Tag: Ben Jaffe

The Raw Reckoning of Desire: A Conversation with Suzanne Santo

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Articulating desire can be a fraught act, especially for women. In many ways, the patriarchal mindset still undergirding society isn’t comfortable with women wanting things, let alone sharing what those things might be. Speaking about desire, therefore, denotes a kind of rebellion. Suzanne Santo, one half of the harmony-drenched duo HoneyHoney, sets loose her desires — all her longings, cravings, and lusts — on her debut solo album, Ruby Red. Named after Butch Walker’s studio where she recorded it, Ruby Red sees desire flicker up like a fire lapping at the atmosphere’s oxygen and growing bolder with each inhale.

The album’s first track, “Handshake,” is a raw, sensual reckoning that blurs the lines between want and need after a relationship ends. “I ain’t your friend, babe. I don’t want a handshake. I need a piece, I need a taste,” she sings, her voice practically quavering for her lover, who wants to shift their label. Santo isn’t prepared to fake it. She doesn’t want to be friends. “Don’t water down my whiskey, babe,” she crows, her voice full of a mettle that gives these declarations an intoxicating power. This is not a shy record.

Ruby Red runs electric with crackling confessions: about who Santo is, who she wants to be, and the many way she’s failed both those identities. But she continually bores beneath the surface, looking for answers that might offer some form of understanding in one song or a greater sense of empowerment in another. After 10 years with HoneyHoney and partner Benjamin Jaffe — both in the studio and out — by her side, Santo is shaking off any preconceptions and laying bare her desires.

What was it you set out to learn outside HoneyHoney?

It wasn’t so much setting out to learn — though I learned a lot — but we were just tired. We love each other a lot and, if you spend that much time with anybody, you start to not appreciate it anymore. The past year, we haven’t toured hardly at all, but we’ve had some great flat-out dates, and every time we’ve played together, it has been so much fun. That’s sort of what we set out to do — an absence makes the heart grow fonder kind of thing.

But at the same time, when I was in the studio without Ben, I was blown away by what I was capable of. We both played these roles in the band for a really long time, and you get used to a certain gear; then you take the other element out of the equation, and it was amazing. I never thought I could do arrangements. I never thought I could produce as much as I did (with Butch). Butch and I worked together a lot; he’s such a safe place to try stuff. This was such a bonus to have all those things revealed to me. I’m really interested in engineering now and working on my own stuff in that way because I never thought I could do that. I don’t want to approach this from a feminist standpoint, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t say I’m usually the only woman in the studio. I don’t want to do things “just because,” but I did have that reignited sense, like, “Oh, wow, I can do this.” I found my boner for it. It’s super scary because it’s like learning a new language.

If you only ever remain in your comfort zone, you never learn what you’re truly capable of.

That’s kind of where I feel the whole world is at right now. Even though some of it is really scary, it’s par for the course of real change that needs to happen. This is when the most extraordinary things happen, and I hope people will continue to evolve toward the happier, more positive things rather than all this shit.

Hopefully! Whether or not it comes to fruition, I don’t know. But hopefully.

I have to tell you something really funny: I have this one friend who really started throwing himself into the brick wall of politics by writing diatribes. Yes, it’s good to be informed, but the vehemence of his blogs … But in the interim of his meltdown, his girlfriend thought it was a good idea to foster a litter of kittens. There’d be these heinous posts and these adorable photos of kittens.

So, he’s basically running Twitter.

Yes, totally. I had to tell you that because I think it’s amazing.

There are definitely people who are angry at what they’re seeing, but they’re not channeling it properly into action. It’s just more verbiage we need to parse through. So, yeah, we could all use more kittens.

What’s even funnier … he’s a very talented engineer and, when I got my test pressing for my vinyl a couple weeks ago, I went to his house. What was so great is that I got to sit and listen to my record surrounded by kittens. I had three in my lap. It was one of the greatest days of my life.

What a contrast between what you’re singing and what you’re experiencing with the kittens.

Oh, it was not lost on me. It was hilarious.

Actually, so speaking about your friend’s writing … I’m interested in your relationship with words. In “Best Out of Me,” you talk about words as shrapnel. And you also mention you’re unloading your gun in “Bullets,” which I took to be you being quiet and not using words in such an aggressive way. How are you thinking of your own writing and its power and its impact, especially in this day and age?

I, too, have anger, but I internalize it a little bit more, and I usually make war on myself. That’s something I struggle with and work really hard to get through. The overall recurrent theme of this record is accountability and recognizing these things, and being okay being wrong, and making sure I know where the source is coming from. “The Wrong Man” is really important to me because, much like the political word vomit that comes out, a lot of time, you’re shooting the wrong man. It’s really easy to be angry about this one thing, but in general, there are other things going on that we all need to figure out. We have to be accountable, we have to be able to recognize our own shortcomings, to say “I’m sorry” and mean it. “Bullets,” especially, is about letting it go.

