Angry? He’ll Tell the World, and From His Front Window

Appeared in The New York Times and on the paper's City Room blog. Photo by Eric Bishop.

Robert Keith doesn’t tweet. He doesn’t blog. He doesn’t post comments on Web articles.

Instead, Mr. Keith, 75, states his opinions to the world by way of a distinctly lo-fi medium: the window poster. Every couple of weeks, he props two professionally made signs in his first-floor windows, usually to express his populist outrage at the controversy of the day. Subjects of his contempt have included credit default swaps, auto bailouts and even capitalism itself.

“I’m trying to puncture some of these conventional wisdoms out there,” Mr. Keith said in an interview, gesturing to the street outside his home in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. “I’m a gadfly, really.”

Full article at NYTimes.com

The Sonia Sotomayor Case File: A Pundit’s Primer

Appears on Esquire.com.

It’s time to play Fill That Supreme Court Seat, and cable TV’s “Democratic insiders” and “GOP strategists” are already blabbing and bloviating about Obama’s pick, Judge Sonia Sotomayor. To help the pundits (but, ultimately, the bloggers, and maybe even, you know, the senators confirming her — or at least you, dear reader) wade through the legalese, we’ve assembled a microcosmic dossier of Sotomayor decisions, complete with over-the-top talking points for both sides of the aisle...

Full article at Esquire.com

Jazz Loft Project Digs Up Photographer's Musical Buried Treasures

Appeared in the April 2008 edition of DownBeat, an internationally circulated jazz magazine; photo by W. Eugene Smith, courtesy of the Center for Creative Photography, University of Arizona.

After a few listens, Thelonious Monk determined exactly what he wanted. It was 1959, and he and arranger Hall Overton were sitting in a dingy Manhattan loft, spinning his trio’s recording of “Little Rootie Tootie” and trying to orchestrate the number for tentet.

Monk’s revelation: “Let the band play the whole thing—the whole thing like it is,” he said. “Where harmony is, you put harmony.” His spur-of-the-moment idea—the ambitious, full-band transcription of the whole tune, frenetic solo included—would become the centerpiece of his historic Town Hall performance and Riverside recording.

Most such moments of spontaneous creative conception fade quietly into annals of time. But this moment, along with more than 3,000 hours of rehearsals, jam sessions and mundane urban existence, was captured on tape by photographer W. Eugene Smith.

Smith had holed himself up in the loft with a group of artists and musicians following a nervous breakdown. With the building’s four pianos attracting a steady flow of players, he lined the place with microphones and took nearly 40,000 photographs between 1957 and 1965, essentially turning the loft into an audiovisual study of post-war underground music making.

“I think it is the largest collection of recorded material this major anywhere in the country,” said Robin Kelley, a professor of American studies and ethnicity at University of Southern California. “It’s a lifetime’s worth of work.”

The building became a jazz nerve center. Overton invited over musicians like Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Bill Evans and Paul Bley, who led late-night jam sessions. Smith hovered in the background, snapping photos and letting the tape roll.

“The guy would hug you twice, take your picture and leave you alone,” Bley said in an interview. “The taping was a covert operation.”

Smith’s 1,740 reels of tape went unheard for many years. Following his death in 1978, they were brought to the Center for Creative Photography at the University of Arizona. Sam Stephenson, a research associate at Duke University’s Center for Documentary Studies, stumbled upon the tapes in 1998 while researching a book on Smith.

“In the photography world, the official view of Smith at this point was that he had lost his mind,” he said. “So nobody thought there was anything worthwhile on these tapes.”

After securing grants to preserve the reels and transfer their contents to CD, Stephenson began to sift through the audio gold mine. The Jazz Loft Project was born.

Listening to the tapes is like taking a sonic tour through mid-century jazz and the lives of those who played it. You hear Monk and Overton readying the tentet for Town Hall. You hear Zoot Sims egging on his compatriots to blow through one more tune. But you also hear brilliant passages from unknowns like Eddie Listengart, whose burning saxophone solos would have garnered wide recognition were it not for his severe schizophrenia.

