My attraction to journalism has always been meeting a stranger, earning their trust and then telling the story. I get same feeling telling the stories behind style in New Orleans. This blog was born last summer in Arkansas, while attending the Oxford American Summit for Ambitious Writers.
Now, I’m going around New Orleans and talking with people who are stylish to me. Everything posted will include photography and a mix of profiles, blurbs, standard questions and my own coming of age stories about style.
So, stay tuned for more updates from the www.OxfordAmerican.org
Growing up in New Orleans, I’ve become cognizant of circles: social, political and even artistic. Some are blatant, others move under the cover of night and even more on the blades of meticulously manicured grass. I’m not among the aristocrat; I don’t have elected friends holding sacks full of favors. I’m invisible to those groups.
I do have the wealth of access to world and all her characters. From the jazz musicians in a New York recording session to the presidential second-line in the streets of New Orleans: I put lenses in people’s faces for a living. I write people’s innermost feelings in my reporter’s notebook. And those are my deepest attractions to storytelling with visions and verbs. I’m privileged to connect with a total stranger, earn their trust, learn their experience, and then share it with the masses.
My journalism is different from my art, regardless; I’m the engineer of the reflection of life. My assurance to hide imperfections of the reluctant subject, and a commitment to expose raw emotions is my ticket into rooms that would otherwise be closed. I enter into a circle of intimacy and voluntarily become invisible. I become the faceless, voiceless cameraman, a high tech mirror for hire. Conversely, other times, the more I give, the more the person on the other side of the lens returns: we talk, we laugh we capture moments of life that are visible for everyone.
A Prospect.2 Satellite
The George & Leah McKenna Museum of African American Art
October 22 – November 19, 2011
2003 Carondelet St. | New Orleans, LA | 70130 ||| 504.586.7432
Museum Hours: Tuesday & Wednesday by Appt. | Thursday-Saturday 11am-4pm | Closed: Sunday & Monday ||| www.themckennamuseum.com
There’s always a possibility for a surprise when Delfeayo Marsalis’s Uptown Jazz Orchestra play at Snug Harbor. On August 17, 2011 Branford Marsalis and Victor Goines sat in with fellow tenor players Stephen Gladney and Allen Dejean, who are both members of UJC. The four tenors played Oleo, a jazz standard composed by saxophonist Sonny Rollins. Recorded by L. Kasimu Harris with an IPhone.
He pissed on them. On all fours, during the seventh day of the week and in the middle of the street, he handled his business. It wasn’t bodily fluid, it was his body movement; a black man covered in a white tuxedo—a king crawling on the ground.
On a New Orleans partly cloudy Sunday afternoon in January 2009, The Lady Jetsetters Social and Pleasure Club second-line took to the uptown streets and the crowd swelled every block. Soon, the second-line arrived on Claiborne Avenue, one of the biggest thoroughfares in the city.
Roque “Rock” Caston Sr., the club’s king truly epitomized their theme: “Taking a Different Approach.” To downbeat of the Stoogies Brass Band’s bass drummer, Caston purposely, went limp to the ground and rolled—proudly. Soon, his ole lady joined him center stage, atop the asphalt concrete, sauntering toward him; it was her ‘this my man’ declaration. She came bearing the gift of a cup filled with more liquid joy, which Caston sipped.
In the great vernacular of black folk, piss has a multitude of connotations: one can be pissed off, someone can beat the piss out of you, it could be hot as piss or you can get pissed on. Now, to be pissed on, one messed over you or someone else did something that much better than you did or they did it bigger.
And it was a “do it big” competition, typical of many second-line clubs. These groups are a derivation of New Orleans’ benevolent societies in during the 1800’s, formed to ensure its members were properly buried. The fall of segregation eliminated that need, however they continued to unify the community. The challenge among clubs for the best steppers, the best bands, who’s the cleanest, who’s biggest is a serious pursuit. It’s a contest where the parade goers are the winners.
Caston walked on his knees, oblivious to oil stained asphalt concrete with its prickly crushed stones because he could. He was so clean—he could afford to get dirty. His proverbial golden showers was in the vain, of rappers and athletes so rich, they make it rain, with cash, in the clubs; the king of the parade was akin to the wealthy ancient Romans who ate food till they threw up and ate again. But, King “Rock” did it in the intangible soul of the moment. And before the parade’s end, the King that used his hands and knees to second line forward was carried off high in the air on the shoulders and backs of others. He pissed on them.
