Keeping the Beat on the Street (19 page)

It was obvious that they were rehearsing like crazy. Just a few months later, they started to perform once a week at a club called Daryl's. It's down in the Seventh Ward, on Tonti Street, between Conti and Rocheblave
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I'll never forget the first time I walked in there. I could barely get in—it was only a small black-owned barroom in a poor neighborhood. I mean, the place was just exploding. The band had been practicing, and they had figured out what they were going to do. The people were so exuberant—the floor was covered with people, rolling on the floor! I was afraid to step on them. And there were at least six men in their sixties and seventies dancing on top of the bar. This is what the Fairview band and the Hurricane Brass Band had been leading up to—the Dirty Dozen had renewed this music to speak to the contemporary New Orleans community. The people were going wild. Going to Daryl's became the weekly ritual
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At Daryl's on Thursday night, it was just an explosion of spirit. They would serve red beans. There was not one person who was not dancing. Everybody was moving—the music was moving them. The more the people moved, it moved the music even more. People were taking their clothes off—the place was crammed, it was so hot (there was no air conditioning), they were sweating. In between sets, everybody would pile outside, just to cool off before going back for the next set. The Dozen was a complete show—there was no break from one song to the next. They'd play three hour-long sets, and if they felt good, maybe longer. Each set was like a complete symphony—that was something new
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I interviewed Gregory Davis in the mid-eighties and asked him to explain what did the Dozen do that's different. They stepped outside the traditional boundaries. The first song they did that the old guys criticized them for was “Night Train.” They were willing to bring in material that meant something to their own lives and experience. In many ways, it's no different than what had happened before: brass bands in New Orleans have always adapted the music that was popular in their time. In that sense, they were part of that same tradition
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Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Jackson Square, 1986 (Kirk Joseph, Efrem Towns, Lionel Batiste Jr., Gregory Davis, Jennell Marshall, Roger Lewis)
Photo by Marcel Joly

There were other people who contributed to that. Tuba Fats had recorded “Mardi Gras in New Orleans” with the Olympia Brass Band; Leroy Jones, “Leroy's Special” with the Hurricane Brass Band; they were all leading in this direction, you could feel that
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The Dirty Dozen brought that tendency to fruition, and they dedicated themselves to it, more than any body else had previously. They rehearsed and Frog Joseph had a big influence on them—they rehearsed in his backyard, and he would mentor them and their sound as a brass band. He wasn't against them taking the music in new directions, but it was like, “If you're going to do it, do it right.” He influenced them in that way—correct harmony, counterpoint, rhythmic interest, that kind of thing. It helped them create a big sound, big chords
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People didn't pay attention to what was going on back then. Whenever I recorded the Dozen, I couldn't pay them, but they were just thrilled that anybody was taking any notice of them, especially someone who was connected with the music business. One of my contributions to brass bands was to make them understand, early on, the importance of having your business together. I did the first press kit for the Dirty Dozen and helped them to present themselves professionally. We produced a calendar for them, and I arranged a concert for them, which was the first time they had played in a white club, Tipitina's. That introduced them to a whole new audience—that was in 1982. They hadn't made any official recordings by that time
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They emerged from this deeply rooted community tradition that included the Baby Dolls and the Original Sixth Ward Dirty Dozen Kazoo Band. I paraded with the Baby Dolls on the last time they went out: that was Mardi Gras Day,
1981.
It was a Mardi Gras tradition; the Dirty Dozen kind of grew out of it. Benny Jones was around, Uncle Lionel Batiste. It was his family that were the nucleus of that Mardi Gras group. It was a real folk movement within the community
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Jenell Marshall, the snare drummer, would organize these parades where all the men would dress as drag queens, all out marching down the street, and they'd just be beating on tubs and bottles—they just did it for fun and the love of life. If you're from New Orleans, and you have any sort of social conscience, you realize that classism and racism are very deep rooted. Not for everyone, but historically. These people in the black neighborhoods had learned for centuries how to enjoy life, amongst the greatest repression. They have really made life special, and they have made it their own. People that are forgotten today were part of that scene: Andrew Green the drummer, Cyrille Salvant the trumpet player
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The Dirty Dozen grew out of all that culture; it wasn't as if they were created in a vacuum. They made a musical climate in which it was possible for the Rebirth Brass Band to exist. When Danny Barker and the Reverend Darby put the Fairview Baptist band together, not only were the brass bands dying out, but the second line clubs had sort of ceased to exist as well. When the Dozen exploded musically, it gave the impetus to clubs to start parading again. Of course, the Olympia band played the older, traditional club parades, but people turned out to the Dozen's second line parades in masses—more so than they do today. Today, an average four-hour second line parade is probably witnessed by around eight thousand people. But back then, you might have around five thousand people actually following the parade. The tune that finished every performance was “Feet Don't Fail Me Now.” That became the anthem of the street
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People romanticize about the Tremé and its importance in the history of jazz, but there were many neighborhoods that were important. But certainly for the revival of the seventies and eighties, Tremé was very significant. It's gone through tremendous changes in the last fifteen years. The real estate has skyrocketed because it's such a historic area. People realized that there were all these incredibly beautiful houses there
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The Rebirth headquarters was on North Villere Street between St. Philip and Ursulines. That's where Philip and Keith Frazier lived with their mother, Barbara. As kids, they had witnessed the Dirty Dozen, the Chosen Few, all of that
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In a way, it was the newfound freedom of civil rights that gave the youth the impetus to have freedom in the music. There's a parallel between that and the way emancipation spawned so many brass bands after the Civil War
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In the 1960s, the NAACP tried to stop the second lines. It wasn't that they had bad intentions; it's just that they felt that it was a bit of a throwback, and it was time to move on. Harold Dejan and Danny Barker stood up to them and said, “This is valuable. This is a part of the history of our people.”

