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Neko Case Review Hell hath no fury like a girl and eight pianos

Show Times May Vary Life at a historic tourist trap

Bohemian Magic A tall glass of loose lips and forgotten arguments

Tania Zamora Hi re .Tani aZamora@gmai l .com

305-979-4777

Writing Samples

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Tania Zamora

Off Beat

Show Times May Vary:

Working at a New Orleans Tradition-Sort of

Once again, it is show night, and I am stuck behind the same wooden podium. Crowds of

drunk women stumble into the House of Blues ready for the show of a lifetime—Heart. The

women come in, eat, and line up early to ensure a good spot. I am sure they have had this show

penciled in between Tommy‟s karate practice and Ginny‟s art show for months. Once the doors

open, they flirt with security, “I promise I‟m over 21,” they will coo while digging out their

wallets. As the night goes on, they pound shots as if it was their 21st birthday. When the

bathroom door opens clouds of funny smelling smoke billows out along with bleary-eyed moms.

The music hall doors shut, locking in the imminent madness. The night progresses like any

death metal show should—rowdy crowds, sporadic fighting and heavy drinking—I mean power

ballad singing pop rock band. That night a hand full of women were kicked out or rushed to the

hospital for excessive drug use, fighting, and trying to bite the bouncers.

I left that night slightly dazed; I hope I age a little more gracefully. Then, the following

morning I was back. Sometimes, it is as if I never leave this place. I come back to my quirky

podium, which I pathetically feel a weird attachment to. I live the same day over, only tonight

it‟s a new band, and a new crowd of people to clean-up after.

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In an NPR interview with Iraqi metal band Acrassicauda band, guitarist Faisal Talal said

that differences didn‟t matter with music as long as one “speaks the language of music.” This

idea of music transcending human differences is present in the founding principle, “unity in

diversity.” The House of Blues, much to the shock of tourist, is not a home of the Blues. Rather

it is a home for "inspiration of music for the soul." The House of Blues New Orleans, though

now the love child of corporate music whores LiveNation and Ticketmaster, prides itself in

piecing together a musically diverse show calendar. The House does not just sing the delta blues;

in one week, one can listen to a reggae band, a hip-hop super star, and pseudo- underground

teenage angst rock. The fans are just as diverse and unpredictable. It is never the same at the

House, unless Better than Ezra plays. The night‟s crowd never depends on the band, and it is

rarely predictable.

“It‟s going to be slow night; Yonder Mountain String Band is playing. It will be a bunch

of bluegrass rednecks; no one is going to eat,” said an ignorant employee. I am taking the liberty

of calling this person ignorant not because of the gross political incorrectness of this statement,

but because of its inaccuracy. That night was anything but slow. At first, there was a slow

trickle. Couples sauntered in, looking for a bite and a cold beer. Then as door times neared, they

poured in. They came out as if it was their first time leaving the doublewide in ages, and had the

etiquette to match. I instituted a small wait time. They were outraged, insulted even. “How are

you on a wait I see lots of empty tables,” “the doors open in ten minutes, we can‟t wait 20

minutes,” “can I talk to the manager.” The rest of the night went like this, until the rising

crescendo of mandolin and banjo called the stragglers to vanish behind the flame-painted double

doors.

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I have given up trying to predict the night‟s turn out based on ticket sales or musical

genre. I have never successfully predicted a night. I am still trying to determine, successfully,

the factors that contribute to restaurant turn out. As far as I can tell, the economy is number one.

The summer was painfully slow, and it was not just the New Orleans heat keeping the audience

thin and the tourists back home. With gas prices, nearing $5.00 in some cities the travel industry

looked grim. Fast forward 7 months, as tax returns are mailed out and gas prices are still under

$2.00 a gallon, the tables are full, grills are burning, and cocktails shakers are, well, shaking. Life

is finally, pumping into bank accounts and music venues.

The audience is just as random as restaurant guests are. I have stopped trying to guess

what the night‟s audience will be like, and so has security. They tend to try and anticipate a

crowd by manning up accordingly. Hip-hop night there is an abundance of security and metal

detectors. Security is ready for anything; some ignorant ones even show up wearing bulletproof

vests. Here, I use ignorant purely for their political incorrectness. Yet, somehow, the cloud of

funny smelling smoke and the sweet liquid that freely pours seems to be all the security the

House needs. The audience always seems sedate, even friendly, as they graciously pass around

lit cigarettes. All ages shows on the other hand, are a very different story. It is a room crowed

with repressed, unsupervised, under-aged kids all thinking their bad-asses. Trouble is sure to

follow, yes folks, I would wear that bulletproof vest to the next kid‟s show. The most recent all-

ages show ended semi-tragically, as a kid was kicked out for a waving a plastic box cutter

around, cutting those surrounding him. Security also suffered an embarrassing blow. As the

largest member of security tried to mediate, he too was cut—by a plastic box cutter.

As the restaurant‟s host, I hold a remedial position in the grand establishment that is the

House of Blues. I also hold one of the most heartbreaking positions. As the crowds come and

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go, outsiders feel the need to come in to investigate, and they are more than welcome. As they

come in, they are blown away by out Blues God Ceiling, a massive sculpture that pays homage

to the gods of Blues. They then berate me with questions about the history of the place, most

believing they have stumbled into a piece of authentic New Orleans history. I have the pleasure

of telling them the sad and corporate truth, “no we weren‟t the first,” “no, we haven‟t been open

since the „20s,” and “no those aren‟t meant to honor musicians that have played here.” I am not

always so honest, I will let them Google the House‟s history when they go home. For now, I will

let the excited ones continue thinking they are in the presence of musical greatness.

