Author: Jenn Hall

MAKING A ‘NIGHT’ OF IT

Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?

—A Midsummer Night’s Dream

In case you didn’t know, this past Friday was the Summer Solstice. Which means that the longest day of the year has come and gone–a night that various cultures past have referred to as Midsummer’s eve.

A pagan holiday by definition, (wait, isn’t that every day in Memphis) the summer solstice is historically a celebration of the fruits of one’s labors, a rejoicing in the bounties wrought in the work of the days before and after. A celebration, then, of the cultivation and reward of nature itself.

How fitting, then, for this day to be chosen as the kick-off for the Live at the Garden summer concert series at the Memphis Botanic Garden.

Admittedly, I am shamefully untrained in the particularities of the flora and fauna of the world. What you call an orchid, I call that pretty flower over there. When you see clover, I see those neat little things that close up at night. You get the picture.

The beauty of the grounds, however, is in no way lost for want of the name of a genus or species.

At night, under a string of lights hung from the boughs of, um, the pretty trees by the stone-lined walkway, even the stretch of porta-potties brought in for the show looked somehow majestic.

The locale serves as an entirely enchanted backdrop for an evening of music, headlined in Friday’s sophomore season opener by the great Ray Charles.

Charles, hands down, was a wonderful performer. I strain to imagine myself at the age of 71, clad in an adorable little blazer and hitting the piano keys as if I was 16, and I cannot. I can barely imagine it now.

Blessed with the peaks and valleys due a voice through the passing of years, Charles played to a crowd of several thousand for well over an hour. Those peaks and valleys were especially apparent during the slow and quieting Georgia on My Mind. Though the performance is surely somewhat changed from what it might have been in years past, there was something about it that gave me chills.

Maybe it was just the evening itself, or the way the warm air swirled amidst the bodies in the crowd. But watching Charles make his way through the song, you could really hear the physical man singing that was singing the notes. It somehow reached beyond the glow cast by his status as a living legend, and it was sublime.

The arrangement of the seating area offers pluses and minuses to compliment tickets at all price points. Direct views of the stage, of course, are most choice in the encore section, a group of numbered tables right in front of the backlit dome where the performance takes place. Catered meals are offered there, as well as complimentary drinks (with a limit of 5) for the very best tables, which run at $60 per ticket.

Initially I sat in the second tier of the tabled seating, which afforded me a chance to catch the band from a close-up perspective.

Or so I thought.

A bit claustrophobic when it comes to crowds, I decided to wander for a bit and check out what the lawn seats had to offer.

These seats, or patches of grass rather, are hands down the best bet for the series, which has five more shows on deck before the season draws to an end.

With speakers set up all over the venue, the sound was just as good whether you were 5 or 500 feet from the stage.

In addition, large screens were placed around the perimeter of the lawn, in effect creating a really neat outdoor pay-per-view with live audio kind of vibe. It sort of made me think about how strange modern life is, where we can shake and groove to a live performance, while sitting cross-legged on a lawn in front of a television screen beneath the stars. It’s like a childhood backyard sleepover fantasy.

Regardless of where you choose to sit, the venue allows you to bring coolers filled with the nectars of your choice. Ignorant of this fact, I neglected to tote along my own bucket of fun, but there are vendors on hand for the ill prepared. Seasoned attendees brought along everything from blankets and 12-packs, to bottled liquors with full-on candelabras and place settings.

It was a study in human recreational habits, wandering around and looking at the myriad set-ups ranging from cans and paper towels, to expensive wines and chilled glasses. Unfortunately, the locale forbids circus animals, bad attitudes, and dirty laundry (as stated on their Web site) so you’ll have to part with these for one lonely evening should you decide to go.

One concern for the event is the traffic flow before and after the show, which can get a bit on the congested side. I suggest getting up and dancing near the back of the lawn when it feels like things are winding down and then sprinting to your car with all of the speed that you can muster. This is what I did, and although I probably only made it to the car about 5 minutes before the majority, I could see that the cars were mighty jammed up as I drove my merry self down Park, wait free.