I used to call Danny Barker “the last sidewalk intellectual.” He would hang out with the brothers on the street corner, drink a beer, shoot the shit, smoke a joint, whatever was happening. He could discuss history, art, world music—his interests were not confined to his music that became known as jazz
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The Rebirth, being young kids, it was all the most exciting thing they saw. The majority of them were going to Joseph Clark High School, so they got together. Allison Miner, who later became their manager, really helped turn the Rebirth into a world-class band. I saw potential in them, and I wanted to help them develop. Allison was producing a jazz series at the Contemporary Arts Center. I asked Allison as a favor, “Look, I'm working with these kids—it would really mean a lot, they've never played on a stage—could they get up and do just one song before your concert starts?” She's like, “OK, Jerry, as a favor to you, I'll do it.” So we showed up at the right time, got on stage, and started playing. After maybe a minute and a half of “Lord, Lord, Lord” Allison stomped out on the stage and scolded me for bringing a group like this that was not ready to be presented to any audience and told us to get out. She was a very strong-minded woman. It was really ironic that, ten years later, she thought they were the greatest thing since sliced bread!

Round about the same time, I had them play for this function for WWOZ in Armstrong Park. Kermit [Ruffins] was up there playing, and some guy came up to me and said, “That's the worst trumpet player I ever heard in my life. Why are you letting him play?” Now, Kermit's still not the greatest in the world, but he's working regularly, and he's developed a lot. I mean, somebody has to encourage emerging talent
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In 1984, Danny Barker decided to organize new workshops—he was going to organize another children's group. He started a band called the Roots of Jazz Brass Band, and James Andrews was the leader of that. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine at that time. Nicholas Payton was in that group. A lot of the band personnel were members of the Andrews family — “Peanut,” Darnell, “Buster.”

Within a year, James realized, “Hey, we got something here.” So they formed their own group, James Andrews and the All Stars. Shortly after that, Lois, his mother, rented a building on Governor Nicholls and Marais Street. It became known as “the Hall.” Tuba Fats lived upstairs; I lived around the corner. It became
the
spot. Every Monday, we would barbecue out there, the band would perform, Tuba would show them how the music went. Clark Terry would come by if he was in the neighborhood
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The Hall was covered with murals of brass bands. James had sat at the feet of Kid Thomas and Teddy Riley. As a kid, he really did try to absorb this New Orleans sound. When James was around fourteen, he was playing in this place called the Tremé Lounge. I was in there, sharing a drink with Harold Dejan. I asked Harold who he thought James sounded like. Harold said he reminded him of Kid Howard when he was young
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In about 1986, it was a special time. Tuba had the Chosen Few, the Tuxedo were still working, there was the Olympia, the Dirty Dozen were out on the road, there was the Pinstripe Brass Band uptown, Floyd Anckle had reorganized the Majestic, and the Rebirth
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I was kind of an outsider looking in, but I became an insider. I didn't think about it—I was with my friends. The friendship wasn't all about the music. It extended to “If you've got a flat tire, let's help you fix it. If you need to move, let's help each other move.”

Most of the people today who participate in the tradition really don't know what it's about—all they know is their own personal experience. There's over forty-four second line parades annually now. That's more than there's ever been.

Maple Leaf Bar, Oak Street, Tuesday night home of the Rebirth Brass Band
Photo by Barry Martyn