In some of the songs you’ve done as HoneyHoney, that nuance gets played out in really compelling ways. You’re never willing to lay blame on someone; it’s always about culpability. I’m thinking of “Yours to Bear” off 3. I can see how this theme is playing out in Ruby Red. How, then, are you pushing it even further now that you’re writing more on your own?

I’ve never been drawn to “fuck you” music. Don’t get me wrong: I love Rage Against the Machine, but that’s a different kind of songwriting. I have a lot of really great friends, and I’ve been through some traumatic stuff in my life and have had to go into some serious therapy to reconcile some really difficult stuff. I’ve never been drawn to victimizing myself, or it’s really hard for me to connect with someone whose definition is what’s happened to them. At the same time, what’s happened to you molds who you are. It’s your relationship to it. I heard this quote once when I was really grieving, and it was so hard, but it’s so true: “Suffering is an invitation for wisdom.” But it’s only an invitation. It’s not like, once you start suffering, you have this gateway of knowledge. You have to sit with that shit and clean it off and understand it; it usually comes back when you don’t expect it to. I think, if I didn’t play music, I would want to be a therapist or always working with people in a psychiatric way.

You seem really interested in sorting things out, digging beneath surfaces.

Yeah, and giving everybody the benefit of the doubt, too. I don’t push my therapy on other people. I don’t push my specific journey. I see that a lot, where people are like, “Oh my God, I know exactly how you feel. I’ve been through that, too.” I think that’s a really insensitive thing to say to somebody because you never know how someone is feeling. Know that you can talk and be a comfort — it’s welcomed — but everybody’s got a different suitcase.

Absolutely. And navigating an artistic career that can take you away from a sense of stability means that you’re more reliant on yourself.

Right now, I’m kind of going through some loneliness. Ben and I are still partners in HoneyHoney and we still have HoneyHoney stuff, but there’s definitely this lone wolf thing. I still have really good friends, but you have to go through your stuff on your own. I’ve also lost some friends. When you get older and people change, that’s been really hard. I don’t have a crew. I think that loneliness gets enhanced the more I’m gone. It’s up to me to make sure I maintain contact with people, which I have no pride about. That’s totally fine. I have that loneliness to contend with, but it doesn’t sink my ship.

It’s definitely a space to figure out as you get into your 30s when friends are making different life choices. If you’re going to walk a different path, you have to be comfortable with who you are.

You know, Ben and I were together romantically, and it was so hard. We got to a point where we had to make this separation — I haven’t told anybody this, but I think it’s probably a little obvious — and we needed to heal. We still talk all the time, and we have business decisions to make, and if he needs me, I am there, and if I need him, he is there. But there’s still this parting of ways that we’re consciously doing to have a healthier life. Being in my 30s, there’s a lot of rebuilding happening in order to facilitate that empty space. What’s really cool is, we love the band, and we want the band to continue making records, but we’re not ready for that yet. Don’t get me wrong: There’s no ill will. To become privy to how beautiful of a separation it is, and that people can do it, I feel so lucky that that’s what I have.

And also the space that it’s opened up for you to get to know yourself again and find new creative fulfillments.

It’s great and, like I said, whenever we get together we’re making the best music we ever made. We’re not buried in it anymore, now it’s a choice. That’s how it started, originally. Like a lot of things in life, if you get too much of something, it gets overwhelming.

So true. Well, women are still criticized for expressing their desires and, to me, you so perfectly slap that in the face, especially that line in “Handshake” about “Don’t water down my whiskey, babe.” How long did it take you to find that strength and wear it so proudly?

Wow, thank you. I’ll be honest, when I wrote it and recorded it, I had a real freak out afterward. I was like, “This is so raw. This is so revealing. There’s sex in here. There’s drugs.” I had to sit with it for a minute and find my courage, I guess. I sent it to my parents, and I got a voicemail from my dad. He started crying at some point — I still have it — and he said, “Just got done listening to your filthy, raunchy, beautiful, incredible record. I’m so proud of you.” He told me, “You’re so brave, and please don’t stop telling stories.” For my dad to be, like, “It’s okay. You’re human.” I feel comfortable having these stories as a reflection of myself, but it’s also a piece of art. That is empowering because I think sometimes people have a hard time separating the actor, but they’re a different person in real life. I think music is similar to that, in a way, but I feel really comfortable now. But definitely, at first, I shocked myself. Like, “Oh, shit. Okay, this is very sexy.”

That is the perfect word for it.

I want to write happy songs, but they just keep coming out like this! I think that’s a real anthem for most of my life: authentic. Any of the fabrications or subterfuge that’s created, it never feels right, and even if it’s hard to accept the truth or it’s not as romantic, I’d so much rather have that than some watered down version or something that’s not real.