My advice to you would be to check out at least one of the remaining shows, which include performances by the Memphis Symphony Orchestra with the Stax Academy of Music, Dr. John with Mavis Staples and The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Kathy Mattea, Al Jarreau with the Gamble Brothers, and the Blind Boys of Alabama.

It’s guaranteed to be a great evening amidst the, well, truly lovely plant-life that Memphis is graced to have housed at this garden refuge.

Though the summer heat might induce laziness indeed, you’ll be glad you went out for this evening delight.

FELINES

If any of you have been looking for a good cathouse in town, I believe it is located right next door to my new place.

And no–I’m not talking about that kind of cathouse, silly. An antiquated Memphis law prevents eight or more women from boarding in the same home to prevent that type of potential witchery, or so I’ve heard.

What I’m referring to is the mew, hiss, and purr of a literal cat motel. A humble meeting place for all beings of the feline persuasion, the sheer number, variety and odor of which truly astounds me.

I suppose that there’s a place like this in every town. To be honest, I find it kind of interesting, at least during this, the honeymoon phase.

I’ve even forgiven them for tossing trash all over the lawn, which in turn attracted every ant in a three-mile radius, on our first morning there.

Aren’t I sweet?

Until I moved to Memphis, I was never much of a cat person. I didn’t hate them or anything, unlike my Dad whose prized possession was Earl the Dead Cat. Earl was the most tragic little stuffed animal you could ever hope to see, made to look like the victim of a mauling by an 18-wheeler. Needless to say, we were not encouraged to bring home any cats of our own.

In Dad’s defense, he did stop and attempt to rescue the one kitty that he accidentally hit with his own car. We may come programmed with a questionable sense of humor in my clan, but we’re not heartless.

Anyhow, about two years ago I inherited my two little babies from a friend who was leaving town, and it was an instant kitty love fest.

There’s a bit of a difference, however, between a duo of indoor cats and the twenty-five that run my new block.

The strangest aspect of this new relationship that I am forming (cautiously, I might add, and without cute little welcome bowls of milk or tuna) is that these ubiquitous four-legged neighbors are always lurking about in and around my windows. I’m not a paranoid freak or anything, but it’s a little unnerving to see a glowing set of eyes tracking you every time you make a move. Especially since they haven’t been the same set of eyes on any given occasion.

I’m talking serious power in numbers here. I’ve seen a tabby, a Siamese, a little poof of an orange kitten, the infant, teenaged, and adult versions of Jedi, my own little black cat, a near exact replica of Losis, my other cat, an extremely well-endowed gray and white little guy (who might be responsible for some of the nose-thrilling drafts that escape from the compound on occasion,) a slinky black and white specimen than can walk along a fence like a squirrel, and about every possible mixture of the above lot.

It’s insane.

My curiosity is primarily directed toward what it must be like inside this underground house of mews. (Not to be confused with the actually House of Mews, which serves as a shelter and adoption agency for Midtown strays.) There has been a lot of talk of late about the supposed psychological disorder of animal hoarding. This is reportedly most prevalent in middle-aged women who believe that they are helping the plethora of animals that they take in, whether or not they truly have the means to provide adequate care.

As yet, I have not laid eyes on the person at the heart of the cathouse. But maybe this is for the best. Truth be told, I’m not sure I want to get that involved, and I’ll give you a little back story on the reason why.

One of my good friends works as a dealer at a casino in Tunica. Now, he had a regular at his table who was a self-proclaimed cat aficionado. I’m talking feline-friendly to the point that this gambler honestly believed that his brood could speak to him, and not in the symbolic interpreting of the nods and meows way, either.

On one occasion, he told my friend that he was forced to shoot one of his boarders, because the “spy cat” in the house informed him that this selfish kitten was eating all of the other cats’ food.

Alright then.

Several weeks later my dealer friend told me that this man had come back, seriously perplexed because one of his cats wouldn’t speak to him. He as worried that he might have to take him out as well. Apparently, the stony silence of this little puss-in-boots was causing unrest amongst the rest of the cats in the house.

