Tag: jazz

Keeping the Culture Alive: A Conversation with Trombone Shorty

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If recent reports are to be believed, New Orleans has usurped Las Vegas’s drunken, fluorescent-pink crown as the go-to spot for bachelorette parties. Gaggles of girls trouncing down the Tremé sporting satin bride-to-be sashes are not an uncommon sight, as brash replaces the sound of brass that defined the city that Troy Andrews, known to most as Trombone Shorty, grew up in. Like everywhere with a deep and steely soul, gentrification has landed, bee to flower, and Andrews, who became a bandleader before most children had their training wheels removed, is intent on keeping that spirit alive: but in a way that makes sense for the modern world, not despite it.

On Parking Lot Symphony, his newest LP, Andrews collaborates with everyone from members of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros to Aloe Blacc, and has previously shared the stage with country, rock, and pop greats — including Dierks Bentley, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Madonna, to name a few. There’s a lot of arguing these days about how to best ensure that music keeps thriving in a bachelorette party-inundated, streaming- and synth-heavy world, and Andrews’ school — one that fuses R&B, jazz, blues, and big band — is the type to actually keep the art of song cogent. It’s full of tradition but never once traditional, rich in talent and technique, but never trying to fly out of reach.

The title track, written with Alex Ebert of Edward Sharpe and the album’s producer, Chris Seefried, is this dichotomy in action: It’s slick and funky but joyfully unpredictable, adorned with pulls of the trumpet that are as lyrical as the words itself. Parking Lot Symphony is partly inspired by a youth spent playing anywhere outside of four walls, marching down the Tremé in street parades, and partly by Andrews’ sponge-like approach to current culture — more often than not, he’s browsing the Spotify Global Top 50 over any individual record.

“We played everywhere from Jackson Square to parking lots, funerals, backyards, on street corners, on street cars, everywhere,” says Andrews. “So Parking Lot Symphony really means music can go anywhere, be played anywhere, and take you anywhere.” True to form, the record feels blissfully free of any sonic or physical walls.

It’s been four years since your last record (2013’s Say That to Say This) was released. Was there a song that kicked things off for this new collection and made you realize the direction you wanted to take things?

I don’t know if it was one song; it was more a process of letting inspiration come to me while I was traveling and working on the road. Then some sparks of inspiration would come up to do some new music, and I’d be writing a hook. I went into the studio by myself for two weeks and played all the instruments before I introduced the band to the songs. I wanted to get a bunch of ideas out first, then have the musicians play the parts better than I could while we perfected the arrangements.

You have such an interesting roster of co-­writers on the record: Kevin Griffin from Better Than Ezra, and Ebert amongst them. On “Familiar,” with Aloe Blacc, you even create a new palette you’ve called “trap funk.” What do you do to stay connected to every corner of music, regardless of genre?

I think it is a natural progression. When I grew up, I was listening to brass bands and I was listening to New Orleans hip-hop, so that is a part of my culture. I started, then, playing my horn to hip-hop beats and rock beats. It’s part of knowing where you come from, but trying to move the music forward.

You chose two covers for this record, both from local legends: “Here Come the Girls” by Allen Toussaint, and the Meters’ “Ain’t No Use.” What musical gaps were you hoping those would fill?

I didn’t want to play standard songs and, when I heard “‘Here Come the Girls,” even though it was written before I was born, I almost feel like it was written for me to perform. I just thought that the horns in “Here Come the Girls” would fit really well with the sound I was creating at this moment. “Ain’t No Use” is a song we have played live.­­ The Meters are New Orleans legends. Their sound to me is New Orleans, and you can hear in their music how they adapted and grew and expanded on the traditions they started in, which we try to do.

Is there a song on the record that you are most nervous to play live?

I don’t really get nervous, but singing, in general, for me, can be a little challenging. It’s easier and more natural for me to play than it is for me to hear my own voice. Singing feels more like jumping over a hurdle. And I feel like I really pushed myself vocally on this album and I’m looking forward to doing that in our shows, as well.

Speaking of nerves, you’ve played at the White House before. Would you do it now? Do you think musicians should be overtly political?

It’s a personal choice to be political or not, and I don’t want to tell anyone what to say. I did play four or five times for President Obama at the White House, and a few times were for Turnaround Arts to support arts education. Those were tremendous experiences because I also got to collaborate with kids, as well as some artists that I never thought I would get to play with. It was just great to be on stage there, be among some of the greatest musicians in the world, and be able to play in front of the President and the First Lady.

You’ve also played with country musicians like Dierks Bentley and Zac Brown. Do you enjoy modern country?

I love all music. Garth Brooks is probably right at the top of the list for me, as far as artists I respect and would love to work with. Seeing Zac Brown live when we toured with him, I learned a lot from that, how he plays with so much emotion. And playing with Dierks Bentley and with Little Big Town … you can just feel the power of their talent.

New Orleans is once again becoming one of the biggest tourist destinations — a hot destination for bachelorette parties with AirBnbs everywhere. Does that worry you? Do you ponder gentrification much?

It does, when I go to the old neighborhood and realize how many of the people who made it a special place aren’t there. The Tremé is the neighborhood where I grew up, but since the storm, many of the original Tremé people I grew up with can’t afford to stay there any more. So, in some ways, it is already a New Orleans that lives on in my music.

We’re in a world of synthesizers and automation — as a musician, do you think about instruments themselves being at risk long-term, and kids growing up not wanting to play an instrument? What do you think can be done to ensure we keep kids picking up guitars and trombones, not just computers?

I can remember playing and marching down the street in the Tremé. Without that, and the people around me who taught me or provided access to instruments, I wouldn’t be who I am. That’s why I feel the responsibility to carry on the traditions that raised me. I don’t want to wait until late in my career to give back. I want to do it while things are growing for me. I felt an unspoken responsibility to give back.

What do you hope people take away from this record emotionally?

My goal is to put out great New Orleans music, and I’ve taken everything that I’ve learned, everything I’m interested in, everything I’ve played onstage with different people from country and western, to rock ‘n’ roll, to funk, to hip-hop, and I’m just putting that in the context of my own tradition of what I grew up with in New Orleans. So I hope people take that you can be true to your roots and still make your own way forward.

Photo credit: Mathieu Bitton

Squared Roots: Pieta Brown Gets into the Rickie Lee Jones Groove

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There are some artists who defy every convention and expectation we attempt to impose upon them. Rickie Lee Jones is one of them. Right out of the gate, she played by her own rules and danced to her own very groovy drum. Her eponymous debut in 1979 — with stunning songs like “The Last Chance Texaco” and “Weasel and the White Boys Cool” — set her apart from and, really, above the fray, and that’s where she has stayed for her entire career which, thankfully, is still going strong all these decades later.

