Meanwhile, James Folta is getting joy from a very dumb, in the most complimentary sense of the phrase, project: Ted Travelstead’s Vlog. In a digital ecosystem saturated with hyper-polished lifestyle content and aggressively monetized personal brands, the discovery of something genuinely raw and unpretentious feels like finding an oasis in the desert. "The less I say about this series before you watch it the better," says our staffer, highlighting the mysterious charm of the project. But writer and actor Ted Travelstead made something that is so perfectly silly and simple. Please take 15 seconds out of your day to judge for yourself, Folta urges, inviting readers to step outside the frantic pace of the modern internet and indulge in a micro-dose of unadulterated comedic absurdity that refuses to explain itself or pander to algorithmic trends.
Both Drew Broussard and Jonny Diamond have apples on the brain and in the basket, signaling a collective cultural shift toward the sensory comforts of the harvest season. This week, our podcasts editor made a startling and delightful discovery on his property, uncovering two big old apple trees that, in a miraculous display of horticultural resilience, have decided to fruit this year after at least five years of NOT fruiting. For half a decade, the trees stood dormant, providing leafy shade but nothing in the way of edible bounty, leading residents to believe their agricultural chapter was closed. Instead, nature intervened, sparking an impromptu celebration of autumn sweaters, assemble energy as the household prepares to reap a harvest they had long since abandoned hope of ever seeing.
And our editor is living in a cider house—and it does, in fact, rule. The sudden abundance of backyard fruit has transformed domestic life into a rustic seasonal enterprise. A friend of mine gave me a small cider press and then all of a sudden our apple tree exploded in big red apples, says Jonny, detailing the kind of serendipitous domestic chain reaction that defines the transition into October. I guess we’re making cider in October, he adds, perfectly capturing the spirit of spontaneous autumnal homemaking that turns ordinary weekends into rustic projects involving hand-cranked machinery, sticky kitchen counters, and the unmistakable aroma of pressed fruit.
I, Brittany Allen, have meanwhile been bracing for a stacked fall concert season, diving headfirst into the rich tapestry of live performance that characterizes autumn in the New York metropolitan area. This weekend, I kicked off a full dance card in Jersey City, where I got to see some of Hudson County’s finest musicians recreate The Last Waltz at the extremely lovely, if scarily named, White Eagle Hall. Live music has a unique way of anchoring us in the present while simultaneously invoking the ghosts of cultural history, and this particular venue provided the ideal atmospheric backdrop for a communal celebration of classic rock heritage.
For twelve years, it seems a small army of gifted fans have been coming together to play The Band’s 1976 farewell concert in its entirety, and almost to a set list tee. This remarkable tradition demonstrates the enduring power of Martin Scorsese’s legendary documentary and the timeless appeal of the roots-rock canon. Most homages—including appearances from "Bob Dylan," "Van the Man," and "Joni Mitchell"—were delightfully faithful, capturing the acoustic warmth, soaring harmonies, and collaborative spirit of the original Winterland Ballroom performance. But the dissonant bits were fascinating, too, adding an element of unpredictable local flavor to the proceedings. This Muddy was much paler, for one thing, offering a striking visual contrast to the iconic bluesman, and Jersey City’s spin on Robbie Robertson would also have been at home in a Van Halen tribute act, bringing a shred-heavy rock-and-roll swagger that playfully subverted the polite Americana of the source material.
Anyway—time is a flat circle, and nostalgia is a helluva drug. The phenomenon of tribute culture allows contemporary audiences to project their own desires onto historical artifacts, creating a living bridge across generational divides. And what surreal fun to trance back into an experience I missed the first time, because I was not yet born! Wishing you a weekend of autumn pleasures, eased weights, and apples. So many apples.
