Truckstop Honeymoon. Photo by Elsa Hahne.

After six years in Lawrence, Kansas, former Lower Ninth Ward duo Mike West and Katie Euliss have expanded their family from four to six and added five albums to their discography as Truckstop Honeymoon. There are other things to brag about as well, such as chickens and hamsters and the daily triumph of sanity. They feel at home. The peach tree Euliss planted as a way of dealing with their forced Katrina exile is now producing apricot-sized fruit; they bought part of a cow to get raw milk from a local farmer; and visitors to their three-story house can witness the potty-training progress of the couple’s youngest daughter Esther (Essie) as soon as they walk through the front door. To get to their house, you can turn on Louisiana Street. It’s a nice block, full of leafy trees and nice neighbors. West recalls when three men in suits came to his doorstep in late 2005, carrying a pie:

“I thought it was 1948,” he says. “I get a knock on the door at eight o’clock at night, in the middle of winter. I’m like, ‘What have I done?’ Our neighbor Harry had baked a pie and came with the other male neighbors to present the pie. ‘You’ve got to be shitting me. You brought a pie?’”

But the more West and Euliss make a home for themselves in Kansas, the more they find themselves going down Louisiana Street—literally. This is the case on their new album, Steamboat in a Cornfield, which they see as their most New Orleans-inspired album yet.

“Katrina was such a huge ordeal that it’s been interesting landing and really reflecting on the contrasts between the places,” Euliss says. “More than just missing New Orleans, we now claim Kansas as home.”

West elaborates: “In New Orleans, we did this folk-country thing in a town where there was only a handful of people interested in Middle America string band music and bluegrass. Now that we live here in the heart of it, with each record we do more and more songs that are influenced by the old R&B songs and 1930s show tunes, jazz and vaudeville.

“When we moved to Lawrence, we really slotted in because they loved the punk-tinged bluegrass thing and we were right there. Now we’re still right there, but we have more and more tunes that are influenced by 1950s rock ‘n’ roll. Playing this in New Orleans didn’t make sense to us because so many people play it, but here nobody’s doing much of it. When you say ‘jazz player’ in this town, it means people who are only interested when there are solos coming up. [laughs] They’re modern jazz players. Whereas in New Orleans, there are so many musicians who just love the wonderful songs. The lyrics and melodies are great, and our horn players here seem really happy to be playing them. I use my five-string banjo like a tenor banjo as best I can, vamping old swing changes. I’m dealing with the relocation by playing tugboat songs; suddenly I am the little guy in the striped suit, dancing on river boats.”

Kansas natives were quick to welcome the duo. West and Euliss’ annual Mardi Gras parade has grown to a crowd of several hundred revelers, and so far, nobody’s bothered about a permit. The main difference for West and Euliss is that they often end up wearing thermals under their tutus, and they don’t run into any other parades.

“As far as diversions and distractions, there isn’t much,” Euliss says. “Mike and I have a lot of time at night to sit around writing songs. New Orleans, you can just go there and dissolve into whatever is going on, and whatever comes of you is fine, but you also have to sacrifice yourself to that.”

It wasn’t easy finding a new place to live for a family who wanted the life of working musicians. “It got very narrow,” West says. “Where can we live and play music for a living? Where we can afford? San Francisco? New York? No way. You can’t afford it. How do you go from New Orleans to anywhere? But we found that people here in Lawrence didn’t think it was weird that this is all we do, and that we disappear for months at a time. They’re not going, ‘But what do you guys really do?’ Plus we’ve found so many fantastic musicians here, and they’re willing to work for cheap because they work hard. The laziest, highest hippie here still has the Midwestern work ethic. People get stuff done. They show up. The sound man comes to do sound for us, and he’s been bailing hay all day long. ‘Well, you’ve got to get the hay in.’ And I just love that. This rock ‘n’ roll kid that’s been up since 6 a.m. who will work until 3 a.m. It’s very cool, and it’s really different from New Orleans.”

West, born and raised in England, has a lot to say about how New Orleans made it possible for him to become a professional musician in the first place and proved to him that the life he wanted was possible—a lesson that’s made it possible for Truckstop Honeymoon to not just survive, but continue to grow, in Kansas:

“People outside New Orleans and a few other places have this idea that professional musicians must be absolutely brilliant because you basically have to be Britney Spears to be viable in the larger music economy,” he says. “But if you do it like a regular job, you can actually get by. That’s a New Orleans thing—no middle man. A few months ago, we opened for Del McCoury, and what really impressed me is that his wife is running the merch, and has done for the length of his career. They have agents and a label, but their bottom line is: ‘We make a living doing this, and we don’t pretend we’re going to be pop stars. We play bluegrass music, and it’s a fringe genre.’ You can only make so much money.

“New Orleans is full of that. There’s no pretense. There is no ladder to climb. There are rooms that sell liquor and you’re the entertainment. You’re just there to make it fun for people to drink, so they don’t drink at home. Coming from England, New Orleans was such a good wake-up call for me because the only viable musician in England is one that has a hit, so you’re always trying to have a hit and always working for free to try to make it so you have a hit, paying promotional people and agents and such, and you never see a dime. And it would never occur to you that you should because you thought you had to reach this other level, that it wasn’t just a job, like a carpenter.

“I was in pop groups and we were so snotty about the cover bands that would play the little pubs because they didn’t play original music. Then I got to New Orleans and there’s only bars and sometimes you go in and there’s a loud art rock band and the next night there’s French jazz with a clarinet. It’s the same venue, it’s the same bartender. It’s just a place.”

Making the transition from England to New Orleans allowed West to let go of both some hopes of stardom and some fears of failure that had been keeping him from building what he actually wanted—a musician’s life:

“In New Orleans, you have that nice thing where the jazz player also plays in a noise band and it’s a good band and it’s fun and something totally different,” he says. “Why not? You’ve got Thursdays off. Sure! There’s nothing to be lost. If you like the music, then you do it. Whereas in England it would be, ‘Mike, I don’t think you should be sitting in with a jazz band; you’re an indie pop guy.’ The scales fell from my eyes when I came to New Orleans. As soon as I stopped trying to enter the hallow domain of celebrity stars with the very important band, I started making a living for the first time in my life, playing music.”

When Euliss and West began touring as Truckstop Honeymoon, they stuck to the same basic philosophy. Decisions about where to perform were often based on whether they could get a free meal, or a couch to sleep on. West is happy to call himself a made-in-New-Orleans “cottage hustler,” doing whatever it takes to have a house and raise a family while playing music and not having to go bartend after the kids go to bed:

“We do house concerts. We love house concerts. Basically, it’s the rent party. You show up and it’s somebody’s living room and they get 50 people in and they pay $15 a piece and they give you all the money, and they get a free concert. It’s golden. If they went out into town to see you, by the time they’d bought all their friends drinks and paid for the taxi, they’d be $100 in the hole. And you make more money than you’d be paid at a venue.”

The success of Truckstop Honeymoon’s house parties eventually caught the interest of some music venues. One tried to get Euliss and West to come play for little to no money, as if the opportunity to play a large club was compensation enough and a positive career move. West scoffs: “Don’t do the thing of ‘This is an important step,’ because I don’t play anywhere as a step. We’re not doing this so that tomorrow we’ll be elevated people, ‘improved.’ There’s no meaning to it.”

Touring with four kids, albeit difficult, has also proven to be a manageable challenge. They found asking club owners to find a babysitter for the evening was often met with blank stares and worried mumbling, “We don’t allow kids here,” as if the children would be hanging out backstage instead of in a hotel room nearby. Instead, they’ve done well finding their own through the friends-and- fans circuit with its vast social network.

Barefooted Essie has stepped in chicken poop outside and is dragging her feet in the grass. She went looking for eggs in the chicken coop and there were none. There’s no bread for breakfast, but there is granola, which everyone enjoys, along with the non-homogenized, non-pasteurized milk from a large glass jug in the fridge. A small post-it note on the jug says “Barb.” West realizes he swiped someone else’s milk.