Similarly, Pieta Brown has followed her own artistic instincts to pursue a career in music outside the shadow cast by her father, folk master Greg Brown. With her past few releases, she has focused on a quieter, simpler sound anchored in atmosphere. Her seventh (and most recent) album, Postcards, continues to explore that form as well as the function of collaboration with other artists, including Carrie Rodriguez, Calexico, Mason Jennings, and others.   

What are the characteristics you think of first, when you think of Rickie Lee Jones?

Experimental. And open. And non-linear, I think. I guess those are the first few. Then, really, very individual and unique. Extremely.

Those are all perfect. Adventurous and feisty come to my mind, along with fearless.

Yeah. Fearless. That’s awesome.

That was something Tift Merritt and I talked about in regard to Linda Ronstadt. Is fearlessness just something that women have to have, no matter what they do?

Maybe. Or maybe it’s more that you might be really scared, but you’re willing to cut through that anyway. I was going to say, for sure, in the music industry, but I don’t think it’s particular to that at all, really.

Yeah. I thought about that, too.

It’s a very good question.

We won’t get to the bottom of it today, though. [Laughs]

[Laughs] No.

It struck me in reading up on Rickie Lee that her self-titled debut was released in March of 1979. She was on Saturday Night Live one month later and played Carnegie Hall three months after that.

Wow.

And then came her Grammy wins, six months after that. Success doesn’t get much more overnight than that.

Yeah, she hit it right out of the gate, for sure.

Can you imagine being thrown into the belly of the beast that quickly?

No, I can’t. Speaking of fearlessness … there must be some fearless streak and I’m not sure how deeply it’s hiding in me, but I was so shy that it was like breaking down major walls just to start even doing a show. So, no, I really can’t imagine that.

I do know, from talking to Iris [DeMent], it was a similar thing for her, in terms of her putting out her first album and being rocketed into the light. She said that was pretty wild, on a certain level.

I bet! Another thing that struck me was the fact that a quirky, jazz-tinged singer/songwriter had that kind of success, hit number five on the Billboard album chart. There’s no way that would happen today.

No. It wouldn’t. It’s interesting, isn’t it? I can’t even imagine how that would happen now. I think it could happen, but not to people who are presenting themselves as a singer/songwriter, even if that’s what they really are. It’s in another disguise, these days, it seems like.

Geography, also, for her … she moved around a lot and it seems to add a lot of colors to her palette.

I think that’s maybe something I intrinsically related to without realizing it. I moved around a ton, as a kid. In fact, the reason I was thinking about Rickie Lee Jones, when I got asked to do this … the thing I flashed on was, I think I must have been about 9 or 10 and I had moved around so many times by the age of 10 — I must’ve lived in 12 or 13 different places by the time I was that age. I had moved down to Alabama with my mom, but then for about eight months when I was 9 going on 10, I moved up to the Twin Cities with my dad.

And I’ll just never forget — it’s just burned into my mind as one of the strongest memories of my childhood — I came across a cassette that was in a pile. While we were living in the Twin Cities, I think we moved two or three times, just in that nine months. But, at this particular time, we were living in this upstairs apartment and there was an attic where I could go hang out by myself. I had a Walkman and I put that tape in. It was Rickie Lee Jones. I didn’t know anything about her. Nothing. And I was so mesmerized by her sound. I remember I played the song “Walk Away Renee” for an hour or two. I just sat up in that attic. It was kind of an emotional time for me because my parents were all haywire, and everybody was coming and going so I didn’t know what was going on. I don’t know why that song … I mean, the lyrics are pretty simple, but her sound and those words, it opened up another dimension for me or something. That’s why I chose her.

But, geography-wise, like you were saying, I moved around so much, too. And you can hear that in her music, like you said. So many textures and conversations and layers going on every time she sings. It’s super-cool.

I’m always fascinated by how geography informs an artist’s work For her, she grew up in Chicago, Arizona, and Olympia, then Southern California, New York, San Francisco, Paris, back to L.A., back to Tacoma … I think New Orleans is in there somewhere. You can hear all of those places coming through.

Yeah. It’s super-fascinating. I think another thing, for me at that age, a lot of the music I was hearing was in my family, of course, and the stuff that was on the radio. My mom liked jazz a lot, so I got a lot of early influences like Billie Holiday and stuff like that I heard. But I think hearing Rickie Lee Jones was the kind of thing where it’s like, “Okay, here’s this lady who sounds like no one else I’ve ever heard.” And she had all these different elements, but it didn’t sound confused. It sounded pure and really clear.

Did that bridge a gap for you, between your mom’s love of jazz to what you were hearing on the radio? Was she the in-between?

Yeah, I think so. And that family thing, with my dad being a songwriter, and my great-grandfather played the banjo and my great-grandmother played the pump organ. My grandmother played guitar. It was very rural. We got together pretty big family jams and it was a very rural sound. In fact, I found out later that my great-grandparents used to go down to North Carolina. They lived in southern Iowa. They would go down to North Carolina to jam, and bring that music back. So I always associated that kind of bluegrass sound with southern Iowa because that’s what I would hear and dance around to as a kid with my hat turned upside down. It was like, “Okay. This is what music sounds like.” So there was something about Rickie Lee Jones … I don’t know, just one of those moments in time.

I think, too, because I played piano. That was my first instrument from when I was really little. By that age, I was making up a lot of instrumentals and weird songs on the piano, but it wasn’t something I heard. So, when I heard this woman … I think, too, she has a childlike quality in her voice. So I thought, “Okay. Wow. This means this is possible.”

You’re right. It’s such an interesting juxtaposition between the simplicity and innocence in her voice and the complexity of the arrangements and compositions.

Yeah, right.

Then there’s just the pure creativity racing through her veins, to make a record like The Sermon on Exposition Boulevard in which she improvised her own impressions of various Biblical texts. Who would think of that?

[Laughs] It’s amazing. I got to see her play for the first time last year. It was a great show. The room was elevated. It was all those things. And another big thing for me is, she’s got the groove. She’s got that super-deep groove thing. She picks up her acoustic guitar and the groove is present as soon as she starts playing. So some of that is mixed in there, too. It’s very natural and real. It was great to hear her play live.

What’s your favorite album or era?

