Levon Helm and the Impossibility of Sainthood. A Night at the Ramble.

Honeysuckle. It smelled like damn honeysuckle as we drove home from Levon’s house. And not just a hint. It dominated the air, hung in your lungs and coated your synapses.  

Saturday morning began in Manhattan, with a late breakfast of Katz pastrami and a cannoli to go. Sunday morning began with a good buzz and the windows down on a dark country road. The air was tinted with a light, early summer rain that was about to fall... and it smelled like honeysuckle. My hand to God. 

What happened in the hours in between was a Ramble. 

“I read somewhere a few years ago that Robbie said “The Weight” was about the impossibility of sainthood. Well, I’ve sung that song enough times to agree with him.” - Levon Helm. 

In an era of self-righteous flag wavers, they were the reluctant, self-conscious load bearers. The pack mules amongst the show horses. And of course, they’re the ones who ended up carrying the weight, whether they wanted to or not. It might not have been their goal, but it seems to be their purpose. Despite some half-hearted efforts to put some other name on it, they ended up being defined as exactly what they were, with an accented definite article. Just The Band. 

Bob Dylan was trying to antagonize the masses and prove a point by going electric. Levon and The Band stood behind him, the somewhat unwitting white-knuckled accomplice trying to keep the getaway car between the ditches. And when the hate and boo’s came down, Dylan bathed in the light of the villagers’ torches, reveling in a plan that had come together. It was the Band and, Levon especially, who carried the brunt. He had no interest in playing the heel, or more precisely, to play the heel’s enabler. 

What happened next was a sort of literal metaphor. Levon went to back  to his Arkansas roots. Dylan took the curve too fast and broke his back. And like a horse with a thrown jockey, the rest of the band went to find a barn. Levon decided exile was better with company and joined his bandmates in seclusion in Woodstock. And in that seclusion, they found self-awareness in a simple truth-- who needs rei(g)ns? Let’s run for the sake of the wind in our face. And that was their sound.

“Woodstock proper was a picturesque town with a white steepled church, village green, and a flagpole. At night, the only sign of life was the red neon sign that flashed DRUGS in the window of the Colonial Pharmacy. We thought that was pretty funny, that sign.” - Levon Helm

I can count on one hand the concerts I would pay more than $50 to see, and only if those tours came within a short drive of my house. For Levon, I, along several other well-seasoned live music junkies, paid $120 and travelled to his house in way the Hell nowhere. It’s a set-up that would make the disembodied voice of Shoeless Joe Jackson envious. Levon rolls out of bed and walks to his shed to play music with his friends. And people pay the price of a Rolling Stones ticket to stand around and watch. 

We were downright giddy about it.

We worked up elaborate daydreams of what might happen at the show. The guests tonight were the reluctant saviors of Southern Rock, the Drive-By Truckers. But, we also knew a host of other acts were in the area for the Hunter Mountain Jam, including Warren Haynes, Steve and Justin Townes Earle, Grace Potter, Ray LaMontagne, Allison Krause, any of whom might drop by for a song. It was, after all, Levon’s 70th birthday weekend. Why wouldn’t anyone with a guitar and an open invitation show up? 

It was a long drive to Woodstock. By the end of the trip, we had concocted a set that included Jason Isbell, reuniting with the Truckers, showing up to pay tribute to Levon’s former bandmates with “Danko/Manuel.” Not to be out done, Allison Krause would surely sing the Emmylou Harris part to “Evangeline.” The Earles might work up a rendition of “Dead Flowers” that flows into “Tennessee Jed.” Maybe Warren steps in for the guitar solo to “Further On Up The Road.” 

We met up with friends and housemates for the weekend at the local swimmin’ hole. The instructions were to drive until we saw the rusted 50-gallon drums on either side of a dirt path and then take a right. We found it exactly as it was described and spent the afternoon sitting on a rock at what was little more than a fat part in a small creek, complete with rope swing and jean-shorted families-- watching kids and dogs splash. 

As the sun started to set, we packed it up and went into town for supplies. A case of Busch Gold Tops, a couple of fifths of whiskey and maybe a little sweet tea vodka...you know...for the ladies. 

We headed back to our house for the weekend in the heart of residential Woodstock, tucked away in a cove that defines the difference between a neighborhood and a sub-division. It was an incongruous relic of dark, creaking wood, strange corners and appliances that were out-dated the day they were ordered from some musty Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Out back, there was a patio, a pool that hadn’t seen chlorine since the Reagan administration and a barn full of forgotten treasures or rusty junk (dependent on if to you were to ask the husband or the wife, I'm sure). We were lucky to get invited in on this place.

We had family dinner on the patio. We tossed a frisbee while Ross grilled a pork loin, Claire and Mary Claire pulled together a salad and somebody did something amazing with some potatoes. Ali baked Levon some birthday cookies, which we packed up along with the Gold Tops and whiskey, and headed for the Ramble. 