It’s a much simpler life than pop stars lead, but it works for Truckstop Honeymoon, and they learned how to do it in New Orleans:

“Basically, we’ll play anywhere we can sell CDs and get a free meal. It’s $50 or $100 at a time. That’s the level we’re at. We don’t have a tour manager to pay, we’re not paying agent’s commission. We’re not paying anybody except the babysitter, and if we sell 20 CDs tonight we just made gas, groceries and our hotel bill. Our whole tour is viable because of those little pieces of plastic we sold.”

610 Stompers dancing in the Macy's Day Parade. All photos by Billy Welliver.

In a city where “parade” is a verb, noun and adjective, the Macy’s Parade seems quaint. Still, New Orleanians watched the telecast of last year’s Thanksgiving Day parade with uncommon interest because the 610 Stompers were invited to be a part of it this year. The all-male dance crew started in the summer of 2009 and has become part of the fabric of the city, famous for their satin jackets, moustaches and Columbia blue coaches’ shorts. They’re included in ads—They’re In—, they dance at special events, and they perform in Mardi Gras parades, this year Muses, Thoth and Orpheus.

Stompers Mark Laforet and Kevin Monahan kept a diary of their trip to New York for OffBeat. Here’s the story from the self-proclaimed “ordinary men with extraordinary moves.”

Tuesday: Travel Day

Mark Laforet: Arrive MSY to smattering of red jackets and headbands. No one seems to care all that much. Locals are nonplussed. We all decided to fly in full uniform. Many thought we were some sort of traveling dodge ball team. The Jazz Fest Triathlon Brass Trio serenaded us, and we took pics with airline staff.

610 Stompers going through airport security.

Kevin Monahan: We got up early to get to the airport, only to discover that the bars in the airport aren’t open that early. That was quite a rude awakening. They did allow beer sales on the flight, which would have made me extremely happy if it weren’t for the $6 price tag. We figured they raised the beer prices for that flight only in some sort of misguided attempt to make sure we behaved.

Laforet: Stompers scattered throughout plane. Headbands are visible over the seatbacks. Drinks flow. Arrive Newark. Little to no fanfare but got a Jersey welcome. “So what are you guys?”

“We’re an all-male dance team from New Orleans.”

Surly pause. “So, dance.”

Once again, most are under impression we are a dodge ball team. Not far from the truth.

Monahan: We were scheduled to meet in Times Square for a group photo. I bought an umbrella from a newsstand, then stood in the rain for quite a while waiting for the photographer to set up. We took our picture then walked six blocks or so to Macy’s, where we stood in the rain for a while longer. My feet were wet and frozen, and I was sure I would be sick by Thursday if I didn’t find some fresh socks. We were eventually able to go inside Macy’s to wait.

Laforet: Rockettes’ practice went waaaay over and we were forced to wait in the cosmetics department of Macy’s afterhours. For hours. Surreal, beer-less scene. Not where you would expect to find happy ordinary men.

610 Stompers in the airport heading to the Macy's Day Parade.

Monahan: We were there for about two hours, then were told we weren’t going to be able to run through our performance due to the rain getting heavier.

Laforet: Cops opened street to traffic, but we managed to locate our all-important marks for the big performance.

Monahan: We walked to an Irish pub for drinks. This place was awesome! My favorite two things about this pub: They sold socks. Three pair for $4. I asked if that was supposed to be $40— nope—three pair for $4. I bought three pair, put two on and gave away the third. And, they had the most magnificent urinals I’ve ever seen. These urinals were about seven feet tall and reminded me of the pods that humans lived in in The Matrix, or maybe the pods that the band used in Spinal Tap when the bass player got stuck. We were drinking it up and having a great time, and then they had something called “Last Call”. Just as we’re trying to figure out what that is, they start kicking us out of the bar! What the Hell?

Wednesday: The Today Show

Laforet: On to The Today Show with Hoda and Kathie Lee. Small group of us head to 30 Rock to meet with our liaison.

Justin Bieber is performing live outside of the studios to a throng of screaming adolescent girls. We are dressed in full uniform for our studio performance as we wind our way through the building until we end up outside among the teenyboppers. I fully expect to be ambushed by Chris Hanson and his To Catch a Predator team solely on account of our mustaches and coaches’ shorts. A helpful NYPD cop responded when we were lost and looking for the entrance to The Today Show: “If you were on The Today Show, you’d be on The Today Show. You guys get outta here.” We are rescued by our liaison in the nick of time and are brought downstairs to another lobby.

Monahan: I’m thinking New York is probably famous for its waiting. We were moved several times—downstairs, then upstairs, then back down. We ran through a quick practice while we were downstairs. I saw the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life standing along the rail upstairs. I was staring at her when the guy with her turns around and it’s Stephen Baldwin. Figures. I’m guessing they were there with some kids to see Justin Bieber.

610 Stompers escaping the rain.

Laforet: We are mercifully brought to the Green Room. The most recent American Idol winner, one Scotty McCreery awaits his performance as his handlers adjust his scarf and such. He is shaking like a leaf. My fellow Stompers, acting like they’ve been on national TV a million times, descend on the donuts, tortilla wraps, fruit and beverages until none are left. Disappointingly, there is no beer.

Monahan: That American Idol guy was in there with his mom. He didn’t talk much; his mom was awesome! Fellow Stomper Emile Shababawitz tells him, “Hey, a year ago you were in auditions, and now you’re in the Green Room with the 610 Stompers!” Don’t know if he knew that was a joke or not. Then Emile asks him if he goes on before or after us—he says after. “Man, we’re going to make you look really good,” Emile says. Action Jackson took a sharpie and wrote “610 Stompers” above Justin Bieber’s name on the dressing room door.

Laforet: We are brought into the studio and find our marks. It is a small space, not unlike the local New Orleans television studios. This familiarity takes away all nervousness that may have been present, and then Hoda enters the studio. She is beaming and raucously welcomes us with a cheer. Kathie Lee enters dismissively (feeling’s mutual, babe) and the two begin their show with the ease of professionals. A morose family is interviewed live in studio. They apparently won some big contest, but you wouldn’t know it from their shell-shocked, glum demeanor. Even the camera crew was trying to pump them up, to no avail. We would need no such priming.

Hoda introduces us as “cooler than Bieber” and gives a brief description of who we are. Kathie Lee feigns interest as ice crystals form on her translucent, Stepford-wife forehead. Cue the intro music and it’s showtime. The LongBoard performs his customary aerial acrobatics as the rest of us struggle to remain upright. Slab, our leader, swings his massive legs around like a cross between a helicopter and a bear and nearly takes a few dancers out. Another typical freestyle portion of the performance comes to a merciful end as we shockingly synchronize our moves to “Jump Around” and “flawlessly” dance through the rest of our brief routine. The studio erupts in applause as we finish and are led out of the studio triumphantly. Our cell phones blew up immediately, with friends and relatives congratulating us on our performance and chastising Kathie Lee for her evil, robotic demeanor.

Monahan: We came out of the studio in uniform and were bombarded with picture requests! We walked all the way back to the hotel and drew attention the entire way. A local truck driver was blowing his horn and yelling out of his window that he had seen us on TV that morning.

Laforet: We regroup at the Sheraton in one of the ballrooms for our mandatory pre-parade practice. Badges are given out which are our only admittance into the parade, no exceptions. Everyone is in attendance save for two. Surprisingly, the Tone arrives an hour and a half late. Not surprisingly, Drunk Jesus staggers in, sleepless and still rolling from the previous night’s adventures (involving an adult film actress and cab fare). Another gray hair sprouts from The Cooler’s scalp as he is in charge of making sure everyone gets to the parade on time, and more importantly, stone cold sober. This ain’t a New Orleans parade, as we’ve been reminded countless times, and we’ve worked too hard and too long to lose this opportunity. Fortunately, Drunk J sleeps it off and performs admirably the following day.

