Mercy, Mercy

This letter is in response to comments made by Cowboy Mouth drummer Fred LeBlanc in Rick Koster’s “Backtalk” (OffBeat, September 1998). While discussing Cowboy Mouth’s latest release, Mercyland, LeBlanc was asked about the origin of the album’s title, specifically “What or where is Mercyland?” He replied with allegorical references to “forgiveness” and “redemption” and his desire to reach out to the “little version of me” in his band’s audience. Glaringly absent from his explanation was the specific source from which his band derived the title.

For nearly five years, I was privileged to be a member of an Athens, GA rock outfit called Mercyland. Despite establishing a loyal regional fan base through regular touring and the release of a handful of recordings, the band amicably split in 1991. Among our most loyal supporters was one Fred LeBlanc, whose close friendship with Mercyland singer, bassist and founder, David Barbe, predated the band’s existence. LeBlanc’s appreciation of the band became direct involvement when he produced our first full-length release, No Feet on the Cowling. An out-take from those sessions, the Barbe composition, “Tears Toward Heaven,” was subsequently performed by Cowboy Mouth and appeared on a live EP they later released.

Recently, the members of Mercyland were contacted by LeBlanc who expressed his desire to name the forthcoming Cowboy Mouth release, Mercyland. He explained that the title would be a tribute of sorts to a band that, in his words, “was such a big influence on us” and that he and the other band members would relish the opportunity to “talk about the band in the press” (perhaps spurring some renewed, posthumous interest in our defunct group). While discounting the notion of riding Cowboy Mouth’s supposed coattails to some imagined future glory, we appreciated LeBlanc’s willingness to share in his good fortune and gave our blessing to use the name.

Imagine my surprise upon reading the “Backtalk” interview with LeBlanc. If Cowboy Mouth could not summon the collective imagination to arrive upon a suitable title for their new release, they certainly should not have stooped so low as to brazenly appropriate the name of a band with which they have such a tangible and personal connection. The callousness with which LeBlanc would manipulate and mislead even his close friends is truly galling.

So, Fred, why you wanna do me like you do? Shame on you.

Andrew Donaldson, Lafayette, LA

So, Fred, we’re waiting… -Ed.

Remembering Johnny Adams

When I first came to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in 1986, I spent an unforgettable night at Snug Harbor where Johnny Adams and Germaine Bazzle were both singing. [Their] “mouth trombone” and “mouth trumpet” duets blew me away. I thought: What have I been doing all these years not to have heard, or heard of, either of these performers?

Since then, I’ve been back for 10 Jazz Fests and have always caught every Johnny Adams set at the Fair Grounds as well as any club dates that I knew about. I’ve written Jazz Fest reviews for several publications and made it a point to spread the gospel about this great, great singer. I’m glad that I was at Tipitina’s this May for his induction into their “Walk of Fame.” I [also] managed to squeeze into the Gospel Tent for what I feared would be the last performance that I would see of him [and] those angelic duets with Aaron Neville.

1998 hasn’t been a good year for singers. We’ve lost Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. Benny Waters. Betty Carter. Sinatra.

And the best of the bunch. Johnny, I hope you’ve got a room with a view of the golf course.

Sandy Ingham, Morganville, NJ

At the Corner of Chartres & Elysian Fields

Riding my bicycle home from Cafe Brasil around midnight Sunday night [Oct. 11], there was a man lying in the street near the corner of Chartres and Elysian Fields, a few blocks from my house. He was a black man, without a shirt, lying face up on his back. I looked at him long enough to determine that he wasn’t breathing. I didn’t see any blood. I rode home and called 911. I told them, “Maybe a heart attack; the guy looks dead to me.”

The strangest thing is-after that-I forgot about him. I searched the web, went to bed, read a book and fell asleep. Monday morning I wrote e-mail to friends and didn’t mention the incident. Cynthia called from Milwaukee; it was her birthday. I didn’t mention it. Mom called in the afternoon and I didn’t mention it.

I was helping a girl move from one art studio to another in the afternoon and another guy carrying stuff asked if we’d heard about this well-known gospel singer, Raymond Myles, who’d been found dead in our neighborhood. He said he’d heard that he’d been shot and dumped on a street corner.

I passed by that corner a couple of times as we continued the move. Gospel singers were there all afternoon, praising God. They left candles and flowers.

I remember when I was a kid reading about Calcutta and people stepping over the bodies of starved people in the street. I remember thinking what an awful society that was. How callous the people were.

On Saturday, I had gone to the Ninth Ward Free Music Festival. Raymond Myles was one of the performers. I got there late in the afternoon and missed his set.

Jeremy R. Olivier, New Orleans

You Gauge It!

