Chasing the Blues

Now Steve Earle Won't Sing Anymore on "Treme?"

I was half-shocked at the end of "Treme" last week at the apparent murder of Harley, the genial, wise street musician played by Steve Earle. Guess I won't ever call a kid who's packing "son."  Too bad the sweet Annie had to witness the punk shooting her pal. ... I always wondered if Wendell Pierce's Antoine Batiste would be the one killed. ....Kermit Ruffins looked ready to do the trick last week, when Batiste pied-piper fashion stole his crowd to an adjoining Frenchman Street bar, an implausible scene. Would jazz musicians really do so things to each other? ...I was thrown off by the endless "True Blood" promos and the lack of previews into thinking that last week's "Treme" was the final one of the season. Turns out it runs a few more weeks, with "True Blood as its lead-in. Looks like the badly limping "Entourage," mercifully in its last season, will take "Treme's" slot. ... No, I'm still not tempted to try to catch up with "True Blood." Any attraction vampires had for me died with Bela Lugosi. ..

...Now Congressional Country Club leaders are turning defensive at how easy their course played at U.S. Open. Not only did Rory McIlroy take the place apart, a bunch of guys shot under par, including the second place 8 under score. ...When the graphic showed all-time great scores, Ben Hogan's 8 under at Riviera in 1948 still made the list. I think Rory's legitimately good, but think of the inferior clubs and deader ball Hogan played with, along with the fact he was still recovering from his horrific auto accident and had to play 36 holes in one day. ...I'd love for the U.S.G.A. to bring back the 36-hole final, last played at Congressional the day of Ken Venturi's near death march to the title....Call me golf lesson geek, but I've noticed Rory has something in common with Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus: the interlocking grip, instead of the conventional Vardon overlapping like most players, including Hogan. Golf lesson fanatic that I am, I looked at Rory's hands on the club, intrigued at observing his pinkies intertwined, not one overlapping the other in the missionary position, as it were. The interlocking is usually for players with small hands, as I've heard Nicklaus has. If Rory goes on to win enough majors to enter the Nicklaus/Woods realm, that'll be quite a testimony for the interlocking...Rory''s embrace of his Irish "Da" was touching enough, but his  adolescent behavior strikingly contrasted with that of Nicklaus when he beat Arnold Palmer in a 1962 playoff to win the Open at Oakmont. Nicklaus was the same age, 22, but his dad, Charlie, while still alive, was nowhere to be seen on TV. Jack, who appeared more middle aged as a young man than later, when he grew his blond locks fashionably long, was already married at age 22, and might already have been a father.  While Rory certainly showed steely maturity on the course, his behavior when finished shows how long adolescence now lasts in young men. 

Bring back the Open's Tough Test

hat's happened to the U.S. Open? Watching the tournament this year is like watching the Quad Cities Open. Easy to hit greens, low rough, shots sticking by the pin. No matter how easy the course appears, Rory McIlroy likely still would be dominating. Yet, a bunch of other guys are going low.

A few years ago, I didn't like it when the U.S. Open courses had become too punitive, especially the travesty at Shinnecock, with unplayable greens. Still, that didn't bother Retief Goosen. Now, though, the pendelum, or the putter head, has swung too much the other way.

Now the USGA is even placing the tees further up, "the reds," as Curtis Strange said with a smirk. Is this the ladies' U.S. Open?

Let's get back to the Open's great days of the 1970s, 80s and '90s, when winning the championship was a test of skill, nerve, talent and endurance. Grow the rough. Make the greens fast. Don't go crazy, like with Shinnecock, but give us back the open we loved.

"Treme" Explores Relationships

"Treme" gets stronger, with the backbone of the show our relationships: Father and son, mother and daughter, husband and wife. It's also getting a surer handle on New Orleans, especially the Indian culture. The shows last year on the subject were strained, but this year the Indian tradition is explored naturally, without forced insistence on how "vital" and "interesting" and "authentic" it all is.

...When I was in Baton Rouge recently, I bought "Earl Long in Purgatory," a play by Jason Berry. It's a one-man show about Huey Long's younger brother and just as much a political legend. "Uncle Earl" stories are part of the education of Louisiana political junkies. The play's language is stilted and artificial on the page; not all like Uncle Earl's,, but his truly unique verbal genius would be difficult to match. Perhaps it plays better on stage; the plot is also difficult to accept. Berry's introductory essay, "The Madness of Earl Long," is well-done though, and the cover painting by George Rodrique is wonderful.