On a whim, I advised my friend to tell the man that perhaps the cat was into some type of Zen thing, and that what he was interpreting as a non-communicative nature was simply a state of deep meditation. The next time I heard anything about the situation, I was glad to find out that the man was extremely relieved and decided to give the poor little thing a chance to live after all.

Scary, scary stuff.

I’m not implying that I believe there is any sort of conspiracy going on over there, or any man on cat violence for that matter, but it seems that people with that number of kittens often prefer to keep to themselves. So I guess I might just give it a while before I walk the steps to the door of kitty heaven.

Besides, I’ll be busy enough I’m sure, dealing with all of the cats that are walking the steps to mine.

AFTER THE BELL

And so it’s over. The countdown to the so-called Rumble on the River is into the negatives.

The red carpets have been shaken out and stowed away. The stars have gone back into their secret living quarters inside the Hollywood sign. And I guess that the city is, frown, sigh, getting back to normal.

Which means no more special news reports. No more press conferences. No more celebrity hotlines lest the city miss an all-important “sighting.” We were working to find you Mr. Brad Pitt — oh yes, we were.

And I guess there’ll be no more after-the-fight news specials. At least I hope not.

After a soul-crushing evening watching the Nets get way too close to lose in their own arena on Sunday, I partook of Action News 5’s special, which they called “After The Bell.” For the most part it was OK, interesting even, but then came the, uh, soulful conclusion. A little music video, if you will, which actually made me contemplate tossing my TV through the window and giving up on televised media forever.

In this fight week video retrospective viewers were treated to a series of edits from the network’s coverage of the event. Fine. I could handle the revisiting of the weigh-ins, the shots of Lewis and Tyson after the fight, the aerial view of Lewis in his welcoming parade.

But what, may I ask, was up with the music? If you weren’t so lucky as to catch the tail end of this broadcast, I’ll sum it up for you in one sentence. It was so full of mourning I felt like the Hallmark greeting card company was bashing me over the head with a hammer to the theme song for its sympathy on the loss of your loved one line.

A way, way wistful female vocal track, worthy of the most tragic of new age funerals, shaped this instant nostalgia in images, and in my opinion it was absurd.

Forlorn shots of Justin Timberlake were acoustically matched with a wail and a moan. Won’t he ever come back, the music asked us…won’t he? Will we never see Tyson’s swollen eye again? Will this be our very last visit from Morgan Freeman ever? Is our shining moment as a “real city” (as recent public discourse has debated in full) over and done with forever?

Come on people, cheer up.

OK, sure, the Daisy party was a refund-beckoning flop. Traffic was a nightmare. Security at the Pyramid was perhaps less efficient than one might have hoped.

But by and large the city hosted this fight in a way that the supposed “real cities” could never match up to.

Do we really want, or for that matter need, to become the next Vegas? And even if we do, do we have to seem so, well, consumed with an inferiority complex that our every news moment consists of amazed conversation over the fact that we actually pulled this off?

Maybe everyone else is surprised, but I’m not.

One of the things that makes Memphis a “real city,” at least in my mind, is the fact that there’s some semblance of personality here. A personality that doesn’t get lost the way it would in a place like New York or LA.

What we have is a cohesiveness that united all of the city’s clubs and venues behind this one event, making it a citywide celebration. I mean Gregory Hines said he’d even come back here for a Redbirds game, for God’s sake.

Since we have our international platform now, meaning possible opportunities for future events of this scale, lets stand up and say that we knew we could do it all along. Let’s be a real contender as an American city and stop worrying about what everybody else does. And let’s NOT mope around at home, wallowing in the lost glimmer of N’ Sync, Kevin Bacon and David Hasselhoff, feeling sorry for ourselves. I mean, really, don’t we have better things to do?

Memphis doesn’t have to prove itself. It’s been doing that for years.

So come on now. Stop crying. We did a great job hosting the little fight that no one else would take.

Lets not throw in the towel just yet.

CHAMPIONSHIP LEVEL

Think you’re following the reverie surrounding this weekend’s Lewis-Tyson fight closely?

