My favorite album by my favorite
But, eventually, the brothers were able to get together as a family again: they’ve all always played the best with family, both as brothers, with their uncle George Landry, Big Chief Jolly of the Wild Tchoupitoulas, and with an extended cast of nephews and nieces (nephew Ivan was the secret weapon keyboard/vocal behind Keith Richards’s X-Pensive Winos).
Again: they never played better than as a family. This record came together in 1981 with the support and nominal production of Bette Midler (say what you like about the Divine Miss M, but she’s always had a phenomenal nose for music and musicians). The Brothers have done a number of discs for several labels since then (most notably, the fantastic live set Nevillization for Black Top and the superb concert film At Tipitina’s with a large cast of guests), and there are aspects of this record that date it to the Seventies, but the air of excitement and reunion is palpable.
And the sense of reunion extends beyond the brothers to the other sidemen: both Dave Bartholomew and Allen Toussaint were involved in writing the horn charts and the section was full of NO stalwarts. The most powerful aspect of all, though, is the tunes: many of these songs are based on old
So, when the Brothers play these tunes, you hear the city’s musical heritage not just in the lazy yet in-the-pocket raggedy horn charts of Toussaint and Bartholomew, the rattle-tat second-line snare drumming of the great Zigaboo Modeliste, the conga-playing of Brother Cyril or the otherworldly funky-angelic soprano of Brother Aaron (a man who looks the ex-con stevedore he once was but who sings like a black saint). You hear it in the history of the songs themselves: in the very first track, with a staggering descending keyboard gliss into the powerhouse horns of Hey Pocky Way (whose key title line we think harkens back to the French Creoles who helped shape the city’s cultural life); in the rolling piano of Brother Art, which reaches back to Professor Longhair and to the nameless piano professors of Storyville and the Irish Channel; the staggering deep funk of Fiyo on the Bayou; the deepest possible roots in Brother John/Iko Iko, which marries ancient street chants of the Mardi Gras Indians with the girl-group groove of the Dixie cups; the transcendent falsetto doo-wop of Aaron’s Mona Lisa (which asinine amazon.com commentators think is “disposable”); and the rum-and-coke-in-the-sun Afro-Caribbean groove in their cover of Louis Jordan’s Run Joe.
I used to live in
But on every street corner, in every corner bar, every parade, every funeral, every picnic, political rally, and store opening, there was music, and the music was voodoo magic. You could walk the streets of the Quarter at 7am on a Tuesday morning and the music would drift past you like the smells of bougainvillea and chicory coffee, of filé and of levee water.
There was no place on earth like
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