by Mick Burns
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.
I had a friend called Michael Myers, a trombone player. He was playing with bands, and Tuba Fats was playing with Doc Paulin and the E. Gibson band. I knew Tuba from the neighborhood, but I didn’t know him personally. I had grown up with Michael Myers—we had even gone to the same nursery. He was playing with the E. Gibson band. I got a phone call one evening from Johnny Wimberley. He said they had an Elks parade coming up, and could I go to rehearsals on Thursday nights to learn some of the tunes. They were putting out two bands for the Elks parade—I would be in the same band as Mr. Wimberley.
By then, I would be sixteen years old. Marching in the parades with the high school band at that time, when you had on your uniform, that was something special. We’d compete for trophies in the Mardi Gras parades, so you were concentrating on staying in tune, trying to keep the line straight, all that. The other guys in the trumpet section of my high school band were all good sight-readers. And at that time, I had only one year left to do at high school. I really had no idea that music was to become my second source of livelihood.
I became a part of the E. Gibson band. When you follow parades, you hear Doc Paulin playing tunes like “Margie” and “By and By,” “Closer Walk”—you get used to hearing those tunes, and I’d go home and learn them. There were two guys in the Gibson band; their mother was a very close friend of my grandmother. They grew up in the Magnolia housing project. So that, and my friendship with Michael Myers, meant that I felt very comfortable in that band. I learned the songs, and I started my brass band apprenticeship.
A year later, I met Danny Barker. I had finished high school in the summer of 1971, and I was working at a place called Purkiss Pancake Parlor, which was an all-night restaurant on Bourbon Street. All the musicians and police officers and strip girls would come in there when they finished work—Bourbon Street still had its charm then. I would see the captain of police first, then Thomas Jefferson would come in, and Louis Prima—I saw a lot of musicians who were working on the street. I worked in the kitchen; I was working my way through college. I got to know the night people—the policemen, the girls, the musicians, waiters, and barkers from the different clubs.
Dixieland Hall was right across the street. On my breaks, I’d go across and listen to Louis Cottrell, Jeanette Kimball, Jack Willis—those guys would be playing there. It was an extension of the brass band music I was playing uptown. I’d seen Jack Willis and Alvin Alcorn playing parades. “Showboy” Thomas would come in with Thomas Jefferson for breakfast. Tom was working everywhere—he was at the Paddock Lounge, Maison Bourbon, the Famous Door. He was working three jobs a day.
I had got to know Worthia “Showboy” Thomas a little bit, and he knew I was playing with the Gibson band uptown. He said, “Oh, you’re working with those scab bands.” He started working with George Finola at Maison Bourbon. By then, Danny Barker had started the Fairview Church band. I had seen them once, when they played at the Southern Christian Music Conference in New Orleans. They marched from St. Bernard and Claiborne all the way to Shakespeare Park.
This was around 1972—after Martin Luther King’s assassination. Black people were looking for leadership. Jesse Jackson had started his PUSH organization, and everybody was going in different directions. The parade at the conference was like a “come together” parade—the idea was for everyone to gather in Shakespeare Park.
I met the parade as it was coming into Simon Bolivar, just where we call it the borderline between uptown and downtown. They had the Olympia Brass Band, the Young Tuxedo, and the Fairview Baptist Church band. That was the first time I heard Leroy Jones—I had never heard a
trumpet player with such a good sound. I only saw them that one time, but I was impressed.
Sometime later I was talking to Showboy at the restaurant, and he said, “I have this friend called Danny, who has this little church band. You might want to join them. Would you be interested in meeting them? I don’t know the name of the band—they’re a group of kids.” Then I knew who he was talking about.