Drummer Ronnie Free is another such forgotten son of the loft scene.

“It was such a fantasy world in some respects,” he said. “You’d be popping pills, smoking pot and drinking booze, and you never knew who was going to show up.” Free lived in the building and served as its de facto house drummer, only to disappear into relative obscurity after battling drug addiction.

Stephenson and colleague Dan Partridge, who have listened to and cataloged more than 1,500 hours of tape so far, light up when talking about Free and the other underground musicians who now have a documented place in jazz history. They’re also quick to point out the major historical revelations of the tapes—that Monk was much more involved in his Town Hall arrangements than previously believed or that Overton’s enormous influence on both jazz and classical music (acclaimed minimalist composer Steve Reich was among his students) has been understated among critics.

The researchers have interviewed more than 400 musicians, artists and others who passed through the building. In many cases, they play the tapes for their interviewees, who help discern their contents and recount battle stories—uncovering the layers of contextual tapestry that surround the music.

Much of that tapestry appears on the tapes. Smith recorded television footage of Martin Luther King, Jr. announcing his Selma, Ala., march and Walter Cronkite discussing Kennedy’s assassination. He also taped thousands of hours of conversations, late-night radio shows and even such banalities as cats meowing and drills buzzing.

As documentarians, Partridge and Stephenson take a particular interest in this non-jazz material, noting that jazz historians will have a chance to dissect and study the music once it’s available in a public archive. The project will also culminate in 2009-’10 with a book, traveling exhibition and WNYC radio series.

“The non-jazz stuff makes the jazz even more valuable,” Stephenson said. “When you release the jazz history angle from this story, the characters become not just jazz musicians, but really deep, complicated characters that could’ve been in a Eugene O’Neill or Tennessee Williams play. It just so happens they play great music.”

Around the Clock Battle: North Texas Celebrates 60 Years as an Elite Jazz Program

Appeared in the October 2007 edition of DownBeat, an internationally circulated jazz magazine; photo by Craig Marshall.

Students at the University of North Texas don't exactly walk around campus wearing 60 years of jazz studies tradition on their sleeves.

But with the largest degree program in the nation, a faculty packed with Stan Kenton Orchestra alums and an impressive list of North Texas graduates—including Lyle Mays, Lou Marini and Bob Belden—the world's first jazz degree program remains one of the standard-bearers for excellence in jazz education.

Denton, Texas' reign as the unlikely jazz capital of the South sprouted from enthusiastic but frustrating beginnings. Its early champion was Gene Hall. The young pianist wanted to develop his big band chops during the '30s, but found no college degree program in which to do so. Conventional wisdom at the time said that the professional bandstand, rather than the classroom, was the place to hone his skills.

"He considered it a deficiency in the American educational system," said Bill Collins Jr., who played with the late Hall in several dance bands. When Hall entered graduate school in 1942 at what was then called North Texas State College, he began a thesis: "The Development of a Curriculum for the Teaching of Dance Music at a College Level." In 1947, after a bit of wrangling with the administration, that thesis turned into a full-fledged dance-band degree program.

He built the curriculum around arranging courses for students, with lab bands in which they would play their arrangements and sharpen their technique. (At that time, the Two O'Clock Lab Band, named for its daily meeting time, was the top ensemble.) North Texas music faculty carped that jazz wasn't worthy of academic study, and that it would bring dope-smoking hoodlums to the campus. They stuck Hall and his band in the basement of a run-down building.

By 1959, despite winning awards and garnering widespread attention for his program, Hall had grown weary of the negative vibes from the faculty and administration. "He always made the comment that, 'You're not a hero in your own hometown,'" Collins said.

After Hall announced he was leaving North Texas, he tried to dissuade his friend Leon Breeden—whom he had recommended as his successor—from taking the job, listing the numerous obstacles Breeden would face.

