Keeping the Beat on the Street Read online

  I was always a kid that strayed away from home—I still do it. I was the black sheep, you know, I never stuck around the house. I would be told, “Don’t leave,” and the minute they turned their back, I was gone—especially if there was a funeral coming down the street.

  There were musicians uptown and down. They had an organization called the Young Men’s Olympia. They still do the jazz funerals uptown. There isn’t that many musicians uptown anymore, but more of them are in the Tremé. The Tremé came back to reviving the music. When I was a kid, second lines were popular but not as popular as they are now. In those days, there were very few clubs parading, and the parade season would be September to November, and that would be it, unless you caught a jazz funeral or church parade for an anniversary.

  There was organizations like the Oddfellows, Knights of Columbus, the Masons. They would have bands playing marches like “Gettysburg,” “Bugle Boy,” regular marches. They would be lined up in their uniforms with their swords, and they would drill. Face each other, side by side, walk into a semicircle, come back around, stuff like that. That was a treat to see, you got a chance to second line again. After a while, they’d turn the band loose and let them play “Whooping Blues.”

  When I was at junior high school, I had just started playing brass band music on the street, with the Gibson Brass Band, Doc Paulin, and a guy named Nat Dowe. The school band director and I got into an argument. I was about fourteen. He got on me because he wanted me to play the regular marches the school band was playing, and I would get carried away and play something swinging. He didn’t like it. He got mad and told me, “I’m going to put you out of the band.”

  So they sent me to art class—I had no skills for that, none whatsoever. The teacher would put something on the desk for you to draw, give you sheets to draw on. I would sit there and write music on them! Her name was Miss Daniel; she was a very nice person. She told me, “Try to draw something.” And I would draw a mountain—and I would make a bird like an “m.” She told me, “No good, you’re not going to make it in this class.” So they took me back in the band. It was kicks.

  I grew up watching musicians, and that’s what I wanted to be. I even tried to play football. But I got hit one time too many, and I thought, “To hell with this. I’m going back to the band room.”

  The first bands I heard were Papa Celestin and Doc Paulin. I got to see all the blues cats like B. B. King, Bobby Blue Bland. Where I was born and raised was only six blocks from the Dew Drop. I would sneak out at night when my family would go to sleep; everybody would be tired from having to work hard all day, so it was easy. I wouldn’t stay out all night, just a couple of hours. I would ease the bike out of the side door. See, I was big, I had hair on my chin, I looked older. Sometimes my mother would bust me!

  In the neighborhood, we had the Dew Drop, the Robin Hood; Big Joe Turner’s bar was on Jackson and Daneel. It’s a rough place now—still a bar, called Tammy’s Place. On a Sunday afternoon, me and my friends would go sit on the corner and listen to Big Joe Turner. He had piano, drums, bass, guitar, saxophone—a regular band. That’s how I learned about the blues. Sometimes we’d go round there, and I’d ask his girlfriend, “Where Mr. Joe at?” She’d tell me they’d gone out of town for a couple of days. A week later, he’d be back sitting on that stool, singing. Man, he was good!

  I know how to play rhythm and blues changes, as well as traditional changes. I had quite a few people taught me things. I used to listen at string bass players—that was my thing. When I started, I wanted to play trumpet. I used to cut a hose pipe up, put a funnel on the end, twist a mouthpiece in. Sounded just like a trumpet. Sam Alcorn, Old Man [Alvin] Alcorn, all them cats was playing around then, uptown. And Big Dowe was a hell of a trumpet player—if he had a brass band job, he would let visiting European musicians play with him. Him and my mother was good friends. One evening he saw me coming home from school with the tuba, playing it—they’d told me to take it home and practice. He said, “Come here, Anthony, sit here on the porch.” He went and got his horn and started teaching me different scales and things. One Saturday, he said he had a gig for me, paid a dollar. I said, “I can’t play this stuff.” He said, “Just play what I tell you to play.” He showed me what a shuffle rhythm was.

  Dew Drop Cafe, 2840 La Salle Street. Photo by Ralston Crawford. Courtesy Hogan Jazz Archive, Tulane University.

  They would play for the Elks Club over by the river. These organizations would have suppers on Saturdays, and at night they would have a dance. He would have the band playing the dance, and his bass player would get drunk, so he would come and get me to play tuba. They played a lot of shuffle—he had good musicians with him—he even had Buddy Charles playing guitar with him; he showed me changes and stuff. He had Flo Anckle, David Grillier—they used to play up some music!

  I did a whole lot of listening to Chester Zardis and Placide Adams at the Heritage Hall. I used to ride my bike down to Bourbon Street in the evenings, and I heard these cats, slapping these basses. That’s where I got those turnarounds from.

  For some reason, I started to play left handed—I even put the valves in reverse order. I didn’t get the credit for bringing the swing to it—Kirk Joseph gets the credit for it. It came from me; I wanted to swing the band like an upright bass player.

