Keeping the Beat on the Street (8 page)

I remember when they put the Interstate
10
over Claiborne—it got rid of the dust. With those trees on the neutral ground, no grass could grow, because of the shade. It would be dusty, dusty, dusty! Cats would kick up the dust dancing—you'd be covered. Then it got muddy when the freeway came through, but they still brought the parades through there
.

OBITUARY IN
New Orleans Music
MAGAZINE, BY MICK BURNS
Anthony Lacen: Goodbye Tuba Fats
Born 15 September 1949; died II January 2004

Anthony Lacen (a.k.a. “Tuba Fats”) was the eldest of five children. His parents, Johnny and Leola Lacen, had moved to New Orleans from Georgia to find work, and the family lived on Simon Bolivar in the Third Ward, in the area known as Central City.

As a child, he delivered newspapers and hustled in the nearby Garden District, where he did domestic chores for a few cents. Once he started to play tuba in the high school band, he had another hustle. A trumpet-playing neighbor, “Big” Nat Dowe, gave him some informal tuition on the porch of his house, and soon Tuba was playing on the street with bands led by Doc Paulin, Nat Dowe, and with the Gibson band. Dowe also had a dance band, which did a lot of work at the Elks Club over the river. The band included David Grillier, Buddy Charles, Flo Anckle, and a bass player who used to get drunk and not show up. Despite initial reluctance, Tuba was persuaded to join and was soon supplying the shuffle rhythms the band needed. This was the beginnings of his style and his unique contribution to bass horn playing—he wanted to play double bass on the tuba. Soon he was making nocturnal bicycle trips down to the French Quarter, listening to such as Placide Adams, Chester Zardis, and James Prevost—there were plenty of role models.

He was doing nothing in particular when Gregg Stafford recruited him for the Fairview Baptist Church Band, and the offshoot, The Hurricane Band. Then followed several years with Dejan's Olympia Brass Band, with whom, in 1976, he recorded “Tuba Fats”—the nickname bestowed upon him by Danny Barker during the Fairview days. In 1983, after leaving the Olympia, he formed his own Chosen Few and took up permanent residence in Jackson Square—he had a passionate belief in the integrity of the street musician. It was during this period that he became a role model for the young musicians who flocked to join him in the square—Keith Anderson, Kermit Ruffins, Dwayne Burns, and countless others. For several years, Tuba's wife, “Lady” Linda Young, sang with the band until her tragic early death from cancer in 1997. I don't think Tuba ever recovered from the loss.

I got to know him pretty well over the course of several years, and he toured three times with my band in Europe during 1995 and '96. He was capable of amazing generosity. During parade jobs, he would stoop over mesmerized children to give them candy he'd crammed into his pockets earlier. Once during a catfish supper at his Dauphine Street home, he produced several cans of English beer for me (he wasn't drinking at the time). He'd brought them back in his suitcase—he knew I didn't like the local beer much. He had his little phobias, he was afraid of heights and the dark. I remember him staring into the blackness from a country hotel window, and musing, “Mmm. Ain't nobody gotta tell Fats to stay his black ass in the house.”

During the last few years of his life, he'd been “adopted” by Walt and Ronda Rose, who provided him with a subsidized apartment in Dumaine Street and made sure he got healthy food and medication for his heart condition. Whenever I got to New Orleans, Fats was always the first person I'd call. In January this year, I was in New Orleans to make a radio documentary about Harold Dejan. On Monday, January 12, Barry Martyn and I were leaving Barry's house on Burgundy Street at 10:40
A.M
. A musician neighbor of Barry's, called David, crossed the street and said, “Did you hear about Tuba? He died last night from a heart attack….”

Gallier Hall, St. Charles Avenue, January 18, 12:20
P.M
. This is a venue for the funerals of local celebrities, and Tuba was certainly that. The bleachers are up for Mardi Gras, and it's crowded with people waiting to second line. By one of the doorways, there's a throbbing percussion section of plainclothes Mardi Gras Indians—Tuba was a Wild Magnolia in his youth. Inside, the huge ballroom is divided into roughly three parts: one for a small section of the parade band (only about fifteen pieces), one for the seated congregation and family, and a third for the standees and the dancers. In the last year, Tuba had apparently formed an association with the Sudan Social Aid and Pleasure Club, and twenty or so of them had turned out for this occasion— bright orange shirts, tan pants, sashes, umbrellas, unlit cigars, all dancing their asses off for Tuba Fats. The band plays “Just a Little While to Stay Here,” “Lily of the Valley,” “I'll Fly Away”—the congregation sings and cries. It's unbelievably moving.

Then outside to second line in front of the horse-drawn hearse. It's a huge crowd and a big band. I recognize Lionel Batiste Sr., Jenell Marshal, Roger Lewis, Benny Jones, Keith Anderson, Eddie Bo Parish, Revert Andrews, James Andrews, Leroy Jones, Doc Watson, Robert Harris, and Kermit Ruffins. It's too far away to hear who's playing, but at the back I count the bells of fourteen sousaphones. It's not a recipe for musical coherence, but it's an impressive tribute.

We move off, along Carondelet, over Canal and onto Bourbon Street. This is the first time I've walked through the French Quarter with Tuba without having to stop every two minutes while he talked to people—the barkers, the street people, musicians, the lady from the A&P, just about everybody. Turn right down St. Ann and into Jackson Square. In front of St. Louis Cathedral, three priests wait to bless the body as it passes; I can imagine what Tuba would have said. Then right again down St. Peter to turn the body loose at Preservation Hall.