Thursday: Macy’s Parade

Laforet: Alarm and wake-up call spring me out of bed. One of the many good things about having a uniform is not having to decide what to wear. Headband, check. Sunglasses, optional. Tanktop, check. Jacket, check. Coaches’ Shorts: check. Tube Socks: check. Gold Shoes: check and done. Luckily, the temperature outside is a mere 45 degrees, much warmer than the Super Bowl and Muses parade of a couple years ago.

Monahan: Up very early and down in the lobby by 6:15. Left money with my daughter and instructions on how to get to Legends, where she would watch the parade on TV and wait for us to get there. She is 16, so I was a little nervous, but she is a smart kid and she was teamed up with the son of another Stomper—Stewbacca—so I felt pretty good about the situation. We went out the back door of the Sheraton and walked down the parade route looking for the proper subway entrance. We were getting applause just walking down the street. One guy yells out “All right! It’s the clowns! Woohoo!” Nice.

Laforet: We catch the correct subway after a few missteps and are on our way to the parade lineup at the Natural History Museum on 81st and Central Park West. A band of Mexican minstrels board our train and briefly serenade the passengers for tips. This feels like a scene in a David Lynch movie.

We arrive and quickly realize we are the only adult males around. A group of approximately 500 teenage girls in fluorescent outfits are seemingly everywhere, and we spot another group of girls in Southern Belle hoop skirts huddled together in the cold. Mr. Sunshine had arranged for breakfast delivery for the Stompers and our escorts, the 610 Splits. Sausage, egg and cheese bagels and orange juice were perfect fuel for our upcoming adventure. The famous balloons were all queued up in order on the side street next to Jerry Seinfeld’s condominium, but we still had an hour or two to wait.

The museum was open for bathroom use and warmth and we took full advantage of both. As the fluorescent girls all assembled and filed downstairs to their lineup spot, I saw Crack-on-a-Stick at the foot of the stairs, seemingly in awe of the wave of color descending past him. He remarked that he’d “never seen so many training bras in one place.”

Monahan: All of the balloons were inflated but strapped down, and we were corralled into a small area in the direct wind and in the shade, where we got to enjoy the famous New York wait yet again! This time it was freezing cold. There were other groups out there, but none of them were in shorts. We were allowed to go in the museum and use the restroom, which I did several times, mostly because it was warm inside.

There was a huge group of veterans near us, and when they filed through we started a chant of USA! USA! USA!

Laforet: Finally, we are led down a narrow path onto Central Park West and take our positions behind a Basketball balloon and in front of the huge, inflatable Energizer Bunny. In New Orleans parades, we have a huge sound system mounted on our support truck, which also pulls our trailer equipped with two much-needed portalets. In New York, we got a wooden cutout star on wheels with what sounded like a Fisher-Price boombox. Not good. Those of us in the front row could barely hear it, and those behind us were at the mercy of following our moves, right or wrong. In my case, mostly wrong.

610 Stompers parade in the Macy's Day Parade.

What struck most of us about the Macy’s parade, particularly the beginning, was the eerie silence ahead. Vastly different from any New Orleans parade that we had ever performed in, much less attended. That all changed once we began our performance. It seemed to take most in the audience by surprise, and as it turns out, most “performers” in the Macy’s Parade save their performing for Herald Square only, merely waving to the crowd along the route. Not us. We danced the entire route, with no breaks.

Monahan: The crowd loved us from the start of the first song! Cameras were everywhere! The parade moved at a very fast pace, much faster than we are used to, so we had to put it all out there for a solid two miles non-stop! We were dying—well, most of us. There are a couple of runners in the group.

Laforet: Cops along the route shook their heads in disbelief, and we heard the occasional “Who Dat!” and “Yeah you right!” but not all were amused. After a vigorous series of our booty shakes, I heard one man say to no one in particular, “I did not have to see that this morning!”

Monahan: So two problems with the marching part of this parade: 1) the music was way too low. We get better crowd response when they can feel the music; and 2) No gaps between songs and going all out for two miles left us with little energy during our time for free style. We were simply too wiped out to go nuts for the crowd, but we gave it our all for each routine and the crowd’s response told us we were doing okay.

When we came around the last corner, you could feel the electricity. Everyone was bouncing around. This was it and we were ready! Last minute instructions were being thrown at us, something about lining up in position so the cameras could get a feel for our positions—this was supposed to happen Tuesday night, but we were rained out.

Laforet: We arrived at Macy’s and waited for our cue, whereupon we formed our giant huddle in the center of the Macy’s star in the center of the performance area. 5…4…3…2…1…hearts racing, we break huddle, running backwards, bent low (Whose idea was this?) towards our marks. Mine was directly across the “C” in the Foot Locker store across from Macy’s. I am nervous as can be, as this is my first performance in the front row, and cannot follow anybody’s lead but my own. “I Need a Hero” blares from the speakers and we fly into our steps with reckless abandon. Al Roker and Matt Lauer’s laughs and commentary are heard over the music, and before you know it, it’s over. Despite having been lectured to leave the performance area immediately following our dance, most of us unconsciously need to bask in the afterglow just a bit longer and run alongside those assembled stageside and dole out high fives and freestyle moves until we absolutely have to exit. The rush is tangible and lasting. We did it! We just hope that the camera doesn’t really add 10 pounds.

Monahan: We were scheduled to show up at the afterparty directly after the parade, but we had to walk through the parade crowd to get to Legends. When we arrived, we were treated like rock stars! We weren’t there five minutes when we were informed that our website had just crashed. We gained 500 new Facebook friends in the first hour after our performance, around 2,000 all told before the flight home on Friday.

We took over the third floor of the bar and most of the second. Lots of love, lots of hugs, lots of high fives! We were served turkey and dressing and three hours of open bar! Some—myself included—stayed in uniform and went out to an Asian bar for karaoke. I could tell some stories about the karaoke bar, but I’d make some guys pretty unhappy.

Friday: Home

Monahan: We got back to New Orleans about an hour early. We screwed up plans for our welcoming committee by showing up too early, but there were a few of the new guys from the Stompers Class of 2011 and a few Splits there to greet us. Some people headed to the bar; I headed home with my daughter, completely wiped out!

It’s been two months since the trip, and we can’t go anywhere without hearing people say they loved us in the Macy’s Parade. People from out of state have contacted us via Facebook and said they loved us. The online store has been crazy with sales to all parts of the country. Even sold two calendars to two girls in the Netherlands. How cool is that?

The trip was a life changer for me. Hope they invite us back.

During Carnival, you can catch the 610 Stompers in action at:
Muses: Thursday, February 16, 6:30 p.m.
Thoth: Sunday, February 19, noon
Orpheus: Monday, February 20, 6 p.m.

All photos by Billy Welliver.

All photos by Elsa Hahne.

Plush? “You can never have enough plush.”

Coozies? “You can never have enough coozies.”

It’s a month from Mardi Gras and Virginia Saussy’s going over the throws for this year’s Muses parade. Saussy’s the creative director for the Krewe of Muses, and she’s fidgeting, trying to relax and talk in the living room of her house on the parade route, but constantly remembering something in another room or something on her iPad that she wants to show off. The throws the members will have on the floats when Muses rolls on Thursday, February 16 are not in yet, but she has spread out prototypes of many of them including a retro “floater” pen that will send Muses’ signature floats down the street when tilted sideways. She’s proud of this year’s coin purse on a lanyard—”You can use the coin purse. You can use the lanyard. You can use the coin purse with the lanyard.”—and a few throws we can’t talk about. Saussy’s torn between the desire to show off the krewe’s handiwork and the tradition of secrecy that’s always been part of Mardi Gras. We can take pictures of many throws but not others, she says, because the parade’s theme is on it.

Krewe of Muses Creative Director Virginia Saussy.

