2020/2/24 Jon Batiste @ Rockwood 2 (#Rockwood15Years)
As is often the case, my words will likely fail to properly convey the awesomeness of this night. Maybe self-deprecation isn’t the way to go here, I don’t know, I’m just awestruck and don’t know what else to do. Jon Batiste has been on my wish list for some time, since he first tickled my soul with his ivories as a guest on Live From Here. I later saw him play a few songs with Mavis Staples on her 80th birthday celebration at the Apollo last March. I’ve been chasing a show of his ever since, so I didn’t hesitate to buy a ticket for this intimate celebration at Rockwood 2, regardless of the 11:00 pm scheduled start on a Monday, my fourth consecutive night out.
An unexpected second dinner with some Freaky friends was a great surprise, the first of many. Most of the crowd was assembled in the room with the red velvet (are they velvet?) walls by 11:00 pm, and would be joined soon by Jon Batiste leading a second line march through the front door ten minutes later. Having no clue what to expect band-wise, I don’t think I ever quite figured it out as musicians were literally hanging from the rafters and appearing Hogwarts-style as if Rockwood Music Hall were platform 9 ¾.
After settling in to the round, whether you had ever heard “I’m From Kenner” before or not, the whole room was soon engaged in a singalong .. “I feel good, I feel free, I feel fine just being me! I feel good today!” It seemed so fitting when I learned today that he wrote these lyrics about moving to NYC, his adopted home. Sometimes these things come off as cheesy or contrived, not so with Mr. Batiste. He wears his smile like a hero’s cape, blanketing all who come under its spell, as the authenticity of his message oozes from his every cell. I experienced intimacy in planes that I didn’t even know existed, physical proximity being the least of them, as Jon and his amazing cadre of talent fired up new pathways of neural connections, crawling inside my spirit to fan the flames of my divine spark from the inside out. I don’t want to harp too much on divinity as it can often be a divisive topic, but I felt like Jon’s divine flame devoured the room like a wildfire, unifying us all in goodness and purity of purpose.
As he finally found his way to the stage, melodica still in hand, he rang out the opening notes to Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.” A lovely female voice joined in from behind me, joined by a male tenor and an acoustic guitar that were likewise nestled within the crowd. Three hundred and sixty degrees of music in what felt like far more than three dimensions, there was literally music coming from everywhere. I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced anything quite like this before. Have a taste…
Every time I tried to enumerate the musicians, another would appear: trombone and sax on the balcony above and behind me; a stringed section with three violins in the corner (a fourth would materialize from the crowd later); two saxophones and a trumpet sitting up on the ledge where the baby grand is stored; drums (snare and kick only); upright bass; the aforementioned two vocalists and an acoustic guitar; a banjo player seemed to fall out of Sasha’s jacket; and Matt Whitaker, another pianist would make his way to the stage later in the evening. Every one of these had a time to shine, as Batiste encouraged and supported them with headshaking wonder and audible gasps. The timeless jazz standard “On the Sunny Side of the Street” kept the positive vibrations going strong as Jon settled into the baby grand for the first time, flirting with the crowd with a trifecta of good looks, otherworldly talent, and an infectious smile. As “Don’t Stop” continued the message of love and hope, it was almost impossible to imagine living in a world that didn’t exist in harmony and peaceful coexistence.
Jon Batiste then took a moment in his set to talk about honoring greatness. He spoke of the travesty that was Duke Ellington’s posthumous Pulitzer prize, how he should have been alive to enjoy it, and, further, how we mustn’t compound that error with Stevie Wonder. “We must celebrate him now, while he’s alive. I won’t ever apologize for celebrating greatness.” A cover of Stevie’s “Pastime Paradise” followed.
Jon then called out to the crowd, “Michelle, you out there?” as a fourth violinist mystically appeared and Michelle Ross played a solo from the audience, Batiste excitedly baiting the lot of us. If I wasn’t yet sure that Rockwood 2 was now heaven on earth, then this solo sealed the deal as only in the Garden of Paradise do violinists appear out of thin air and play bowed solos on my heart strings. Too cheesy? Too bad. It’s how I felt and, visually gauging Batiste’s reaction, he shared in the sentiment. Speaking of which, as I often found myself watching JB watch the members of his band, I was reminded of the last time I saw a bandleader/composer take such visible/audible delight…John Zorn’s New Masada Quartet with Lage/Wollesen/Roeder. Yep, that’s about right.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a tambourine solo and if I have it wasn’t memorable. Joe Saylor changed all that, crushing the solo and his tambourine in a turn of events that may potentially alter the course of my life forever. More on that later.
This high energy segment brought with it the stroke of midnight and, with that, Fat Tuesday — no better way to celebrate than with some Jon Batiste led NOLA funk. Our little Mardi Gras party ultimately ceded to the most delicate and beautiful jazz as solos started getting passed around the room – sax, trumpet, and the softest, most beautiful trombone play – each one utterly transcendent and uplifting before ceding to a knee-knocking bass solo that was pre-certified by Batiste, “Check this out, you all ain’t never seen nothing like this before.” The beginning of my musical career was still at least twenty minutes from inception so far be it from this math teacher to correct his double negative. My man spoke the truth. Check it out.
