Keeping the Beat on the Street by Mick Burns

tubas—Anthony Lacen, Steve Parker, and myself. This was just before the start of Leroy Jones and the Hurricane Brass Band. We did this performance out at Chalmette, with four tubas in the band. We were all playing great. Danny came to the back and signaled me to stop playing. Then he said, “Play.” After the performance, he said to me, “You have the fattest sound I’ve ever heard on tuba.”
    We didn’t read at rehearsal. Leroy practiced every day, and we would practice at his house. I had learned most of the tunes from the albums I had borrowed from Danny .
    Then Danny told me he was going to be out of town too much to give me lessons, and I had to get another teacher. As time went on, I started venturing away from the traditional New Orleans jazz, because there was so much more out there .
    I went to lessons with Mr. Frank Murray at Houston’s. I was a little bit arrogant when I went in—I really didn’t want to be there. Mr. Murray said, “Play me something,” and I did. He said, “Who was your teacher?” and I told him. Then he sort of sat for about five minutes with his head in his hands. Then he said, “You sound like shit, but when you leave here, you’ll be a very good guitarist. A reading musician is a working musician.” I went to lessons with him for three and a half years, every Saturday at exactly twelve o’clock. It was good discipline—he drove me nuts. By knowing the bass clef, I played the bass charts with Kid Johnson’s big band .
    I first met Al Carson when I was fourteen years old. I was playing at a friend’s wedding, and they had a nun singing a pop version of the Lord’s Prayer—I sang the middle part, because they couldn’t quite get it. Afterwards, at the reception, at the Bricklayer’s Hall on Galvez Street, I was the first one out of the car—all of us looking real cool in our suits. I said, “Hey, listen, they’re doing ‘Mighty Mighty’ by Earth, Wind and Fire.” I ran up to the door and said, “Hey! They got this big dude on the bandstand, sound just like the record.” I didn’t know him, but I was mesmerized. In the front of the Bricklayer’s Hall, there was a champagne fountain. We got some cups, I went to get the drinks—I’m the biggest of my group. Who should be standing up there but Big Al Carson. He says, “Hey, boy! Put that champagne down, you got no business drinking that! I’ll tell your momma on you!” I remembered him for years .
    Four years later, I was applying for a scholarship at Xavier University. We hadn’t had the results, and I went up there to see what was going on, just as they were having a concert band rehearsal. I looked to my left, and Big Al was playing tuba. I went over there, and said, “How you doing? Remember about four years ago, you played with a band called Better Half? You played at Irwin Johnson’s wedding at the Bricklayer’s Hall.” He said, “Yeah, I remember that.” I said, “Remember that kid you told to put the champagne down?” He said, “Was that your little brother?” I said, “No, that was me.” We became the best of friends. We didn’t start playing together until around 1980 .
    We got together to rehearse and record some songs I had written when I was in the hospital for a month. He sang lead, and three of us sang backing. Al named the band Sterlyn Silver. We recorded some stuff, but we didn’t do anything with it, because we didn’t have any money, and Al was on the road with One Mo’ Time. He’s got about three and a half octaves, and all in tune—he’s disgusting!
    The Fairview band basically broke up because everyone was getting older and getting into other musical things. So then Danny Barker started the Younger Fairview band and brought in Michael White and myself. I was still in college, and so was