by Mick Burns
In 1989, I went to Ascona [festival in Switzerland] for the first time with Benny Jones and the Tremé. Ascona was a good experience at one time, and then it kind of went down.
I joined the Rebirth much later on, in the nineties. I had been with the New Birth, and Kermit had left the Rebirth. They took Glen Andrews and me. I was there for a while—it was a good experience. When I was in the band, they had Roddy Paulin on saxophone—he used to write a lot of stuff we would read off the paper, but a lot of the stuff they do is by ear.
It was a different thing from a normal brass band. Sometimes we would pick up on things kids would be saying on the street—we’d put a melody to it, and before you knew it, it’s a song. We’d just do it on the spot. Sometimes, we’d play one riff for the whole of a four-hour parade. Towards the end, it would be a song.
I had trained by playing chord changes, and I found switching to a one-chord-based funk thing more difficult than I thought. In the New Birth, now, we play some things that have no chord changes at all, just a straight line. Then I go to Preservation Hall, and I have to play all the chord changes. You have to be versatile. Actually, what happened to me on Wednesday, I was sitting up there playing traditional things, and I had been used to playing straight lines. I mean, I knew the songs, but by the time I had moved to the chord, they had all changed to another one. I find playing on chords easier, it makes you think. With the other thing, they put down a bass line, and you can run with that all day. At the Hall, it’s fine. You get to play with some of them old guys and play the old things. I don’t have no complaints. It’s a learning experience, and the more you learn, the better it is.
If you look at it, they got a lot of kids trying to play this music, and they don’t know anything about traditional songs or anything. Tuba’s still calling me to go to Jackson Square and pick up those old songs. Kermit used to sit over by Tuba and say, “Tuba, everything you play, I’m, going to steal it.”
But it’s real hard to play in what we call a “street” brass band and then go and play in one of those jazz clubs. I like to do both, like with the New Birth.
At one time, there were only a few social and pleasure clubs, but now there are many of them. They like the street brass—something about playing from the soul, the heart. Also, there are some clubs that don’t want anything but traditional music, even some of the younger clubs.
The music changes just like the seasons of the year. I can stay up with it, no problem. But it’s still hard to make the switch. It takes time to make the adjustment—the feeling is totally different. I mean you try and play a straight line with those chords behind you, you’re going to be stuck.
When I was coming up, I used to listen to a lot of Louis Armstrong on records—still do—but never tried to copy him. I know some on-the-way famous people right now that copy Louis note for note, but I never did that, that’s not me. You don’t have to: there’s enough out there to give you plenty of inspiration.
Edgar “Sarge” Smith, Bass Horn
BORN: New Orleans, February 22, 1948
Played with Doc Paulin, co-led the Majestic Brass Band with Flo Anckle, played with Dejan’s Olympia Brass Band for eighteen years; currently with Andrew Hall’s Society Brass Band
Interviewed at 3621 Burgundy Street, October 2002
Before crack became an epidemic in New Orleans, we had the opportunity to see what it could do in New York City. It was like “When this gets to New Orleans, it’s gonna fuck some shit up.” Lo and behold.
— KEITH FRAZIER
And some of those smart kids who think you have to be completely knocked out to be a good hornman are just plain crazy. It isn’t true. I know, believe me.
— CHARLIE PARKER,
Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya
Purely from the music standpoint, the Olympia Brass Band was the crossover. It was the fork in the road, especially after Milton Batiste and Ernest [“Doc”] Watson and Boogie Breaux got in the band. Milton Batiste had played rhythm and blues, and so had Boogie and Doc Watson. When you get guys like that, who have a different insight into music, then you’re gonna have that change. They still feel compassion for the old standards and the traditional music, but they want to add a little spice to the gumbo. That’s the whole New Orleans thing: what you add to the gumbo. It opened up a lot of different avenues.