Photo credit: Marina Chavez

Preservation Hall: Honoring Time’s Tradition

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New Orleans is home of the Bs: bayous, beignets, broils, Bourbon Street, and, most importantly, brass bands. Day and night, music wafts into the streets, carrying with it the history, traditions, and culture of this vibrant city. This is especially true on Sundays. In the afternoon, the air is thick with horn melodies and drum lines, as the time-honored tradition known as the second line parade takes place. Second lines are a derivative of the customary jazz funerals that used to occur in New Orleans: Marching bands would play during the procession to the cemetery to lay the casket, and they were known as the first line. Prior to integration, Black cemeteries were located outside of town, meaning that the walk back was a long one. But the band would continue to play. Passersby who heard the music were welcome to join in the procession behind the band, even if they didn’t know who had died. These people formed what was dubbed the second line.

Back in 1961, Pennsylvania natives Allan and Sandra Jaffe came upon one of these parades when they were visiting New Orleans on their honeymoon. They followed a brass band down the French Quarter and wound up at an art gallery at 726 St. Peter Street. A gathering place for artists, musicians, writers, and actors, the gallery immediately drew the Jaffes in. They permanently relocated to New Orleans and bought the gallery, transforming it into Preservation Hall. Although he wasn’t a jazz player, Allan had strong ties to horn instruments: He went to military college on a tuba scholarship and played in the marching band. With Preservation Hall, Allan and his wife set out to do just that — preserve. At that time, jazz was dying, and the couple wanted to bolster and continue the distinctly American tradition.

Together, they pulled it off. Sandra would work the door, taking money and deciding who could come into the club, while Allan would scout musicians around town and put bands together. Although Preservation Hall is now considered an institution, it was revolutionary when it opened. New Orleans was still segregated during that time and it was against the law for Black and white musicians to perform together. Nevertheless, legendary musicians like Allen Toussaint and Mac Rebennack (better known as Dr. John) would find each other and collaborate. In fact, Allan broke the 1956 law outlawing integrated entertainment when he joined the band on tuba. Preservation Hall became the only place in New Orleans where Black and white people were congregating openly, both in the crowd and on stage.

The Preservation Hall Jazz Band formed in 1963, becoming the touring version of the club’s house band. For over 50 years, the rotating eight-piece has kept its home base at Preservation Hall while cultivating and spreading New Orleans brass band jazz around the world. Allan and Sandra’s son, Ben Jaffe, is the current creative director and plays tuba and upright bass in the band. In 2014, he appeared on Sonic Highways, an HBO special chronicling the recording of the Foo Fighters’ album by the same name. The group went to eight different cities to record individual tracks, and Preservation Hall was one of the selected recording spots. Throughout the course of the featured episode, Ben explains the significance of the New Orleans sound, which spawned musical heavyweights like Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino, the Neville Brothers, the Meters, and even Little Richard, who recorded his early hits in the city.

“Rock ‘n’ roll is really the evolution of jazz,” Ben Jaffe says. “When Louis Armstrong’s Hot Seven albums came out, people lost their minds. It was punk-rock. It was out of control. A lot of the jazz musicians became the first wave of rock ‘n’ roll musicians.”

Sonic Highways is one of countless documentaries and collaborations Preservation Hall Jazz Band has participated in over the years. Their project with frequent collaborators My Morning Jacket was the subject of Danny Clinch’s 2011 documentary Live from Preservation Hall: A Louisiana Fairytale. In one notable scene, My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James sums up the power of Preservation Hall: “Every time I’m in this space, I feel like there’s something inside of me that wasn’t there before,” he says.

Perhaps it has something to do with that New Orleans voodoo, but Preservation Hall certainly has a vibe all its own. It was built in 1750 as a Spanish tavern and once served as a photography studio where uptown aristocrats would come to get their portraits taken. But the small space hasn’t changed much. About 100 people can pack tightly into the room and there’s no air conditioning, no microphones, and hardly any seating. It’s all part of the mojo.

After Hurricane Katrina hit, there was an even bigger focus on the city’s intrinsic sound and, by proxy, Preservation Hall. Seven of the band’s eight members lost their houses and they, along with the rest of the city, used the culture to help guide them home. Although New Orleans is known as the Deep South, part of its rich heritage stems from being the northern-most part of the Caribbean. It was the largest port for a century, serving as the entry point for Africa, South America, and Central America. It was the port where Africans were brought into the United States and sold for slavery. It was also where goods and ideas were exchanged, leading to a giant mixing pot of musical stylings including Spanish melodies to African rhythms.

At Preservation Hall, traditions are passed on in the same way they were handed down. In this way, Preservation Hall Jazz Band has managed to celebrate the essence of New Orleans while maintaining cultural relevancy. At the Country Music Awards, they shared the stage with Maren Morris and the McCrary Sisters and, this summer, they’re hitting major festivals like Bonnaroo and Coachella to support the release of their new album, So It Is, a collection of new original music dropping April 21. Meanwhile, Preservation Hall still hosts music every night of the week. To ensure that the music thrives in the next generation, Jaffe also runs an after-school program at the Hall where young students learn from seasoned veterans, most of whom inherited their spots in the band. New Orleans is music, and it’s through this sense of community that it maintains its vitality.

Photo credit: Danny Clinch