Easier said than done. The Google Earth truck hasn’t made its way to Nazareth or the Catskills, and we’re not looking for a bar or a theater. This is Levon’s house. Finally, we came up behind what looked like a band’s tour bus and decided to follow them. A whale-like U-turn and some quick back-tracking brought us to a hidden cut down a dirt road barely visible from the street. If this bus wasn’t going to Levon’s, this could get awkward. 

“Take a load off, Fannie. Put the load right on me.” - “The Weight”

The story of The Band is one where the ambition and the heart slowly grew apart and everything in the middle died. Robbie Robertson was pure, cold ambition and Levon Helm has all heart. Not a rounded, Valentine cartoon, but pure blood and muscle in constant expansion and contraction. Their tug of war defined the group, and as each grew stronger, the rope stretched tighter, creating a tension that would give off the most honest voice in American music-- in accordance with the prophecies of bearded, rabid possum demi-god Ronnie Hawkins who first brought them together.

The Last Waltz is that rope pulled absolutely taut, and after it was over, unwound was the only place left to go. But Levon kept pulling, trying to keep the strands together, and never forgave Robbie for letting go. He refused to accept that something so good had to end. It’s true the Band had lost some of their edge since Big Pink and the self-titled follow-up, but that was just a reason to dig back in. In his mind, the Waltz was Robbie putting a gun to the head of a flu patient and calling it a mercy killing. Just like Dylan going electric, Levon was once again asked to be the machinery for somebody else’s self-promotional cause, only this time it was coming from within the family. 

It doesn’t mean Robbie wasn’t right to pull the trigger. While a full examination of that night at Winterland could fill a whole blog, repeated viewings (and there have been many of them) reveal some holes in Levon’s reality. 


Dylan, Dr. John, Van Morrison, Neil Young, Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, Paul Butterfield, Ronnie Wood, Ringo Starr, Joni Mitchell and Ronnie Hawkins all take the stage and everybody looks absolutely happy. That's what makes it great. It’s the look and sound and the stories of Jack Ruby and Sonny Boy Williamson; but it’s that, on that night, everybody on that stage was there because there was nowhere else they would rather be. And when you watch it, in some way, you get to tap into that feeling for 117 minutes. 

Except for the Band. They look every inch of stretched thin. Robbie and Levon weren’t on speaking terms. Richard Manuel was still recovering from a serious car accident and struggling with various addictions. Rick Danko looks like a dancing scarecrow from a long-fallow field. And Garth is...well, honestly who knows what’s going on with Garth. And that’s the tragic charisma of The Last Waltz on closer examination. It’s watching someone trying to survive their own wake, while the mourners have the time of their life. 

As far as I know, Levon hated it until the day he died. The Last Waltz, he thought, was a routine performance by an exceptional band, with a little help from some friends. All the praise that piled up was just proof of life and proof of blood on Robbie’s hands for putting a good thing down before its time. Maybe they just needed some time off, a chance to get straight and take a breath. Maybe they just needed to get back to Woodstock, but there was no reason this had to be the end. 

And Levon refused to let it go. He kept the Band together without Robbie as long as he could. Then Richard Manuel hung himself in a hotel room on tour. Levon got throat cancer and Danko’s heart gave out in his sleep.

It wasn’t just throat cancer. The tumor was on his vocal chords. To remove the tumor, the vocal chords would have to come with them, and he would never speak again. The alternative was an extended period of radiation...and he probably would retain only a whisper. He took the treatments. 

The Midnight Rambles at his barn began as a rent party, with Levon limited to the drums. The medical bills had put him into bankruptcy and he wasn’t healthy enough to tour. His wife booked the shows and his daughter helped put together the band. Then his voice started to come back. And then it got stronger. And with even the threat of hearing Levon sing again, the rent party turned into a pilgrimage.  

“So if what you have is working for you, or you think that it stands a reasonable chance, and whatever’s broken seems fixable and nothing’s beyond repair. If you still think about each other and smile before you remember how screwed up it’s gotten, or maybe still dream of a time less rotten. Remember, it ain't too late to take a deep breath and throw yourself into it with everything you’ve got. It’s great to be alive. It’s great to be alive.” - Patterson Hood, “World of Hurt.”

The bus we followed belonged to the Truckers and a few hundred yards of narrow dirt road brought us through the woods to a small security shack. There aren’t tickets, you just have to see if you’re on the guest list. Again, this isn’t a concert. This is a house party. 

“What’re yalls names?”

We tell them. “We’re from Arkansas! Tell Levon some Arkansans are here to see him on his birthday.”

“Awesome! You’re all set.”

There’s no alcohol sold on the premises and a very Oxford-like red cup rule is in place. There’s a pot luck dinner going on in the barn’s basement, and Levon’s birthday cookies get added to the table, while Patterson and Cooley from the Truckers pick through the potato salad. We sit on the tailgate and drink whiskey in the dirt field used as a parking lot. There’s a lake down the hill for fishing and smoking. We asked somebody with an orange vest who looked somewhat official where the bathrooms were. He told us to find a tree and go for it. 