This drummer. This jazz. This room. These people, musicians and fans alike, no separation at all among us, neither physically nor otherwise. Another musician, plucked from the crowd, this time it was Matt Whitaker, a piano player who’s so good, scientists are studying him. No really. Click the link. He graced the baby grand as Jon retreated to the melodica for a seriously memorable cover of Daft Punk’s “Lose Yourself to Dance” that would make any jam band proud as they detoured through the “Star Spangled Banner” and “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” Yeah, that one. Unreal. By this time, enough of Batiste’s swagger and charisma and belief in the greatness of humanity had rubbed off on me that I appropriated Joe Saylor’s broken tambourine and joined the band. Like I said, no separation, physically or otherwise. Here I was, a Jewish kid from Marlboro, not a musical note in my body, can’t tell a C from a G, and I was dancing and tapping and clapping and “tambourining” in Jon Batiste’s band. Me, a percussionist. Who’d have thunk it. Stay human, indeed!
A true world class musician put on an only in NYC (ok, likely NOLA, too, as the whole evening swelled with Mardi Gras pride) show that was a lifetime great for me — a Monday night that I’ll never forget. My only regret is that I overused too many superlatives this past weekend as – forget concert of the year lists!- this may have been the greatest musical experience of my life. I am forever changed and I will always carry with me the Grace that Jon Batiste so graciously shared. And with that, the band marched out the front door, leaving exactly the way they came.
Second Line March (Allen St., Broome St. – Lower East Side)
Show’s over, right? Wrong. As I walked out to start heading home, now 12:30 am, I heard the familiar sound of horns and a melodica as Batiste was now assembling a second line March headed south down Allen St. What? WHAT?!?!?! Tambourine in hand – remember, I’m a percussionist now – I marched like I never have before. This was all a first for me. I’ve never been to NOLA – shocking, I know. I’ve never marched a second line. I’ve never been in a band! What the actual fuck is going on here? When you get swept up in one of these New York City nights – work be damned – you go with the flow and run it back.
So down the median on Allen, assembling here and there to regroup, we carried on, into traffic and the familiar swirling cherries of the NYPD. At last, our escort had arrived. Figuring this was some kind of permitted event due to the professional film crew still in tow, the police escort made perfect sense. Wait, what, where’s he going??? The sirens were only to get our attention and move us from the middle of the street so he could get by without delay. Here we are now, at the light on Delancey, a pretty major intersection now, a double long accordian city bus next to us, its passengers in awe, as Batiste attempted to board and the bus drove on. En masse, at least 100 strong if not more, we crossed Delancey, eventually heading west on Broome.
Throwback to that time “When the Saints Went Marching In” …and out of a Chinese grocery and I got hit in the head with a tuba. “Sorry, mate,” he says. “All good,” I reply, “occupational hazard.” Playing percussion in a second line is fraught with peril, but I’m game to the task. Further west down Broome St., we arrive at an unmarked bar, descend the stairs, me thinking we’re just crashing the party and about to shock the living hell out the patrons in attendance. Well, that’s partly true. Folks were shocked to shit. But some were expecting us as our crew, still 100+ strong, arrived down the stairs and around the bend in a dimly lit back room where an upright piano was adorned with candles and a tuxedoed band was lying in wait. HOLYFUCKINGSHITISTHISREAL?????
Jon Batiste with Vince Giordano & The Nighthawks @ The Canary Club
Entering the bar, it took a few moments to get set up in another space as intimate as the first, maybe even more so. I found myself literally over Jon Batiste’s left shoulder, no one between us, his ivories arm distance away. We had a chance to talk for a spell so I thanked him for welcoming a Jew from the suburbs in his band and on his second line. “You killed it,” he said, as he looked me up and down and with quick wit, deadpan delivery, and a celestial grin, dropped a nickname from the heavens, “Tambourine Slim.”
I’m just about dying at this point, occasionally finding the need to pinch myself, as I shared smiles and knowing whatthefuck glances with the other Freaks still in attendance: Sasha, Juls, Millman, and Hammer. A gorgeous set of early jazz and ragtime followed as Jon Batiste was accompanied by Vince Giordano & The Nighthawks, who I just learned are the house band for Boardwalk Empire and have a running residency every Monday and Tuesday at the Iguana on 54th between 8th/Broadway. ResideNYC, are you listening??? An otherworldly clarinet player, four horns and a drummer, let’s check these guys out again. The setlist included “West End Blues”, “Potato Head Blues,” and a few improvised arrangements, and I only know that because I was reading the sheet music.
The same crowd, new venue, alighted upon after a second line march, a bonus set of music that finally came to a close at 1:33 am. If I hadn’t just written four pages on the experience, I’d say it struck me speechless. I’ll carry this memory with me forever and am so grateful to the NYC Freaks, not just for turning me on to experiences such as this, but for sharing in my joy. My heart is full; my overflowing cup just spontaneously combusted into pixie dust. Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!
Oh yeah, nearly forgot, as this whole experience really transcended the folly of counting steps, but 6,862 steps (5,000 of them during the ½ mile LES second line march).