He brought Danny Barker down to meet me two nights later. I took their coffee to the table, and Showboy said, “This is Mr. Danny Barker. This is that friend I’ve been telling you about.” Danny looked at me and said, “I understand you play an instrument. I have a group of young musicians—it’s called the Fairview Baptist Church band. I’m trying to keep them off the streets, keep them out of trouble, trying to preserve the old music. Showboy tells me you play uptown, with the Gibson band. Do you know some of those old songs?” I said I knew “Just a Little While,” “By and By,” “The Saints,” “Lord, Lord, Lord.” He said, “OK, that’s enough. You’d be a good help. Would you be interested in playing? Would it interfere with your job?” I explained that I was working my way through college. He said, “So you’re an ambitious young man—that’s good.”
He told me that they rehearsed in Leroy Jones’s garage on St. Denis Street every Thursday night. “It’s down by the St. Bernard project.” he said. “Do you know how to get down there? You got transportation? We’ve got a job coming up for a campaign, and we need to rehearse for it.” I had a nice little car that I had saved up to buy, and Danny was quite impressed when I pulled up in it. He introduced me to the guys: there was Lucien and Charles Barbarin, Leroy, Derek Cagnolatti, about twelve of them in the garage.
Leroy and I hit it off real good. The way Mr. Barker would rehearse, there was never any music. He would bring records for us to listen to. At the time, he was trying to get the band to learn “Weary Blues”—he brought sheet music for that one. A few of us were able to read it—he’d play it, and we’d listen. He’d say, “Listen at the melody.”
A few weeks later, we went and played that campaign job. We had a good time together, and he split the money with us—he always made sure that everybody got something. That’s how I became a member of the Fairview band, and Leroy was looking for some help anyway. Charles and Lucien Barbarin were the naggers of the band; they would try to do anything to discourage you, but in a fun way. They were the hell-raisers. We all became good friends.
Eventually I took Joe Torregano down there with me. Both of us were attending Southern University, and I knew him from there. He was playing with the Olympia Brass Band at the time. He told Tuba Fats about it, and he came down too. He had the experience, he had played with those uptown bands, and he had a lot of power.
Hurricane Brass Band, 1980 (Gregg Stafford, Lucien Barbarin) Photo by Mike Casimir
The band had a lot of strength, and I guess that’s when certain people went to the musician’s union about us, but I don’t want to get into that. That’s why Danny had to cut us loose, and that’s how the Hurricane band came about. Danny came in, and he had had some cards made for Leroy. He said to us, “Look, fellows, I’m kind of disappointed about what’s going on. A few musicians have complained to the union that I’m pimping the kids, saying I’m making money off y’all. All I’m trying to do is preserve this music, and give you something to keep you out of trouble. My hands are tied, and I can’t be seen with you. They’re talking about fining me, so I’m going to have to lay out.” It hurt Mr. Barker that people would be so insecure.
From that point, Charles and Lucien’s father, Charles Barbarin Sr., took over the band in a roundabout way. People would still call Mr. Barker, but Mr. Barbarin was coordinating things.
It was Danny Barker’s influence, and his vision of preserving the music, that formed my opinions. He would give us reasons for what we were doing, sort of musical history lessons. I was keen enough to understand what he was saying. When you get Japanese people coming to hear the band, and writers coming in, and people from New York sending boxes of instruments, you had to realize that what he was doing was really important. He would nominate different ones amongst us to talk to documentary makers and tell us, “Come with your shoes shined, wear your black and white, look clean.” So he gave us a sense of individual pride. He gave us something to keep and cherish: that you are somebody, that you are important, and these are the reasons to preserve your heritage, so you can pass it on to the next generation. That was his thing. When you understand and believe what Danny taught us, and begin to live it, it gives you an understanding of why the heritage should be maintained.
I started going to Preservation Hall, and I saw people like Jim Robinson and Billie and De De Pierce and Paul Barnes. I would listen to Papa John Joseph and Willie and Percy Humphrey. Punch Miller lived two blocks from my house—he had attended school with my grandmother. At that time, they were doing that documentary on Punch, Till the Butcher Cut Him Down. I would come home from school and see the camera crews. When you become involved with these people and they become personal friends, you become part of that force. People like Harold Dejan, Kid Sheik, Albert Walters, Louis Cottrell, Jack Willis, and Teddy Riley—as I go through life, I remember the moments with these people.
