What do a trombone player and six guys drinking 40s have in common? The need to con music. None of these performers are satisfied with the normal spill of sounds. Oh, no. They bring the unsuspecting music onto stage every night and ambush it. They probe the captured being for hours, stretching the poor thing until it will issue forth a virgin sound. These heartless plunderers will stop at nothing until they have pillaged every note.

They are different only in the respect that they come from divergent musical backgrounds. One is an astute scholar of musical theory; the other likes to mainline debauchery as much as music. The former draws inspiration from the horn deities of Birdland yore. The latter is inspired by malt liquor and greasy po-boys. Beware humble music fan. If you hear these sounds from any of these ... unscrupulous pioneers, be prepared to shed your conventional music tastes. Who knows? You might even (gasp) like it.

To combat this, I have deemed myself the guinea pig and listened to CD offerings from each group. I’ve prepared a guide to each of these note blasphemers, so you’ll know what to do in case these sounds infiltrate your music area. I’m beginning ... to ... lose ... sense ... of ... normal ... can’t ... help ... but ...enjoy ....

Morning 40 Federation: “You My Brother”
Who knew that one-day malt liquor would inspire art. Its frothy nature combined with a tranquilizer bite has spawned the Morning 40 Federation, a sextet of musicians from (don’t fein surprise) New Orleans. Actually, they’re transplants from other parts of the country, and they all came to the “Where Am I” city because of a collective goal - to understand the complex nature of debauchery.

Four years ago (with the exception of the trombone player), these guys had never been associated with an instrument. Their epiphany rose from the soiled ashes of all-night binges and living in the working-class neighborhood of the Ninth Ward.

Lyrics and chants came first - spouted poetry dedicated to all that is blurry. The instruments followed. No one knew how to play and nobody cared. Patient bars like the Hi Ho Lounge put up with the 40s out of tune explorations. They caught on, thanks in no small part to the dirty goddess herself, New Orleans. The Crescent City is a bumping town, and its music sweats out of every alley, car, dive, mouth and street. This infinite rush of sounds circulated through the 40s, who let this aura fill in the gaps left by their oh-so-filthy lyrics. They soaked up every droplet of blues, Dixieland, jazz, punk, vaudeville, and something that has yet (and probably never will be) identified. The crowds got bigger, as word spread of how insane a 40s show, excuse me, event was. Drunken stage antics, nudity, one-liners, and wife beater T shirts (dickey optional) have become a foundation. By the end of 2000, the 40s were declared the “best unsigned band in New Orleans” by City Search.com and “Best Emerging Rock Band” at the Offbeat Awards. Oh yeah, and they’ve gotten to be pretty decent on their instruments.

Saxophones (disguised suspiciously as kazoos) kick around with the banjo and piano, creating an encircling haze that’s hard to dislike. Cohen (who has a voice reminiscent of a Tom Waits, minus the throat gravel) snakes his voice through each number, making the listener feel the craving for a cheap bar with a cheaper drink.

“I want to get mischevious/Like a bird lays a turd/On the windshield of your car tonight/Mischevious ... Like a condom with a hole/Like a stripper wrapped around a pole/Mischevious”

Appalled? Excellent. Now you’re ready to listen to Morning 40. The lyrics are so skewed that they twist into ... an art form. This is New Orleans in all its ribald glory - every horn, lewd suggestion, and carnal celebration paints this album. Think of Bourbon Street in the middle of August and that’s what you have with “You my brother.” The only thing absent from pure authenticity is the smell of stale liquor. Oh well, pop open a beverage, turn the thermostat to 100, take a shot of something god-awful and press play. Welcome to sleazy burlesque.

“Frenchy Got Bald Head” is an appropriate opener - lots of instruments bumping into each other as Cohen spews, “Frenchy got oxygen, Frenchy got no air/Frenchy is starving, Frenchy is well fed/I can’t remember.” Somehow the band finds a cadence of sounds and they unite for something that sounds very similar to vaudeville having an affair with punk. “Itsy Bitsy Brother” sounds off with dueling kazoos ... err, I mean, dueling saxophones as numerous voices (that sound dosed with helium) proclaim “But if you weren’t my brother, I don’t know if I’d really like you/But you’re my brother/You’ll just have to do.”

Is it wrong of me to enjoy this?

What’s so unpleasantly cool about this album is that each song has a distinct personality; almost like an alley full of interesting drunks, prostitutes, and tramps. “Gotta Nickel” and “Chili Cheese Fries” is white boy funk, but you can’t help but sway just a little. “Stinky” is a pretty little ditty and it reflects the band’s willingness to poke fun of themselves. The instruments actually sound almost in tune as Cohen and Scully (banjo, guitars) celebrate the fine art of body odor. The swing on the tune is addictive and before I knew it, I wanted to be as soiled as the song suggested. “That Ain’t Professional” is like a gauntlet where each member takes a turn at being thoroughly insulted - Cohen will rattle out, “Spent All ‘pplied for a job, but he’s got stains on his jeans” - before the chorus busts back into “That ain’t professional.”

Don’t deny the power of debauchery. It has no pretensions, only the naked offer of becoming the antithesis of a model citizen. If you can’t stray that far, but need a little taste of the seedy, check out “You my brother.” These guys are original. Let’s hope they never sell out and stick with the malt liquor that got them there. I don’t think Napa Valley will be calling anytime soon.

Wycliffe Gordon: Bone Structure

(Recorded in the Boiler Room in New Orleans)

The eternal Poindexter of jazz is the trombone - gangly, obtrusive, sounds that frighten woodland animals, and anatomically deviant. In the early 20th century, it was seen as a vaudeville wet dream. Then came J.J. Johnson, who relegated the trombone into smooth status. Johnson made his cumbersome instrument cool, giving it an eternal membership in sophisticated jazz.

The Johnson heydays of the 50s have dissipated, as the trombone has once again taken a backseat to the “look-at-me” personalities of the saxophone and trumpet.

The savior may be Wycliffe Gordon, a warrior of the clumsy brass. A coaxer of the trombone’s hidden personalities, Gordon playsmore fluid than an NFL knee. He grew up in a musical home and was exposed to a five-record jazz set (which chronicled music from slave chants up to modern jazz) left by a late aunt. Gordon became an astute learner of acoustic music and badgered his parents until they would let him have his destined instrument. He enrolled at Florida A&M University and became immersed in all that was music.

 

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