I was working with the Majestic Brass Band led by Himas Floyd Anckle, better known as “Flo.” He had a bebop and rock ’n’ roll background. He had worked with a lot of the big names; he played tenor and alto saxophones. He was a real good musician, could read anything. Flo was a restless type of person. I had first met him when we worked together in Doc Paulin’s band. We decided to leave that band and do our own thing. We wanted to try something else. We heard things like the Olympia playing “Hey Pocky Way.” They “were the first brass band to do it; they called it “Tuba Fats.” Milton infused other things like “Hi Heel Sneakers.”
Flo and I listened and thought we could do the same sort of thing. He was very much influenced by Louis Jordan, and he wanted to take that music to the street. We had Cyrille Salvant on cornet, Joe Taylor on bass drum, Lawrence Trotter on snare, Ayward Johnson on trombone, I was on trombone, and Tuba Fats was helping us out on bass horn. That’s what inspired me to play sousaphone; up to then I had been playing trombone.
We started doing funerals, and a lot of people started to pay attention to us. That’s how we got Jazz Fest in 1977. We got rave reviews. The only surviving members of that band besides me are Jerome Davis, Daryl Smith, Joe Taylor, and Daryl Walker. Then we got Joe Salisbury in the band on sax. The trend was getting the so-called genuine musicians—guys who could read, do parts, and play harmonies correctly. Later on, we had Greg Davis on trumpet for a while. We always had three trumpets playing three-part harmony. Two saxes and two trombones in harmony, bass horn, and two drummers.
Greg stayed with us a couple of years, and then he started the Dirty Dozen with Roger Lewis, who I think is one of the greatest reed men we have. He plays all reed instruments equally well, and you don’t find that with a lot of musicians. He’s dedicated himself to his craft—he’s an excellent reader and an excellent orchestrator. He reads all the directions— if it says “pianissimo,” you don’t have to stop and say, “Wait, let’s do that part softly.”
I remember we were at Lawrence Trotter’s house for a practice one Sunday, and Greg Davis told us, “I’m not going to be able to work with you so much. I’m starting my own band.”
The Dirty Dozen started setting a different pace. They just picked it up—respected the traditional music but came up with their own thing. There’s a lot of people who say they’re not respecting the music, but I have to question their understanding.
The Dirty Dozen was number one for musicianship. The younger bands have the enthusiasm and fire, but they don’t have the know-how. I’m not knocking, but I have to say, there are very few young brass bands that are paying their dues. Straight out of school, straight on the street. Guys say to me, “You still playing that old style.” I tell them, “Well, it works. I’m playing what the tuba’s supposed to play. Not trumpet or saxophone parts.” I’m just glad that there’s some younger musicians who are serious. Steve Johnson, the trombone player, comes to mind, and so do Jeffrey Hills on tuba, and Steve’s brother, Ronell.
When the Dozen came on the street, they played a lot of cerebral music. Some of the younger musicians couldn’t catch it, and they started using drugs. Get this right: I’m not saying that the Dirty Dozen encouraged drugs—they didn’t. But some guys don’t know how to separate realism from foolishness. That’s the whole thing. I don’t want to get into naming names, but we have some fantastic musicians who would be even greater if they only would stop using drugs, and I’ve had to counsel them. They come to my counseling office and talk to me; their wives come to my office and talk to me. They need help because of their addiction problem.
I’ve been doing that work for twenty-six years. The whole crac
k thing didn’t come from the music. It was introduced into the schools by some criminally diseased minds to institute drugs in society. And the best way to make dope a staple in society is to put it in the schools. They pushed it in the school grounds to kids who were not mentally ready to face it. They had no concept of where tomorrow was going to come from. We’re talking heroin, we’re talking crystal meth, we’re talking angel dust, things of this nature, sweeping through the schools like a plague.
The effect was devastating. A lot of musicians with time on their hands and money in their pockets found themselves at a point where they could experiment. So they’d buy a little angel dust. Start off by putting a little dust with some weed and smoke it. Then they start cooking up some heroin and smoking that, which is the worst way to be under that spell. It gets into your system faster.