All those guys were like my father. They all had that same pride about themselves. And as time moves on, you find that musicians of today don’t have that fraternal approach that those old men had. I’m just glad that I was born when I was, and lifestyles hadn’t changed that much.
When you see people coming in—at that time, you didn’t have the different magazines we have today, like Gambit [and] OffBeat. That’s when you get people whose livelihood depends on the musician’s livelihood—they have to get articles in. In the old days Kid Sheik was Kid Sheik—nobody had to write a microscopic critique about it. These people were just living their lives, and the music was genuine. Now, everybody has an opinion about how this one and that one plays, and everything is being lost about the true essence of the music. I hear people going around raving about other people, and I don’t want to step on nobody’s toes, but they haven’t a clue what traditional jazz is about. It’s fair for musicians to present their own objectives, and their own approach to the music, and that’s part of being a musician—you have to express yourself. But what I see dwindling away, and I try not to become too opinionated, is the past that I cherished and lived in and experienced. I’m not living in the past, but I bring the past along with me. The music has to evolve, and it’s going to evolve; you’re going to have people playing differently. But when you see all those values and customs that people took a pride in—then you look at brass bands today!
I came up at a time when I was playing for Knights of Pythias, Oddfellows, all kinds of Masonic lodges. I saw the membership extend for five or six blocks. In later years, as the membership began to dwindle, I saw those blocks diminishing, as lifestyles changed with the emergence of the insurance companies, so it was no longer necessary to belong to an organization. I lived that. I remember how proud I was, how good I felt about wearing a uniform and band cap. My mother would make sure that my shoes were shined. So you bring this tradition with you.
To see all these customs, and all these songs that had structure, just thrown out of the window—you could hear the Onward band coming up the street sounding like a forty-piece band, all playing in harmony, nobody getting in anybody’s way. People don’t understand: I even know some musicians who say that I’m trashing other musicians, that I think I’m better than somebody else. It kind of makes you wonder what’s important to them.
I don’t try to judge people, but I wonder if it’s worth all the effort. I still try to stay optimistic about the tradition being preserved, even though people are moving in other directions. But when you hear the media based in the city that tends to think that what everybody’s doing is what’s happening, it causes people to miss the point and to forget what sacrifices other people have made. Everybody still wants to ride on the c
oattails of Louis Armstrong, still claiming that they’re playing traditional jazz or brass band music. I guess they’re using brass band instrumentation, but that’s all.
I hope people can appreciate what I’m doing, and can understand. Everybody has their own approach, and I guess I have my place.
Joe Torregano, Saxophones and Clarinet
BORN: New Orleans, February 28, 1952
Played with Dejan’s Olympia Band, the Young Tuxedo Brass Band, and the Hurricane Brass Band; currently with Andrew Hall’s Society Brass Band
Interviewed at the corner cafe on Royal and Conti Streets, October 2001
Joe Torregano with the Hurricane Brass Band, 1980
Photo by Mike Casimir
I have one brother, Mike, who’s pretty well known in New Orleans. Not everybody knows that there’s a third brother, Louis. He does piano, guitar, bass, organ; he’s more involved in church music. My father, Louis Sr., didn’t really play—well, he played a little piano, but just at home. His godfather was Adolphe “Tats” Alexander, and his grandfather Joseph, who I’m named after, was a trumpet player in brass bands at the turn of the century. My father was born in 1910. I’ve never seen a picture of my grandfather. One of my family had a picture of him playing, but I don’t know what happened to it.
So the three of us brothers are active now. My brother Michael and I are both music teachers in the school system during the day, in addition to being professional musicians. I have another brother who lives in Texas, called Ray. His last name is Woodson from my mother’s first marriage. He’s retired—he was a schoolteacher and policeman. He’s eighteen years older than me.
You couldn’t help but come to music if you lived in my house. My mother’s name is Anna; she sang in the church choir. She had a philosophy that her sons should be exposed to music. At the age of four, we all had to take piano lessons.