Finally, we start making our way into the barn. We find some space on the rail of the second level loft, enough for about 3 people in front and 4 to stand behind-- directly above the piano and horn section, facing the drum set. There are no bottles allowed and no concessions sold, but you’re free to take the side stairs back out the parking lot to refill your cups. And we did, establishing a sort of bucket-brigade rotation. 

The Truckers put down a tremendous set. Patterson brought his dad along to play bass and they worked in two Eddie Hinton covers (later included on their next album) that just thundered in the friendly confines. Intimate is the word, but that doesn’t capture it. It doesn’t feel like you’re being performed for or catered to. You’re all here for the same party. Everybody’s eating off the same table, grabbing beer from the same cooler, pulling brown liquor off the same bottle and pissing in the same bushes. A group of us just happened to find some instruments and an electrical outlet. 

Cooley asks for requests. Christoph yells out for “Cottonseed.” 

Cooley, fiddles with his guitar for second, then yells back: “Shit, I can’t remember it.”

Christoph: “D minor, F, C, D minor!”

Cooley: “No, I mean I don’t remember the words.”

We settled for a pretty good go at “Zip City.” 

Then, Levon rambles out with a full 10-piece backing band. His daughter Amy sings harmony and Donald Fagen (co-founder of Steely Dan and now married to Amy’s mom) takes a seat behind the keys. Levon’s sticks come together, he whispers out the count and it starts. 

In the days since throat cancer, Levon singing is no given thing. When he speaks, it’s still barely a whisper and there are apparently days when all he can do is pass handwritten notes. The music starts and everybody waits...and in between beats, he wets his lips and then leans into the mic hanging over his drum kit...and belts out the opening lines of “Ophelia.” 

It’s not the steam whistle pipes of the Waltz, but he’s still crisp and powerful. And after hearing his whisper of a speaking voice, it sounds like nothing short of a miracle. The barn erupts and Levon smiles. 

The Truckers milled around the room, grinning ear-to-ear. Patterson leans against the wall with his arm around his dad. Shauna and the new guitar player cuddle in a corner. Cooley’s wandered off to smoke, but Neff’s found a solo cup and is tapping his foot in the back of the room. They'd faded back into the barn party. Maybe they were all thinking that this is where they could end up...and it’s not all that bad at all. If touring, journeyman musicians say their prayers and eat their vegetables, one day they will spend their days paying the rent by inviting their friends over to play music. It doesn’t have to end in the ditch.

I have no idea how long Levon played, never daring to check the time for fear even a toe dipped into reality might break the whole damn spell...or worse yet, betray the fact this was going to end at some point. Fagen sang a full-horn version of “Shakedown Street” (which I love every time I hear live and never fail to be disappointed in when I try to listen to the recording). Levon came out from behind the drums for mandolin on “Long, Black Veil” and "Rag, Mama, Rag." The horn section staged a brief insurrection for a full blown, second-lining rendition of “All On Mardi Gras Day.” Amy Helm took the lead for “Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning.” 

We watched it all, draped over the railing three feet above Levon’s head dancing like the reborn at a revival, trying our best not to spill whiskey on Fagen’s head (and probably failing on a few occasions, if we’re honest. Sorry, Don.). Then, the bittersweet moment came. Levon called the Truckers onto the stage. And then you hear that opening riff to “The Weight.” And you know it’s the end. Patterson takes a verse. Shauna sings harmony with Amy. The whole barn joins the refrain. The last time it runs through, a hopeful crowd holds the staggered “AAANNNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDD” a second or two longer. For that moment, we stood with Levon. A chorus of hard-headed believers refusing to let go of the rope. 

“Because Levon knows what we can only guess: That there is no last waltz. That we'll forever file in through the barn door with the ones we love, drawn by the firelight, grab our children and go round and round in a dance interminable. We doe-see-doe. We stomp the boards. Shout. Kiss. Cry. Sing. Spin. Laugh. Squeal. Study the stars through the gaps in the ceiling.” - Simone Felice.

Levon Helm was a prideful, hard-headed son of a bitch. He was Southerner who flew North. An American who went Canadian to dodge the draft. A drinker and a user. An adulterer and a malcontent. A man who could find redeeming words for Orval Faubus, but not for the Scorsese concert film that defines his legacy. He was a sinner. And the world is a much dimmer, more compromised place without him in it. Not because we asked him to carry our weight, but because he set an example of the staggering weight that can be beared. 


Because he was proof that a good heart can overcome careless ambition, and redemption comes to those who keep the faith and the beat long after the others have let go in the name of good sense or practicality. He refused to believe anything good ever had to die or what's golden cannot stay. And in his second act, he seems to have achieved two things every one wants before they go-- he found some peace and he proved his point. 

Of course, it is all a lie. Levon sung the truth himself-- "everything dies and that’s a fact." But admitting reality is not the same thing as accepting it. You can fight the gravedigger all the way down to the last shovel-full of dirt. It’s the only way to go, and if you don’t believe that, then you never made it to Woodstock. 