I’m not going to sit here and tell you I’m Johnny Good—I’ve done a wide range of things myself in my time. One of them was smoking a bit of marijuana, but that gage makes me get fat—I can’t afford that. I was the type of person that likes to be in control.
At one time, society seemed to treat drugs as a joke. You’d get comedians on stage making jokes about getting high and making jokes about seeing someone overdose. That kind of thing makes it acceptable, like, “If they can laugh about it, I can use it.” Some of these guys I counsel say, “You like to eat. You’re addicted too—you’re just as bad.” But the point is I’m not breaking into houses to go buy a poboy.
I ask people, “Do you realize where you are? See yourself: where do you expect to be? Before you answer, think about it. If you want help, I’m there for you day and night. But if you’re just going to say things to placate me, I don’t need it.” I let them know the things I had to kick for myself. I didn’t do a twelve-step program. The only thing I did was bend my knees and pray. In my case, I had a problem with alcohol. I loved my beer! Ricky Monie and I would go anywhere; he’d say to the bartender, “Give us two beers,” and I’d say, “And give us two beers.” It got worse.
Kicking any kind of addiction has to begin with the person you have to make up your mind that you want to stop—you have to see what you can lose. As far as being a musician, you lose a lot of your patience, and then you lose a lot of your talent. Because, instead of worrying what comes out of the horn, you’re worried about going out and getting some stuff and getting loaded. Then you start losing gigs, and you lose your credibility—if you keep on, you lose your soul. It’s like working with a zombie. I don’t profess to be any kind of goody-goody, but I know what it took for me, and I can only talk about that from my standpoint. It’s a thing where you want to quit, and you need to quit.
The birth of my son was a big factor to me. We had to be two sober parents to bring up our child in a house full of love and sobriety. Nowadays, I may have a social glass of wine every three months.
I quit drinking in 1981, and that summer, I went to Europe with the Olympia. We went to Germany and finished up in Munich—you know that’s where they have the best beer. Everybody in the band—including Watson—was saying, “Come on, Edgar, have a beer.” They goaded me for three weeks. Oh man, that blond beer looked great in those big frosted steins. I just sat there. Everybody was having a joke; Harold was laughing, “Come on, cuz, have one with me.” They knew what I was doing, and they were helping—thej were testing me. I didn’t understand; I would go back to my room, and I would be mad. I thought, “Mother fuckers, pulling that shit on me.” Harold Dejan, being the gentleman he is, called me up a couple of days after we got home. He said, “Edgar, I’m proud of you. You know, we did that intentionally, to see just where your head was.” He had got together with Milton and Watson and said, “Let’s find out exactly where Edgar stands on this.” There’ll never be another Harold—no one will ever come close.
The drug problem in New Orleans isn’t improving. The minute we get a handle on one problem, something else comes up. Now heroin is back—that’s bad, bad, bad. You can get black tar heroin, white horse—all kinds of heroin, different versions of it. Once you think you’ve beat one villain, back comes an old enemy you thought you had subdued.
We have a program at my church called the “A Team.” It’s a group of ex-users who decided, with prayer and abstinence, that they would never do drugs again and would help others. You see a lot of churches doing this now, but ours was one of the first churches to come out against drugs and go out in the community. That’s the Christian Unity Baptist Church, at 1700 Conti.
We don’t have any federal sponsorship or city money; this program is purely generated by the church. We have a vast number of members, but we’re not one of those mega churches that gets on TV, asking for money: you get preaching for two minutes, and asking for money for the other twenty-eight. We’re a community church, made up of imperfect people—we listen to the perfect word. We don’t have healing salve, we don’t speak in tongues, we don’t rock chandeliers, none of that crap. These faith healers are just skills—if you can cure people, why not take it to the hospitals?