I wonder why the best washboard player going today (Rockin’ Dospie, “Backtalk” OffBeat, 10/98) can’t find somebody that can make him a new washboard out of the thick iron gauge. I hate the idea to help-since Long the shark owes me 100 bucks for a washboard that he never sent. But, okay, here’s where I bought mine (heavy gauge): Champain’s Metal Works on Moss Street in Lafayette, within a stone’s throw from Dopsie’s place. Usually, they’re using the thin gauge but I insisted on thick. They had to buy a big plate of which they used a part only. So there must be left the rest, since nobody wants a thick washboard-it can’t be bent like a thin one.

Sincerely,

Hans W. Ewert, Germany

Hans, thanks for your letter and your helpful suggestions. We also like the part about “Long the shark [owing you either a washboard or 100 bucks].” -Ed.

Proud to Give Us Hell

I am in full agreement with the letter from Karyn Noles appearing in the October edition of OffBeat regarding your promotion of T-shirts proclaiming “Proud to Call It Hell.” Your latest invention is goofy at best, and offensive at worst. Indeed, what does this inane rip-off even mean? I have long been disappointed by your earlier promotion of T-shirts informing us that “It’s Not the Heat, It’s the Stupidity.” While this doggerel might be a shade more creative than “Proud to Call It Hell,” the message could be interpreted as reinforcing the common regional stereotype that Southerners are stupid. This all brings to mind the similar junk-marketing of a slogan by some jerk several years ago that glorified New Orleans as the murder capital of the world. You may dismiss my concern as more misguided political correctness. However, these dumb little ditties serve no positive end and are well beneath the dignity of a publication like OffBeat that has become one of those treasures that make living in New Orleans so much fun.

Gary Dohanich, New Orleans

The scales of justice are forever imbalanced. We’re just glad that we can serve as a sounding board for those New Orleans residents who wish to call it Hell, and also for those that want to call it Home. -Ed.

Questions in the Night

When I get really homesick (I’m always homesick), I stay on-line with OffBeat all night long and wonder why I ever left.

Patricia Gorman, via e-mail

Like we’ve always said, what’s good for the goose is good for the insomniac, or something like that. -Ed.

A Bobby Gets Hobnobby

Hello there. Alan here, the crazy Brit cop (bobby), who spends all my vacation time in New Orleans with all the Uptown monsters. It is my intention once again to spend my birthday again pissed (drunk not angry) out of my scull [sic] in one of the Uptown bars listening to Walter or Cleary at the Maple Leaf, chatting to Carl or Hank about music. Well to say I miss New Orleans is an understatement. I was out in Soho last night in the Toucan (very good Guinness Pub) with some other music lovers talking about musicians such as Sonny Landreth, Duke Robillard and the like. And I have to say I felt homesick for the Crescent City-the smell of the drains, the rats in the Quarter and my mates who make Uptown what it is. I had to cheer myself up by getting rat arsed (merrily drunk). My main reason for talking to y’all again is to say it is really good to keep in touch using the OffBeat web site. It’s no way as good as reading a Bloody Mary-soaked copy in Cooter Browns but at least I know what’s going on. Keep up the good work mateys. And is there any chance of a beer-soaked OffBeat web page? C’Yall in November and Jazz Fest.

Yours inebriatedly,

Alan Bevington, London, England

Man, this homesickness thing is certainly going around isn’t it? We can only suggest reading a back issue of OffBeat and then calling us on-line in the morning. But at least now we know why they don’t let cops wear guns in jolly ole England. Here’s to ya, mate, and please watch your step getting off the plane. -Ed.

Tough Love

Not for the first time, the legendary Sam Butera has given me a piece of his mind.

Reading Mark Miester’s excellent piece, “Props for Prima-The Italian Satchmo,” (OffBeat, Sept. ’98), Mr. Butera took exception to a remark I made concerning the creative quality of the records he and Louis Prima made in the 1960s and 70s, which I said were “horrible albums.”

“Who the hell are you to say such a thing?” Mr. Butera demanded, adding insult to injury by conjuring up a painful image: “Did you ever play anything?”

Actually I did: an accordion, upon which, in the late 1960s, I attempted contemporary hits. My favorite, because it was the easiest to play, was “Love is Blue.” When I traded my accordion in for money to buy a 1964 Comet, not one person, including my parents, asked what happened to it.

Mr. Butera is also upset over the treatment the city of New Orleans has given him and Prima. “It’s like we’re forgotten, man,” he said.

Here I am in agreement: festivals, fairs and even library displays celebrate the heritage of Louis Armstrong, Mahalia Jackson, Fats Domino, the Nevilles, and the Meters, but I rarely hear anyone in an official capacity honor the musical achievements of two of its greatest sons-Sam Butera and Louis Prima. It’s as though they came from Cleveland. But they didn’t. Those amazing bum-and-grind, swing-Dixieland-rock songs from their late 1950s Capitol albums-which I like very much-could only have come from two native boys, both of whom got their toughest musical training on the tough streets of our city.

I thank Mark Miester for reminding readers of the rich musical legacy handed down to us by Sam Butera and Louis Prima.

Sincerely Yours,

Garry Boulard, New Orleans