Bronco Bowl, Dallas, May 3

Friday night, East Dallas: What's a couple of folks like us doing in a place like this? Well, we're looking for the Ministry show, rumored to be at Fair Park Coliseum. Hey, even the Dallas Observer said it was there, and if the most overpaid music critic in Austin can live here among sports heroes, about-to-be felons, erstwhile third-party presidential candidates, and all the other crazed lunatics with entirely too much money, and supposedly "cover Austin music," then why not a little vice versa? Okay, going to a roadshow for a band with roots in London, Chicago, and Marble Falls may not be the best way to cover the Dallas scene; then again, on this particular night, it's all Dallas has got. I hate this damn city. I especially hate that when we finally pull into the Fair Park parking lot, almost immediately someone comes on the radio with the following information: "You've still got about 20 minutes to get down to the Bronco Bowl and catch these guys. Tickets are still on sale. Here's Ministry." After much cursing, a stop at a supermarket to get directions, and another harrowing trip through Dallas' psychotic freeway system, we arrive at the Bronco Bowl only to find there's no tickets. Great. All I can say is thank God for Margaret Moser, who could probably talk her way into a skinhead rally wearing a yarmulke. Inside, the first thing that strikes me is that now I know why the tour skipped Austin: Tim O'Connor probably took one look at Al Jourgensen and the Rob Zombie flashbacks were just a little too vivid. Tonight though, Al -- who looked like he was auditioning for the lead in The Gary Oldman Story -- was more interested in indulging himself than the crowd, which meant there were a lot of confused people in the mosh pit during the lengthy mandolin breaks in "Reload" and the harmonica solos in "Filth Pig," and a bunch of angry ones when he closed the show with "Stigmata" and a "fuck you"-laden diatribe against DPS and various other government institutions instead of "Jesus Built My Hotrod." Don't get me wrong. Even without the ding-a-ding-dang-my-dang-a-long-ling-long, Ministry didn't disappoint at all, especially during their earlier "Just One Fix," "N.W.O," and "Thieves." But Jourgensen is trying to graft more and more elements onto his fist-pumping industro-metal, and the more he does, the more uneven it makes his records and live shows. Parts of Friday night's set, "Lava" and "So What," just went on and on, winding up as fractious and convoluted as, well, the city he was playing in. So thanks for the show, Al, and good job, but I think I've had enough of covering the Dallas scene for a while. -- Christopher Gray

Jazz & Heritage Festival, New Orleans, May 4

Inside each of us lies an individual tuning fork. What resonates inside one soul hits a bum note in another. Sometimes, we're not even able to verbalize what it is about a song, show, or album that hits just the right frequency. Take this show for instance; I'm still not sure what happened. I remember being tired of playing cat-and-mouse with Van Morrison (just belt it out already) and the huge main-stage crowd, so I wandered over to the Economy Hall tent to see a fine ol' New Orleans tradition, the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Having had my consciousness bust open at a PHJB show in Golden Gate Park when I was quite young (`whoa, what's this?'), I thought I'd try to recapture some of my golden youth. Sure, great. But as I drew closer to the tent, and saw its isles pulsing with a heavy flow of second-line dancers, suddenly something that Mason Ruffner had said a few weeks earlier came ricocheting back: "There's a place called Preservation Hall down there and these people been playing so long, they're so old, they're walking in with canes. They start playing, and those people start clapping, and you can see these people -- these musicians -- I bet they could throw away their canes, get up, and start walking." Only it wasn't the band acting out a scene from Cocoon. It was the audience -- an audience of seniors who were marching with the saints, their parasols twirling and Mardi Gras beads jumping. Meanwhile, for the better part of an hour, the band nonchalantly pumped out one Dixieland stomper after another, Dr. Michael White's clarinet criss-crossing the ragtime raunch. Banjo player Narvin Kimball, 86, was also a spry soloist, while vocalist Harold Dejan, looking like a 90-year-old Wally from the comic-strip Dilbert, may have had to be propped up at the mike, but his singing stood on its own. The longer I watched, the more a strange feeling built in my chest, until unexplainably tears welled in my eyes. I fought them back, surprised, yet all the while witnessing pure, unfettered joy from little old ladies who looked liked they'd gone AWOL from the nearest bridge game. And when it was over, and sunglasses hid my red eyes, that strange feeling remained -- my internal tuning fork humming to some subconscious tone unbeknownst to me, yet one perfectly in pitch with everyone else in that tent, at that show, on that day. -- Raoul Hernandez

Jazz and Heritage Festival, New Orleans, May 5/ 6

Consistency has never been much of a problem at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival. Regulars don't need a map to find the Lagniappe Tent, the free water, Eddie's crawfish pies, or any of the stages where the music flows over sun-drenched throngs. You pretty much know to avoid the tourists watching the Indigo Girls at the Ray-Ban stage, as well as what kind of show Dr. John, the Nevilles, and Allen Toussaint will put on, and you definitely know the flavor of jazz served up at WWOZ's jazz tent. Many legends have graced that stage over the years, giving fine performances with few surprises. So what are two of the most promising new groups in jazz doing at a festival so steeped in tradition?
"Art is about mystery," Mississippi-born vocalist Cassandra Wilson explained during an earlier interview. And when Wilson and her band appeared on stage, they locked on to a mysterious, organic low groove that didn't let go. Fueled by acoustic guitarist Brandon Ross' mournful and beautiful chords, the band drove hard, embellished with a rhythm section dominated by a huge percussionist who moaned and waved what looked like pieces of a tree over his head, while mandolins and electric guitars fired rock-like bursts. Wilson was an arresting figure among the unlikely bunch, moving slowly and rhythmically, eyes skyward, her right arm jutting out plucking imaginary bass strings, her rich baritone voice weaving the music tight. "A very Southern mood and tone" is how Wilson describes her sound, but whatever it is, this is smart, original, and hypnotic music. Pianoless and hornless, the sextet favored ensemble work over soloing, and when the solos did appear, they were from a wholly unexpected place. Even monitor problems late in the set could do nothing to derail this mesmerizing performance.
Saxophonist James Carter, on the other hand, came out swinging. Tall, young, eager to please, blustery and full of fire, Carter attacked his horn with a vengeance from the opening bell, his talented band dropping out several times as he dug in, sputtering, honking, and firing up the crowd. Coming dangerously close to spilling his amazing bag of tricks on the first tune, Carter and quartet paused for air and immediately took off again, as pianist Craig T'aborn dazzled the crowd with equal aplomb. T'aborn's fingers bit the keys, his dizzying pounding lifting him from his seat at times. And again, the audience roared. Settling in on an extended ballad, Carter switched to soprano, soloing with a quiet intensity, before chaos reigned as he stretched out again for the frenetic finale. Though the set was cut short (Carter was not the headliner that day--amazingly, it was Najee), his show had the effect of running a mile flat out, both heart-pounding and rejuvenating.
Jazz Fest is a crowded and wonderful event, jammed with an incredible variety of people, food, music, and musicians. Old-timers, from the outright corny to the utterly sublime, strut their stuff once a year, local heroes make good, huge gospel armies sing the roof off the place, living legends appear in the flesh. Despite its name, jazz is only one of many attractions offered. Yet here, in the hot, sweltering Louisiana Delta, in the Crescent City, a place so rich in musical heritage, the place where jazz began almost a century ago, were two shining examples of its limitless future potential.
-- Jeff McCord

Split Rail, May 10

This was an ironic evening, not a happy one. First of all, it was supposedly the last night of country music at the Split Rail, as fine a saloon -- purple walls notwithstanding -- as I've ever had the pleasure of patronizing. A far greater shame Friday night, however, was that one of the wittiest, sharpest -- not to mention musically astute -- bands in town was playing and nobody was there to see them. Cigar-chompin' Cornell Hurd could well be the Bennett Cerf of country music: someone who exists solely to carry his genre's conventions well beyond their logical extremes, and then poke hole after hole in them with deadly aplomb. Hurd's subjects are those tried-and-true hallmarks of C&W lyricists -- lovin', leavin', drinkin', cheatin', and never learning -- but the way he does it, his songs are so pregnant with irony you half expect Jack Benny to show up and deliver the lyrical bundle of smirks with nothing more than an impeccably timed "Hmmmm..." Well, Benny never showed (though if you squinted real hard, Hurd did sort of look like George Burns, what with the cigar and all), and precious few did, but it was far from a waste of $3 -- just ask the guy who kept running across the virtually empty dance floor, turning cartwheels and handsprings. The reason for the empty house? Haven't got a clue. Could be it just wasn't "alternative" enough or that Hurd's crack Western Swing band probably won't win any Son Volt sound-alike contests. You say you want alternative, insurgent country? Wake up, people. Sometimes there's nothing more subversive than a wink and a smile. But you didn't notice, because you weren't there.
-- Christopher Gray

Ginger Man Pub, May 12

This plucky blond Houstonian has been making quite the splash with certain prominent music crits around our fair state. After witnessing her set Sunday night, my faith in crits was raised an iota. Murphy is not wanting for pipes. Neither is she lacking in the soul department. Her voice is a whole lot like Janis Joplin's. But unlike the late Sixties queen of soul, Murphy tempers her voice and demeanor with a good dose of country sense and ample folk intelligence. Listening to her is like listening to Joplin on a Dar Williams trip to the land of Lucinda Williams. Murphy is not wanting for pen either. Her well-chosen covers of rock and country classics interspersed throughout the set were a shade paler adjacent to her originals. To go with the band, she has punchy rockers with just the right words and just the right crunch chords in just the right place for maximum impact. Alone with acoustic guitar, she's a teller of stories with weaving plots and vivid images. The highlight of the night was her song about a shoot-out involving her next-door neighbor detective. I felt like I was about to be shot myself. Less than 20 people were on-hand this night, but Austin has the next two Sundays at this venue to get a clue about Trish Murphy.
-- Joe Mitchell