<< Back 9/11/02 Hot and sticky Mofro’s funky assault on the ears By Hunter Pope Lord have mercy, it’s dirty in here. Awful dirty. It’s all Mofro’s fault, a funky little quintet from North Florida. The first time my ears got soiled by their music, I swore I conjured up images of alligators wrestling in hot lard. And I’ll be the first (or the second or the thousandth) to tell you that’s there’s nothing forced about their music. The essence seems to have found them; down there in those swamps that are darker than nightmares. Listening to Mofro is like sitting on the tailgate of a rusted pickup with a sticky rib in one hand, a half-chewed po-boy in the other, as the AM station belts out classics from Howling Wolf and Curtis Mayfield. There’s something about holding back and letting the music corral you instead of vice versa. That’s seems to be Mofro’s outlook. Forget the hot licks, just play the music and see what happens when all the dust (and grease) has settled. They’re all gifted musicians and they have found a way to create a complexity without the need to instrumentally converse in every space. Count Basie (“it’s not how many notes you play that’s effective, it’s what you don’t play) would be proud. Oh, and they can lay a funk that will make you crook your nose in a “shew that stanks” fashion. It originates in the deeeeep South, North Florida to be exact. John “JJ” Grey (vocals, guitar, harmonica) and Daryl Hance (guitar, dobro) grew up in the rural outskirts of Jacksonville (Hance actually moved from Kansas when he was young). The boys were raised on fishing, barbecue joints, and hot summers that stuck to your back like wet duct tape. They were also bestowed with a deep sense of pride for their surrounding ecosystem (JJ still lives in a trailer home next to his grandparents in North Florida). Black water swamps, lakes impossible to number, and cool springs that beckon like sirens in the summer were the youngsters’ stomping grounds. They were also havens when the summer sun got too obnoxious to deal with. More forbidden was juke house music, which many perceived in the North Florida region as the strumming of the devil. “Jacksonville only had one AM station that played rock, blues or funk, and I had to trade a kid at school to get a radio,” JJ said on Mofro’s website. “I had to keep it hid for years. When we got older we were allowed to listen to it. My parents weren’t overtly religious, it was just a part of the social code down here.” As a youngster, JJ would collect soda bottles for two pennies each, and then promptly take them to the train tracks to see them squashed under the load of an unsuspecting train. A surplus of soda bottles could be found at a tiny juke house/barbeque joint called K-D’S Nite Limit. It was his first exposure to music that came naturally. Everybody up there would be hangin’ out playin’ cards,” JJ said on the website. “They’d always give me some bottles, a plate of ‘Q’ and let me take a swig of beer or two. I remember everybody up there would be listening to the Isley Brothers or somebody like that on the stereo.” Both kids grew up with a deep sense of pride for the South, and the humorous tales that seem to accompany any Southerner’s ancestors. It’s the same with Mofro’s sound. Yes, there’s intention from every performer, but there’s also a keen sense of humor (check out “Ho Cake” and “Cracka Break”). JJ describes the band’s sound as “Jerry Clower grows funk.” Hance and Grey met early on in the Jacksonville music scene (ironically known for its heavy metal) and they found that their tastes were steeped in the AM music that made preachers perspire. Hance’s guitar chops were modeled after the masters like Curtis Mayfield and Muddy Waters, and JJ found his vocal likeness in folks like Stevie Wonder and Otis Redding. The duo hit it off and in 1998, and they went to London to record an album for the label Acid Jazz. The deal fell through, and all of the sudden, Hance and Grey found themselves in London without a band or a record deal. They placed an ad in Melody Maker and were responded to by a French bass player named Fabrice “Fabgrease” Quentin. After listening to one of their tapes, Fabrice was hooked. “I loved the instrumentation, the keyboards and the rhythm section, and that’s me, so I was in,” Fabgrease told MTV news. The next new contestant was Nathan Shepherd, an Australian born saxophonist and keyboardist. A band was formed, and Mofro spent the next year in London honing their sound to unwary Brits. They came back to the home state of Florida, and began touring like an armada of devils were on their tail. Tours neared three hundred dates a year. Word spread about the bootleg friendly band that recalled the ghosts of juke joint maestros while laying down grooves that exorcised the still feet. In the middle was JJ, a filthy crooner who had R&B sitting in his lap like an obedient ventriloquist dummy. Around him were the sounds of the backwoods, swampy dark grooves that seemed to put grit in your teeth. The honesty was obvious. “Blackwater” came out in October 2001, and the liner notes said it all — “This music comes from the Blackwater region of North Florida and is about remembering, about paying respect, and about giving thanks.” The first song, “Blackwater,” opens the disc with a subtle grace. Haunting harmonicas, trickling keys, and a nasty little slide touch down lightly amongst J.J.’s charismatic vocals. It’s the sound of Mofro, a spooky kind of soul that festers in your blood. The song also demonstrates that the band knows they don’t need to fill every space with notes. The holding back gives them an authentic roots sound while still paying homage to the bands who inspired them in the first place. But just when you’ve settled into a mellow stride, “Ho Cake” comes around to slap a little jive in your speaker. The song celebrates all those things that are good about southern cooking —collards, pork chops, crackling catfish, hamhocks, blackeyed peas — and why it’s not wise to dip into anybody’s greasy plate (“I love the food/ Lord I can’t get enough,” JJ belts out, “Stick your hand in my plate and you’ll draw back a nub.”). The landscape behind the tune (blaring horns, pimpish keyboards, jangling guitars) reminds me of those southern plates full of soppy goodness. Every barbecue joint should have this song as muzak. JJ’s influences are in full stride with “Air,” a very mellow fuzzy tune that beckons for the Stevie Wonder in all of us. “Jookhouse” and “Nare Sugar” are those kind of songs that allow for a lot of space, and will continue to grow as fabulous live numbers. The boys pretty much let go here, putting their instruments into an improv fracas. It’s like Delta blues in a blender. JJ once again proves why he is a force behind the vocals. Guys, watch your ladies! He has a voice that drips of sultry honey. “Florida” will probably stand as the band’s swan song. It’s also environmentally aware and speaks for all of us who are fed up with the paved paradise — “No car, phone, or electric light/Yeah just livin’ life one day at a time, no newspaper, no wars and no strife/ Just the elemental keys that provide for life ...With concrete and steel we pave, a road to hell on a land we’ve killed/ So take a good look and remember it now, cause one day you gonna wake up and find it gone.” Storytelling has always been a source of pride for Southerners, and JJ keeps the lineage going with the hilarious “Cracka Break.” It tells the true story of a robbery gone wrong (crack smoking was in there somewhere, go figure), and the judge calling the perpetrators, “The Three Stooges.” A true Southern tale. Robert Walter (of Robert Walter’s 20th Congress and formally of the Grey Boy All Stars) lends his keyboard to “Santa Claus, True Love and Freedom,” a poignant ballad that has a faint whiff of good old gospel ...before descending down to the depths for a little devilment (aka funk). It’s good to hear bands like Mofro; folks who are just trying to make music the authentic way, by turning it inside out and investigating the innards. They also know where their roots are and they pay a deep respect to it. Turnip greens, impenetrable bogs, and dilapidated soul lounges are all lurking in Mofro’s world. Pay a visit. It’s fun being muddy. (Hunter Pope writes about music and movies. He can be reached at w.h.pope@worldnet.att.net)