And so we drove back to the house with the windows down and the smell of honeysuckle. If it crossed anybody’s mind that our fantasy lineup from the car ride didn’t pan out, they didn’t speak such a blasphemy. 

We sat on the patio, drank what was left of the Gold Tops, played guitar and sang into the Woodstock darkness until we ran out of songs we knew...and then we went a little further, even to the point of “Hey....Hey...play that song about the barbeque sauce on the t-shirt...” Finally, a light rain started and we headed inside. A short time later, the sun rose and we started a long and painful journey home.  

Long Live Whimsy: American Sunrise

As it did 10 years ago, the sun rose today on America. The sun also rose on small people with small minds consumed with nothing but hate, destruction and disillusion that a society like the U.S. could not only persist, but prosper. It's been the same since the first day of an American sunrise and will carry on as long as American sunrises continue. Though the dialects, rhetoric and geography changes, the fact remains-- haters gonna hate. 

They hate because they don't understand that filling yourself with destruction leaves no room for whimsy and absurdity-- a heart's space to beat and soul's space to breathe-- space that is absolutely necessary for creation. Because at our best, we're a people consumed with elegant creation-- moving forward and doing better. Destruction, at its core, is clumsy and backwards. Once destruction becomes your primary motive, you've already lost. 

Today is a day to remember what's been lost and celebrate everything that carries on. And that includes the absurdity of sports fandom. The goofy, gloves-on hatred of Big 10 football. The one-foot-on-the-floor passion of fantasy teams. The insanity of the Hat and the ineptness of the Reverend. It's important precisely because it doesn't really matter. It's the essence of a heart's space to beat. 

And a decade from now, we'll once again take a moment to enjoy another American sunrise and dismiss those who spend their entire futile existence trying to shout down the dawn. 

Long live whimsy. Long live sports. Long live all of us. Hallelujah in the present tense.

Glossary song "The Flood" from their upcoming record Long Live All of Us. from This Is American Music on Vimeo.

Ole Miss Baseball: This Is How Revolutions Die, On Terraced Outfield Boxes

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." - President Josiah Bartlett (maybe Margaret Meade)

Substitute "functional alcoholics" for "citizens" and you've still got a useful maxim without losing much truth. And so it was, on cold, rainy February afternoons that a small band of students hauled sofas to the hillside, covered them with tarps and staked claim for a season in Right Field at Oxford University Stadium, cheering on an Ole Miss baseball team that hadn't won a conference championship since 1977. 

A few cracks in the vinyl just helps you find the groove.

Grills and coolers were brought out for what is the closest many will ever come to owning a luxury box for a sporting event. And when the sun finally arrived, those noble sooners were able to hold court around their hard-fought outfield homestead. 

Now that Ole Miss Baseball has missed out on postseason play for just the third time since Mike Bianco was hired in 2000, it's time for another brief session of fond remembrance; some reaffirmation of why we do this and how far we come. If you were lucky enough to have spent time on the Swayze hilltop between 2000 and 2006, you shouldn't have to look too far.

"Start turning the girl into the ground, roll a new love over." You think you're grown. You think you're a man. I'm 20 years old, for christsakes. I'm a Sophomore. I've seen some shit. There aren't a lot of surprises left. Got a slick fake ID and figured out the places that will take it. There's some cold Beast Light in a rolling ice chest and some meat burning on a grill. A little sun, a little baseball...holy shiiiit. 

Beer drops to the ground, splashing and hissing against the coals below. Mouth slacks and eyes come to a squint. Through the brightness of the solar flare, she walks up the hillside in a jean skirt and a skin-tight black Allman Brothers Band t-shirt, sunlight reverently breaking in front of her; leaving a heat wave wake. There were soft curves and stretched black cotton all joined together into a gentle, rhythmic sway.

With pupils fighting to process through the bright at full dilation, screaming to look away or go blind, in the moments just before permanent optical damage set in, I think I saw Jesus smiling over her left shoulder. 

It was probably on a similar March day in 1969 when two brothers and their wandering collection of major-label musical rejects decided to stay together. "We can't give up guys," I imagine Duane saying. "In 40 years, a kid in Oxford, Mississippi is going to find religion when some girl wears one of our t-shirts to a baseball game. If we break up, that might never happen." 

As with all Ole Miss athletic events...and perhaps life in general, the key is to attract the casual follower into a sport is to create something that is more cocktail than competition. That finally took hold during these formative years. It was the debters, ramblers and second sons of the Grove empire exiled to fight out their own space in the wilderness. Right Field at Swayze was the Australia to the Grove's Great Britain-- a rough penal colony imitation of the establishment.  

