Zamora, T
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
Zamora, T
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.