As a Cynic Sees It: Music, music, music

As with almost any profession, there are affinity groups for classical musicians. The Guitar Foundation of America thrives via local chapters throughout the country. Oboists don’t have their own group but they meet with bassoonists in the International Double Reed Society. Musical America started as a magazine in 1898 and has, since 1960, published a directory of all classical music organizations, serving as a sort of town hall for all members of the profession.

But nothing comes close to the National Flute Association, which is right now hosting almost 2,500 flutists at its annual convention, this year in New Orleans. Ransom is one of those flutists, though, in fact, his main role is to conduct the final gala concert on Saturday night. I’m here too.

I will attend that Saturday concert and I will also hear him play one piece (a flute transcription of a Fauré violin sonata) on a concert this morning, but I'm mainly here for another kind of music – the kind that emanates from dozens of bars and clubs in this most musical of American cities.

Bourbon Street is known world over for its party scene, and there are lots of places to hear live music up and down its length. But that music strikes me as mainly engineered to get people to drink. It’s loud and brassy – even when there are no brass players involved. What it lacks in refinement it makes up in power and volume. Bar owners know that the louder the music, the more people drink. (What else can you do – you certainly cannot talk to your tablemates).

The music I came for is at a series of clubs on Frenchman Street, and at others in separate parts of the city. Last night I was particularly lucky. I was riding my rental bike past Café Negril and heard the classic Joe Zawinul / Cannonball Adderley piece Mercy, Mercy, Mercy booming from its open door. Even after locking up the bike and walking a block back to the club I still managed to hear another ten minutes of this smoldering tune that builds and builds only to start over and build again. (If you only know the rock version by the Buckinghams, click here to listen to the real deal.)

Last night's band was The Black Dragons (above, in a terrible shot, I know). I have no idea if they have a local or regional reputation, but for my money -- $3, the cost of a coke – they were excellent. Sax, trumpet, electric guitar, electric bass, keyboard and drums. They only played two other songs I knew: another classic, Mongo Santamaria’s Watermelon Man, and Gnarls Barkley’s hit from 2006, Crazy -- but their originals were thoroughly enjoyable. They were tight and beautifully balanced; I would have sworn there were more than two brass players on stage and the guitarist was as good as any rock axeman I’ve ever heard. I stayed for the rest of their set, a full ninety minutes.

On the way there I had encountered two street bands, roving musicians entertaining the tourists with some classic New Orleans jazz. I stopped for maybe ten minutes as I encountered each, and could certainly have stayed longer. It seems everywhere you turn in the Crescent City you have the chance of encountering fine music: