It’s been said that the only constant in life is change. And as they are want to do, the seasons have finally changed. What was an unusually long winter has finally blossomed into spring. Ah, spring in New Orleans: crawfish, strawberries, Jazzfest, sunshine. Yeah, screw that. Right now, all spring feels like to me is death. Due to the explosion of pollen flooding the thickening air of the city, I am now mostly just a corpse, propped up Weekend At Bernie’s-style by a dubious cocktail of Mucinex, Sudafed, Allegra and pho. I hope to shake free from the grasp of this upper respiratory demon in time to marvel at the bespectacled hordes of old people from Minnesota and Delaware who will descend on the city to righteously unfold their camp chairs and bark at trespassers from underneath wide-brimmed straw hats as they celebrate those artists who honor the beloved jazz tradition of New Orleans—you know, like Christina Aguilera and Phish.
I’m no festival-hater, so don’t get me wrong; the spring brings with it a lot of great live music that won’t cost you ¾ of your limbs, so definitely check some of that out. If you’re a Jazzfester though, don’t miss local favorites Rotary Downs and Hurray for the Riff Raff at the Fairgrounds. The themes of growth of change pop up all throughout this issue. Jenn Attaway takes us on a trippy journey into the mind of 77-year-old surf legend Dick Dale, who has plenty of yarns to weave about his storied career, while Fat Stupid Ugly People and Rotary Downs both look towards new sonic directions. Mistress Anthropy shoots straight about the wonky eclipses that will cause dramatic events for some signs this month, and Sara Pic dives into a new organization dedicated to fostering creative expression in New Orleans’ queer youth. And as always, we have a great selection of album and book reviews and homegrown comics to excite your eyeballs and earholes. I like to think that AG is growing and changing with every issue, so take that as your cue to do the same. Seasons will come and go with all their trite cliches. What remains is the meat of it.