...Watching the U.S. Open at Congressional on HD TV, with its vivid colors and every slope finely delineated, leads me to compare the first tournament I remember watching; Ken Venturi's victory at Congressional in 1964. I recall seeing Vernturi's win in black-and-white, he wearing gray pants, white shirt and Ben Hogan cap, staggering home across a gray landscape. And, back then, they probably only showed about four holes. Actually, I remember watching an earlier Open, when Jack Nicklaus won his first tournament, beating my hero Arnold Palmer in a playoff at Oakmont. The then beefy Jack was probably about the same age as Rory Mcllroy is today. I hope the Irish lad can hang on, but I still will be pulling for an unlikely charge from Phil Michelson. 

...I still love the New Yorker under David Remnick, but I miss the old in-depth golf pieces by Herbert Warren Wind. We still have the baseball pieces by Roger Angell from time to time, but the New Yorker has never tried to replace Wind, or even cover golf, or many other sports for that matter. Yet the magazine pays homage to its sports tradition by putting out an anthology of its classic sports pieces. Perhaps there's too much sports coverage elsewhere for the New Yorker to bother with it, but well-considered, well-written sports pieces would stand out against the ESPN and sports-talk radio bombast.

 

Crawfish, and Flood, Season in Louisiana

We crossed the Mississippi on the trip to pick up the crawfish. Looking down from the Mississippi River Bridge from Baton Rouge to West Baton Rouge, I saw that the water line had reached near the top of the bank.

"If they hadn't opened the Morganza spillway, LSU and downtown Baton Rouge would have flooded," said my sister, in the driver's seat.

Big ships still plowed down the heart of the river, leaving a wake of white turbulence behind. The day was hot and dry; a juxtaposition of drought and high water. My sister turned to the ramp headed to West Baton Rouge, and we were headed through Brusly, divided into Back Brusly and Front Brusly, as my brother-in-law reminded me from the back seat.

I was visiting from Atlanta, interested tyo see this road, La. 1, that I used to travel frequently when my late father had a camp in Bayou Pigeon in Iberville Parish. We would not be going that far today, but would stop in Bayou Sorrell on the other side of Plaquemine to get two sacks of living, writhing crawfish for boiling that afternoon.

As we road, my sister and brother in law commented upon how much the area had grown; and sure enough, what I remember as sugar cane fields now were covered with strip shopping centers, condos, apartments and subdivisions. Appaently, the recession had not hit the area that badly, although Louisiana's state budget was in serious arrears.

Just outside of Plaquemine, my sister pointed out a commercial crawfish pond, and I turned to see a long, rectangular body of dark, still water. A squad of white herons stood on sentinel duty, statoned about 20 feet from each other in rows. They looked real, but in retrospect might have been fake birds to scare off whatever predator a crawfish pond might need protection from.

Headed into Plaquemine, the trip began to feel familiar. I saw the old rusted railroad bridge at the Plaquemine city limits and the lovely collection of ante-bellum homes. The names of the politicians on the eternal political signs were also familiar, dynasties of one or two families that had been running the parish when I left 30 years ago were still running things. Plaquemine had an exhausted, run down atmosphere, as if the 20th century and now the 21st had not quite settled in deeply. To my amusement, I noticed a sign for an Islamic temple beside a low-slung house of yellow stucco.

"I'm surprised Osama Bin Laden wasn't found in southern Louisiana," my sister said.

We turned off on the road that led to the Atchafalya Spillway and the road where my father had his camp. Again, homes, quite nice ones, lined the road where once sugar cane fieids lay. We turned off on a street where mobile homes and trailers alternated with nice houses. I recalled the strength of Louisiana's off-the-books economy. Although the state lags far behind most economic indicators, it's really quite prosperous, with many industries conducted outside of the bounds of govermental accounting.

We turned into a nice house with a big boat in front and picked up the crawfish. I looked at them in their sacks, packed in tightly with their familiar, distinctiive brown-gray color. We threw them in the back, and my brother in law covered them in newspaper to keep them from dying in the brutal sunrays beaming through the back window.

We headed back toward Baton Rouge, traveling beside the stressed levees along the Mississippi. I'd last traveled this road as a young man, and here I was back again at 60, taking part in a unique Louisiana ritual. We crossed the bridge, Huey Long's state capital rising into the bluish-white sky to our left, Tiger Stadium and LSU to our right. Folks had been flooded in the Morganza Spillway, but Baton Rouge was dry, by God, dry and resplendent beneath the hot Louisiana sun.