I love Traffic from Paradise. There’s a song on there called “Tigers” and I’ve listened to that album so much, in different periods. I went back yesterday and looked at the credits of that because I hadn’t listened to it in a few years. But that was engineered and mixed by a woman.

Julie Last.

Yes. Julie Last. Do you know about her?

I do. I know her, actually.

You know her?! I hope you tell her thank you for me because one of the reasons I love that album is because it sounds so good and so huge. It’s great. It sounds so good. I thought, “Who engineered that? I gotta find out.” I was excited to find out it was a woman. In all my record-making, I haven’t come across a ton of female engineers who are engineering and mixing the albums. And that record sounds so gigantic. It’s just so cool.

Chris Thile and Brad Mehldau: Playing Against Type

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The repertoire for mandolin and piano isn’t exactly teeming with arrangements. Compared to other duets, those two specific instruments haven’t conversed with one another as often, but consider that dearth a starting point from which anyone daring enough can create their own dialogue. Mandolinist Chris Thile and pianist Brad Mehldau, virtuosos in their own right, have concocted just such a conversation — by way of original composition and cover, alike — on their first duo debut album, Chris Thile & Brad Mehldau.

The pair first experimented with what they could “say” when they performed a handful of live shows together in 2011 and briefly toured later in 2013. But getting to the studio would take some time. Thile sums up the reason in one word. “Schedules,” he admits, with a sharp chuckle. “We both have pretty voracious appetites for musical projects, and we both love to perform. The little touring things that we had were always coming in the cracks of other projects.” Those projects ranged from Thile’s role in progressive bluegrass band Punch Brothers to Mehldau’s eponymous trio, as well as a whole host of solo, duo, and collaborative projects in between.

The two stay busy, to put it mildly.

Thanks to their respective projects, Thile and Mehldau have learned the art of accommodation, but embarking on this particular album required a novel approach. “I felt like Chris and I were orchestrating for each other a lot,” Mehldau says. “We were finding the right ‘instrument’ to play for each other. Sometimes Chris gave me a drum part during my piano solos, sometimes I gave him low cellos during his. That orchestrating is a big part of the fun of the project.” Beyond that, Thile and Mehldau needed to find a balance between airy mandolin and weighty piano. Mandolin lacks dynamic range. It excels at being soft — Thile compares all the ways it can “whisper” to the myth about the Inuit’s many words for “snow” — but other instruments tend to sacrifice their own clarity to make way for it. “The challenge for me was to not drown out Chris with the piano, because the instrument is simply louder and bigger,” Mehldau explains. “I really enjoyed that challenge, though.” Thile credits Mehldau’s ear with helping the two instruments find a shared space. “He’s such a sensitive listener,” he says. “He immediately intuits the potential issues.”

Listening, as an exercise, has shifted for Thile ever since he took over hosting A Prairie Home Companion. “I feel like my ears have grown four or five sizes,” he says about his new gig. “I’m listening to everything with far more open ears. I’ve often listened to music like, ‘What can this do for me and my musicianship?’ as opposed to listening for pure joy. But joy is improving. Within my craft, I can get so mercenary about it. That hunger to improve can result in unhealthy listening habits, and I feel like this show is actually helping me grow out of that.”

As critical as Thile may be about his listening habits, he has always heard outside the box. It’s a connection he shares with Mehldau. Both men have covered artists seemingly antithetical to their styles, such as Beyoncé or Nirvana but, in that kind of play, they’ve forged edifying creative spaces, and the same is true on Chris Thile & Brad Mehldau. The 11-track album features an array of covers. There’s Gillian Welch’s “Scarlet Town,” Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright,” the 17th-century Irish tune “Tabhair dom do Lámh,” and more. “I think the reason why it worked so well was because of the common musical ground Chris and I share,” Mehldau says. “Roots rock, Bach, Radiohead … a whole bunch of stuff.” In short, there’s a level of fanboy about the album.

Thile and Mehldau went back and forth trading favorite songs, some familiar and some not. Thile says, “He and I have operated that way for a long time, as individuals, whether it’s something we’re listening to because we love music and hope that this thing we’re listening to seeps into the stuff we’re creating on our own, or whether it ends up as a performance piece or something we record.”

One particular track shows off the imaginative possibilities inherent in piano and mandolin, or at least when Thile and Mehldau play them. It’s a striking seven-minute cover of the jazz standard “I Cover the Waterfront.” Mehldau takes over the song from Thile’s anxious mandolin shortly after the 1:30 mark, at which point Thile concentrates on singing. What results is one of his most diaphanous vocals thus far. “I really enjoyed it because I had all this time to listen,” he says about the song’s extended phrases. “So then it was like an out of body experience for me. When I would start singing, I didn’t feel like I was singing, I felt like I was listening to myself sing.”

If there’s a parallel to Billie Holiday’s infamous version, it’s because she influenced Thile. “It’s so mournful and beautiful and delicate but strong,” he says. Thile captures those qualities in bits and pieces, but puts his own hurt on the track, as well. Mehldau says, “I think it’s a double challenge for Chris when we think about the possibility of a cover. Sometimes with vocals, the original performance is so iconic, it’s not immediately clear what more there is to do. I was just thrilled by what Chris did with all the covers that he sang on — he got to the heart of what was great about the song in the first place, lyric included, but also just completely made it his own, in this very easy-going manner, like he wrote the tune himself.” Thile, for his part, admires what Mehldau accomplished on “I Cover the Waterfront,” calling it a “masterpiece of a solo.”

As much as Mehldau brings a jazz and classical sensibility to the album, playing with Thile revealed a new quality to his own style. “In some deeper sense that is hard to put in words, I really have discovered another kind of musical expression with Chris, but I would say it was like unearthing something inside of me that I didn’t know was there,” he says. “It’s definitely not the jazz guy from New York; it’s the hillbilly who was born in Jacksonville.”

Aside from covers, Thile and Mehldau include a handful of original compositions on their debut, like “Noise Machine,” a song about a restless infant and sleep loss. Thile wrote the song to his son Calvin, but it ends up taking on the form of an ode indirectly addressed to his wife, actress Claire Coffee. “Whatever I go through pales in comparison to what she goes through, and she has a full-time job,” he explains. “I’m doing what I can, but I travel and he needs her because he’s still nursing.” The song oscillates between explaining sleep’s incredible fun to Calvin and making sure he knows just how lucky he is to have the mother he does. “So I sing just above the noise machine. Your mother is a hero,” Thile sings on the chorus, extending his delivery while Mehldau dances around him on piano. In the lyrics’ nuanced construction, Thile hit his intended mark — a way to praise Coffee for all she does — without becoming overly saccharine about it. “I’m amazed at my wife and won’t hesitate to praise her, but a song where I’m like, ‘Baby you’re great,’ doesn’t feel like the right approach in this case,” he says. As for sleep, that’s still hard to come by in their house. “I wrote that song over a year ago now and I thought for sure it would only be relevant to me for a little while, but, no, it’s still very relevant,” he says.