Our church has had the Olympia Brass Band, the Tremé, and the Dirty Dozen. “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”
Donna Poniatowski-Sims, Venue Proprietor
Interviewed at Donna’s Bar and Grill, St. Ann and Rampart Streets, November 2002
Donna’s Bar and Grill
Photo by Barry Martyn
I was born right here in New Orleans, so I grew up with an understanding of what the music is all about. I stayed here until I was five and then went away to school. It was at the age of eighteen that I came back, after I graduated. I always loved it—my first husband and I had a little place on Bourbon Street where a lot of musicians like the French brothers, George and Bob, used to come; that was back in 1977. The Olympia and all the older brass bands were around then, but not the younger ones.
The Tremé Brass Band didn’t get going until about 1991—they were the first brass band we had in here. I knew about the brass band tradition, and I’d seen brass bands. But in the past the brass bands were rather limited to the jazz funerals, and that’s one big difference between them and the younger bands.
My first husband had always planned to have a place like this. When we had the Bourbon Street place, we also had three very small children, so I couldn’t put in the time. You know, when you run a small business, you have to put in more time than when you run a large business. We moved to Florida, and I was teaching there. But we always said that when we retired, we’d open a little jazz bar. So I stayed over there about two years, and then I decided to do what we had always said we would do together. I didn’t have any real plans, but settled on this place. We started off kind of slow, as far as featuring the brass bands; I just played them largely on weekends.
Also, through me knowing Benny Jones, Kermit Ruffins started here on Monday nights. Then we added the Soul Rebels, because they had a new hip-hop brass band sound; there was a market for that. I told my husband Charlie, “If we stick to New Orleans music, we’ll never be big, but we’ll have our niche.” We also had the New Birth, and the Pinstripe played in here for about three years. Then the leader of Pinstripe got his own place for a while, so he stopped playing in here.
I figured the brass bands would last about three years in here, and that’s what happened. Basically, we’re a small place. As the brass bands started to fill the place up, other clubs started seeing a market for them. That was in direct competition with us, especially on weekends. So some of the brass bands would prefer to play at Tipitina’s—I never figured out why, because they got their gigs out of playing here, and they weren’t being paid more at those other places. I guess they must have thought that the other clubs were more prestigious.
I really regret what happened, but as I phased the brass bands out, no one else was booking them either. You don’t see the brass bands much today in clubs. The only one that’s playing a lot is the Rebirth, and they’ve always kept the Tuesday night at the Maple Leaf. Le Bon Temps Roulé on
Magazine Street sort of picked up where we left off. The young brass bands didn’t know me and that I knew the older musicians. So they didn’t understand that I had an alternative to presenting the brass bands.
Looking back on it, I enjoyed having those bands here. We never did profit much from it. When we started to phase them out, we had acquired a reputation for New Orleans music. Financially, we do a lot better now—smaller bands, bigger crowds, for the most part.
Several things contributed to stopping the brass bands. Ruddley Thibodeaux, leader of the Algiers, had a lot of problems within the band—illness and so forth, and his wife was ill. So he was having a hard time keeping the band together. The Soul Rebels changed their music totally—they went into a more hard rap style, which didn’t really fit in with the audience that I have here. New Birth just sort of faded out and started playing mostly at the House of Blues or Tipitina’s. Our main bands were Tremé, Soul Rebels, New Birth, Algiers, and Pinstripe. And Mahogany played here on Sundays for quite a while. Brice Miller came in and asked us for a gig—he used to play here with the Algiers and the Tremé.
Most of the brass bands now just play mainly at festivals, that sort of thing. I’m glad that they have that opportunity. But the Tremé Brass Band still plays here, and we occasionally play another brass band.
Benny Jones probably influenced the younger bands more than anybody, because he’s always found a place for the younger musicians to play in his band. He makes no bones about it—he calls his band the Tremé because he uses the musicians from that neighborhood. Quite a few of the kids got their start with him.
Ruddley Thibodeaux, Trumpet
BORN: Algiers, Louisiana, 1948 Founder and leader of the Algiers Brass Band