Once, glass beads were the cherry throw of Mardi Gras. Today, they’ve made a slight comeback for those nostalgic for their heyday, but no amount of retro fondness has sparked resurgent interest in the choker-length strings of plastic beads that closed with a clasp, the beads that became the red-headed stepchildren of Carnival. Today, 33-inch strings of metallic beads are the bottom of the line and often land unloved, only to be raked up by inmates before they’re shipped to the Island of Misfit Throws.

The generosity of superkrewes has raised expectations for how much should come off a float, and if the skies aren’t darkened with beads and cups, some find a parade wanting. Saussy, who watches parades when she’s not riding, says appearances are deceiving. “Proteus is as generous as Bacchus,” she says, but 10 riders to a side create a very different impression from 30 to 40 on two tiers.

Decisions regarding what to throw are likely simpler for Proteus. The old line parade seems to throw more and longer beads than it once did, but most feature its iconic image, a seahorse. Because Muses is satirical, with throws tied to the theme, there are decisions to make every year regarding how to represent the theme and what people will want. “We have a couple of philosophies,” she says. “One is instant gratification throws. People want something they can utilize immediately. For years, people have wanted to do iron-ons. What are you going to do? Put it in your pocket and go home and iron it on later? Stick-on works better. We try to do a ball every year, balance it out for men and women.”

In the past, Muses has thrown such one-offs as games and manicure sets, but they try to maintain a sense of tradition as well. They are bringing back such staples as the leatherette snap bracelets and the opener/light on a string of beads. “People begged for it,” she says. They also do a signature shoe bead with the year on it each time. Though they look similar from year to year, Saussy says they’re in no danger of running out of designs for the shoe bead. “We’ve only done 12 shoes. I have another 120 in my closet.”

Saussy pulls out this year’s shoe bracelet—”They’re some of the easiest things to throw”—and points out that they’re strung by hand at a factory in China. Saussy and krewe Captain Staci Rosenberg have visited China to see the factory that made their throws. “We had seen a horrifying documentary on bead factories [Mardi Gras: Made in China] and it kind of freaked us out,” she says. “The bead factory was really nice, actually. It had a purple, green, and gold entrance and everyone wore purple, green, and gold uniforms. A lot of young women, they live in a dorm next door to the factory. We said, ‘We should have brought a video,’ and the owner said, ‘No! Don’t tell them you throw them off of floats. They think they’re making very popular jewelry.’ And they are. It is extremely popular and in demand for a very brief period.”

On more than one occasion, though, there were key differences between the throws they ordered and the throws they received. Last year’s jelly shoe magnet was not supposed to be jelly. Once the krewe had 10,000 units of them, it had no choice but to throw them anyway. The version of the shoe magnet that will be thrown this year represents what Muses envisioned a year ago.

Another screw-up was last year’s lunch box. “The lunch box was supposed to hold a six-pack,” Saussy says. “We measured it exactly. By the time we got them, they had taken a quarter-inch off of every dimension.”

Recently, Muses decided to throw toothbrushes. The prototype was individually wrapped, but when the toothbrushes were shipped, they arrived unexpectedly in bundles of 12. “People ended up throwing them by the dozens,” Saussy says. “I know someone who runs a home for kids and he was excited: ‘I caught 15 dozen. Kids will have toothbrushes for years.’”

Still, not all failed throws can be blamed on issues with the manufacturer. One that seemed like a good idea at the time was Muses glitter soap in the shape of a shoe. “It stunk so bad, and you got glitter all over your bathroom as it melted,” she says.

The special throws often come with special wrapping, which sometimes poses a problem. Like more and more krewes, Muses tries to be ecologically conscientious. “We try to do some green things with recycled materials,” Saussy says. “But then we get stuff from China and it’s all individually packaged.”

If they can’t reduce the krewe’s carbon footprint, they at least try to cut down on the mess. Throws are loaded on in throwable shopping bags that are unique to each year, and no cardboard boxes are allowed on the float. Lieutenants bring garbage bags on their floats to help control the trash. They also don’t throw things people don’t want. “We stopped throwing doubloons in ‘04 or ‘05,” she says. “We found, like, eight people who wanted doubloons on the whole route each year. It seemed like a huge waste. When you heard them hit the ground, nobody’s picking them up.”

Typically, throws are desirable for the time they’re in the air and the duration of the parade. Once they hit the ground or the parade ends, the spell is broken. At home in the summer months, beads are more things to collect dust and move. Partially through luck and partially by design, Muses has discovered that their throws have a life beyond Carnival. On Facebook, fans post photos of how they use their throws year-around, and Saussy saw the life of their throws first-hand.

“One year we did these flashing, rubbery bracelets,” she says. “After Katrina, a friend of mine asked me to help her clean out her house. The water had been over the ceiling. We walk in, and on the back wall there’s one flashing Muses bracelet, still glowing.”

The container throws have stayed in use as more than just decoration. “I saw the bags and lunch boxes every day at Jazz Fest. We still see the backpacks that we threw years ago on the street all the time. That’s one of our goals—we want to do things that are long term.”

Catherine Lasperches & Big Chief Alfred Doucette at New Orleans Musicians' Clinic. Photo by Caitlyn Ridenour.

When drummer August Jepson got sick in Los Angeles, she didn’t have health insurance or access to affordable health care.

“I went to the hospital in L.A. and sat in a hallway for hours,” she says. “A nurse put me on a cot. I was lying there surrounded by crackheads and seriously ill people. The nurse finally hooked me up to a morphine drip, and after a little while they told me to leave. A doctor never saw me.”

She pauses, shaking her head. The 27-year-old moved to New Orleans more than a year ago and became a full-time musician last August. You can see her slapping congas and drumming in Mardi Gras Indian band Cha Wa, funk band Yojimbo, and the Honeypots.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was all for the morphine,” she says, laughing. “But it seemed insane to me that this was health care.”

Today, Jepson doesn’t wait in hallways for medical professionals. She has access to general practitioners, nutritionists, mental health professionals and blood work labs. When she needs to see a doctor, she waits in a clean waiting room, lounging on a comfy chair with a view of St. Charles Avenue through enormous windows. She’s never waited more than 20 minutes before a nurse calls her name.

She receives health care from the New Orleans Musicians’ Clinic (NOMC) and the shiny new clinic is something Clinic Director and Founder Bethany Bultman and the rest of its board didn’t expect a few years ago.

“Things looked really bleak around 2009 and 2010,” says Bultman. A federal grant that covered a large portion of the clinic’s operating expenses expired, leaving the clinic’s future in doubt. At one point, it only had funding for three months of basic operation. “We knew the funding was coming to an end,” Bultman says. “But we didn’t know what was coming to replace it.”

In order to maintain operation, NOMC cut staff and triaged patients, and Bultman devoted her time to filing grant applications. 504 Health Net, a parent organization that advocates for a group of New Orleans’ clinics, brokered a large stream of federal funding for the NOMC. The clinic is now road-testing new health care systems that will be implemented nationally in 2014.

Successful grant applications vary from federal funding for basic patient healthcare to more specialized care like the Moorehouse Medical School grant to fund dental care for diabetic patients. By piecing together different funds for different purposes, patients can now see a nutritionist, a psychiatrist, or a dentist.

The clinic recently opened its new offices in the new LSU Healthcare building on St. Charles Avenue, and six years after the storm, it provides health care for more than 2,000 patients. Musicians refer each other. Jepson and Widespread Panic’s JoJo Hermann, NOMC’s Musical Director, say that most of the musicians they know use the clinic.

Dr. John introduced him: “I said I’d like to do something to give back in New Orleans,” Hermann says. “It’s because of New Orleans music and musicians that I’ve been able to play music in my life.” He even put together a Professor Longhair tribute band, which now gets together as the Mojo Mardi Gras Band.

“When I ask musicians to do this, I get so many people who say, ‘Yeah, man. They helped me through this,’ and ‘They helped a family member through that.’ A lot of New Orleans musicians have personal connections and personal life experiences where the clinic has really helped them out. They’ve touched so many people.”