Chris Thile & Brad Mehldau is, at turns, compelling, curious, and playful. The two create soothing music together because they bring such care and consideration for one another to the recording process. Each track contains a deep breath, of sorts — one that comes from Mehldau’s jazz approach and Thile’s bluegrass-tinged response. But Thile knows the real secret to the album’s success. It’s not a matter of experimentation or improvisation or the sheer gumption of taking two instruments and exploring the conversation that results. “The secret is for the piano player to be Brad Mehldau, and then it works real well,” he says with a laugh.

Lede illustration by Cat Ferraz.

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

3×3: Jones Street Station on Lead Belly, Yellow Mustard, and the New York Bluegrass Scene

Posted on by Amy Reitnouer

Artist: Jones Street Station
Hometown: Spread across the U.S. — Boston, Brooklyn, Chicago, San Francisco, Minneapolis
Latest Album: Wolf at the Door
Rejected Band Names: Formerly “the Jones Street Boys” named after a random gang in The Warriors

What song do you wish you had written?

“Walls of Time” and “The Weight” 

Who would be in your dream songwriter round?

Bob Dylan, Lead Belly, John Prine, Cole Porter, Willie Dixon, Bill Monroe, Buddy Holly, Joni Mitchell, Guy Clark

If the After-Life exists, what song will be playing when you arrive?

“Sweet Heaven When I Die,” of course

How often do you do laundry?

Lots

What was the last movie that you really loved?

The Big Short

If you could re-live one year of your life, which would it be and why?

23 when we met had just moved to N.Y. and found the bluegrass scene there.

What’s your favorite culinary spice?

Nutmeg

Morning person or night owl?

Night owls

Mustard or mayo?

Yellow mustard on a Chicago hot dog!

Squared Roots: Jonatha Brooke on the Rhythm and Groove of Joe Sample

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Music is full of innovators, some worthy of the word, some less so. Jazz pioneer Joe Sample certainly fits the former. Coming out of Houston, Texas, Sample's artistic roots ran deep and wide. And he wasn't afraid to let them reach into everything he did, blending blues, soul, gospel, and other forms into one. Sample started playing piano at the age of 5 and passed away, in 2014, at 75. In between, his main band project was the Crusaders, a jazz group based in Los Angeles, California, with which he crafted a lasting legacy before they (mostly) disbanded in 1987, despite a few reunion projects.

Jonatha Brooke, likewise, is an innovator within the folk-pop world that she has inhabited since her debut as half of the Story in 1991. Her literary lyrics and sophisticated harmonies somehow manage to both anchor and buoy the songs on the eight solo records she has released, including 2016's Midnight. Hallelujah. And then there are her deeply heartfelt musical theatre projects — one of which, Quadroon, was in development with Sample at the time of his death.

It makes sense to me why you'd pick Joe Sample because he's somebody who softens the complexity of jazz with the soulfulness of rootsier genres. From that perspective, I can totally hear his influence echoing through your work. Did I get that right?

Yeah. Yeah. I think that he, himself, would have said, in some ways, he had a real pop ear for melody. He was not trying to be complex or intellectual. He was just trying to write a great freaking melody. He just wanted to write a great song. He was passionate about it making a lot of sense. It's gotta feel like a complete idea: You state your theme and you have to make it musically make sense. It has to tell a story. There has to be an arc. He's a great storyteller, musically.

I get that. But, at least to my ear, jazz can't help but be a little bit complex. It's not just G-C-D — a three chords and the truth kind of thing.

No. It's so amazing how he voices his chords. They are richer than anything you've ever heard before. But it's deceptive with him. Some of his songs are absolutely simple, just three or four chords, but they're so rich in their embellishments and their harmonics, it gives you that extra bolt. Songs like “One Day I'll Fly Away,” “Street Life,” “When Your Life Was Low” … those are just beautiful, beautiful, classic, singable pop songs.

Again, I'm an absolute dummy about jazz, but I read up to learn that he and the Crusaders played hard bop, which is the bluesier cousin to bebop. School me on that.

[Laughs] Well, I'm gonna sound like an idiot …

Better you than me! [Laughs]

When Joe would tell stories about it … Full disclosure: My husband managed Joe for 35 years, so I got to get an earful, which was an amazing history of jazz and music. But he would always say that all the hard cats were in New York and the Crusaders were like, “Fuck this shit. Where's the melody? We're going to L.A.” [Laughs] And they did what they did, which was more melodic and less lanky, less intellectual and trying to impress people. They had soul. They wanted to keep that element in their approach to jazz.

There was a quote of his included in his New York Times obituary. It's perfect: “The jazz people hate the blues, the blues people hate rock, and the rock people hate jazz. But how can anyone hate music? We tend to not hate any form of music, so we blend it all together. And consequently, we’re always finding ourselves in big trouble with everybody.”

[Laughs] That's awesome! He used to tell this story on stage about this one Crusaders song, “Way Back Home.” Really simple song. Gorgeous, though. Simple, but make-you-cry beautiful. At one point, I guess it was on some kind of tape that the Symbionese Liberation Army was using for their brain-washing. So there were these pictures of Patty Hearst and this song in the background, so the FBI came after the Crusaders because they wanted to know what connection they had to Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army. [Laughs] Then they would play the song and it's almost like a hymn, really. The irony was just crazy.

[Laughs] That's hilarious. So they would get in trouble even when they had nothing to do with anything!

Exactly! [Laughs] They just got in trouble.

Too funny. So he started out on acoustic piano, but later gravitated toward electric keyboards. That must've opened up a whole, huge world of creativity for him.

I think so. And the way he played those instruments is absolutely iconic — the way he played the Rhodes and the Wurli. He has one of the most sampled catalogs in the world. The irony is that his name is Sample. I don't know anyone whose riffs and grooves have been more sampled than Joe's. It's those groovy Crusaders Wurli and Rhodes parts that are central to that vibe he would create, that rhythm-and-groove vibe that people are still craving.