Once the dingos were fought off, the Indian attacks died down and some basic supply lines were established, the pioneer women arrive. Without the pretensions and pearls of settled society, frontier women are little more rough and tumble-- and lot more practical. Gone are the cocktail dresses and heels of football weekends. Mom and Dad probably aren't in town, and Sorority initiation is long over. Baseball was all flip-flops, short shorts and the occasional bikini top.

God bless them all, but especially those of the jean skirts and rock shirts. And of course, God bless Duane Allman.

God bless you, Duane.

"In the middle of the day, there's a young man rolling around in the earth and rain." What are now carefully terraced, pea-gravel flats with clearly marked edges were once little more than a slightly flat spot on a hillside. You dug the front legs of your folding chair into the dirt and rocked your weight to your heels to keep upright. 

Of course this wasn't always successful, especially into later innings. And when it rained, the whole slope turned into a rolling avalanche of bodies sliding into the trough at the base of the right field fence. 

Once you find yourself in the puddle, you might as well roll around in it for a second. 

What were earlier seen as embarrassments began to look like good fun. Given time and encouragement, people begin purposefully flinging themselves, belly first, onto the muddy slick, splashing through the catchment at the bottom and occasionally thumping into the backside of the wall. 

There's something amazing about tearing down a really good, winding dirt road. The slip, drift, dust and bare illusion of control is everything that makes fossil fuel consumption emotionally worthwhile. Today, they're being paved over and straightened. Sure, it's a more efficient, safer way to travel, but it's also a bit mindless and cold. Dirt is warm. The old right field was a dirt road paved over-- and that's probably for the best-- but it's just not the same. 

"Keep turning the wool across the wire." Heckles. Heckles, I Say. Baseball fandom was built on the very special relationship between the outfielder and the over-served outfield attendee. But like any relationship, the discourse is helped by taking the time to really get to know the person with whom you're discoursing. And so, a plucky local weekly paper began doing some light internet research and putting together quick profiles of each weekend's visiting Right Fielder. 

Just simple things. His full name, hometown...perhaps the name of a female relative or any interesting bits that might be pulled from a hokey media guide profile-- favorite meal, favorite movie, maybe a quote of inspiration. And unlike a football game where you can only be heard as part of the deafening throng-- either as just noise within noise or part of simple chants-- the small collective of spectators directly overlooking an outfield provides the intimacy for a real, substantive conversation; To really dig deep into the individual's persona, hopes, dreams and shortcomings-- like a Festivus airing of grievances shouted from 10 yards away. 

And sometimes, the baseball gods just toss out a piece of bloody red meat to the Coliseum lions. 

It was a great day when that opposing squad took the field. You didn't need to pull up the profile from the paper. His entire being was printed cleanly across the blades of the Right Fielder's back. His last name was "Glasscock." 

I don't remember if Ole Miss won or loss. I don't even clearly remember what team young Glasscock played for. I just remember that was a good day on the hillside. 

The section was also directly overlooking the opposing team's bullpen. The outfield was the first to know when a pitching change was coming and greeted the incoming hurlers as they readied to take the field. It came to its peak on a cold, rainy afternoon in an early season game against a small school from New Jersey. One of the remaining few fans, driven mad to match the conditions, climbed the walls of the bullpen like a steel cage wrestler, screaming derisive comments to a shaken relief pitcher probably on his first (and likely only) trip to the state of Mississippi. The bullpen has since been moved.

"Get right to the heart of matters, it's the heart that matters more." For the first few years, the only way to sit in the outfield and follow a game was to break out an old-fashioned hand-written scorecard. The only visible part of the scoreboard was the back, and even after a small, rear-facing display was added, it only gave the bare minimum-- score and inning. The official announcer was barely heard and scarcely understood through the struggling lone megaphone spliced to the back of the main scoreboard.

It created discussion-- what's the count? Who's up? Who's that warming up in the bullpen? It was the original crowdsourced, shared experience sporting event. 

The regulars, the keepers of the sofas, the holders of the grill flames, became the community elders-- setting the tone for those in attendance, forming them into a functioning whole with just simple rules of basic decorum. 

When to chant "Dirt." Keep your beer in a cup. When to start a Hotty Toddy. After the between-inning outfield warm-ups, the Ole Miss outfield's warm-up ball was tossed to the right field stands for safe keeping. The elders made sure it was secured and returned when the outfielders returned to the field. Most importantly, they made sure any girls in attendance had a seat and a beer.

Concessions were non-existant. Parking was free and first-come-first-serve. Admission was free. For the first few years, there wasn't even a security guard. The closest thing to an "official" University presence was the Port-O-Johns that were placed, and even occasionally emptied, at the entrance. It was a laissez-fare, free form, student driven experience that has largely disappeared from American universities and college athletics in particular. 

Gradually, it was chipped away. You had to pay for parking. A private security guard was sent to patrol the stands. Later, it was uniformed UPD patrols, complete with cooler searches and admonishments for illicit language. It wasn't a "family environment," but it wasn't supposed to be. Anyone who wandered into Right Field with children was obviously lost and kindly directed elsewhere.

