From: Lindsay Berra

To: Bob Lefsetz

Subject: It Ain’t Over Doc

Hi Bob, Lindsay Berra here, Yogi’s granddaughter. A dozen or so friends forwarded me the post you did on Grampa’s documentary today. First, I’m so glad you enjoyed the film, and second, thank you so much for taking the time to write something about it! We made this film independently, and getting folks to the theaters nowadays is a Herculean task, so I so appreciate your kind words about the film and the memories you shared!

Thank you, thank you!

Lindsay B.


From: Bob Lefsetz

To: Lindsay Berra

Subject: Re: It Ain’t Over Doc

I think the film will do great streaming, hard to get the older audience out to the movie theatre, hopefully when it streams there will be another round of publicity.



From: Lindsay Berra

To: Bob Lefsetz

Subject: Re: It Ain’t Over Doc

From you lips to God’s ears! We could not have done more from a press and marketing perspective, but no one goes to the theater any more. As Grampa said, “If people don’t want to come to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?” Just sub “theater” for “ballpark.”


From: Paul Zullo

Subject: Re: The Yogi Berra Movie

A case of Yoo Hoo sustained us for 4 days at Woodstock



Subject: Re: AI

Tell it Bob! An drum machines are an interesting example: Yes, they replaced humans as timekeepers and monotonous dance groove producers, but the fact that they could be programmed by non-drummers led to beats no drummer would have imagined, but later many would mimic. Example: non-drummer programmers’ lack of knowledge led them to replace complicated fills with a bit of silence to delineate song sections. This proved equally, if not more, dramatic and was soon copied by some  live drummers. Also, when early AI was pitted against a player of the immensely complicated Chinese board game of Go, it beat him consistently. But the player learned new moves from his AI opponent and was then able to consistently beat other human opponents.

What I do fear is the way it could amplify the already toxic world of misinformation. In the 90s, when I got my first computer, one of the first emails I received was a piece of misinformation, unmasked by a quick Yahoo check. I thought, “Great. Now that people can check anything on the Internet there will soon be no point in trying to deceive them.” Well, we all know how that worked out.


Like social media, AI will provide a new world of possibilities. Whether that world is a Utopia or a Dystopia is ultimately up to us.

Michael Ross


From: Craig Anderton

Subject: Musicians being replaced by drum machines etc.

When a musician’s union guy was complaining to me that synthesizers were going to put musicians out of work, I said “Who do you think plays synthesizers? Accountants?”



Subject: Ivan Neville


Congratulations on your thrilling conversation with Ivan Neville.


Ivan takes his anointing as seriously as the swamp water that courses through his veins. He can summon the barrelhouse mambo of Professor Longhair and the spidery intricacies of James Booker. He can play spooky, atmospheric chords like Dr. John. He can riff like Sly Stone with catchy, melodic chord progressions. He can throw intense, impulsive jabs when he jams with his blood brothers in Dumpstaphunk. And his new album is tough-minded but also tender — a valiant, vulnerable love letter to the Crescent City.


When the levees failed during Katrina in 2005 and the world’s greatest musicians were scattered to the four winds, and they wondered whether they would ever go home or would want to go home again, I felt helpless to care for the people and the city that I love. Ivan was the first person that I called to celebrate the Old Neighborhood, even if it wasn’t there anymore.


From the diaspora of musical genius, we found Henry Butler, who shares with Ivan the history of Crescent City piano in his fingertips. We found those Sultans of Syncopation, bassist George Porter Jr. and guitarist Leo Nocentelli, founding members of The Meters who know how to keep time in the dark. We found the irrepressible drummer Raymond Weber, who doesn’t need a watch to keep time either. Their lives were in storm-tossed transition; they wondered whether they would ever go home — or would want to go home again. For some it was a test of faith. Others saw it as opportunity to reaffirm their trust in the wisdom of the Universe.


Plopping a plate of paprika-spiked fried chicken on his Hammond organ, Ivan was determined to find a greasy vibe that would bring “Fortunate son,” John Fogerty’s ageless anti-war anthem, down to where it needed to be. Listening back to that Hammond humming, George blurted out,“Wat’cha gonna do with the money?!”  Everyone knew who he was talking to, in Washington and down river in New Orleans.


The healing came slowly, like an unspooling film, in snapshots, one frame at a time. The musicians channeled their rage and fear and frustration, their heartbreak and heartache, their defiance and devotion; over seven sleepless days, ”Sing Me Back Home” by the New Orleans Social Club was born. “Catharsis never sounded cooler,” as Entertainment Weekly said.


On a crystalline day before Jazzfest this year, Ivan made me a pot of gumbo. The family recipe is closely held; it requires a lot of attention; there are lots of details. “You gotta love the process,” he said, swaggering in front of his stove with the kinetic strut that he brings to the bandstand.


Aromatic, robust flavors wafted through his festive kitchen which was bathed in purple and gold. The ingredients — generously cut pieces of onion, bell pepper, garlic, celery, three different kinds of sausage, six chicken thighs and three chicken breasts, lump crab meat and shrimp — simmered and cackled in a well-worn pot. But he became a drill sergeant when he made the roux.


First, he blended vegetable oil, bacon fat and flour together; then, with a strong, tattooed arm, he stirred the mixture, slowly and continuously, into figure 8s with a wooden spoon. For the next 25 minutes, the colors changed from a light blond to a beige, similar to the color of peanut butter, until the roux became a deep, chocolate brown.


“Nutty, smoky, a little bit of a kick,” he said, blowing on a spoonful, satisfied and smiling. “Reminds me of how my Uncle Art describes it: ‘Tastes like them old people.”


The flavors, Ivan said, are not unlike his new album. “I compare them both to the love you get from a good bowl of chicken soup,” he said. “Very soothing for the soul.”


Our friendship has deepened through the years and we’re at work on his memoir. It chronicles his complicated emotional and spiritual journey as an artist, a father, a son and a man. His trials and triumphs are seen through a precious lens: the cherished gift of recovery.


Leo Sacks
Sunnyside, NY


Subject: Re: Jewish Matchmaking

So I too am watching the show and the only thing that jumped out at me was that snowboarding dude in Wyoming of all places, who said one of his requirements was someone who liked music and then he admitted that he was a Phish fan and it’d be cool if she liked Phish but obviously that’s a hard ask. That other tribe is even smaller. Then I got to thinking about how cool would be if there was a Phish matchmaking show. That one I would watch.

Leilani Polk in Seattle 


Subject: Re: Jewish Matchmaking

My roommate, Evan Carmusin, was on this show dating Nakysha (final episode).

Evan returned home to North Carolina basking in the glow of newfound love (not to mention tasting the allure of showbiz), and rode the high for about… a week… til Natasha laid it on the line.

She needed a man who could PROVIDE… financially that is.

Evan is a wedding DJ and grocery store manager, who struggles to pay rent most months. She wanted a man who could foot the bill for her and an eventual family… entirely.

Evan has a huge heart, and I found it sad to watch her break it off for a reason as such.

You are right that it’s the little things that count… and I think Evan dodged a big bullet getting out of that one.

– James Davy

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