The Starter Wife.
I just talked with Mrs. King. As I had occasion to say recently, the third time is the charm. This is not about Mrs. King. This is about Daphne Parker Powell’s new album. I will provide a link in the show notes, as they say.
I would say it is available in stores, but I have little clue about how the music business works.
I was telling Payson that Daphne just got back from a tour. He is organizing some kind of floorshow. I am going to get to the meat of this matter. While I wait, I am going to read the Wall Street Journal.
This may take awhile. It is getting busy all of a sudden.
I am reading a review of a book called, “The Self Delusion,” by Gregory Burns. Let us read a brief, apropos excerpt for this review, shall we?
Memories are not the faithful playbacks we assume they are. To store them, the brain has to compress the actual sequence of events, losing detail in the process. Later we reconstruct them on the fly, with a lot of input from the imagination. Little wonder then that the stories that result from this process of memory and compression— stories we tell ourselves about ourselves and the world around us— should be suspect. Are you who you say you are? Are you even who you think you are?
Frank Rose, wrote the paragraph above, in his review of the book. It is on Page A15, if you get the Wall Street Journal today. The rest is very interesting, too. I would not say it contains observations I do not already know so much as things I enjoy being reminded of. Have you ever had a day like that? I know I have.
Let us talk about something else while I wait for this lunch rush to end.
I was in Gert Town this morning. For a certain kind of person, Gert Town has an irresistible attraction, like a magnet passed over a box of pins. I am one of those pins. Gert Town feels like home to me. The view from the South Broad Avenue Overpass, in the riverside lanes, that was beautiful this morning.
Sometimes, I feel like I live in Heaven on Earth. This is the part where I observe that I live in New Orleans.
So, The Other Bar is a bar on Freret Street. The only reason I know this is because I know people who hang out there. For some of them, this Other Bar is their headquarters. I have never been inside. I dislike drinking from plastic cups. If you give me an adult glass, I promise I will not drop it.
There is a comedy open mike at this Other Bar on Tuesday nights. I am a creature of daylight, but I am tempted by the opportunity to watch people awkwardly read jokes off index cards.
The secret to comedy is timing. That is what I am told, at least.
I just found out about this floorshow. Payson calls it a showcase. It is some kind of singer-songwriter thing, during which the singer-songwriter comes out, talks about why they wrote these songs, and then plays them. “You know, so you can enjoy them, Mr. King.”
I think I will prefer Tuesdays at this Other Bar versus Mondays, when this Kitchen Basket is supposed to happen. I do not think it will make any difference. From what I will know people there, and, as we all know, happiness loves company.
Wednesday nights at this Other Bar are wine-&-paint nights, which does not interest me.
Someone once told me that I would be good at promoting record sales. Back to the subject of Daphne Parker Powell, the subject of that beautiful love poem she read to me yesterday. Every word is true.
Daphne plays regularly at Oak, the wine bar on Oak Street. They put as much thought into the name as I did when I did when I named my chickens, Brownie, Blackie, and Whitey.
Oak is located in what used to be that really nice sushi restaurant. I forget what that the name of that place was. It was long ago and far away.
Daphne Parker Powell’s latest album, The Starter Wife, it is really good. Listen once, and you will become a fan for life.
I have little interest in things national, public, or radio, but word on the street is that Daphne was either featured or is going to be featured on National Public Radio. I did not hear it out of a passing car. I heard this on the Mid-City grapevine. I am sure people Uptown are all over this like white on rice.
There is a show on NPR (maybe?) called All Songs Considered. We are getting way outside my usual bailiwick here. I assume you will look it up on your own. You should. Daphne Parker Powell is involved.
I do know that Daphne got a new Instagram follower today. I do not expect any thanks for that. All in a day’s work. I know this guy is following because he showed me who he thought was her. “Is this her, Mr. King?” he said.
“Yes. Daphne looks like a Man Ray photograph, like a bass fiddle. That is her.”
Let me put it this way: I will cross the length and breadth of New Orleans to hear Daphne Parker Powell perform at Oak, the Uptown wine bar. I am less than enthused to go to this Other Bar on a Monday night. How is that for true-blue testimony.
Everyone who knows me, and I mean Daphne, too, knows I have not listened to this album. I do not know how. Maybe it is on Youtube. My CD player hums and skips all the time, so I never use it. I lost interest in music long before Napster came around, but, I know Daphne.
Daphne noted that the last time I went to one of her shows at Oak, that wine bar Uptown, I left before her first set of songs was over. I had to walk the dog.
Someday, Daphne will be on WWOZ. Mark my words.
Then, would you like to know what happened next? There is more. There is always more. Let me put the paywall up.