Unfazed, Breeden took over, and immediately catapulted the program into national prominence with victories at the 1960 and 1961 Notre Dame College Jazz Festivals. North Texas' premier big band (renamed as the One O'Clock Lab Band) soon became a breeding ground for Kenton and Woody Herman's bands. The One O'Clock even played alongside Stan Getz and Duke Ellington at the White House in 1967.

Breeden's former students credit a two-pronged formula for the program's success: a respected leader who demanded the best, and dedicated students who brought out the best in each other.

"All through the years [Breeden] was there, due to his building on the program, better and more students came who had that talent," said trumpeter Marvin Stamm, who graduated from North Texas in 1961 and played with Kenton. "It was a cycle that fed on itself."

Despite continued battles with uncooperative administrators throughout the '60s and '70s, the experiment in "dance band" education at North Texas had proven indomitable. And the movement spread. "Other educational institutions would look at this and say, 'Wow, maybe we can do that,'" said Neil Slater, the current chairman of the jazz studies division. By 1970, 10 colleges offered jazz degrees.

Slater, after taking over the program in 1982, has maintained its elite status in part by letting his talented faculty members carve their own paths. "Neil gives us free reign to do with our students what we think is going to be the best thing for them," said Jay Saunders, a jazz studies instructor who also attended North Texas. This results in a diverse department with a reputation for solid bands, versatile alums and highly motivated students.

"You get there as a freshman, and you're just surrounded by badasses," said senior Andy Rogers, a bassist. Such high expectations can make studying there intimidating—Slater likens the rigorous biannual auditions and high-pressure juries to "jazz boot camp." Students who are in over their heads are often encouraged to consider a new major.

Most North Texas students, though, see the intense environment as a good thing, emphasizing the sense of friendly competition among students. "You let that competitive attitude drive you," said Dave Richards, a third-year master's student who played trumpet in the One O'Clock last semester. "If you slip, there's somebody right behind you who will take your spot."

That's the idea, say faculty—give young musicians a sense of the environment they'll face as professionals. If students can't make their lab band rehearsals, for example, they're required to find subs.

Preparing players for the uncertain world of jazz also means instilling in them the flexibility to play the Village Vanguard one night and a Broadway show the next, Saunders said. "If you want to optimize your position as a professional musician, you should be able to do both," he said. "And then go out and play in a rock band the next night."

Faculty don't see that philosophy at odds with the school's emphasis on lab bands, a subject on which North Texas is sometimes criticized. Although opportunities to make a living playing big band music aren't nearly as ubiquitous as they once were, professors say the lab band system trains players to work well with other musicians, to have patience and discipline, and to develop big ears.

Saunders calls these essential skills for young players, especially when they're just starting out. "You've got to be able to be adaptable, and you want the leader to like and want to hire you again, whatever the gig is," he said.

But make no mistake about it—North Texas isn't a factory that churns out uncreative session players, said John Murphy, a professor in the jazz studies division. With dozens of small groups inside and outsideof the curriculum, the program's students have plenty of opportunity to collaborate and pursue their own musical voices.

And though they're not New York, Denton and nearby Dallas give students the chance to showcase their groups to the public. With a steady flow of guest artists visiting from out of town, the jazz studies division is "large enough to kind of constitute its own scene," Murphy said.

Combine that with the world music, orchestral and other offerings from one of the largest music schools in the country, and students enjoy a diversity of opportunities that smaller schools can't offer. "If they want to get involved in 19th-century Romantic piano music, trying to see where Brad Mehldau is coming from somewhat by studying that music, they can do that on a high level if they're prepared to," Murphy said. "If they want to play in the gamelan, if they want to play African ensemble, Indian ensemble, Afro-Cuban ensemble—we have all those resources."