"If you're gonna walk on water, could you drop a line my way?" 2001 was when the dreams of winning more than the party really started to fester. After each victory, fans filed out to the tune of the Counting Crows' "Omaha" struggling through the aged megaphone. 

It was a hopeful thing. The logistics of a road trip to Nebraska became a common topic of conversation among the couches. The team finished 2nd in the West and was invited to an NCAA regional. It stumbled in 2002 with a baffling collapse in conference play, but rebounded for Regionals and Super Regionals from 2003-2010.

But as postseason efforts fell short, often in heartbreaking fashion against superpowers like Texas, Miami and Arizona State, the post game "Omaha" chorus turned from hopeful anthem to a crushing taunt. And in this way, Ole Miss baseball fell into the sad "not ready for primetime" malaise of the rest of the athletic structure. Perhaps it was even more bitter because the team had shown such consistent success. You couldn't ever be justifiably angry or distraught...just disappointed, and that eats at you even more than outright ineptitude.

"Think you better turn your ticket in, get your money back at the door." One day, the hard scrabble homesteader wakes up to the sound of sirens and horns. He looks out his door and the scrap of land nobody wanted is now full of conveniences and costs. The neighboring families that were there at the beginning are long gone, replaced by a thousand strangers with security fences, car alarms and children tethered to leashes. There's no place for old couches and open flames and the "security" for your own good would never allow you to roll down a hill into the mud. It's been whitewashed and institutionalized.

Not that it's not still good. At its core, it's still college kids sitting in the sun and watching baseball, and that's pretty hard to frown on. From 2000 to 2009, overall attendance at Ole Miss baseball went from a season total of 40,130 fans to 273,111, and the resources granted to the previously neglected baseball team have ballooned to set a national standard for facilities, atmosphere and revenue-- no small feat for a school like Ole Miss. Of course, a lot of that has to do with the success of the team itself-- the talent of the players and the work of Bianco. It also had to do with fundraising and leadership from the boosters and administration of the university. 

But somewhere, lost in the shuffle, is the impact of those dedicated few who showed up, game after game, with cheap beer on tattered sofas and pioneered something unique and organic. Institutions pay untold millions to far away consultants in an effort to officially cultivate atmosphere and tradition that ultimately feels like lunch at the Madison Applebees. The Swayze Right Field was something honest and uncontrived. And in college sports, certainly more than pro, talented players are attracted to fan enthusiasm and today's beer swilling outfield bums become tomorrow's high-dollar luxury box donors. 

Modern Ole Miss baseball, a nationally-relevant program that generates revenue for the school, could not have happened if it were not for those who braved the cold February days on the hillside. And for those of us who saw it happen, it'll be hard to ever completely cut yourself off from the school, the sport and the program that were at the heart of it.

Frozen Decay: Your Guide to the Specialty Drinks of the French Quarter

There is going to be a point this weekend when you’re feeling weak. Off your game. Looking to bide some time until you can break through the weariness and get your fastball back. It's time to throw some junk. And that means frozen drinks.

Thankfully, the French Quarter has got ‘em. And not just your standard strawberry daiquiris and margaritas. The classics are tasty, but there’s a bigger frozen frontier to be explored or avoided at all risks. This is a brief guide to what’s out there waiting for you.

Frozen Irish Coffee

Molly’s At The Market

1107 Decatur Street

Rise and shine, kiddos.

Ingredients: Ice cream, coffee, Jameson, Kahula and the tears of fallen Irish angels.

It’s the only Christian way to start the day, sprinkled with a dusting of coffee grounds. And at $4.50, the Frozen Irish Coffee is one of the more affordable frozen cocktails, served 24/7. Because down here. it's entirely possible your body clock might become askew, and you never know when the craving is going to hit. It's the perfect salve for dousing the fires after a night of Flaming Dr. Peppers from the Gold Mine. The Sub-Zero to Gold Mine's Scorpion. 

Musical Accompaniment: When you order this, The Pogues's classic "Fairy Tale of New York (Christmas in the Drunk Tank" will probably be playing...either in reality or just within the last blinking gasps of sensory function you've got left. 

 Voodoo

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop (not to be confused with Lafitte's in Exile)

Go until the men dance on bars. And then keep going a little further

It's dark, cold, dangerous and delicious. 

 Ingredients: Purple, alcohol and drank...then frozen. 

It tastes like purple. Not to be confused with grape. There's nothing grape about it. Made from the fermented juice pressed out of purple skittles, mixed with grain alcohol and frozen in a pirate's forge.

Music: "Beat It" wheezed by the last honest bar matron piano busker in the city.

Hand Grenade 

Tropical Isle 

Several locations along Bourbon

Ingredients: Grain alcohol and off-brand lemon-lime Gatorade...either frozen or on the rocks. No need to shout. Just take a look and you know what he's holdin. And you know what you need. We got that WMD. Just take a taste. Oh no, he don't handle no money or product. But he'll point you in the right direction. Just tell 'em you know the green pineapple.