The closest I came to being a sportscaster on television, happened during my last year of graduate school at the University of Mississippi in spring of 2008. It was Dr. Brad Schultz’s class and we did a magazine style format show on the local cable access channel in Oxford, Miss. We pitched our own ideas, shot the segments ourselves and edited the packages.
I love seeing myself on camera, but more importantly, one of the reasons I got into journalism was PTI (Pardon The Interruption) on ESPN with Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon. (The other factor was articles by Ralph Wiley, a sports writer, in The Journal of Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity Inc.) At Ole Miss, I wanted to do segments similar to The Sports Reporters Show, also on ESPN, where I could hone my writing and interviewing skills.
I talked with people who had an impact on sports regionally, some were former professional athletes like Jake Gibbs, who lettered in three sports at Ole Miss and played catcher for the New York Yankees (1962-1971). On the episode posted above, I sought to learn why arguably three of the greatest football players ever, Walter Payton, Brett Favre and Jerry Rice, were all from Mississippi and none of them played at Ole Miss.
I loved my introduction, but the interview itself was average to me. I did gain some insight on Marcus Dupree, who was one of the heaviest recruited high school football players ever and also didn’t attend Ole Miss.
I need contact the school and get the rest of the shows, maybe we can sell the whole season–I’m kidding. I don’t remember most of the show’s crew save for one person: Collins Touhy, of The Blind Side movie fame. I never knew she was from a famous family and her brother was Michael Oher, she was just the really cool and good-looking chick I joked with in class.
There is something about the sound of wood striking metal, the drumstick to the cymbal; the two sounds: the stick to the cymbal and then the cymbal’s own voice. It’s something about it. A driving force, the engine and transmission, working in tandem with stops, starts, peel-outs and slow cruises all heading in the direction of swing. Ali Jackson, Jazz drummer, utilized the full range of his motor skills with his quintet at Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola at the Lincoln Center, summer 2010.
Omer Avital, the bassist, provided a deep and rich foundation on which the improvisation was built. He was the track for the speeding train. He held the whole world of swing in his bare hands. Those hands controlled the wood and strings of metal, and emitted the sound of forward progress. During the performance, Avital locks eyes with Jackson; they grin. Bonded by swing, which is the not too soon or the too late syncopation of life, the love and art in the instant that births jazz. It initiates foot taping, head bobbing and a feeling of joy.
Delight is the emphatic striking of fingers to keys and hammers to strings and sounds to ears. It’s the piano, man. It’s Aaron Goldberg bringing his hand down with force. He’s the unifier of the rhythm section. He extends both harmonically and rhythmically the efforts of the drum and bass. He supports them as well as the soloist. Sometimes he fuses with the drums and bass. Or Goldberg pushes and brings them down with a dynamic range of intensity, emotion and creates tension with spaces in the music—silence.
There’s something about an Alvin Ailey dancer in the audience and the young CEO, who’s a regular, off to the side and holding court, between the bar and window overlooking Central Park. Make note of the palette pleasing vittles: low country shrimp and grits, fried okra with ranch dip and the Louisiana Gumbo, taste that transcend beyond the tongue into the gut of the soul. The club has no room for squares with curved walls lined with bamboo, perched stories in the sky, the stage is without curtains, but filled with the New York City skyline peering into the large windows.
Flesh to metal, arms moving down and then up, changing direction on a liner surface, the slide trombone; Vincent Gardner’s view from high on the elevated stage because he is so tall and plays that horn big. He hunkers down and puts his right leg forward the deeper he gets into his solo. He hits high notes and thrust back. Gardner has the drama of a great story in his solos. He sings and plays like a happy man, he smiles through the horn.
Fast moving fingers, gust of air, up from the belly, rushing across this thin strip wood, a reed, producing buzzing and notes that make the sound of music. Donald Harrison Jr., is full of hot air, hot air that makes his warm tones and crisp cuts through the saxophone.
Harrison knows the history of music from his native New Orleans and beyond. He too plays with glee. He’s reciprocal. He builds on the foundation of the rhythm section and gives them plenty of construction material. As the drummer and bassist lock up, he and Gardner do the same on melodies.
It’s something about five coming to one, forty fingers and ten thumbs making one sound. There is something about conflict and resolution; independence and togetherness, structure and freedom. There is something about jazz.
In high school, I needed to learn the musical vocabulary required of New Orleans trumpeters, so I took horn lessons from Wendell Brunious.