One of those people is Jon Cleary, who has used the clinic in the past. He’s especially thankful for their electronic records system, which makes it easier for out-of-town doctors to see his medical records.

Megan McStravick, the social intake coordinator, has an office nestled in the back of the NOMC labyrinth at LSU Medical Center. After patients see a doctor, she guides them through the process of applying for health care assistance and follow-up appointments. She fills out forms and applications, then stuffs them in envelopes, requiring only that the patient put a stamp on the envelope and put it in the mail.

Jepson’s been using the clinic for over a year, but she still has a hard time believing her luck. “I still get nervous every time I go,” she says. “I think I’m going to get charged. I always think they’re not going to accept me, or that it’s going to take two years, or that I’ll get accepted but when I get hurt the doctor will be like, ‘Oh, no, you actually have to pay.’ I went in there with that opinion and I was totally wrong.

Mary Howell. Photo by Greg Miles.

For more than three decades, attorney Mary Howell has been at the frontlines of police misconduct and civil rights litigation in New Orleans. She has represented plaintiffs in the Algiers police rampage of 1980, the killing of Adolph Archie in 1990, and the execution of Kim Groves by order of policeman Len Davis in 1994. What most people do not know about Howell, however, is her efforts on behalf of the New Orleans music community as well. For such efforts, OffBeat Magazine is proud to give her the 2011 Heartbeat Award.

Howell was born in a rural town in southeastern Missouri. She graduated from LSU, then went to Tulane Law School, and once there, the music of New Orleans made an impression on her. “I remember listening to Babe Stovall in Jackson Square, and I always considered that a blessing,” she says.

Her interests in civil rights and music led her to represent street musicians and try to eradicate the archaic laws and ordinances that prevented them from making a living. Some of these legal decisions were among the first to protect music as a form of speech. “We’ve gotten four city ordinances and one state statute declared unconstitutional,” she says. “The latest one, a state statute that prohibited the playing of a musical instrument more than 55 decibels and within 50 or 100 feet of a hospital or church—I think some legislator looked at a speed limit sign and thought, ‘We’ll use that number.’ The sound engineer, when we took him all around the city following Mardi Gras parade routes and second line routes, said, ‘A law like that would end life in New Orleans as we know it.’ That was the most recent one.”

Howell looks at the streets as essential to the music of New Orleans. “It’s a critical question of streets and byways being used for public performances, and it’s not just the music,” she says. “The streets are critical venues not just for the expression of the cultural life of the community, but they are venues for the passing on of the tradition, and for people being able to continue and develop their art. That’s where the convergence of the First Amendment and civil rights and the cultural life of our community come into play, probably uniquely here in New Orleans.”

Howell has represented clubs such as Cafe Brasil and Donna’s, and helped craft the ordinance that governs the music around the St. Louis Cathedral. She also helped on the lawsuit that the ACLU brought on behalf of the social aid and pleasure clubs over increased permitting fees. Despite progress on these fronts, the issues remain. “I’m always amazed how this stuff keeps coming up periodically,” she replies when asked why the city seems to have such trouble dealing with its native music and musicians. “I think it is being afraid of that which you can’t control. Unfortunately, the tension between freedom of expression and government control is a constant tension in our society at large, and you see it played out particularly in these little vignettes. Also, the street performers are frequently working class people or they’re poor people. They often offer convenient and vulnerable targets.”

But there have been triumphs. The social aid and pleasure clubs prevailed in their lawsuit against the city. It is easier for street musicians to ply their trades in New Orleans. Howell also notes, “We’ve made a lot of headway with the Mardi Gras Indians. I was involved in representation after the St. Joseph’s Night event [when the police forced Mardi Gras Indians to get off the streets and take off their suits in 2005] and that’s another thing I feel good about. We’ve come a long way with Captain Bardy in the 6th District Uptown. Last St. Joseph’s Night was really successful. It was the one of the few that I can remember where we didn’t have incidents. We’ve established the importance of legal observers, and I think we’ve been able to play a really positive role in that and facilitating that situation.”

As she reflects on her work, Howell thinks of it as a privilege. “I have the honor of knowing the musicians and playing a small role in providing some space there,” she says. “I look at musicians like Troy and Glen Andrews, Ingrid Lucia and the Flying Neutrinos, and I’ve represented some of them since they were kids. I’ve watched them grow up and they’ve become wonderful artists and they’ve done wonderful things in the community. I don’t want to overstate this, but to some extent the music and the culture is, ultimately, irrepressible, in that it will continue and it will prevail. If I have contributed to that in any small way, it would be in fighting to insure that there is some breathing room, some space for this to happen and that governmental efforts to suppress the culture are stopped wherever possible.”

John Rankin. Photo by Greg Miles.

For a guy who can be seen playing regularly alongside jazz musicians like Jesse Boyd, Tom Fischer and Don Vappie, guitarist John Rankin has an unusual claim to fame. “I play with the LPO [Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra] when they need a guitar or a banjo,” he says. “Last year I did Mahler’s 7th [symphony] with them.”

As a classical guitar instructor, Rankin is omnipresent. It’s hard to find a New Orleans institution of higher learning that he has not taught at. He’s an adjunct faculty member at UNO, Loyola and Tulane, has held similar positions at Delgado and Xavier, and teaches private lessons to students at the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts (NOCCA).

Yet he doesn’t exactly fit the image of the music professor. A fixture at Jazz Fest for 30 years now, he is immensely fluent in popular styles of every sort. “I know a lot of great guitar players,” says guitarist and songwriter Paul Sanchez. “But it’s a short list of them that can play all the different styles that John Rankin can play.”

“My jazz playing was just a natural consequence of who I am and where I’m living,” Rankin says. “[Jazz and classical] are different mental states. As a teacher, I try to find the common thread between them. What’s the same? What’s different?”

For someone with Rankin’s resume, his own beginnings on the guitar were humble. He and his family moved to New Orleans from North Carolina when he was nine years old. “When I was 14, my mom got an old Hawaiian guitar out of the French Market,” he remembers. “I never studied in high school. I think that was a mistake; on the other hand, I was so ignorant that I wonder if I’d have stuck with it if I’d known how bad I was.

“I’d say I’ve owned 75 or 100 guitars over the years. I’ve got about 25 right now,” Rankin says, adding quickly, “but they’re all left handed! Not worth stealing!”

As a young left-handed guitarist, Rankin initially took the Jimi Hendrix route, playing a restrung right- handed guitar. “When my mom got me the guitar, it was strung right- handed,” he remembers. “I just turned the strings around.” Today he advises his left-handed students to take a different approach. “I tell them to try right-handed first,” he says. “There’re different degrees of left-handedness. After a few weeks, they’re often fine.”

Rankin never set out to play the music of his adopted hometown. “I was listening to so many kinds of music from everywhere, but I didn’t realize how much of it was coming from New Orleans,” he recalls. “I started realizing how much of the stuff I was already playing was New Orleans music or profoundly influenced by it.”

Rankin’s decision to split his time between performance and education was a conscious one. “The child inside always says to me you’re a musician. But I don’t know that I think of myself as one or the other. Sometimes when I’m teaching, I’ll think, ‘I can’t wait to get to that gig tonight.’ And sometimes when I’m at the gig, I’ll think, ‘At least all I have to do is teach tomorrow. I don’t have to haul gear and all that.’”

“I was self-taught to begin with,” Rankin says. That led to some trouble when he went to get his Master’s degree in classical guitar. “I had a lot of remedial work to do, a lot of bad habits,” he recalls. As most New Orleans musicians lack formal training, that aspect of his learning process has given Rankin some crucial tools as an educator. “I think it helped me as a teacher to have done everything wrong,” he says.

But what makes Rankin’s impact so unique is his influence on his fellow professionals. “I think that his impact on the players in this city and around the country is more far reaching than he would admit,” says Sanchez. “He’d be the last to tell you. You could ask a dozen guys and they’d say, ‘Yeah man, John Rankin really had an impact on me.’”

