Ain't Nobody Got Nothing On New Orleans

While I was in New Orleans, I mos’ def’nitlee had occasion to go hear some’o dat real good music. I mean the REAL good music, the stuff that puts other cities to shame, makes you wanna cry, wanna dance, renews your faith in humanity and just plain satisfies your soul. Now, yes, most assuredly, New Orleans is the birthplace of Jazz, and yes, there are still plenty of fine spots to soak up those jass rhythms, but what I experienced was outside the scope of any one genre, no, see…I took it all in, from the deep blues to free jazz to the furthest reaches of music being made today. New Orleans never lost it, they mos’ def’nitlee still got it. And then some.

First night I heard guitarist Donald Miller (from Borbetomagus) with percussionist Tatsuya Nakatani. Incredible. It felt somehow perfectly apropos to hear these guys first, a free collective improvisation by two people who are worlds away but make great music together, no hang ups, just playing.



They were followed by iconic free jazz saxophonist/trumpeter Joe McPhee with the rhythm section from The Thing (saxophonist Mats Gustafsson’s group with bassist Ingebrigt Håker Flaten and drummer Paal Nilssen-Love). Gustafsson wasn’t there due to a family emergency. It was probably the closest I’ll ever come to seeing Albert Ayler, and I mean that in the most respectful way. I felt totally privileged to hear them.


The next night, I went to a coffeehouse and heard soprano saxophonist Bhob Rainey perform with trombonist Jeff Albert and Nakatani. Free improv bliss.





I was hipped to the appearance of bluesman Alvin Youngblood Hart at an art museum, and don’t ya know I walked umpteen city blocks in a light rain to hear him. His take on the deep blues, singing, playing, guitar, banjo, was very cool, but a little marred by the lousy crowd who seemed to think their mindless babble was somehow more important than his music. While I don’t want the blues to become a concert-hall type of music, I do think it is pretty appalling that blues artists like Hart (and Corey Harris, who I saw a few nights ago in Portland & everybody was yapping during his acoustic segment…so uncool, and yeah, if on the off chance you are one of the lame-os I shhd, get over it, I’m not rude for asking you to shut up, you’re rude for running your trap) are not afforded the same respect from an audience that would most certainly be demanded were they wearing a suit and playing a recital featuring pieces by Ravel.


The last show I saw in New Orleans was by the Providence, RI duo of absolute chaos in its most gorgeous incarnation, the aptly named Lightning Bolt. They played at a club called Zeitgeist and it was easily the most amazing show I’ve ever been to. On my left was a photographer from SPIN magazine, and on all sides, a throng of Nola’s sweatiest hipsters went absolutely ape while drummer Brian Chippendale and bassist Brian Gibson played the loudest, most aggressive, most unrelenting music I’ve ever heard. Dudes were punching each other, bottles and bodies were flailing and flying, but the mayhem seemed oddly joyous. Chippendale looks like a world-class cyclist, and when you see him play, you understand that he either has to be in that kind of shape to play the way he does OR he is in the shape he’s in because he plays the way he does. Whatever. Little side note, the group The Thing recorded a version of Lightning Bolt’s “Ride The Sky.” Def’nitlee worth checking out.


I heard brass bands in the streets, drummers on the corner, bluesmen and women singing, and jazz bands doin’ their thing. I heard an incredible rendition of “Route 66” by a woman who just walked into a piano bar on Frenchman Street and proceeded to tear the roof off the joint, comin’ on like the re-incarnation of Ma Rainey. Ain’t nobody got nothing on New Orleans.