On the rocks, it tastes like everything good about white trash. Frozen, it tastes like yellow snow from a Polar Bear with a diet of nothing but key limes and Eskimo virgins. 

Music: "Fortunate Son" covered by a live band fronted by an overweight, shoeless, 50 year old man. A snake skin strap desperately clutching a Squire Stratocaster close to the protruding beer belly.

Oh, he sees you. He knows what you need. It'll make the pain go away.

Don't. Sleep.

The Jester

Jester’s Drinks and Pizza

At Bourbon's beginning and again at the end.

Ingredients: Off-brand Everclear, Off-brand 151, kiwi strawberry mix and Freddie Kruger's backwash.

Boldly, it claims to be the strongest drink on Bourbon Street. They will get no dispute from me. Famously, after tasting The Jester for the first time, it was noted that by a hardcore Louisiana deviant that this frozen drink "Tastes like Night Terrors." Again, no disagreement here.

It's the Baked Alaska of the French Quarter sidewalks. You wouldn't think something frozen could also be flammable, but this is a place that's all about pushing the boundaries of science and sense.

The Jester always has the last laugh, and it's a laugh of pure, hateful evil. 

Music: Black Eyed Peas from wall-to-wall. All day. Every day. It's the soundtrack to Night Terrors and flaming ice.

190 Octane

Mango Mango Mango

Outposts of a dying empire. 

Tried to paint with all the colors of the wind and got blown over by the breeze.

Ingredients: "Diesel" is the off-brand grain alcohol used by many of the illustrious frozen-drink mongers. Here, it's mixed with Sunny D and other flavored beverages of the inner city.

The empire is dying. It was once proud and strong, overseen by the legendary Pochontas. But Pochontas spent the night under a small pox blanket, and it's been downhill since. Half the automated mixers were still and barren. The upstairs balcony was deserted, with only mis-matched executive furniture and an empty bar sitting in the corner, like the office of a small-time 1980s hedge fund after an SEC raid. 

The drinks are still decent, however. The 190 Octane (Sunny D and Diesel) is probably the closest any of the New Orleans stunt drinks (drinks that only exist for someone at peace with the possibility that they might not make it all the way over Snake River Canyon) come to being enjoyable. 

Music: Silence. The silence of desertion and decay. Like Chernobyl or Detroit. Somewhere, you hear the sad song of a woman's voice breaking the air...but then it disappears. You wonder if it was ever really there.

Honorable Mention

(DQ'd for unfair use of actual, naturally-grown food substances)

Dirty Banana

French Market

Ingredients: Whole bananas, ice cream, amaretto, dark rum and nutmeg, blended freshly before your eyes. It'd be blasphemy if it weren't so damned tasty. 

Your Friendly Neighborhood Pharmacists

For a quick side note, let's discuss the highly trained class of individuals who will be serving you the above-mentioned poisons and remedies. There is no doubt you will find yourself conflicted on several levels throughout your journey of drinking in the Quarter.

For a true New Orleans dining and drinking experience, you should be both aroused and intimidated by your server. It's a Praying Mantis mating instinct-- attraction mixed with impending doom. Tattoos will almost always be involved. Just be prepared. 

And whatever you do, never, ever, ever, buy anything sold to you in a vial. No matter how colorful it may be.

And Finally, A Word About Liquidity, The Gold Standard and Cash Reserves

 

New Orleans is a cash only town. Nothing personal. It’s just, you never know what tomorrow’s going to bring, so

it’s best for everyone involved to keep outstanding accounts to a minimum. The condemned aren’t good candidates for giving or receiving credit. New Orleans sees both itself and its customers as potential flight risks. Even for the places that will grudgingly accept a credit card, do you really want to commit yourself to a relationship here?

So, you need to carry cash. Knowing this, your friendly money lenders have conveniently placed ATMs throughout the greater French Quarter area with fees anywhere from $4 to $10 per transaction. There is one, and only one, honest man on Bourbon Street. Hidden behind the faux Mardi Gras masks and just below the “I got bourbon faced on shit street” t-shirt, is an ATM with a 99 cent fee. Find the Traders Emporium and use it often. It's the only upright usurer on the pilgrim's highway.

Bound for Glory, This Train: Where The Rails Meet The River

The tracks run straight to the riverside in New Orleans. The crossing lights flashed red, the warning bells began to ring and an Amtrak engine slowly pulls into sight hauling behind it 17 vintage rail cars. Style from the 30s dragged behind the technology of the 50s into a rivertown that's still struggling with its place in the current. Slow, creaking wheels came to a stop, a whistle blew and a hoard of riders burst from the streamlined silver doors carrying every sort of noise making device ever produced over the last century. Digital sound boards, electric pedals, mandolins, keyboards, organs, slides, accordions, stand-up bass, banjos, guitars of all eras and functions and brass came streaming out like a disturbed multi-instrumentalist ant bed. The train was late, you see. Romance comes on an unreliable schedule, such are the realities of train travel. But at least they got a good parking space.