Then, as session guy, he played with Joni Mitchell, Marvin Gaye, Miles Davis, Tina Turner, B. B. King, Minnie Riperton, Eric Clapton, and …

Chaka Khan!

Chaka-Chaka-Chaka-Chaka Khan. Yeah. Then he was working with his Creole Joe Band playing zydeco at the end. What sort of skill does it take to be that versatile?

Oh my God. Ridiculous, super-human skills. You have to have that good of an ear that you're always absorbing and still making it your own and turning it into a signature sound. He had all of that. He had the technical skills. He could just blow. But, also, he was always really working on the composition. That was his first-and-foremost love: “How can I make this a beautiful composition? Where should it go? What story am I telling?”

And there's not a single artist that I saw listed that isn't overflowing with soul, themselves, no matter what genre they're in. So, if they're calling on him, there has to be a kindred spirit there.

Yeah. And he would bring so much to the table. I'm surprised … well, I'm not surprised at all … but, often, I would imagine, he should've been a co-writer on many of those sessions because he was bringing it — bringing the groove, bringing the riff that created the song. But those were the days when session cats were just session cats.

Speaking of co-writers … perfect segue … Quadroon. Talk to me about that.

[Laughs] That's a really cool project. It's just devastating that he's not here to finish it. It's a beautiful, large, passionate story. It was his idea to write about this nun who lived in New Orleans in the 1830s. Her name was Henriette Delille and, in real life, she's in line for canonization at the Vatican. She was Creole, so she could pass for white. And, at that time, if you were in that category, you could become a quadroon — you could marry a wealthy, white merchant. Her mother was married to a French merchant. She was his second wife. She was the kept mistress wife of this very wealthy merchant. In some ways, in that time, it was a better option than trying to make it on your own.

Henriette's mom wanted her to go into this line of life called plaçage, but Henriette wanted to be a nun. She wanted to serve God. That was all she wanted, ever, from the time she was small. So, she bucked the system and ended up befriending this French priest. This is all true. And this French priest helped her with her ministry, got her recognized as a nun by the Vatican before she died. She ended up starting an orphanage. She had her own ministries. And she had these schools for poor Black kids and Joe ended up going to the schools that her sisters and followers still run in the Houston area — New Orleans and Houston.

Joe grew up hearing stories about Henriette Delille his whole life and, after he moved back to Houston a few years ago, he decided to research the story and talk to the nuns who were still in New Orleans. They gave him their blessing to write something about this amazing woman. So that's what we've been working on. It's called Quadroon. I think we wrote 20 songs before he passed away and we were able to do a small reading in Houston at the Ensemble Theatre before he died.

That's great. So you're gonna keep pushing forward?

I'm gonna keep pushing. I'm pushing on.

Since you did get to spend a good bit of time with him, what's either the lesson that's stayed with you or the impression of him that lingers for you. Linger … you see what I just did there?

HA! I see what you did there! [Laughs] I think it's that he never tired of creating music. He was really prolific. He always had a new idea. And he wasn't afraid of sucking. [Laughs] He didn't edit himself before it was time. He just let ideas flow. I'm left with memo recorders of hundreds of snippets of ideas that I can still work with. But he just kept writing stuff. That's my biggest inspiration. He was tireless. And he never repeated himself, too. His last record is called Children of the Sun with the NDR Bigband orchestra. It's a masterpiece. It should be an Alvin Ailey ballet. And then the Creole Joe band. And the musical. He was just incredible and I take such inspiration from him because he was 75 and still pumping out ideas!

Photos courtesy of the artists.

3×3: Ariel Bui on Southern Manners, Fiona Apple, and Analog-Loving Freaks

Posted on by Amy Reitnouer

Artist: Ariel Bui
Hometown: Nashville, TN (now)
Latest Album: Ariel Bui
Personal Nicknames: Ms. Ariel. In the South, it's considered polite to put "Ms." in front of ladies' first names, especially when you're also a piano teacher.​

What song do you wish you had written?
"I Know" by Fiona Apple

If money were no object, where would you live and what would you do? 
If money were no object, I'd build and live in an off-grid Earthship somewhere rural, but not too far from civilization and travel a lot from there. I love Taos, New Mexico, and the Mediterranean, and would love to travel the world and see where else I'd like to land. I want to learn more about my Vietnamese roots and would love to learn to play Vietnamese traditional folk instruments and songs. Also, if money were no object, I'd go all out with my art and compose an opera or a symphony, become an opera singer, learn to conduct, paint, weave baskets, knit, grow my own food, bird watch, volunteer all over the world with activist organizations, and do whatever I want.

If the After-Life exists, what song will be playing when you arrive?
"Videotape" by Radiohead

How often do you do laundry?
Not often enough. Probably every two to three weeks. Luckily, I have way too many hand-me-down clothes.

What was the last movie that you really loved?
Fight Club

If you could re-live one year of your life, which would it be and why? 
I would re-live 2015 — the year I recorded this album to analog tape with producer/engineer Andrija Tokic at the Bomb Shelter in East Nashville; the year I flew up to Brooklyn to be a part of the analog mastering process with Paul Gold at Salt Mastering; the year I collaborated with musicians Jon Estes, Dave Racine, Jem Cohen, Emma Berkey, and Lizzie Wright in the making of music. I truly enjoy being deep in the throes of the musically creative process, in a collaborative effort that is true to my artistic vision. Andrija is really fun to work with. He is a wonderful human and is very respectful of my integrity and artistic vision. He really brought forth his own genius to accentuate my songwriting, guitar playing, and singing, while introducing me to the otherworldly experience of working with amazing session musicians. I met so many other great people who float in and out of the Bomb Shelter, too, and I feel like I got inducted into some family of insanely talented, analog-loving freaks.

What's your favorite culinary spice?
Cinnamon

Morning person or night owl?
Night owl

Coffee or tea?
Tea

Photo credit: Jessica Ferguson

Squared Roots: Ryley Walker on the Off-Kilter Blues of Ali Farka Touré

Posted on by Editor

Dubbed “the African John Lee Hooker,” Ali Farka Touré rose out of obscurity, in terms of Western recognition, with a little help from Ry Cooder, when the two joined forces for Talking Timbuktu in 1994. Many more collaborations and accolades followed in the wake of that project, but Touré's success back home in Mali was marked by different measures. Singing in a number of languages — primarily Songhay, Fulfulde, Tamasheq or Bambara — he brought communities together and made voices heard. His legacy, musically and personally, lives on in the many African artists who have followed in his footsteps.