Well, I went to church on Sunday with Lewis’ mama. Or at least I was at church with his mama, and the rest of the Lewis entourage (sans Lewis himself), when they showed up to get some of that fightin’ Holy Spirit this past Sunday at Al Green’s church.

Sure, Lewis may have gotten the keys to the city from Mayor Herenton, but his family and followers went for the keys to the Kingdom, which were handed down from the mighty Reverend Green and his rockin’ gospel choir.

The church seemed more than happy to receive them. “Your son can whoop anyone in this world. Praise the Lord,” proclaimed the pastor who headed things up until Green arrived. You’ve just got to love Memphis.

And any of you who are heading to town to root, hobnob, or bet this week might want to check out this little gem, hidden off Elvis Presley Boulevard in the shadow of Graceland.

My advice to you? Forget Graceland for the moment. Keep driving, and catch the Jungle room in August when the 25th death anniversary set gets here. That will certainly be a much more interesting time to check out the lush/tacky abode of Rock ‘n Roll’s proclaimed King.

I mean, you’ve got a chance to see Al Green preachin’ and singin’ and healin’ and dancin’ live and in the flesh, and for free, no less. Who knows, he might even serve you up some redemption, and who, in some corner of their little soul, doesn’t want to be redeemed by that man with the voice of gold and the giant ring on his finger to match?

This church/attraction is undoubtedly an authentic Memphis experience unlike any other, and while you kind of have to gauge your odds as to whether Green will be there on a given Sunday, what with the fame and the tour schedule and all, it’s more than worth it either way. I’ve now been once with Green at the pulpit and once without, and both experiences were equally (or almost equally) memorable.

Since Green will be performing with Isaac Hayes at the Desoto Civic Center on Thursday, I’d say your chances of catching him in preacher mode this weekend are probably good to excellent. Six to one lets say, though you’d have to consult that agency in Vegas if you want to get the actual odds.

The church is officially called the Full Gospel Tabernacle, and is nestled away at 787 Hale Road. And when they say full gospel, they mean it. This parish and choir can sing. I mean really sing, and I suppose it’s not altogether surprising when their leader is one of Memphis’ most famous musical exports.

On top of the singing, there’s the dancing. Now normally I don’t shake my proverbial groove thing unless there’s a six-pack or so behind me, but both times I stepped foot in Green’s house of worship I was up, clapping and swaying, before the morning was through. Even in light of the ever-rolling cameras present this time around, obviously there to capture the Lewis clan in their every public step as the fight night countdown continues, I danced. The resultant fear of flicking through the channels only to see my aforementioned groove thing wiggling on national television will surely wear off with time.

If my churchgoing experience as a kid involved more of that kind of praise, I might not have whined and complained about going so much. Although, I’ll admit, a three-hour plus service isn’t something that I could do every weekend.

Now, to be honest, I sometimes had a bit of a hard time following Green when he commenced with the sermon. Much of his preaching was interjected with commentary about the aforementioned news cameras that were circling around the church all morning. But we know better, don’t we? Al Green, entertainer extraordinaire, uncomfortable in front of the camera’s adoring eye?

I’d contend that Green’s comments were more for show than anything else. This seemed especially likely in light of his repeated references to the “ways” of the Deep South, followed each time with a meaningful glance at the cameras, and also his diatribe on the blessings of America in a sociopolitical context of terror. This latter theme came out of left field, so to speak, but doesn’t every public figure have to address the issue when offered a national platform to speak post-September 11th? At one point, mid-sentence, he even erupted into an impassioned rendition of God Bless America, which while off-putting at first, or maybe just unexpected, was damn good. I mean darn good. Oops.

But Reverend Green’s ability to vacillate between the message and the showmanship is precisely what makes him such an entertaining preacher. By making the service and its corresponding message a bit of a performance, people listen rather than falling asleep behind their Bibles, even if he doesn’t make complete and total sense.

The service begins pretty late in the morning, so don’t you worry if you plan to spend fight night carousing and cheering, or crying and cursing if you’ve misplaced your bet. Things start heating up at about 11:00 AM, and go until 2:00 PM or so, but people seem to pretty much show up when they want to. At least “tourists” like myself (and the Revered) do. The small core of actual parishioners gets there at about 9:45 for Sunday school, but this week Green didn’t roll in until 12:30, fresh off a plane from Chicago.