Although the jazz studies curriculum features progressive elements—guitar ensembles, electronic music—it remains rooted in the traditions Hall started in 1947. Lab bands still constitute the department's backbone, and students still compose and arrange for the bands in which they play. Top leaders still recruit players from the program's pool of talent. (Before trumpeter Maynard Ferguson died in 2006, he made a point of hiring North Texas grads whenever he had a vacancy in his band.)

Interestingly, the lab band rehearsal space is located in a new building on the site of the same dingy spot where Hall rehearsed his bands in the '40s and '50s. The coincidence makes Professor of Jazz Studies Jim Riggs chuckle. "It's almost like the vibes were just real good at that place," he said.

Audio Slideshow: Ramon Zepeda

Produced for Nuestras Historias, Nuestros Sueños/Our Stories, Our Dreams, an exhibition at the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University (CDS); photos, audio and editing by Eric Bishop and Kathy Stanton.

View the presentation

How to Make a Movie in 24 Hours: Fledgling Directors Take Center Stage at Duke's First Ever Movie Making Marathon

Appeared in the May 2007 edition of Towerview, Duke University's independent perspectives magazine; photos by Eric Bishop.

It's Saturday morning, and Sean Canino is stressed out. He's standing in the Marketplace lobby with a camera jib, and although his day of filmmaking has run smoothly so far, he's beginning to hit some rough spots. He's having trouble getting the right camera angles. He's getting irritated by freshman passers-by interfering with his shots. And he's frantically trying to direct his cast of characters over the clanking of dishes and the incessant beeping of DukeCards swiping in for brunch.

"Let them go in front of you, just let everybody in line go in front of you," he spatters, and the curious onlookers filter past his sunglasses-clad actors, one of whom is dressed in a giant banana suit. The looks on the freshman faces say it all: What the hell is going on?

What's going on is the Movie Making Marathon, a filmmaking extravaganza in which teams of students have only 24 hours to shoot and edit short movies. Sponsored by the Film/Video/Digital program and other University departments, the event kicked off in October with a campus-wide screenwriting competition. Five screenplays were selected for the event from a pool of 26, and marathon coordinators randomly assigned a script to each of the 10 participating groups a day before the big event. From there--jacked up on caffeine, adrenaline and whatever else it took to cram production that usually takes weeks into 24 short hours--it was up to the teams to sweat out their eight-minute masterpieces.

As Canino puts it, "Marathon is really a misnomer. It's not a marathon at all--it's a sprint."


It's 7 a.m. and dozens of bleary-eyed students are making their way to the Bryan Center to pick up cameras, mics, tripods and other filmmaking gear. Most of these people can count on one hand the number of times they've woken up this early on a Saturday at Duke. Still, MMM co-producers Annie Fleishman and Shannon Rowbury--who woke up at 5:15 a.m. to prep the equipment for their arrival--are surprised to see most students trickling in a few minutes after the official start of the marathon instead of coming early to get a jump on the competition.

"I would have tented for this," Fleishman says.

Of all the 70-odd students involved in the marathon, Fleishman is probably the most excited. The junior, a filmmaker in her own right, conceived of the event last year as a way to bolster filmmaking at Duke. Freshmen had the Froshlife iMovie Festival, but there had been no such opportunity for upperclassmen. The goal with the MMM, she says, was to create an event in which any random chem major who had a cursory interest in film could participate. And that meant teams would be assigned randomly, with each headed by a more experienced filmmaker-a student enrolled in a film course taught by Teaching Fellow and event co-producer Elisabeth Benfey.

Canino's team certainly seems random--he's got novices who have never seen this side of a video camera, a few Froshlife veterans and even a senior who studied filmmaking at the hand of the man who wrote, directed and produced Aladdin and Hercules-his father. That last one is Jackson Musker, who is slated as an actor in the group's film. His only acting experience before this was "about 15 seconds in Froshlife," an experience the senior describes as "painful."