  ***

  By the time I got in with Danny Barker and the Fairview band, I was a grown man in my middle twenties—I’m fifty-two now. What happened, Gregg Stafford came to me. Danny needed somebody to play tuba with the band; the kids couldn’t get the tuba together. So I shaved my beard off and went down there. After a year or so, Danny said, “Y’all getting too big now. You, Gregg, Leroy, some of you others, y’all get together and form the Hurricane Brass Band.”

  We were powerful, and that was when the swing started to hit the traditional music— I was the oldest one in the band. We started to get a lot of second lines and a lot of convention work, the Fairmont and stuff too. That’s when I think Louis Cottrell, Harold Dejan, and Herman Sherman got together to split the band up. It got to the point where Gregg and Leroy were both playing with the Tuxedo; Joe Torregano and I went to the Olympia.

  The music started changing in the seventies—Daryl Adams and those kids, they were thinking of different modern riffs. In 1974, that’s when Milton started wanting to do different things with the Olympia, and Harold kept telling him, “No, we’re not going to do that.” That’s when “Mardi Gras in New Orleans” happened. I’ll never forget it: we were leading a Bacchus Parade on St. Charles. Then we got “I Got a Woman” together. That’s when the Olympia started changing. We played my tune “Tuba Fats.” How that came about, we were doing a parade, and when the band stopped, the second liners, with the tambourines and stuff, started singing “Hey Pocky Way”—the Indian song that the [Funky] Meters had recorded. So I started putting a bass part to it, and it became a song.

  That’s when I formed the Chosen Few Brass Band. Milton worked a bunch of second lines with us—I used to hire him and Edmund Foucher. We had Kermit [Ruffins] too, but he had to play with the Rebirth—they were just forming. So I would lose him. And I would hire Stackman or Freddie Kemp. We were really playing rhythm and blues with a brass band. It gave Milton a chance to play what he wanted, and we were already headed in that direction anyway. We would play the same tune for eight or twelve blocks.

  The Rebirth wasn’t as popular then; they got popular in the later years. I decided to get away from that. It was important to keep the traditional music going too—the guys in the Olympia were getting old, and there was room for another traditional brass band. There was a lot of work at conventions and stuff. Plus I was getting older, too.

  But what really changed things was the Dirty Dozen. That band was a funny thing, really, it started as a joke. Once Sunday parades were over with, I went by the Caldonia bar to see what was going on. Benny Jones and them were all there; they were second lining to the jukebox, beating on the tables, dancing out the door—i
t was eleven o’clock in the morning!

  They were all, “Hey, Tuba, get your horn!” And there was this trumpet player called Cyrille Salvant, he was a hell of a player. He was as drunk as a skunk, playing with them. So I went and got my horn—me and Cyrille started to play along with the jukebox. Then all these other guys went home and got drums and stuff—they all lived right there in the neighborhood. So then we took it to the street.

  Chosen Few Brass Band (Eddie Bo Parish, Anthony Lacen, Elliott Callier, Benny Jones, Kenneth Austin, George Johnson) Photo by Marcel Joly

  Cats put on union drawers; they had all kind of like sticks with feathers on them and stuff. Somebody said, “Mama Ruth got a party—it’s in the project by Goo’s house.” So we second lined over to the Lafitte project, and I stayed out all day playing with them.

  So every Sunday after that, if somebody had a dance or a party in the Tremé, they’d say “Hey, Tubal Come on out, we’re going to pass the hat.” So we struck up at the Caldonia, and we paraded all the way round the Tremé to that dance. But I was busy with the Olympia; I really didn’t have time to stick with it, so I got Kirk Joseph to come and play instead. Then we brought his brother Charles in, then Roger Lewis, then Gregory Davis.

  What happened, Roger showed Benny and them how they could make a brass band together. Fats Domino’s work had started slowing down, and Roger wasn’t working that much. They went to a secret rehearsal: Roger, Benny, Jenell Marshall the snare drummer, Kirk, Charles. They went to Frog’s house—I think he was showing them how they could write things out, and how funky they could get, because he was there with them also. Then came the St. Joseph’s Day parade. I was playing with the Olympia, and I saw Roger and Benny and them coming. They told Lionel Batiste and them, “Y’all keep that band with the kazoos and stuff over there,” and they wouldn’t play with Lionel.

  The Olympia headed up the parade, and I could see Lionel and them behind us. And I could also see a big crowd way behind them. I couldn’t see exactly who it was, but when we got to Hunter’s Field (on Claiborne and St. Bernard where the Tambourine and Fan was), there was Benny, Roger, Gregory Davis, Efrem Towns, Kirk—man, they were wailing! And fast. It took off from there.

  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.

  Gregg Stafford, Trumpet

  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.