American artists, too, tread his past, including singer/songwriter/guitarist Ryley Walker. On his albums, like 2016's Golden Sings That Have Been Sung, Walker incorporates the cyclical, off-kilter rhythms he learned from listening to Touré. Casual listeners to his work might not single out his main reference point, but serious students of the form must surely admire his ability to bridge the gap between here and there, now and then.

I always like to start with broad strokes, so … why Ali Farka Touré, for you? Is he someone whose work you've studied pretty closely?

I first heard his music late in high school. I was kind of a sponge for world music, at the time. African and Brazilian. I was at a really good age to find that kind of music. I've always been kind of fascinated by off-kilter blues that's so present in that music. It's unlike anything else — really innovative. It relies on tradition. West African music is really forward-thinking, really progressive. It's the kind of music that anyone can enjoy, yet it's really complicated and insanely groovy. It's incredibly hypnotic. The number of languages he sings in is really incredible — like four or five different languages.

Like a lot of folks, my introduction to him was the Talking Timbuktu project he did with Ry Cooder. With a project like that, why is it so important to tie the threads together the way they did?

That record's really good. It was a huge record, too. I think it sold over a million copies and got all sorts of Grammys. It's a really incredible collaboration. I think Ry Cooder paid a lot of respect. He was really into it.

There are also the Red and Green records, those two records that were both self-titled, released in '84 and '88. Both of those records were inspired. They have to be some of my favorite records that he's ever done. There's a little Moody Blues saxophone thing on there. It just seems like you could go up to him and shake his hand and be like, “What's up, man?” He just seems so approachable. That's just kind of the scene — somewhere in Mali, just a bunch of guys hanging loose, just a normal day in Mali. And, yet, there are probably four languages on there. It's the rawest, purest form. They didn't try to slick the music up. A lot of his sounds are pretty slick, toward the end of his life. But this is just him, in his prime, making records with no Western audience, at the time.

I haven't seen Feel Like Going Home, the Scorsese documentary that he's featured in which traces the lineage of the blues. But, if American roots music goes back to the blues and the blues go back to African music, what do you hear as the similarities and differences between those forms?

I guess, yeah, it can all be traced back. It's a truly unique form of music. It's really original, the traditions that Ali Farka Touré's playing on. It definitely has some groove in there. But, before that, it was real folk music. It was just played by the baker down the street or the local blacksmith. It was just people. It wasn't a record label thing. It wasn't a monetary thing. It was just for them and their friends. It was real tradition. There's no pretension to it at all. It's just real music by real people.

You could go to a village — I mean, I've never been, but … it's not like you would go to a bar in Chicago and say, “Oh, these are musicians.” Everybody in these villages plays music. It's part of their DNA.

Right. It's similar to, still today, if you do down into the Delta, the old blues men are sitting on their porches and nobody's ever heard of them.

Yeah, absolutely. I agree. And Ali Farka Touré, for me, he's up there with [Jimi] Hendrix or anybody else. And his son is really good, too — Vieux Farka Touré. I don't know if you've heard of him.

I have. Yeah. And I was going to ask … who do you feel is carrying on his work? Obviously Vieux is among them and opening his arms far and wide to interesting collaborations.

He's really bad ass. He played a great concert in Chicago about five years ago in the park. He was absolutely ripping. His band was really smoking hot. He's had some questionable collaborations with American musicians. Because I'm such a huge fan of Ali Farka's, when Vieux's first solo record came out, I was like, “Man, I don't know …” But I think that record was as good as anything Ali Farka Touré's ever done.

I'm just fascinated by the whole circuit. They're born in really small villages, where there's no media or anything. And they could rise above it because they're such innovators that it caught on. That's really magical.

And how much of all that creeps into your music?

I think it really creeps into my music. There's always an off-kilter groove with the drums. It's a very cyclical music, instead of a four-four in American rock music. That cyclical, off-kilter thing where the grooves go into each other … I guess you could find a lot of that in Kraut rock, too. They took a lot from Ali Farka Touré, in terms of groove. Or if you listen to Fela Kuti or any of the big African rock stars. They have that cyclical sound where the rhythm and the temperament and the measurement so seamlessly go into each other without a big fill or stop. It feels really natural. I think I definitely try to incorporate that into my music. I rip off Ali Farka Touré religiously. [Laughs]

[Laughs] You're paying homage. You're doing it right.

Absolutely. I respect the hell out of his legacy. I appreciate the music every time I hear it.

How important is it for Westerners to pick up those torches and help carry them forward?

I don't know if it's important to them. It all depends on the listener and what they want from the music. There's music you can rock to. There's music you can worship, like me, and try to play like it, pay homage to it. I don't know. That's a really good question.

You're shining a light on this hero of yours through your work and through talking about him. So that helps spread his message and, hopefully, people will go back and listen to him. I'd say it's a community service.

I'd love to think of it as a community service. It's some of the most important music up there … like [John] Coltrane or Charles Mingus or Art Tatum or any great innovator. It's definitely important to keep the records on, keep the music going. I don't think I'm going to be in a West African band, by any means. [Laughs]

But I absolutely adore his music, ever since I first heard him. It's so captivating. Really beautiful and pure. The guy was so smart. In America, if you speak Spanish, it's like, “Whoa.” Or if you know French or German, it's more of a hobby. But there, you need to know all these languages for work because you have so many different cultures right around you, like the tribe in the next village with a different language and you need to make money and trade with them. So they learn so many languages and incorporate so many different cultures. There's so much different stuff going on there within 500 square miles and they incorporate that into the music. It's a beautiful thing.

Here is a fun and fascinating Wikipedia fact, which we'll take as the truth: “In 2004, Touré became mayor of Niafunké and spent his own money grading the roads, putting in sewer canals, and fueling a generator that provided the impoverished town with electricity.”

Damn!

That's a hero, right there.

That's pretty amazing. That's Robin Hood vibes. He seems like a good dude. Any footage you see of him playing, he's always surrounded by friends and family. That's really cool to me. And they'd sing along to the tunes, to this music they came up with. I guess he was sort of solely responsible for taking West African music around the world and making it popular. I don't know if it's super popular, but record collectors and fans of old music, he's solely responsible for that, him and a few others.

Love the blues? Check out our interview with Jimmy "Duck" Holmes.

Photo of Ryley Walker by Eric Sheehan. Photo of Ali Farka Touré courtesy of public domain.