From fan pics on www.railroadrevivaltour.com

On April 21st, Old Crow Medicine Show, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros and Mumford and Sons played a show in Oakland, California, then jumped a train headed east. They played cities along the way, including Marfa, Texas, whose population doubled when Edward Sharpe's 55-piece musical collective crossed the town line. They had bar cars, dining cars, cars for equipment, cars for crew, cars rigged for recording and an open air "jam" car. It was Woody Guthrie's wet dream at a leisurely 45 mph. 

New Orleans was the final stop on the 8 day Railroad Revival Tour, and OCMS was up first.

"You can spend your whole life racing down dusty old railroad lines, but it's that setting sun you're chasing in a dark and rolling sky." - That Evening Sun, OCMS


Old Crow Medicine Show. They seem absolutely pleased with themselves. I know that's a comment that can cut at different angles, but I mean it as a complement. Every time they hit the stage, they do it with a dirty childhood smirk of a boy about to bring the ruckus.

I saw them for the first time from the balcony of the 930 club, and it wasn't until about 45 minutes in that I realized they didn't have a drummer. The percussion comes from boots on boards, palms slapped on the face of acoustic guitars or the vibrations along the skin of a banjo, creating a percussive harmony that organically springs from every song. We danced to beats we could only guess at and sang songs we didn't know, drank a hip flask of cheap rum and fell over into the hedges. Old Crow has a presence that makes you want to sing along even if you don't know the words, and that's nothing short of magic.

They've been doing it for over a decade. And even though I'm sure they have frustrations and feel the grind of the repetition, I have never seen them be anything but joyous on the stage. They're the locker room guys. They know what they do and how to do it right. They know they're lucky to be where they are, but have also watched those less deserving go further. They know there is somewhere worse than here. And it's that attitude that you need on a steel railed asylum that's got to roll for a week.

There's no warm-up, no build up. Just a short introduction, a brief high-pitched cry from front man fiddle player Ketch Secor and we're off. They're not coming off an acclaimed Grammy performance and you're not going to catch their songs backing up major advertising campaigns. But, OCMS knows they're about to kick your ass and make you like it. And, as always, it's nothing but joy. It's not a bad way to see the sun sink down over the city.

Alex Ebert doing...something. 

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes.  In the best traditions of Hootie and the Blowfish, there is no one named Edward Sharpe in this band. Theirs was a more measured method of taking the stage, which is only necessary in a production this big. Like most Americans, I know Edward Sharpe as the guys who sing the song from the NFL commercial, so I was curious. I'd heard good things and was with people who were genuinely excited about seeing this buzzed-up band.

It's not the look. At least it's not all the look. White boy, vaguely Eastern cultural bullshit like the shallow end of the unproductive corner of George Harrison's soul, dancing around on stage. Honestly, it wouldn't be a problem if there was something to back it up. But when you put on a show this empty, I'm going to fill it up with my skin-deep biases. They looked tired. They looked over it. It was like watching a hundred gears turning for no other purpose but to turn more gears. It was not bad, just flat. For the performance of the song that had gotten them here, Ebert half-ass hummed through the whistle intro and then finished by leaning against the piano and staring into the distance. What they did bring to the party was a red-headed girl sawing down hard on my favorite instrument, the rock accordion. More on that later.

I get it. I don't blame them. But they should take a page out of Crazy Heart's Bad Blake book of philosophy-- when a song's been good to you, you've got to treat it with some respect. Never complain that people want to hear something you've created, because the alternative is crushing. They limped off stage.

Mumford and Sons. Nothing short of phenomenal. I was expecting quiet, moody, Iron and Wine cry into your sherry kind of music. I'm not sure why, it was just what I understood Mumford and Sons to be. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

They were melancholy soaked in gasoline. Moonshine with a Xanax chaser. It you ever slowed down enough to think about what was actually being said, you'd probably be pretty depressed...but that's all the more reason not to slow down. They tell you the sad truth of life with a smile on their face as they skip on down the road, and that's something you need when riding a rail car through southwestern America, watching above ground pools pass in trailerpark yards.

There's only one album, and from what I can tell, they faithfully rolled through it with a racing heart-- essential for bringing this style of songs to the stage. It's this thing they did, are obviously proud of and utterly amazed that they're able to put it out there in front of this many people.

Don't Carry No Hustlers, This Train. Then the flood gates opened. People poured onto the stage, trying to fit in somewhere along the line for the grand finale, a group jam of Woody Guthrie classic "This Train Is Bound For Glory." It was a mess. A big, noisy, glorious mess. Some spontaneous house party jam that never really exists anywhere else. Drums and horns, and British infantry hats, flat on the on the floor accordion duels. Even the random douchebag with the tambourine and the nightshirt seems to have a somewhat productive place in the ecosystem.

All the while, the train sat patiently smoking on the tracks, the right lights and dull bells of the crossing warning still ringing. 

<