My first time at Brunious’ house, we had tea, played basketball and he put on John Coltrane’s Blue Train, a classic modern jazz album. He started soloing along with the record, my jaw dropped. He’s a master of traditional music from the city that birthed jazz—and his expertise go well beyond the sounds of Orleans Parish. I’m not sure why assumed the man could only play one style of music—blame it on the teenage years.
I’m always amazed by range and versatility. Thursday, at the Maple Leaf Bar in New Orleans, I had that same jaw dropping feeling, by way of Johnny Vidacovich, on drums and vocals, who led a trio with Nicholas Payton, on trumpet and Fender Rhodes electric piano, and Roland Guerin on electric bass.
I’ve seen these men play individually many times during the past 16 years or so in a plethora of musical situations. I’ve seen Vidacovich play straight ahead jazz with a full band or an eastern influenced duo with saxophonist Tony Dagradi. I’ve seen Guerin play in a trio with Ellis Marsalis, in big bands and heard him funk out on one of his own albums. And Payton, the man who brought you Dear Louis, Sonic Trance or From This Moment and Bitches, is the epitome of range and creative flexibility. He doesn’t think about the confines of pigeonholes that some listeners, critics or record executives have carved out for him and other artists. Matter fact, he doesn’t think at all—I let him tell you about that.
On Thursday, this trio played free, unrestricted music and I saw liberation on their faces. In my daily life, I strive for that freedom. Recently, I told Payton that I feel my sole creative outlet is fashion, because I don’t care what folks say about what I wear. I realize that not everything I try works, but I know I’m trying to get to something. I heard Artie Shaw, in an episode of Jazz, the documentary by Ken Burns that musical mistakes happen when someone is reaching outside of their abilities—they can conceive the idea but can execute it… yet. And through those mistakes, is where the growth happens. You see, even in my writing or photography I never want to fuck up—especially when I doing it for myself. When I freelance, I have the safety net of an editor. But when I blog, it’s just me.
I’m learning that I have to free myself from myself, shit ‘cause I’m making my own pigeonhole. We should strive to be perfect, but how often is that accomplished. Better yet, we can strive for perfection while being willing to make and embrace mistakes. I can recall my Saturday morning music classes with Edward “Kidd” Jordan and he told us to play with conviction, even if it’s wrong. Yes yes, I’m chasing that freedom I saw Thursday at the Maple Leaf. I’m in pursuit of that freedom that allowed Payton to incorporate vocals into his multi-instrumental arsenal. That creative liberation of Wendell Brunious, traditional music is what he does and it’s not all of who he is.
I’m trying to free my mind, be willing to make mistakes and keep reaching. I don’t play horn much anymore, but I’m still taking lessons from trumpet players.
Done separately almost anyone can cut, sew and draw. But done in harmony, plain fabric becomes high fashion in the gifted hands of Reco Chapple. His ascension into the world of fashion began during childhood in a place not considered a hotbed for new clothing trends, Chattanooga, Tenn. He relocated to Atlanta four years ago and often travels trying to put his line, Hous of Chapple, in more places than stops signs. Recently Chapple showed in Brooklyn. There he astounded the traditionally hard to impress New York audience moving them to a resounding applause plus welcoming smiles and open arms. “I was like for real, this is not happening,” said Chapple. He gains inspiration from the arts, life and describes his creations as “high voltage sexuality.” He likes to shock people and take a traditional style and make it his own. “If I can hem up an extra inch or drop the neckline down more I will do that. I’m constantly pushing the envelope.” And this habitual line stepping designer loves women bodies as his blank canvas—he reasons that women take fashion risks and men don’t. On his website myspace.com/thehousofchappleinc—don’t fret, even Barrack Obama has one—you see gorgeous models donning balloon v-necks dresses that stop just above the navel and a poncho that ends right after the buttocks meet the thighs, yet it all in good taste. But he can tone down when needed after all he has designed for the likes of Ann Nesby. Also Tracy Mc Grady Vivica A. Fox, Serious—who is the face of his franchise—and Rickey Smiley have graced his wears. He has been a semifinalist for Project Runway the last two years and will try again, regardless win lose or draw Hous of Chapple is a name you shall know.
2011
Reco has added the “e” to House of Chapple and a plethora of other accolades. He was among top for finalist in Bravo’s “The Fashion Show” season one. And he’s currently traveling the world promoting his soon to be released book “Breaking in to Fashion.”
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