Michael. Thatâs when we met Eddie Bo Parish, Efrem Towns, Gerry Anderson, William Smith on trumpet, Curtis Walker on trombone, Dwight Johnson on bass drum, Byron Washington on snare. We would play traditional tunes in the French Quarter for tips .
Danny sent us to Kentucky to play at a horse auctionâit was great. We would play at the plantations on River Road and wedding receptions and stuff. I was getting really weary of the tuba. Then they had WolfâKeith Andersonâcome in and play tuba. By now they had changed the name to the Charlie Barbarin Memorial Jazz Band. But by then I had quitâI was gigging. They used to come to get me to do brass band gigs in the morning, when I hadnât got to bed until 4:00 A.M . They would come in my yard and play, shouting, âCome on, Big H! We got to go to work.â The years with those guys were great, but I wanted to concentrate on my guitar playingâby then I was starting to play classical music .
Iâve now been working with Big Al Carson at the Funky Pirate on Bourbon Street for eight years, and it doesnât look like the job is likely to finish any time soon. Usually on Bourbon Street bands last a year, maybe two, then they change the policy or something. We figured weâd just do the gig, take the money, and run. Two years became three, three became five, five wound up being eight. Itâs never been about the money, but when you get older, you have responsibilities. And as Al says, heâs never missed a meal in his life, and he doesnât want to start now! And at this time in my life, Iâm not ready to get up in the morning to punch somebodyâs clock. Iâd rather be at the Funky Pirate, 727 Bourbon Street, sitting on my butt, playing the blues behind Big Al Carson .
Tad Jones, Jazz Writer and Historian
BORN : New Orleans, September 19, 1952
Interviewed at Hogan Jazz Archive, Tulane University, November 2002
Iâve been going to farades since about 1969. I met Jules Cahn that way. I was doing research on the Mardi Gras Indians, and Jules veas very involved with that; he knew a great deal about the various tribes. He was a great cultural voyeurâalways at the parades on Sundays, with his camera. He didnât leave any books or memoirsâI wish he hadâbut he did leave us his photographs, and theyâre at the Historic New Orleans Collection .
He lived on Versailles, and I lived on Belfast Street, so we were only six blocks away from each other. Often weâd go to parades together. He had very broad tastes, and he liked a lot of different people .
Jules was a friend of Danny Barkerâs, and Iâm sure he knew the musicians from the Fairview band. He told me about the Hurricane Brass Band when it started, and we went to hear them a couple of times. They were young and inexperienced; it was young, raw, energetic. They werenât trying to do anything new and differentâthey had come up with Danny, so they were trying to stick to the old traditions. The musicians from that band were probably the last influence from Dannyâs era. The cutoff is really in the eighties, with the Rebirth and Dirty Dozen; by that stage, the tradition had really gone .
At some point, Jules said, out of the goodness of his heart (he was personally wealthy, owned Dixie Lumber Mill and a lot of property in the French Quarter), âIâd like to make a record of the Hurricane band, but I donât want to spend a lot of money on a fancy studio.â
I told him I had a reel-to-reel tape recorder; it was stereo, a good solid machine. We went out to his brotherâs house, out on Lakeview. We had food and drinks, and we set the band up in a corner and balanced the sound. We started in the afternoon. Iâd switch on the tape, point at them, and shout, âTake One!â That was the first time Iâd done anything like that. After about three hours, weâd recorded the whole album. I think we
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