In 2008, Rankin began coaching Sanchez on guitar in exchange for songwriting lessons. Sanchez is effusive about the effect that Rankin’s tutelage has had on him. “You can hear the difference,”
he says. “Listen to my playing on Exit to Mystery Street—my first record after the flood—and then two records later on A Stew Called New Orleans.

“He makes learning fun,” Sanchez continues. “He makes it exciting. He doesn’t talk down to you. He talks to his students like equals.”

“I think I’ve encouraged a lot of people that they were good enough,” says Rankin. “I think I’ve shown people that they could do things they thought they couldn’t do.”

Scott Billington. Photo by Rick Olivier.

It’s hard to explain what Scott Billington has meant to New Orleans and Louisiana music in the past two plus decades. These following words must suffice:

Classified. Give Him Cornbread. Funk is in the House. Irma Thomas. Tangle Eye. Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas. The Houseman Cometh. Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band with Danny Barker and Eddie Bo. Sing It! Johnny Adams. Who Stole My Monkey? The Whop Boom Bam. Buckwheat Zydeco. Resurrection of the Bayou Maharajah.

If good New Orleans or zydeco music was recorded in the past two and a half decades, there’s a good chance that Scott Billington made it happen. Starting out as a graphic designer, continuing as a producer, and now working as vice president of A&R for Rounder Records, one of the best known and premiere roots music record labels in the world, Billington has made the records that many of us treasure. Recognizing him with OffBeat‘s Lifetime Achievement in Music Business Award is long overdue.

Billington grew up outside Boston and started out playing harmonica in blues bands when he was a teenager. At one point when his family lived in New Jersey in the late 1960s, he and friends would go into New York City down to Greenwich Village to hear the Grateful Dead, Frank Zappa, and his idol, Paul Butterfield. When his father died, his mother moved the family back to Boston where Billington hung out at Skippy White’s record store in Cambridge and got an education in black music. “I remember getting Percy Mayfield’s ‘My Jug and I’ on Tangerine Records. It was on Ray Charles’ label with members of his band. It had great songs and great arrangements. It was a big influence on me when I made records with Johnny Adams. It showed you could have jazz level playing with a sophisticated take on the blues, but still be swinging with great story songs.”

Billington went to school for a year in Flagstaff, Arizona, where he had also lived for a short while, but then moved back to Boston. He managed a record store and got involved with the Boston Blues Society, which included such blues fanatics as Dick Waterman and Peter Guralnick. “We promoted shows at Harvard University,” Billington says. “We brought in Son House, Roosevelt Sykes, Mance Lipscomb, Houston Stackhouse. This was the last hurrah of folks who recorded in the 1930s and 1940s. It was a fantastic bunch of folks.”

Through the Boston Blues Society, Billington met the founders of Rounder Records. He soon became a part-time salesman for them and continued learning the business. “I had dreamed of making records when I was 15,” he says. “I heard the Live at the Village Vanguard records or the stuff on Chess Records. Peter Guralnick and I had recorded guitarist Johnny Shines in Cambridge, and Rounder put it out. I designed the cover and Peter did the liner notes—this was 1976 or 1977—and it won a W.C. Handy Award.” From there, Billington continued working on records with Robert Jr. Lockwood, Sleepy LaBeef, and Johnny Spence. He also learned graphic design by “peeking over the shoulder of the woman who was Rounder’s graphic designer and taking some courses.”

About this time, Rounder had a huge, surprise hit with George Thorogood. “The success of Thorogood made other bluesmen want to record for Rounder. Clarence ‘Gatemouth’ Brown came to Rounder and they said, ‘Why don’t you do this?’” I wanted to bring Gate back to the swinging, big-band blues mode, and Gate was comfortable with this. He did not like being typecast as a bluesman. We did [Alright Again!] at Studio in the Country [in Bogalusa] in eight days. It was a marathon session, and it won a Grammy.”

Billington had been to New Orleans several times by this point. “I loved being here,” he smiles. “I knew New Orleans from records—Dave Bartholomew, Smiley Lewis, Fats Domino, Allen Toussaint. It was eye-opening to see all this music in the context of the community rather than removed from the community with the concerts at Harvard. Seeing that the music is a real, living and breathing part of the community made a real impression on me, and the Grammy made me want to do more. I was hanging down here and seeing James Booker at the Maple Leaf and Tuts Washington at the Pontchartrain Bar.” Billington was getting more confident in his role as a producer, which combined with his thought that “New Orleans felt like the right place to be. In places like Chicago or Austin, most of the good musicians were making records, but here, there were these wonderful musicians, most of them at the peak of their creative, vocal, entertaining powers, and no one was making records by them.”

Billington’s first session in New Orleans was James Booker’s Classified. It was extremely difficult, as Booker would not do what they had rehearsed. On the third day, Billington went to Ultrasonic Studios to see if anything from the previous two days was salvageable, and Booker was there when he arrived and ready to play.

“We cut all the solo stuff for Classified that morning,” says Billington. Although Classified did not show the magic that James Booker could weave when he was on, it is a good record with some stand-out tracks. The Booker Classified session taught Billington that “when you’re trying to capture an emotional and connected performance from an artist who can’t summon that kind of feeling in a rote kind of way, you have to be patient. You can’t push a button and get that out of somebody. There might be artists like Johnny Adams who even at their lowest, they’re still pretty good. Booker had a much more pronounced high and low. I wish I would’ve had more time with Booker.”

Billington feels a great sense of accomplishment for his work with Johnny Adams. “That’s the relationship I’m most proud of in my career,” he says. “There’s no doubt that Johnny was a great singer. When I first met him, he was playing what was left of the black club circuit through Mississippi and Louisiana. We made a pretty good record for the first record. The rhythm section is tight. Johnny sings beautifully. After that, I saw how I can take a singer like this and give him or her the infrastructure they need to make a record.

Billington’s work over nine albums with Johnny Adams harkens back to the earlier days of producer/singer relationships such as Norman Granz and Ella Fitzgerald or Allen Toussaint and Lee Dorsey. The records have superb vocal performances and sympathetic musicians playing a variety of music from late-night jazz to gospel to organ blues. If Billington had not done these, it’s quite possible that Johnny Adams, one of the best singers ever, might have never recorded again, and certainly not as much as he did.

Another of Billington’s great triumphs has been his work with zydeco artists based in Lafayette. Beau Jocque, Boozoo Chavis, Nathan Williams, Chris Ardoin—the names go on and on. “I had heard Buckwheat Zydeco at Jazz Fest in maybe 1982. I called up Buckwheat’s manager in Lafayette, and went down there and stayed in a Days Inn. I got picked up in this big Cadillac and taken out to Richard’s Club in Lawtell. That was a mind-blowing experience, my first zydeco dance. It was packed with well- dressed people, Creole people. Everybody brought food. I was pulled from table to table having so-and-so’s fried chicken. There were set-ups. The dancing. I knew I was in a different world.”

There are other Billington records that space will not allow us to analyze. From his Irma Thomas recordings, which elevated her to the celestial level where she reigns, to the Walter “Wolfman” Washington recordings that give a tantalizing taste of the magic he does when it’s 3 a.m. at the Maple Leaf Bar. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band records that took them from the streets of New Orleans to the concert halls across the world. Last year, he signed the Soul Rebels to Rounder and recorded their Unlock Your Mind album, and at press time he was once again producing the Dirty Dozen. In all cases, he brought two impulses that have served him well throughout his career—a fan’s enthusiasm for the music and a respect for the musician.

New Orleans was once a musical oasis, seemingly unnoticed by the world outside. This year, two of our Top 10 albums of the year received Grammy nominations—Rebirth Brass Band, Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys—and four of the artists record for companies based somewhere outside Louisiana. Trombone Shorty and Curren$y record for major labels, GIVERS’ In Light was released by a significant boutique label, and Nicholas Payton’s controversial Bitches was recorded for Concord, then released by the German label In+Out. That doesn’t mean the city has lost its soul and joined the quest to be the Next Big Thing, though. Two of our top albums of 2011 are traditional jazz albums, while Quintron and Helen Gillet are the sort of artists who have always flourished here, distinctive artistic voices that are nonetheless firmly rooted in their communities.