Take This Hammer, Blow Your Kazoo: Skiffle in the 1950s and Beyond

Posted on by Editor

In July, 1954 — the same month that Elvis Presley unleashed his first two world-changing singles — a Scottish-born singer and trad-jazz musician named Lonnie Donegan released a cover of “Rock Island Line” with backing on washboard and bass. Inspired by the African-American singer Lead Belly, Donegan explains the rules of the rails in his spoken-word intro and includes the shouts and cries of the engineers. Though he strums his guitar in a persistent rhythm to evoke the chug and drive of a freight train, the song picks up speed along the way, finally achieving a breakneck momentum as Donegan’s high-pitched vocals grow wilder. It’s a remarkable performance, studious to the point of mimicry, yet reckless like a runaway train.

It took two years, but the single finally caught on and started climbing the British pop charts in 1956. Donegan followed it up with a full-length album, An Englishman Sings American Folk Songs, which became a massive hit on both sides of the Atlantic. In its wake, a series of like-minded folk acts starting popping up all over Britain: young men and women well-schooled in American folk music yet too irreverent and too wiley to be classified as traditional. Emphasizing ingenuity and spontaneity, they played rhythm guitar almost exclusively, along with whatever instruments happened to be on hand: usually kazoos, banjos, washboards, tea cabinet bass, and assorted homemade noisemakers. This was closer in spirit, if not in sound, to the rock 'n' roll coming out of the American South.

Thus was born skiffle, a short-lived scene with a lasting influence.

The word itself has a long history that reveals the concerns of its mid-century practitioners. Skiffle originated in the 1920s as a word to describe wild, impromptu jazz that mixed blues, ragtime, and folk. When Donegan and a few other musicians began playing sets of folk tunes during their trad-jazz shows, he called them “skiffle breaks,” borrowing the term from the semi-popular ‘30s jazz act the Dan Burley Skiffle Group. Eventually, the break would become the entire show, with Donegan and his small outfit often improvising their covers.

After the success of “Rock Island Line,” skiffle groups came out of the woodwork, with trad-jazz musicians migrating to this more lucrative market and kids picking up guitars for the first time. The Chas McDevitt Skiffle Group enjoyed a hit with a cover of Elizabeth Cotton’s “Freight Train” featuring Nancy Whiskey on vocals. A London outfit called the Vipers Skiffle Group — later known as simply the Vipers — rivaled Donegan as the trend’s guiding light, thanks to a string of smash singles like “Cumberland Gap” and “Don’t You Rock Me, Daddy-O” (which was produced by George Martin, later known as the Fifth Beatle). America even produced its own skiffle star, Johnny Duncan, who was born in Oliver Springs, Tennessee, but found fame in the clubs and charts of England with his 1957 hit “Last Train to San Fernando.”

As Rob Young writes in his indispensible 2010 guide to British folk music, Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music, “Skiffle’s accelerated swing rhythms and domestic equipment — kazoos, harmonicas, comb and paper — placed music-making in the hands of the amateur, as well as opening up a conduit for the dust-bowl and rust-belt blues and folk poetry of Woody Guthrie and Lead Belly to be siphoned into British ears.”

Like the trad-jazz scene and like the blues revival of the following decade, skiffle was a result of Britain’s obsession with American traditional music. During the post-war years, even as many musicians strove to define and preserve a specifically English folk tradition in pubs and social clubs, much of the country looked west for musical inspiration, finding it in the music made by poor Americans often in rural settings. Granted, those folk songs could be traced back to European sources, brought over by immigrants generations before and gradually mutated over the years, but by the middle of the 20th century, the music sounded distinctly American.

What distinguishes skiffle from imported jazz or blues is its emphasis on labor and class. Most of the main skiffle hits were about workers’ laments: engineers and linemen, sharecroppers and cotton pickers, migrants and chain gang prisoners. Weirdly, skiffle was viewed as largely apolitical at the time, a harmless fascination with another country’s past. However, the subject matter of these songs reinforces the populism that lies at the heart of all folk music, which likely made it more appealing to everyday Brits, especially teenagers.

As Alan Lomax noted at the time, “At first, it seemed very strange to me to hear these songs, which I had recorded from convicts in the prisons of the South, coming out of the mouths of young men who had suffered, comparatively speaking, so little. But I soon realized that these young people felt themselves to be in a prison — composed of class-and-caste lines, the shrinking British empire, the dull job, the lack of money … things like these. They were shouting at the prison walls, like so many Joshuas at the walls of Jericho.”

Skiffle left a mark on an entire generation of men and women who picked up guitars and created some of the best music of the 1960s. The list of musicians who started out in skiffle is long and impressive: Jimmy Page, David Gilmour, Ritchie Blackmore, Pete Townshend … even Cliff Richard. Van Morrison was not only a huge fan of the genre, but also recorded an album with Lonnie Donegan and Chris Barber in the late 1990s. And one obscure skiffle group from Liverpool eventually changed its name from the Quarrymen to the Beatles.

The craze lasted barely five years, replaced by the screams and shouts of American rock 'n' roll, which offered similar freedoms and pleasure. Skiffle remains a brief chapter in pop history, but its lasting influence belies its short life. Although it remains obscure today — unknown by pop fans and often overlooked by folkies — the genre reinforced the idea that popular music is often best left to the amateur, the unschooled, the self-taught: those artists who innovate intuitively, without anyone telling them what they can’t do.

Dewi Peter's Skiffle Group outside Kayser Bondor, Pentrebach C.1957. Photograph courtesy of Clive Morgan.

Traveler: Your Guide to New Orleans

Posted on by Editor

I’ve got a soft spot for New Orleans. No matter how many times I visit, I always find more to love. Tourism is the heart of New Orleans’ economy. In 2014, nearly 10 million people visited bringing in nearly $7 billion dollars. Everywhere you go, there is a celebration of New Orleans’ rich history — usually accompanied by lots of drinks and revelry. Needless to say, this town will show you a good time.

Getting There

For many travelers, getting to the destination is half the fun. Others prefer being there. If you are the latter, New Orleans is home to Louisiana’s largest airport. All major airlines fly to it. If you are the former, take the legendary Highway 61 — the Blues Highway. Be sure to stop in Clarksdale, Mississippi, which is home to juke joints and good eats. Also, take a photo at the crossroads where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul.

Accommodations


Hotel Saint Pierre. Photo credit: Numinosity (Gary J Wood) via Foter.com / CC BY-SA.

