Nevilles On The Fourth — Boffo

The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina is still being assessed. Not the least of which devastation is the extent to which the vibrant music scene of New Orleans has been battered, how the players have scattered hither and yon. There are still too many of the Crescent City’s stalwarts exiled in the Diaspora.

Among the more notable expatriots are the brothers Neville. Some are in Austin. One, at least, in Nashville. It’s hard to know for sure. What is certain is that there has been a breach in the relationship between “New Orleans First Family of Music” and the city it has come to represent. Normally the closing act at JazzFest, the band hasn’t returned for either of the two post-tragedy festivals.

They have come singularly, playing with other ensembles. Except Aaron, who returned to his hometown only to bury his beloved wife. But pointedly not as a group.

It’s not clear exactly what happened, why Cyril, Charles, Art and Aaron have been so reluctant to return. Truth be told, they have been forthcoming in their curious desire to stay away.

One must suppose some simmering resentment toward the culture of New Orleans. Perhaps there’s a racial animus, and the top blew off the kettle in the hurricane’s aftermath. Maybe they just thought they — or their people — simply didn’t get their props from the powers that be.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel right. Anyone who has heard “Arianne” on the big stage or at the House of Blues in the Quarter has to be sad.

So it was with more than a passing interest and sense of unease that I ventured to the Neville Brothers Band gig at Waterfront Park on the Fourth. Cyril has always been the most loquacious, invoking the spirit of New Orleans and Mardi Gras during the band’s sets. He’s also been the most vocal critic of the city in the hurricane’s aftermath, his statements almost hateful. What would he be like?

Truth is that the band, especially Cyril, didn’t play the New Orleans card as much as in the past. But it wasn’t totally absent.

The sweet report is that it didn’t matter. The band was hot. Indeed, many in the crowd who have heard the group a bunch before agreed: This was as good a performance as they’ve heard the band perform.

While the tunes were all familiar, all from the band’s basic repertoire, there was a freshness to the affair. The supporting musicians were excellent — Makuni Fukuda on guitar, Michael Goods on keyboards, David Johnson on bass, and, I guess, Mean Willie Green on drums. Frankly I thought it was a different drummer. So, too, did a longtime New Orleanian, way familiar with the music scene down there. But others have convinced me that it was the band’s longtime drummer, so I’ll accept that. Whoever it was, he knows the syncopated beat that distinguishes the music from Congo Square from that with other origins.

The set was tighter than it used to be. Chalk it up to age — these guys are in the their sixties now. Or infirmity. Art’s back hurts so much he needs help getting off stage. And Aaron has long complained about lung problems. None of which is to say that they disappointed.

Quite the contrary. Charles sax was as serpentine and enchanting as ever. Cyril raised the rabble with “Sister Rosa.” Art was solid as a rock on the Hammond B3. And Aaron’s voice was in fine fettle.

Could there be a more sublime way to spend the Fourth than listening to these Hall of Famers on the banks of the Ohio? Correct answer: No.

Aaron provided his peculiarly beautiful trills with “What’s Goin On,” “A Change Is Gonna Come,” “Everybody Plays The Fool,” “Yellow Moon,” “Tell It Like It Is,” and his seminal styling of “Amazing Grace.”

Cyril and the band did Longhair’s “Tipitina” double time. To great effect indeed, especially with Michael Goods stunning solo. Plus other favorites including “Fiyo On The Bayou,” “One Love/ People Get Ready,” “Hey Pocky Way,” and “Big Chief.”

The skies stopped spitting. The beat went second line. And for ninety minutes it was just the same as it ever was. The Brothers Neville as a medium for James Booker and Danny Barker and Mahalia Jackson and Ernie K-Doe and Satchmo and Professor Longhair and the brass bands and Mardi Gras Indian ensembles that for over a century have certified that New Orleans is THE music city of the world, and the birthplace of American music.

For a moment on our nation’s birthday we who love that town at the mouth of the Mississippi and the succor it has provided through its music through the decades could smile and dance and swoon and know that magic feeling, nowhere to go, nowhere to go.

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