—John Swenson

The Top 20

1. Trombone Shorty: For True (Verve) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“Shorty has peppered For True with showcases in exactly the manner hip-hop’s major artists do it, being generous with the limelight but in charge and aware of the flow.”—reviewed September 2011 by John Swenson

2. GIVERS: In Light (Glassnote) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“The palpable enthusiasm in the tracks obscures the sonic depth of In Light. It has as much atmosphere as energy.”—reviewed August 2011 by Alex Rawls

3. Quintron: Sucre du Sauvage (Goner) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“In a sense, Sucre du Sauvage is Quintron’s Low.”—reviewed May 2011 by Alex Rawls

4. Helen Gillet: Running of the Bells (Independent) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes]

“There is a contemporary classical vibe to this as well as a jazz sensibility and an avant-garde edge.”—reviewed July 2011 by David Kunian

5. Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys: Grand Isle (Independent) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“The group still crafts smart songs with infectious melodies.”—reviewed March 2011 by Dan Willging

6. Aurora Nealand and the Royal Roses: A Tribute to Sidney Bechet: Live in New Orleans (Independent) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“It’s hard to put new life into some of these trad jazz warhorses, but the exuberance of the band in the confines of Preservation Hall makes these songs sound contemporary.”—reviewed August 2011 by David Kunian

7. Curren$y: Weekend at Burnie’s (Warner Bros) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“Spitta offers an album full of his standard weed, women and clothes that made him the cult icon and fan favorite he is now.”—reviewed September 2011 by David Dennis

8. Dr. Michael White: Adventures in New Orleans Jazz, Volume 1 (Basin Street) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“It’s masterful in its craft and maturity, a stunning display of restraint, discipline, craft, and pure emotion.”—reviewed July 2011 by Roger Hahn

9. Nicholas Payton: Bitches (In + Out Records) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes]

“This record is very different from Payton’s better-known jazz work, but it gets better with every listen.”—reviewed March 2011 by David Kunian

10. Rebirth Brass Band: Rebirth of New Orleans (Basin Street) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“As this record attests, the Rebirth still blows doors off quite nicely.”—reviewed April 2011 by Brian Boyles

11. Cedric Watson et Bijou Creole: Le Soleil Est Levé (Lache Pas) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes]

“Watson has created a mature representation of both his musical vision and the development of his musical talent.”—reviewed December 2011 by Roger Hahn

12. Preservation Hall Jazz Band and Del McCoury Band: American Legacies (McCoury Music) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“The evolution of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band into a conveyer of hip is one of the musical successes of post-K culture.”—reviewed April 2011 by Brian Boyles

13. George Porter, Jr. and his Runnin’ Pardners: Can’t Beat the Funk! (Independent) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“With Can’t Beat the Funk!, Porter reminds us that there’s more to the Meters than its canonical works.”—reviewed November 2011 by Alex Rawls

14. Camile Baudoin and the Living Rumors: Old Bayou Blues (Threadhead) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes]

“Baudoin and BeauSoleil’s David Doucet are obviously enjoying playing acoustic guitars together and do so without redundancy.”—reviewed December 2011 by Alex Rawls

15. Delfeayo Marsalis: Sweet Thunder (Troubadour Jass) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“Marsalis achieves the remarkable feat of maintaining fidelity to Ellington’s creation while altering it in subtle and wonderful ways.”—reviewed April 2011 by John Swenson

16. Johnny Sansone: The Lord is Waiting and the Devil is Too (Shortstack) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes]

“The results are lean, hard and haunted, defined by Sansone’s barking, preaching vocals and his overdriven harmonica.”—reviewed July 2011 by Alex Rawls

17. Dee-1: I Hope They Hear Me Vol. 2 (mixtape) [stream/download]

“Dee-1 has mastered his craft and can create a fully developed project that is his launching pad to mainstream success.”—reviewed May 2011 by David Dennis

18. Big Freedia: Scion A/V Presents Big Freedia (Scion A/V) [stream]

“Bounce is slagged for being repetitive and simplistic, but Freedia’s producers are stretching the genre’s sonic palette nicely.”—reviewed June 2011 by Sam Levine

19. Davis Rogan: The Real Davis (Sousaphonk) [buy on Amazon]

“Most of all, The Real Davis is about the music, which Davis takes very seriously.”—reviewed July 2011 by John Swenson

20. Shannon McNally: Western Ballad (Sacred Sumac) [buy on Amazon] [buy on iTunes] [listen on Spotify]

“McNally and Bingham have made an album that reaches more boldly and illuminates her thoughts more clearly than ever.”—reviewed February 2011 by Alex Rawls

The Next 20

(in alphabetical order)

Big Chief Monk Boudreaux: Won’t Bow Down (f.Boo Music)
C.J. Chenier: Can’t Sit Down (World Village)
Creole String Beans: Shrimp Boots and Vintage Suits (Threadhead)
Galactic: The Other Side of Midnight (Anti-)
Yvette Landry: Should Have Known (Independent)
Tim Laughlin featuring Connie Jones: If Dreams Come True (Gentilly)
Eric Lindell: West County Drifter (M.C. Records)
Lyrikill: More Heart More Sole (Elevated Minds)
Sasha Masakowski and Musical Playground: Wishes (Hypersoul)
Tom McDermott and Evan Christopher: Almost Native (Threadhead)
My Graveyard Jaw: Coming Winds (Independent)
New Orleans Moonshiners: Frenchmen St. Parade (Independent)
Panorama Brass Band: 17 Days (Independent)
Papa Grows Funk: Needle in the Groove (Funky Krewe)
Sun Hotel: Coast (Independent)
Supagroup: Hail! Hail! (Foodchain)
Tab Benoit: Medicine (Telarc)
Wayne Toups, Steve Riley, Wilson Savoy: The Band Courtbouillon (Valcour)
Various Artists: Colman deKay & Paul Sanchez’s Nine Lives, A Musical Adaption, Volume 1 (Mystery Street)

Master P and No Limit Forever. Illustration by Mike Freiheit.

Recall New Orleans, 1998, around midnight. Your sweaty back cools against the passenger seat of a silver Maxima buzzing along I-10 under a lavender sky. From the carpet of shingles and treetops below the elevated highway, the billboard rises, white with blue block letters.

“Thou Shall Not Kill.”

A half-mile later, another billboard, a man in sunglasses puffs on a cigar, perhaps extends his gold card or oversees a fiery tank battle. Around him may be champagne bottles, crystal balls, grizzly bears, or all of the above. His album is out. The record label has an album out every month and can afford billboards as big as God’s. You marvel, “Man, Master P is taking over.”

The driver stops by the K&B, where you pick up a fifth of K&B vodka, then shuffle to the magazine stand. On Forbes’ list of highest paid entertainers, P ranks No. 10, worth an estimated $600 million. His latest release, MP Da Last Don, sits atop Billboard’s Top 200. He just signed Snoop Dogg away from Suge Knight’s Death Row Records. At the checkout line, you pluck a copy of I’m Bout It, his lo-fi gangsta flick that will inadvertently preserve life in the Calliope Projects for posterity. Reemerge on the sidewalk and hear Soulja Slim, Mr. Serv-On, and Big Ed thundering from a car stereo, suggesting that you don’t fuck with them.

Point of nostalgic reflection: Master P was the original underground king of what today’s junior entrepreneurs call “transmedia.” He was everywhere in every form to hustle every available dollar. From The Ghetto’s Tryin to Kill Me to platinum records to C-Murder’s jail cell, the genesis, rise, and fall of No Limit deserve more study.