The fantastic Hotel Saint Pierre is not one building, but several historic buildings occupying both sides of an entire block nestled between the Tremé and the French Quarter. The Garden District House is another good choice, if you’re looking for an affordable, uptown hostel in the Garden District, a gorgeous neighborhood that is home to New Orleans’ elite where mansions and former plantations intermingle with upscale restaurants and cemeteries. Best of all, it is near the streetcars for quick access to downtown and the French Quarter.

If money is not an issue, class it up at the Roosevelt Hotel, a centrally located picture of luxury which houses some of New Orleans’ best restaurants and classiest bars. Even if you do not stay here, swing by for a drink and check out the lobby. (More on the Roosevelt further down.)

The business district is another solid choice that is easy on the pocketbook and within walking distance to the French Quarter. There are some great stays, like the Whitney Hotel. It is a former bank, has good rates, and offers a unique New Orleans experience.

Food


Boiled crawfish. Photo credit: kittenfc via Foter.com / CC BY.

In New Orleans, it is not where you eat, but what you eat. You need to get some crawfish. The Original French Market Restaurant is a good place to start. I recommend the crawfish boat — it comes with potatoes, sausage, and corn boiled with two pounds of crawfish to create a flavor assault on your mouth.

You also have to get a po’ boy. NOLA Poboys is a good spot in the French Quarter, but there are hundreds of others to choose from.

You need to get a beignet and it might as well be at Café De Monde, which is a New Orleans landmark dating back to 1862. Today, Café Du Monde is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week — only closed on Christmas Day and during the occasional hurricane. All the world’s beignets are judged against theirs, as they set the benchmark.

You should also eat a muffuletta. Central Deli and Grocery originally concocted this beast of a sandwich that consists of olive salad, mortadella, salami, mozzarella, ham, and provolone on a Sicilian bun. It is intense. Central Deli and Grocery is still operating, so swing by their Decatur Street location. You may want to split the sandwich.

When you are ready for a healthy meal, head down by the Warehouse Arts District to eat at Seed. It is a vegan restaurant, but your tastebuds won’t know it. Seed offers a variety of fresh juices and smoothies to help with hangovers, and their menu is a healthy version of classic New Orleans dishes for a good change of pace after all the po’ boys and muffulettas.

Drink


Sazeracs. Photo credit: susanna bolle via Foter.com / CC BY.

There is no shortage of bars in New Orleans. You must walk down Bourbon Street — get a to-go beer and have a nice stroll. Stop at Marie Laveau’s Voodoo Shop for souvenirs, and try to avoid tripping over the passed out frat boys. There’s a lot of fun amidst the chaos.

The sazerac was the first cocktail invented by Antoine Amédée Peychaud in 1838. When he died in 1893, the Grunewald Hotel acquired the rights. In 2009, the former Grunewald reopened as the Roosevelt. Swing by their Sazerac Room and enjoy this New Orleans cocktail.

If you love dive bars, check out Molly’s in the French Quarter. They have a great jukebox and cheap drinks. You can get a beer and a shot for $5. For outdoor seating, go to Pat O’Brien’s next to the Preservation Hall. Perfect for warm Southern nights, the cobblestoned patio tables are nestled amongst fountains and flora, while pianos duel inside.

Coffee


Café’ au lait and beignets. Photo credit: kaige via Foter.com / CC BY-ND.

You are already going to Café Du Monde for beignets, so you might as well get some of their famous chicory coffee. Though chicory was a coffee substitute during the Civil War, today, the coffee and chicory are mixed to create a wonderful earthy flavor with a hint of chocolate.

Mister Gregory’s on Rampart Street is another great coffee shop. It is a French casual café in a great location — far enough off the beaten path that you can sit for awhile, but not so far that your feet will get sore walking to it.

Live Music


Preservation Hall. Photo credit: Phil Roeder via Foter.com / CC BY.

The French Quarter is still home to some great live music. Fritzel’s European Jazz Bar on Bourbon Street is fantastic. On Sunday afternoons, they have stride piano and, every night, they have top-notch, live jazz. If you need convincing, check out Fritzel’s New Orleans Jazz Band on Spotify. There is never a cover, although there is a drink minimum.

Preservation Hall’s history, alone, is worth the admission, and the music makes it one of the best deals in town. Get there about 30 minutes early, as the room is small and sells out.

Frenchman Street is also home to a bustling live music scene. The Maison has some great jazz and funk in a large room with room to dance. I highly recommend visiting d.b.a on Monday nights. When he’s not on tour, Luke Winslow-King plays every Monday at 7 p.m. His last album, Everlasting Arms, was one of my favorites from 2014. Right down the street is the Spotted Cat Music Club. It is home to some of New Orleans’ best traditional jazz, though most of the bands are younger and many have an Americana Twist.

Local Flavor


Jackson Square. Photo credit: christian.senger via Foter.com / CC BY.

There is more to New Orleans than just drinking and music. Take a riverboat cruise. You’re on the Mississippi River, after all. Enjoy it! There are three riverboat cruise companies. I recommend the Creole Queen. Their paddleboat is the nicest, their crew is the best, and the bar has live music. The cruise stops at Chalmette Battlefield, where the Battle of New Orleans was fought. Most historians consider it the last great fight in the War of 1812.

I also recommend checking out a burlesque show by Fleur De Tease at One Eyed Jacks. One Eyed Jacks makes some of the best cocktails in town. The show is wonderful. Be warned, it sells out fast. Get your tickets early.

Designated by Congress as America’s official museum about World War II, the National World War II Museum is ranked by TripAdvisor as the #1 attraction in New Orleans. USA Today also named it the best place in the U.S. to learn military history, so it is a must-see for history buffs.

If you prefer serial killers and vampires to military history, take a haunted tour to learn about New Orleans’ seedy past while sipping hurricanes. It is informative, fun, and a great way to explore the town.

I also recommend visiting Congo Square at Armstrong Park. It is the birthplace of jazz. In the 18th century, enslaved African vendors gathered there. On Sundays, they sang, danced, and traded. The cultural expressions developed into the Mardis Gras Indian traditions, the Second Line, and, finally, New Orleans jazz. It is one of the most important squares in the United States. Armstrong Park is also home to an amazing sculpture garden.

On the way to Armstrong Park, check out the Washing Cycle. Located kitty-corner from the park, it formerly housed J & M Studios. Early rock pioneers like Little Richard, Fats Domino, and Dave Bartholomew first recorded here. J & M Studios was integral to the development of early rock ‘n’ roll, though it is now a laundromat.

Lede image: Bourbon Street. Photo credit: Eric K Gross via Foter.com / CC BY.