In fact, none of the actors in the team's movie are actually "actors." But Canino only had a day to cast after he got his screenplay, and when you're making a movie and you're short on time, you improvise. You begin shooting in the Marketplace before you technically have permission to do so. You enlist Marketplace employees for supporting roles. You sneak $44 worth of candy corn into the Marketplace for a scene, even though doing so may be a violation of the health code. (You're not really sure.) Then you placate the Marketplace manager who's been eyeing you suspiciously during your shoot by fulfilling his request for a cup of said candy corn.

And somewhere in between, Hollywood producer Bill Teitler--whose credits include Mr. Holland's Opus and Jumangi--stops by the set. He's in town to judge the films at the premiere Sunday after it's all over.

"You guys are experiencing one of the basic facts of film production-not enough time and being really tired," he tells the team. But does he ever have just 24 hours to make an entire movie? "Frequently whether you have half an hour to get something done or two hours or twelve hours, time is always ticking. It's always a factor."

Teitler visits the groups in the Smith Warehouse editing room later that night. Wtih less than eight hours to go, the students are so focused on their work that they barely seem to notice him. Headphones are on, eyes are glued to screens--it's time to push. Teitler is impressed with the intensity in the room, especially at this late hour. "It felt like a countdown to a NASA blastoff," he later said.


1:30 a.m. and Canino is growing anxious. He's pacing around the room, fidgeting nervously as the other members of his crew take over editing duties. He's by far the most experienced film editor, but fatigue is setting in--he's at the point when another Red Bull doesn't seem to have quite the rousing effect it once did. (Remember, the groups woke up for a 7 a.m. kickoff yesterday.) So he's putting the fate of his baby into the hands of others while he takes a break.

In the ensuing hours he'll rejoin the group at the editing desk. They're running on fumes, but they're catching their second wind-weariness is morphing into that wonderful sort of giddiness that only sleep deprivation can muster. "Out of all the groups, we laughed the most while editing our movie," Canino later said. And after all the laughter, the petty arguments about technical details and the hours of staring at a single computer screen, they turn in their eight-minute masterpiece. They are the last group to finish.


Sunday's bright, sunny skies are lost on about 200 people, all of whom are spending the afternoon inside the dimly lit Griffith Theater in the Bryan Center for the awards ceremony and screening of the movies. The majority of them slept less than five hours the previous morning. Needless to say, yawns are rampant among this crowd. Still, there's a certain excitement pervading the room, a certain feeling of road-worn accomplishment. Just 24 hours ago, they had nothing. And while the films are far from perfect, they are certainly impressive given the time constraint.

"Limitations frequently produce the best work," Teitler says after the screening. "They had a limited amount of time, a certain amount of ingredients, and you say 'OK, make it happen.' And all 10 groups did a phenomenal job. Any one of the 10 was easily as good as I thought the best was going to be."

Available online here

Old Wal-Marts Linger Empty

Appeared on the front page of the Sept. 18, 2006, edition of The News & Observer, the 180,000-circulation daily newspaper for Raleigh, N.C.; photo by Harry Lynch.

HILLSBOROUGH - The massive building sits abandoned behind hundreds of empty parking spaces at the Hillsborough Commons shopping center.

Once bustling with shoppers, the former Wal-Mart just off South Churton Street has been quiet since the retail giant replaced it in 2003 with a Wal-Mart Supercenter three times its size a few miles up Interstate 85.

"The day they left, it was like a tomb over there," said Mark Bateman, who owned a video store a few doors down and saw his and other merchants' sales suffer without Wal-Mart pulling shoppers in.

Empty Wal-Mart buildings plague communities across the nation. At any given time, about 350 former Wal-Marts lie vacant in America, according to Al Norman of Sprawl-Busters, an organization that opposes big-box stores. At least nine empty former Wal-Mart spaces -- the equivalent of 12 football fields in size -- occupied North Carolina as of February, Norman said.

In Knightdale, plans are under way to close a Wal-Mart and build a supercenter a mile away. The retailer, however, hasn't found a new occupant for the existing building, which it owns. Wal-Mart is planning to market the space, said spokesman Kevin Thornton.

