see to its upkeep and provide support wherever possible. Maintenance such as groundskeeping and planting of trees is largely dependent on volunteerism and philanthropy, and the continued existence of its many events relies on fund-raising efforts and pledge drives such as the annual “Celebration in the Oaks,” a month-long festival in which the park sheds its green and brown exterior for the white and red of Christmas decorations and holiday spirit. Although often resulting in an abundance of creativity that is seen in such festive events, such a precarious balance between survival and accessibility gives the park a vulnerability that is
often glossed over by the city. In this delicate position, it possesses a gritty beauty and unique ability to exist in a national culture that places so much emphasis on paying for what you get. Unfortunately, this also brings with it the weakness of dependence on a populace that undoubtedly has significant problems of its own. Such is the ultimate problem with which City Park is confronted. Our city is riddled with increasing crime, extreme poverty, and a continuous cleanup act. What is the place of freely accessible, but ultimately unnecessary entities like City Park? There are many perspectives to take when considering City Park’s usefulness to the community and to New Orleans at large. Should it be an untended wilderness? A corporate village? An idyllic theme-park? Such questions permeate the debate surrounding City Park’s uncertain future. However, one simple fact cannot be forgotten: regardless of the Park’s
usefulness, current condition, faults, or frailties, it is still, at its core, a vital organ of New Orleans. One comes away from City Park with an urge to go out and celebrate what it means to be beautiful, useful, meaningful. It stands as a challenge to the generally accepted notion that nature is a nuisance to be put in its place while the rigid lines of concrete and metal are what really connotes “progress.” After getting to know City Park’s delights as well as its shortcomings, after learning what it means to fight a battle that you cannot ever hope to fully win, one cannot help but feel humbled in their previously uninformed assumptions about man’s place with nature. It is not above or below (or barreling through), but at its side, bumping shoulders, stepping on one another’s foot without retaliating, but playfully smiling and returning in kind. It is a special type of oddball pairing you might make a sitcom out of and also beautiful and infallible and even humorous at times. Possessing the power to sway our hearts as well as our minds, the combination stands as a testament to our roots in this earth. Unfortunately it is also fleeting, vulnerable, and utterly dependent on man’s ability to loosen up the tightly-packed walls of its insular fortress and begin to allow natural chaos back in. Walking away from City Park’s interior the dire circumstances really becomes obvious – how close we are to pushing our green friends out to losing their salient presence in our lives forever. Nearing the edge of the park requires a second glance at the run-down nature of man’s once proud constructions. Strangely enough, it may begin to look different. Not old and dilapidated and useless, but with a kind of subtle resilience to it, that regardless of its ostensible weaknesses and frailty, it possesses a unique liveliness that speaks to the heart and the soul. This quiet vibrancy is nothing new, not a product of time or work, but simply the same view from a different perspective. To love City Park is to celebrate a different outlook on life from the activity of downtown or the French Quarter, to rethink your priorities and to take part in the intrinsically New Orleanian practice of seeing beauty where it is least expected. Next time you are there, give it a try. Take a look at the still ponds now teeming with insects and foliage, the overgrown and unkempt live oaks showing their oddly natural kind of order, the scores of land that could be used for a thousand different profitseeking ventures, but are instead dedicated to a celebration of life and nature. Look at those mangled old stone buildings and see the arms of vibrant green encircling the crumbling stone walls in an embrace of partnership and natural flux. You may feel the urge to smile.
Hole by Myrna Enamorado
Whole in my heart Where my love leaks Flooding Suffocating me He who would heal The shamen Valentine Sullenly Staring While rapid clouds Sheathe to unclothe The moon Over blue balconies This surreptitious stolen soiree We held to the awnings Grasping at cat’s claws You like my tits You like my ass Grasping at cat’s claws Swaying to wind pavement Almost falling Succumbing to the street Smashed smusshing One wheel follows the others Shedding vitriolic spit Oh honey. With snot dripping on my arm as We roll over I taste your blood Be with me in this silent Pity shame O can never say it again I have cotton on my moth
Words of Wisdom
The VOX is seeking contributions for the Summer/Spring issue, due out April
2010. We publish submissions from aspiring writers and artists throughout the city, as well as frequent contributions from WTUL staff and DJs. The VOX is looking for writing interesting enough to be memorable. Although we mainly serve as a conduit for relaying the voice of WTUL, anything works: misconnexions, show reviews, interviews, album reviews. And any other views including “My Best MixCD,” photographs, feature articles, anecdotes, jokes, poems, short stories, creative non-fiction, short plays, political and cultural satire, comics, photos, art slides, etc. Really anything that can be viewed 2-D or smashed under the hood of a scanner or photocopier to make it 2-D. Anyway, when you find out what it is that you want to do send it to:
Bitter Ink by Ray “Moose” Jackson & Brian Zeigler
Bitter Ink is born of an aberrant gene shared by two cousins, both exiled from Detroit. One went to the land of good groceries in Vermont and the other to New Orleans. Mostly Brian draws the pictures, mails them to Moose and he comes up with the goofy aphorisms. Except when they’re together, downing pints and passing notes back and forth and giggling like schoolbus drivers on acid. A recent compilation of Bitter Ink has recently been released by local publisher Press Street. The book can be purchased on their website:
I learned from clever advertising that “Life is short, Play Hard.” I don’t know whether it was Gatorade or Nike (any difference), much less if a registered trademark is needed. That way of thinking did well for me as is it in the Pettis County Jail in Sedalia, Missouri, sobering up, watching time stretch out before me. I was always an angst-ridden kid; I always wanted a tattoo on the top of my head that said “I’m ready.” Thus informing the dues es machina (slightly up and stage left) that I believed I was already weary of the time I was spending on the earth. Through ecstasy, crystal meth, and glue I found no drug compares to you. I found that this was my daughter. The elasticity of time is situational. Drugs, drinking and women have worn me out and took years of–off of my life. I have found the only reprieve
Jail Time by Karl Lootens
from the onslaught of times unwavering progression was the open-eyed view of my daughters life, and enjoying¬– honestly enjoying–my family and friends. I didn’t, and don’t want to enjoy them without the aid of something further shortening my time here. Drugs and the related lifestyle are pulling me closer to the dirt from whence I came. I was told when my daughter was born that I would blink
and she would be in kindergarten, finish War & Peace and she would be graduating high school. But if I never enjoyed her life I might as well be dead. As I am released, this time, her 6th birthday is tomorrow. I will be there, alive and well at her birthday party. Conclusions, I have none, except that honest sober time with family and friends is far more rewarding than a short life filled with short, blurry memories.
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