There’s something about the way the snare drum kicks it off and then there’s the manner whereby imparted breath subtly negotiates the twists and turns of the trumpet before emerging to massage the inner ear.
Before long you’ve got a gumbo thick with bass-drum-driven trombones and saxophones and sousaphones on your hands. A napkin will be of no help. You’re drenched with the brass-band ambiance of the New Orleans French Quarter and there’s no turning back.
The funeral dirge has ended, the body’s been planted, and the time to celebrate the spirit is at hand. A morphing ensues. They pick up the tempo. What we have now is a block party in motion, a street dance parade wherein revelers not officially members of the “main line,” the deceased’s social club, are encouraged to participate.
The sensation moves in a somewhat syncopated fashion from the auditory to the ambulatory appendages. You begin to wiggle while you walk. You’d trade your kingdom for a parasol or a “hankie” with which to keep time. You are now part of the “second line,” that most celebratory of the improvisational parade traditions.
As within other music forms, the brass-band sensibility has evolved over time. Besides attending to their main function as keepers of the second-line tradition, they have expanded to include most all genres within the jambalaya that is New Orleans music.
And they don’t just keep the faith. They spread the joy. These ambassadors from the “Big Easy” have been strutting their quite singular rhythmic patois in Park City for many years, going back to when the Dirty Dozen Brass Band sounded reveille from the Swede Alley stage during the early mornings of our then adolescent Arts Festival.
To “festivarians” already on the street, the interweaving melodies and harmonies served as a siren’s call. They quickly got it. The wafting tones instantly provided them with sufficient musical vocabulary for the task at hand. They would find themselves strutting toward the source while keeping that infectious beat with boppin’ heads, swayin’ hips, and shufflin’ feet.
And during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina we were further showered with the soundtrack of “Crescent City.” With Randy Barton hosting the great Dr. John performing from his solo jazz piano repertoire at Harry O’s, the Preservation Hall Jazz Band leading a second-line infused concert at Kingsbury Hall, and the Park City Performing Arts Foundation bringing the Neville Brothers to party at the Eccles Center, for a spell there we were fais-do-do rich.
Which brings us to the subject at hand. You’d best be digging out your old gris-gris voodoo charms, taking your pirogue out of dry dock, and practicing your “where y’ats” and “who dats” because that New Orleans musical tradition which goes back to the late 19th and early 20th centuries is once again paddle-wheeling its way toward Park City.
This time it’s the famed Hot 8 Brass Band that’s set to cause a rhythmic rumpus as the Park City Performing Arts Foundation brings them to the Eccles Center this Saturday night.
So listen up. Be attentive. They come out of nowhere with little fanfare. Well, oftentimes, with a lot of fanfare, actually. You might be minding your own business when the wail of an approaching trumpet or the bass-line thump of a tuba not so gently insinuates itself into your comfort zone.
Don’t be afraid to jump right in when the band passes. You’ll find with little effort that the lower extremities improvise along with the drums and brass quite easily. It’s something in our DNA. Way down deep where the helices spiral they must serve chicory and beignet.
So rehearse your chops on “Didn’t He Ramble” and “Lil Liza Jane” while you get your wild, strutting dance steps in line. You see, you can “do” the “second line” while you’re in the “second line.” Listen closely and you’ll notice that, over the past few decades, elements of funk, hip hop, and bop have joined the gumbo.
And a quite pleasing concoction it is, especially in the hands of the virtuoso Hot 8 Brass Band. Born and bred in New Orleans, these guys have come to know the mean and musical streets of their hometown as few others. Not only has random and not-so-random violence thinned their ranks, it has honed their passion and their art.
So come along to the Vieux Carré of the mind. Catch a glimpse through the Spanish moss of a quintessential 19th century cast-iron balcony. Grab some shrimp remoulade with a crawfish bisque and a Sazerac back. Bring a bib! And maybe an aspirin. Get the Basin Street blues and watch the saints go marching in. Ignore the news! Jump for joy!
Or as they like to say in New Orleans, “Laissez les bon temps rouler” (let the good times roll)!
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio, among other pursuits. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.