Supercenters -- which include full-service groceries and are about twice the size of Wal-Mart's discount stores -- help meet customers' one-stop shopping needs, Thornton said from the company's Arkansas headquarters.

They also make Wal-Mart more money, said James F. Smith, professor of finance at UNC-Chapel Hill.

"It's way more profitable, a way more efficient use of space," he said.

As of July, Wal-Mart had 81 supercenters in North Carolina, and only 34 discount stores.

The retailer's shift to massive supercenters, though, means more empty Wal-Marts in towns such as Hillsborough.

"It's just a giant hole in the community that can last for years," said Julia Christensen, a former university lecturer now writing a book on how communities reuse empty big box stores.

Christensen said the buildings' sheer size -- ranging from 60,000 to 200,000 square feet -- makes them tough to fill, especially when Wal-Mart or another big-box retailer restricts how its former sites can be used to avoid competition.

Despite the challenges, the infrastructure and locations of many empty big-box stores can be attractive for prospective businesses, Christensen said. Many of them are reused, living on as flea markets, churches or even schools.

Part of the Wal-Mart building in Hillsborough was converted in 2004 into a 10,000-square-foot Dollar Tree. Most of the space, though, remains vacant.

Hillsborough officials say they'd like to see their old Wal-Mart building become an entertainment spot.

"It'd be a perfect place for a bowling alley or a skating rink," said Margaret Wood Cannell, executive director of the Hillsborough Area Chamber of Commerce. "But so far, nothing."

The future of the empty space remains a mystery for its neighbors.

"I don't know what the holdup is," said Eric Rodgers, 46, an optometrist with an office at Hillsborough Commons. "I think it's too good a spot in the middle of a town that's growing to stay empty."

Several businesses have expressed interest, community leaders said, but none has been able to work out a deal with the companies that have managed the property, The Shopping Center Group and before that Florida-based Tricor International.

Former Hillsborough Mayor Joe Phelps said Tricor CEO Marc Hagle told him in 2004 that he wanted to market the property to national companies. Hagle -- who is also CEO of the property owner, Hillsborough Commons L.P. -- did not return multiple phone calls.

"It's very hard to get ahold of the rental company," Cannell said. "It does not appear that re-leasing the old Wal-Mart space is a priority for The Shopping Center Group."

Representatives from The Shopping Center Group said they respond to all inquiries but haven't found the right tenant.

That tenant can't be a department store or wholesale store, according to restrictions Wal-Mart imposed when it bought out its lease, which ran until 2009, said Thornton.

And with redevelopment in the works for nearby Daniel Boone Village and the soon-to-come Waterstone project between I-85 and I-40, prospective tenants may soon have some new, more exciting options.

Meanwhile, the Hillsborough Commons shopping center remains adrift. "Wal-Mart was the anchor," said Robin Taylor-Hall, president of the Hillsborough Area Chamber of Commerce. "When the anchor closes, it affects all the other stores."

Bateman sold his video store soon after Wal-Mart closed.

The new owner closed for good in May, and two more stores have closed. Just eight of the 15 retail spaces are occupied.

Losing Wal-Mart, Bateman said, left "just a dead feeling in that shopping center."

Available online here

Jazz Takes it from the Top

Appeared in the March 30, 2006, edition of Recess, the weekly arts and entertainment section of Duke University's independent daily newspaper, The Chronicle.

NEW ORLEANS--Step away from the strip clubs and tarot card readers of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, drive down a seemingly endless stretch of sleepy neighborhoods and you'll find one of the true gems of the New Orleans jazz scene--Vaughan's Lounge.

Vaughan's is the place to be on a Thursday night. That's when legendary trumpeter Kermit Ruffins brings his soulful, gritty jazz to the tiny Bywater club, packing it with scores of locals ready to get up and move their feet.