I have seen lives change from my podium. Kids get into more trouble than they ever

imagined. People meet their idols, while others have met God. I have seen people celebrate

weddings, birthdays, graduations, and Mother‟s Day from my podium. For some reason they

keep coming back, while I never leave. Lives have changed at the House of Blues, as one happy

fan said while I gave him a quick tour of the Music Hall, “It is amazing all the incredible

musicians that have played on this stage, my life changed after watching a show here.” He was

referring to a Hootie and the Blowfish show he had seen some years ago. I let that slide; we are

all about diverse musical taste at the House of Blues.

Zamora, T

Neko Case Middle Cyclone Review

By: Tania Zamora

“I love writing songs that are already written,” sings Neko Case, to open her sixth solo album

Middle Cyclone. Don’t be fooled, these songs are truly original. Employing eight salvaged pianos and a

vocal range that is hypnotizing in its subtlety, Case’s album creates a whirlwind of romance, turbulent

weather, and surreal images dipped in nature’s glory.

Middle Cyclone thrusts listeners through a wildly changing landscape. Case’s music moves

listeners from a rough and treacherous scene to a peaceful and calming destination.

Case sucks listeners into the music with a maddening first song. The orchestra of sounds

replicates the music of a storm in “This Tornado Loves You.” A song about a chaotic romance that will

only destroy,” lovely as you are, you can’t provide a home,” she sings.

Destructive relationships dominate the first half of this album. Conjuring images of a violent

Mother Earth, and a vengeful romance, this album opens with all the promise of chaos offered by the

title. It is not until half way through this album that Case begins to humanize her music, allowing herself

to seem vulnerable. Following the terror of “Never Turn your Back on Mother Earth’s” “crushing

clouds,” “hurled towns,” and a Mother Earth that seems plagued by all flaws of estrogen, Neko’s title

track begins to sooth listeners fears of a vengeful planet.

The track “Middle Cyclone” marks the middle point in the album and the changing tide in the

music. From here the storm listeners braved in the beginning will start to subside. Lyrically, she remains

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as ferocious and guarded as ever, but she also slowly begins to let listeners love her as she reveals a

softer more vulnerable side. The song “I’m an Animal,” announces, “"I'm an animal and you're an

animal, too." In saying so, she becomes the subject and makes way for an invasion of a much more

interior, personal territory.

The final track is the most interesting. As a final play on romance and nature, “Marais La Nuit”

loops the sounds of a nighttime orchestra. Allowing the sounds of crickets to create there own tune and

rhythm, Case leaves with a silent but powerful ode to nature.

Neko Case’s album proliferates the clichéd idea, “hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn.” In the

album, she presents listeners with a blend of fear and pleasure that comes with exposing yourself to the

possibility of falling in love. Case artistically balances the fear and retaliation of a wounded woman, with

vulnerability of one ready to fall in love. Case masterfully blends the natural ebb and flow of human

emotions and relationships with natural tendencies found in animal world.

Unfortunately, the majority of this album is better off read than heard. Musically, it leaves much

to be desired. Though there area few high points—the recording of an ambient nighttime symphony,

and fury of pianos in the opening track— the music was redundant and many times disjointed from

Neko’s mesmerizing voice.

This is an album that will grow on you, and after a few listens it will leave everyone hoping for a

little more bad weather.

Zamora, T

Tania Zamora

The Healing Magic of Bohemian New Orleans

We had been silent for weeks, but keeping up the image, we went out for an afternoon date.

Ulterior motives and mixed emotions were in the air that afternoon. He sat behind the wheel; I was

belted into the passenger seat. The dusk air was surprisingly cool for such a stiflingly day. The sky was

cloudless, flawlessly painted with shades of sunset. Our hands met on the center consul, and as

obligated habit our fingers entwine.

Digging up old memories, he makes a right on to Calhoun. He knows this street well, dodging

familiar potholes. It feels like he is miles away, but he’s right there, thinking. I know he is thinking of

that time I told him I was unfaithful. That day we drove by the white house with the French windows

and porch swing he promised we would live in, and I said I was sorry. It was a heartbreakingly silent car

ride. Well, we just passed that house, he never mentions living there anymore, and I know he’s thinking

about it. “Keep straight,” I say, trying to break the silence. He knows, nods, and continues driving,

recapping all the silent drives on this road. We have nothing to say to each other so I assume the

position: I pull my hand away from its programmed arrangement, curl up against the passenger door,

lean my head on the half-open window and stare out. I watch Uptowners living perfect Southern lives. I

watch a perfect sunset. I assume things in the car are no longer perfect.

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Reaching Magazine Street, I feel a weight lift. We make our left turn; shops, funky shotgun houses and

restaurants we have only walked by greet us. That left turn is heaven; there is no fighting on Magazine

Street, only Chai Lattes and window-shopping.

We passed the coffee shop he took me to on my birthday. He is not one for romantic gestures,

but our geographical distance has forced the romantic out of him. He was so sweet that Monday

morning, waking me up just after the sun rose. He was the first to wish me a happy birthday and took

me out for coffee before leaving again to Alabama. As we drove by the Urban Cup Café, now with a For

Sale sign in the window, he braved the miles between us. He reached over and pulled me back to my

assigned position. He was holding my hand over the center consul again; I knew we arrived.

It was the perfect evening for a walk. Everyone was out, young couples sitting illegally losing

inhibitions. Then there were older couples strolling down familiar streets, forgetting their domestic

duties. Finally, there was us. Pacing down the street, we decide to sit on one of the many restaurant

patios. We let the night fall on us, sitting on iron chairs, breathing air laced with smoke and nostalgia.

Reminiscing of times past and looking forward to an uncertain future, we made plans, made peace and

made grocery lists. We fell in love with a drink in hand, and drove home hand in hand. Our problems

were lost in empty glasses. My hands tightly clench the sheets, his hand softly on my brow. Magazine

Street is magic.