Briefly: returning from the Bay Area in 1995, P hired the now-legendary producers Beats By Da Pound to create the label’s sound, signed hungry Parkway Pumpin’ spitters to deals that often left them with nothing but new Camaros and empty wallets, and convinced Priority Records to distribute while he kept the publishing. No Limit delivered the sound and stories of New Orleans to a national audience through relentless promotion and the sheer volume of its releases. Love him or leave him alone, Percy Miller belongs in the iconography of local music legends.

If the you-circa-1998 had tricked out that Maxima for time travel and accelerated to 2011, imagine your confusion. You’d hear the recent announcement of P’s return under the flag of No Limit Forever Records. “My main goal is to take over the game twice,” he claims in a new web series, The Next 48 Hours with Master P. Lil’ Romeo is all grown and installed as the V.P., with Silkk the Shocker as trunk of P’s car. The label is exclusively digital, and you can download P’s new mixtape, T.M.Z. (Too Many Zeros), for free. He shares a track with Gucci Mane and raps about “trending.”

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You and your fellow traveler would turn to each other in shock. What happened? What is Twitter? What happened to the first takeover? This Rite Aid is not my beautiful K&B!

For answers, you could slam the Maxima in reverse, arrive in 1999, return to that newsstand and shake your head. Sports Illustrated features a story on P’s management of Saints’ draft pick Ricky Williams, the first client of No Limit Sports Management. In those days, the Saints did very little right, but they crushed P at the negotiating table. Check the World Championship Wrestling mags and wince at the No Limit Soldiers, another ill-fated attempt at brand diversification that recast P as a Captain Lou Albano-like manager against something named the West Texas Rednecks. You might consider the state of race in America, then proceed to the liquor section for more vodka.

Maybe after you’d slugged your fill, you’d see the contours of the near future. Boundless ambition eventually reaches the ceiling of cultural relevance and business acumen. Producers resent the absence of royalty checks. Soon enough, the neighborhood champ is chased out of town, ridiculed nationally, forced to close up shop. And there you’d be, a little drunk, raising a bottle to the just-vanished old days.

Today, your average American knows Master P from Dancing with the Stars. Tonight, the kids on St. Claude or Frenchmen Street will Bounce for the Juvenile or catch a DJ set from Mannie Fresh, but don’t expect them to remember Mr. ServOn. New Orleanians will back that azz up forever, but who still rounds out the tank? The billboards are gone; the digital mixtape is here. The old mogul returns to the spotlight’s edge, but what relevance will he have? Download T.M.Z. and hear that familiar growl declare, “My pockets fatter than Britney, Kevin Federline / I’m still famous in 2012 like it’s ’99.” The boast suggests several outcomes, none particularly flattering.

Still, with his track record of game-changing dominance and celebrity missteps, Master P deserves a wait-n-see reception. Before you celebrate or scoff at his resurrection, remember 1998 and 1999, and watch out for those potholes on memory lane. Hoody Hoo.

We begin with your once-every-five-years Fiend update: The ex-No Limit rapper-slash-grizzly-bear-throated drug linguist is still making records—mixtapes, mostly, charming on the whole. If you grew up during the break-up of New Orleans’ rap empires, this news comes as a delight, like an ancient comet spotted orbiting back towards Earth, taken as harbinger of the reemergence of a No Limitarian whose latest gift to civilization was a 1999 cut called “Mr. Whomp Whomp”. This time, he’s International Jones, and the sound of his melodic baritone resurfacing into 2011 seems 2012 in the Mayan sense of the number. Strange things are happening. If Mr. Whomp Whomp is making records—relevant records—then something in the universe is possible again.

The first year of the decade was a strong one for Jets Life Recordings, the smattering of lost-to-time rappers, Fiend included, who surround Curren$y—himself one of those erstwhile No Limit up-and-comers forever hyped on the now-fossilized pages of old No Limit CD booklets. History has a way of rhyming. Curren$y’s clique is today the closest thing New Orleans rap has smelled to a movement since No Limit fractured, and since Cash Money Records’ CEO Baby (allegedly) stopped paying his performers until they left.

The reassuring news? It’s hard to imagine any member of Jets making enough money for anybody else to leave. Certainly not in this economy. You can cross whole stretches of these people’s mixtapes without hearing the name of an automobile or club. Hunker down with their relaxed-but-syncopated beats ambling under half-hearted boasts, and you will learn more about sports than champagne. You will come to the finding that, for these fellows, bottle service means: “Bring me another High Life from the mini-fridge.”

Which is all refreshing, given the times. Jets’ 2011 streak may be the most recession-friendly oeuvre since Field Mob, a Georgia plains duo who asked, “Have you ever bathed in soap the size of a Cert?” In the 365 miraculous 2011 days God giveth to them, Jets crew sounds as if they—just like 9.1 percent of the labor force—wasted most of them, musing on life’s disappointments in between exhibition matches on Madden. And they wrote records. Playful mixtapes, nothing serious. They stacked verses with far fewer ad-libs than mandated by the hip-hop guide to over-producing a record, and never once hired a singer. They wrote okay puns. (“Pattycake-pattycake, I’m baked my man.”) They pushed the air- travel-as-success-metaphor to new…heights.

I have only good things and no great things to say about this group whose acronym breaks down to “Just Enjoy This Shit.” I do. About the worst thing I can say is that I half-just-enjoyed every minute of the mixtapes I haphazardly streamed, intensely enjoyed just some of it, and hope to enjoy their Jet World Order November 29 release.

Jets’ lack of aspirations may be the best thing the clique has going for it. Over the past two or three sessions of Congress, rap has been too single-minded in its pursuit of excellence, too busy Looking for the Perfect Beat. Someday, this stretch of history will sound like a haze, as impenetrable to later listeners as ragtime. Past-gazers will wonder what compelled a cyborg like Kanye to pour away years of his existence into soft, synthesized subtleties, to announce every chorus with a crass crescendo, to slave over bogus bragfest Watch the Throne, packaged as some Great American Rap Record, when everybody understands that the Great American Rap Record is probably Kilo Ali’s Bluntly Speaking. They in our future will ask obvious questions about AutoTune. They will wonder what form of indentured servitude drove studio engineers to clock in 16-hour workdays at the ProTools console, copying and pasting hooks in lieu of Just Enjoying That Shit.

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When those inquiries are determined unresolvable, we’ll be left with Covert Coup, a 27-minute mixtape. Curren$y released it on 4/20. Of course. The real joke is that he must have made it on 4/19. The record’s sharp focus and ear for detail completely counterbalances the slugabed, let me start-my-morning-with-some-“purple” masquerade Curren$y impersonates. The 30-year-old rap manufacturer grinds way harder than his somnambulist drawl would let on, and, given the quantity-plus-quality of mixtapes he accomplished this year, he might be the hardest-working man in the being-stoned business. The record’s producer, Alchemist, puts down precise, if loopy, beats like the rightly titled “Ventilation”, over which Curren$y offers rigorous rhyme schemes like “grappling hooks, scaling the building / rap with no hooks, how is you feeling?” You wonder if he inhales.

His answer: “The toxic air that I’m breathing will leave an average man weakened.”

My guess is Jets has until 2016–the year economists forecast full employment will return to America—to keep milking this gag. I hope they do. It’s artistry to make the consistently good sound easy. It’s a mystery that these guys can make it sound so lazy.

JETS’ Productions in 2011

Jet Life

Jets World Order (Spotify | iTunes)

Curren$y

Return to the Winner’s Circle

Covert Coup

Weekend at Burnie’s (album on Warner Bros.)

Verde Terrace

Fiend/International Jones

Tennis Shoes & Tuxedos

Cool is in Session

Smokin’ Champagne

Nesby Phips

The Catchup

The Phipstape: 3rd Side

The Lockout

Corner Boy P

Catch Me if You Can

Rolex Diamonds

Limitless

Trademark Da Skydiver

Jet Life to the Next Life

Street Wiz

Return of the Jeti