The atmosphere at Vaughan's is joyous. The people here come from all walks of life--bikers mingle with businessmen, truck drivers flirt with sorority girls--but everyone is dancing. One audience member smacks a tambourine. Another taps his beer bottle with a spoon. Outside, music and people pour out onto the streets, so even those who can't pay the $10 cover can join the party.

After a night at Vaughan's, it's hard to believe that only seven months ago this city was in shambles from the destruction wrought by Hurricane Katrina. But even though the recovery process has been slow, locals insist that the jazz is back in New Orleans.

"When we first reopened at the beginning of October, it was just the neighborhood people who were straggling back," said Janet Kenkel, a longtime bartender at Vaughan's. "Now pretty much everyone is back."

Vaughan's itself was spared the worst of Katrina's devastation--the building came away with only minor flooding. But just a few miles away, in the Lower Ninth Ward, there is still destruction as far as the eye can see. Houses sit twisted off their foundations, collapsed roofs lie in heaping piles of debris and rusty abandoned cars litter the streets.

Despite the physical destruction, the scene at Vaughan's ensures that at least the sounds of the city remain intact.


Jazz has always been a vital part of the cultural gumbo that is New Orleans. The city, which is often dubbed the birthplace of jazz, has long stood at the epicenter of musical vitality in the Deep South.

In the early 1900s, its black Creole subculture, combined with a heavy dose of Gospel church music, gave rise to ragtime, blues and Dixieland. The intermixing of these musical elements led to an explosion in the popularity of big band jazz music in the 1930s. Since then, jazz has remained a vital part of New Orleans culture.

"The recovery of this music scene is absolutely essential to revitalizing the spirit of New Orleans," said Bill Taylor, director of Tipitina's Foundation, an organization that provides relief to the city's musicians and is housed out of a jazz club of the same name. "You can't separate music from life in New Orleans."

In the immediate aftermath of the storm, this connection manifested in a new way.

"Tipitina's was a base camp for rescuing people after the storm," said Erin Hoyer, a Tipitina's employee.

The club's Uptown location was spared from flooding, allowing it to contribute to the relief effort.

"Employees went around in a canoe and saved people's lives," Taylor said. They even delivered a baby inside the club.

Through the foundation, the club remains an important source of assistance for musicians in New Orleans. Tipitina's offers replacement instruments, free legal and accounting seminars and a Music Co-op Office for musicians to use during the day. So far, the Tipitina's Foundation has given away more than $500,000 worth of new instruments and 240 musicians have used the co-op office.

The foundation has also tried to find ways to allow as many musicians as possible to return to New Orleans.

"Finding housing for musicians who have lost their homes has been the biggest challenge in rebuilding the music scene," Taylor said.

Although the jazz scene is steadily improving, Hoyer said there is still more work to be done.

"A lot of bands are still scared to come down here," she said, explaining that musicians may mistakenly think that clubs have yet to reopen their doors.

Some clubs, like Preservation Hall, remain closed. The world famous French Quarter venue that has been a staple in the New Orleans jazz scene for generations does not plan to reopen until April 28.

And there still aren't as many people coming out to see the shows, said Kutlay Guc, a New Orleans resident and a regular at Vaughan's. The real question, he said, is when the scene will return to the way it was pre-Katrina.

Willie Washington, Jr., a New Orleans-based musician who relocated to Memphis after the hurricane hit, said he's not as worried about the clubs as he is about the street traditions that used to take place in areas destroyed by Katrina.

"Underneath the interstate--where the black community used to celebrate Mardi Gras with big celebrations that usually had four stages of music--there are piles of abandoned cars," Washington said. Ten-mile jazz parades, called "second-lines," used to frequently go through the Ninth Ward, in an area that is now almost completely uninhabited.

Whether such traditions return will depend on the city's plan for rebuilding the neighborhoods, but signs of revitalization are surfacing.

Second-lines have been popping up here and there in the Ninth Ward, and brass bands circle the French Quarter almost every night. "People are dying to hear music in New Orleans right now," Taylor said.

Available online here