Goodbye Tuba Fats.

BORN: New Orleans, July 6, 1953
Played with the E. Gibson Brass Band, the Fairview Baptist Church Brass Band, the Hurricane Brass Band, and the Young Tuxedo Brass Band
Interviewed at his home on Second Street, October 2002

Photo by Peter Nissen

I've lived here in New Orleans all my life, and I don't think I could accept living anywhere else. I don't think I'd be a musician today if I hadn't been born here, because of the way circumstances happened in my life. Actually, I became a musician not by choice but by fate. I guess it was predestined
.

While I was between junior and senior high school, I was about fifteen years old. I had always lived uptown, mostly two blocks away from where we're sitting now. My mother and father had separated, and for a brief period I lived downtown at my mother's new house on Burgundy Street. At that time, you had to attend the school that was in the district where you lived. I had already selected industrial arts as one of my electives—I was always good at drafting, measuring, and woodworking
.

I had to get a false address and a permit to attend school uptown. While I was waiting for it to come through, I didn't attend school at all for about six weeks; my mother got the impression that I was somehow trying to drop out of school. She got up one morning and said, “Look, this is your last day. If you can't get your school sorted out today, you're going to have to go to either Booker T. Washington or Joseph Clark.”

I went up to see the principal, and he told me, “I notice that one of your electives is industrial arts. That class has stopped, so I can offer you three choices: vocal music, instrumental music, or home economics.” At that time, home economics was considered to be a female course, and I never did like the idea of singing in a choir
.

The band director happened to be in the office while the principal was telling me this. When I left the office, he approached me and said, “Open your mouth!” I thought something was wrong with my teeth, so I looked at him kind of strangely. He said, “Just open your mouth, and grit your teeth. I want you to select instrumental music as your choice.” I said, “I don't think I can do that, because I don't have an instrument.” He told me, “Don't worry about that. I'll let you use one of the school instruments.”

Prior to that, when I was in junior high school, I had asked my mother to buy me an instrument, because most of the kids in the neighborhood played. But she wouldn't get one, because she assumed that I would lose interest, and she would have wasted the money
.

Of course, I had heard bands playing on the street, but I hadn't been inspired by a passion for music—that developed when I started to play. There was music all over the neighborhood where I lived. There were a lot of local musicians who were very prominent on the rhythm and blues scene. Ernie K. Doe lived locally, and Raymond Lewis, the bassist. I was only a few blocks from the Dew Drop, and just about every corner had a barroom where music was played. When I was a kid, you saw music everywhere
.

I went home that night, and the first thing my mother wanted to know was whether I had got into school. I told her I had. She asked me had I got all my classes, and I said, “All except one. I had to make a choice, and I'm thinking of taking instrumental music.” She flew into a rage. “I am not signing no paper for no instrument. No! No way.” She thought that even if the school loaned me a horn, she would still be responsible for paying for it
.

I went to school the next day, and the band instructor was waiting for me, with my horn. He said, “Did you make your selection?” I said, “My mother won't sign the slip.” He said, “Tell her not to worry. Even if you lose the horn, she doesn't have to pay for it.”

I told my mother what he had said that night, but she still refused to sign. I cried all night—I didn't want to take vocal music, and I definitely didn't want to take home economics. My mother would get up at six o'clock in the morning to go to work. She had heard me crying in the night, and she came to my room. She said to me, very reluctantly, “I'm going to sign that slip for you. But you tell that band instructor that I'm not going to be responsible for any instrument.”

I went to school with the consent slip, gave it to the band instructor—Solomon Smith was his name (we called him Fess). I was under the impression that you got to choose your instrument, and I wanted to play the tenor saxophone. But when we got to the band room, he said, “What you want doesn't come into it. You're playing trumpet because that's what I need, to play second and third parts.” He went in the back of the band room and got me a beat-up, tarnished cornet. I liked the sound of it. It wasn't in bad shape; it was just old, and at the time, people were using trumpets. I think that cornet had been around since the school opened in the early fifties. That's how I got started. I think, because of my Christian faith, it was preordained. Some things are appointed
.

Johnny Wimberley
Courtesy Hogan jazz Archive, Tulane University

Growing up in this part of New Orleans, I lived right around the corner from Shakespeare Park, where the church parades and the Elks parade started from. Just about every Sunday there'd be a parade. You'd see Doc Paulin, the Reliance Brass Band, and the E. Gibson Brass Band. Second lining was a fun thing to do after church
.

By the time I had finished beginner's classes, the instructor was ready to put me in the school band, playing third parts. We were playing for Tulane homecoming—that was a big thing at that time. They would have the bands of several different schools, and there would be a display of formation marching at half time. After the parade, some of us were walking to the trolley stop. There were some members of the E. Gibson band getting into their cars. The leader of the band, Johnny Wimberley, stopped us and said, “You young fellows—any of y'all be interested in playing our kind of music?” My friends in the band were mostly reed players or trumpet players. The saxophone players weren't interested, but I enjoyed watching the brass band trumpet players. I'd seen Milton Batiste, and I'd seen the Onward band a few times. So I asked him if he needed trumpet players. He said they didn't, except sometimes they might need an extra trumpet. I gave him my name and telephone number
.