Punctuality is, at best, optional.

So what was Green’s advice for Lewis come fight time?

“Better put some tape on those ears,” he quipped, and no one was afraid to laugh.

In light of the little chunk Tyson took out of Lewis’ leg at a January press conference, you can’t really argue with the man on that count.

Well, it’s happened. If I can be defined as a member of “Generation X,” according to whatever committee in media-definition land proclaims the acceptable parameters of such things, then I have hit the nouveau chic status of having reached my quarter-life crisis.

To be 25, the symbolic quarter in a world of dollars. To have ascended from the coveted demographic of ages 18-24, only to be lumped in with 25-40, or whatever the next one is. Ugh. It’s depressing.

OK, I know. Poor me.

Realistically, age 25 is nothing to be afraid of-it’s a standard number associated with celebration, and even gets to claim the color silver. I like silver.

To be sure, this year’s 25th anniversary extravaganza at Graceland will put observance number 24 to shame, no? Only the best impersonators will be there, the most committed fans will flock to Memphis from far and wide.

But for me, all sorts of questions flood in. Granted, they’re the trite and standard types of life questions one can dissect vicariously on Dawson’s Creek, if that show is still on the air. They’re the where am I in life ponderings. The billowy daytime TV-styled self-analyses. Middle of the night reflections that eat away at normal sleep.

No, not true. Sleep comes way first on my priority list.

Ever since they invented that quarter-life crisis, though, I’ve been awaiting its effects like a nightly news-watching, pop culture journal-reading junkie of modern times.

In celebration of my 25th year as a Gemini (read woman afflicted with multiple personalities if you are so inclined–we get such a bad rap) I’ve had a rather bicoastal month. After my stint back home in Jersey, and then my return to the source, the Mississippi and Memphis, I spent a week out in LA testing my aptitude at Pacific Coast culture, and then came back again. Whew.

Hello jetlag.

In Los Angeles, the city inhabited by angels who don’t look 25 even when they’re 40, I saw people and lives of all kinds.

I walked amidst the fashionably mismatched creatures of Venice Beach who peddled trinkets, psychic advice, booty call incense, acupuncture, natural ecstasy, artwork, and everything in between. One cosmically intuitive salesman offered my friend and I a 50% discount off of all of the crap in his shop because he knew, this Mr. Cleo did, that we were truly in love. Though disappointed when we told him that we weren’t in that kind of love, he said he’d still give us the deal. Now that’s some salesmanship right there.

I also saw a city within the city made of cardboard and desperation, somewhere in central LA. Blocks and blocks of box homes and weatherworn people lined an area outside of the jewelry district.

LA, city of the human landscape, of potentiality and prospects, of self-promotion, self-definition, and chance. Maybe LA is America’s quarter-life crisis in action, with so many ideas bouncing within its oceanfront head about what it might become. There, the people dream that the imagined can be real.

But in a blur, my plane was returning me here, back to Memphis, for the second time this month.

To celebrate my return, and bid goodbye to the first shiny quarter of my life, I went downtown to check out the Sunset Symphony. Shamefully, I’ll admit that I took off to rent some movies before the actual orchestra started, but when it was over I could hear the fireworks ringing like syncopated cannon bursts from my apartment in Midtown.

And my time being 18-24 receded in lights and blazes, to be replaced with this new “adult” state.

Again, poor, poor me.

To be honest, I don’t really feel that I have suddenly grown old. Isn’t it interesting, though, to gauge yourself from time to time against popular culture’s demographical categories? A few weeks ago, I pondered my identity as a Yankee Southerner, and now I do so as a 2nd quarter of lifer, here in Memphis, and ready to go.

If there really is some crisis going on in some hidden pocket of my head, though, then here’s my planned remedy. I’ll take one pill with the memories of my life up North, one full of the hopefulness and will to define the “new” from LA, and I’ll wash it down over a beer as the sun sets over the Mississippi.

I’ll let you know what happens in the morning.