BackTalk
with Glen David Andrews
By John Swenson
The late January afternoon shadows shiver across the flagstones on Jackson
Square as a crowd of about 50 tourists in winter clothes passively watches
an unlikely collection of musicians—a chubby, red-faced schoolboy
trumpeter, a trombone player, tuba player, trap drummer and stand-up bassist—huff
through a ragtag version of “Saints.” Glen David Andrews arrives
with his trombone case slung over his shoulder, sits next to the kid trumpeter
and transforms this tableau into an impromptu party.
During “I Have a Friend in Jesus,” Andrews shoulders his trombone
and sends a bolt of electricity through the crowd with a solo that corkscrews
in intensity as he throws in four and eight bar quotes from sources including
horseracing’s “Call To Post.”
Andrews signals the other trombonist to solo, then shows the trumpeter
how to comp under the solo. Andrews starts singing “My Bucket’s
Got a Hole in It,” adding verses from “I Hear You Knockin’”
and “Blueberry Hill.” Suddenly the tourists are doing that spasmodic
tourist dance, the involuntary shuffle, and a handful of homeless men
who’ve been watching in silence start dancing around and gesturing
as if they’re part of the entertainment. Andrews encourages the kid
to sing “New Orleans Street Parade” and does a scat vocal call-and-response,
making the kid take another chorus. Andrews then plays the opening strains
of “Georgia,” but when he starts to sing, he changes it to “Louisiana.”
The crowd goes nuts, filling the tip bucket with paper money, and Andrews
takes a bow.
Andrews has been playing in this exact spot since he was younger than
that red-faced trumpeter, learning from the legendary Tuba Fats. His career
has taken him through the Lil’ Rascals Brass Band, the New Birth
Brass Band and some spectacular moments in the Andrews Family Band along
with his cousins James and Troy Andrews. As part of the new breed of brass
band musicians, he wrote the refrain “Gimme a dime /I only got eight,”
which has become a staple of the new brass band repertoire.
Since Katrina, Andrews has been homeless—he’s currently sleeping
in his uncle’s FEMA trailer—and has turned into an outspoken
critic of street violence, the slow pace of the recovery and police crackdowns
on second line parades. “I got a lot to play,” he says, “and
a lot to say!”
What may even be more interesting about his post-Katrina persona, though,
is that Andrews has moved away from his role as one of the young turks
of the new brass band movement and embraced traditional brass band music.
His band, Glen David Andrews and the Lazy Six, plays the old school New
Orleans jazz of his ancestors in regular gigs at Preservation Hall and
Mid City Lanes Rock ’n’ Bowl.
It’s interesting to see that you still play in Jackson Square.
I like to play in Jackson Square. That’s what I’m interested
in doing, teaching people. Nobody’s teaching the traditional music.
The only way you can really hear the traditional music is through the
Treme Brass Band or at Preservation Hall.
You were recently arrested for second lining in the Treme, which brought
attention to the pressure being applied by the police to the second line
tradition.
You have to just do it. They shouldn’t even ask for permission. I’ve
been second lining all my life and I’m going to keep on doing it.
We paraded in the Treme yesterday for about three hours. Nobody bothered
us.
You’ve been an effective spokesperson for a lot of post-Katrina issues.
Unfortunately, if you say what’s on your mind, you’re branded
as a troublemaker. Look at what happened to Cyril Neville.
He was right to say what he said. He said we didn’t leave New Orleans,
New Orleans kicked us out. On one hand the city wants to use you to promote
it, “Come to New Orleans to hear the great music,” but on the
other hand there’s no place for you here.
It’s like the Musicians’ Village, which I have a real problem
with. And not just because they turned me down for a house. They turned
down most of the musicians who applied, most of the brass band members.
The only people who are qualifying are people with good credit, older
people with social security and folks like that. How does that help us,
really? How are you supposed to have good credit when you’re wiped
out, lost all your possessions and are living in somebody else’s
trailer? Even if I had good credit, if I could get a loan from a bank,
what do I want to live in the Ninth Ward for, anyway? I grew up in the
real Musicians’ Village, Treme. I want to live in the real Musicians’
Village.
A lot of the older people have been sidelined since Katrina. You didn’t
have to drown to be kept from being able to do what you were doing before.
It seems like a big part of the social infrastructure that kept the traditional
brass bands going is just gone.
They ran them off. I used to talk to [Olympia’s] Doc Watson all my
days. I would just call him and talk to him; he ain’t here to do
that anymore. There’s no Tuba Fats left in the Sixth Ward. Tuba Fats
taught everybody and not just about the music. He took us to London every
year to play, and he took us to Amsterdam.
I talk to Irvin Mayfield a lot. He says, “They know what you’re
trying to do. They don’t like people that speak out.” You go
against the grain, they stay away from you. Everything’s a clique.
That’s why the city’s in the trouble it’s in.
With so many of the older keepers of the flame out of commission or out
of the city, it falls on younger guys like you not only symbolize the
new blood in the brass band sound, but now you’ve got to uphold the
old tradition, too.
When I saw the Olympia Brass Band for the first time I was like six, seven
years old. I knew I wanted to be a part of that. I knew when I saw James
(Andrews) at the World’s Fair I knew I was going to be playing with
him. I grew up with it in the Treme, it was all around me. Ironing Board
Sam. James Black lived around the corner. I grew up with the Olympia,
the Pinstripe band all my life, and I realize that’s my niche. I
love to sing the old tunes. Every Sunday when I get on the stand at Preservation
Hall, I get a chill.
What’s your ideal repertoire for playing there?
I always try to play some Bunk Johnson, some Punch Miller, some Red Allen.
At places like Fritzel’s they play traditional jazz like classical
music, note for note reproductions.
I’ve only seen one black musician play there in the 27 years of my
life and that was Gregg Stafford. The best place you’re going to
get down there [on Bourbon Street] is the Maison Bourbon; Jamil Sharif
is there to commemorate the traditional music. That’s the thing about
the tradition. You’ve got to know “Sunny Side of the Street”
before you can know “Gimme a Dime.” You’ve got to know
the tradition. And that’s what’s happening with these new brass
bands. It’s the same thing with these Indian chiefs. Everybody wants
to be the Big Chief now. There’s like 23 chiefs now; nobody wants
to start off being the Spyboy.
How did you learn the tradition?
They gave me a horn when I was like 13 and said, “Do this” and
I’ve been doing this ever since. I used to come by Tuba Fats and
he’d have me play the bass drum. He’d say, “Sit there and
do this.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was training
me. My brothers, James and Troy Andrews, Nicholas Payton, they were my
earliest influences. They all played together in brass bands. Kerwin James,
who just passed away, he was there. It all started there in the Sixth
Ward. We were a close family, 15 children, me and my cousins. Eight of
them are named Glen Andrews. You know the New Kids Brass Band? Well, that’s
all my cousin and brother’s children. Three of them in the band are
named Glen Andrews. So the three of them and me and my cousin with the
Rebirth, we went to channel 4 about two months ago. Everybody is signing
in as Glen Andrews. The security guard says, “I don’t know if
you take security seriously or not, but this is not funny.” So we
all get to pulling out our IDs.
So you see your role now, at 27 years old, as an older guy passing along
the tradition?
People don’t respect the tradition. The young people don’t seem
to respect much. If I’m playing at the Rock ’n’ Bowl, everybody
wears suits and ties. Suits and ties. At Preservation Hall, if you don’t
come out there with a coat and tie, you can go home. You could be the
tuba player, somebody I need. If you don’t come with a suit and tie,
you can go home. Tuba Fats told me that’s the way you run a band.
You’ve got to pay them, make sure everybody’s looking good and
professional and sounding good. Otherwise it’s going to fall on you.
You were also part of the brass band new wave with the Rascals and New
Birth.
I did the song “Gimme a Dime, I only got 8” with New Birth.
But that ain’t what I want to do. I’m through with that. The
new shit dishes the old folks.
So you put that aside.
It’s violence. It’s not music. It’s one chord over the
same groove over and over. No offense to the Hot 8. My brother Derek started
that band. No offense to the Soul Rebels. I like all those people as people.
I don’t want to listen to that. “That’s the street thing,”
they say. “I’m trying to do something new.” How the hell
are you going to do that if you don’t know where it came from? Do
you know “Palm Court Strut?” Do you know who Danny Barker was?
You need to find out about some of these things. You need to go by George
Buck and get you a couple of them records.
You’ve been under a lot of psychological stress over the last couple
of years…
I look at it that I am actually homeless. I’m living in my uncle’s
trailer. If I didn’t have the help of my family, if I was a weak-minded
person, I’d be back on drugs. I’d most likely have killed myself
by now. I look out the door and there’s a woman across the street
with her two babies sleeping in the outdoors. That shit breaks my heart,
but I know God and I know God is merciful. I know he’ll look down
on me and give me the courage and strength to keep going.
You were relocated to Texas for a while…
I was in Houston for six months but I left. I was stressed. They don’t
welcome us there. They have an ad campaign right now there encouraging
all the people in Houston to buy a gun to protect themselves from those
people from New Orleans. Those people. They did have that bunch of assholes
that went out there killing everybody, but that doesn’t represent
the rest of us.
What do you think the future is for brass band music?
There’s not enough cooperation among the younger brass band players.
All the white players stick together. All these so-called retro jazz bands,
I don’t hear anything I like down on Frenchmen Street outside of
Snug Harbor except if it’s John Boutte. It’s sad.
If you’re going to play the traditional music do it the right way.
The Storyville Stompers. They’re doing traditional music the right
way. Rebirth works so hard and travels up and down that road, so they’re
going to survive. Them and the Dozen are all right. Not all the individuals
in those bands are all right financially, but those bands are all right
as far as work. But I’ve got to worry about myself.
Everybody compares me to Troy and James, but Troy and James are working.
I guess I’m just as good as them; I just don’t get as much work.
The last 15 years of my career, I’ve spent backing up. I backed Troy,
I backed James, I backed the New Birth. The time has come for me to step
out on my own. Going on this trip to Austin is a big step for me.
I’m a musician. I don’t build homes. I don’t paint. I don’t
know how to paint. I don’t know nothing about changing tires. But
I can sing and that’s what I want to do. If I sit in that trailer,
I’ll go crazy.
. . . . . . .
Music writer Keith Spera can be reached at kspera@timespicayune.com or (504) 826-3470.
