Harris, looking elegant in a blue sequined black gown, expressed her internal elegance and the definition of “soul” by literally stopping the show when she spotted Susan Cowsill in the crowd. Harris described the first time she saw Cowsill perform, which was a week earlier in a run down little joint in Atlanta. Harris spoke in a quiet, drawn out drawl that magically produced a hushed silence in the excited crowd. She spoke of the “Cowsill sound” which was evident in the voice of a woman who “sang her heart out” to an almost empty Atlanta bar in the strong, confident voice of a true performer. Harris brought tears to Cowsill’s eyes when she went on to compliment Cowsill’s back-up drummer and husband, Russ Broussard, for being a white guy who is a “black drummer,” meaning that Broussard knew how to fill in all of the nuances needed to compliment Cowsill’s sparse accompaniment on guitar and make the sound seem like it was a full band.
Harris’ gesture cannot be defined, quantified or replicated. It was a moment that spoke to truth, beauty, art and elegance.
The Betty Harris show would have been enough to fulfill anyone’s dream of a fine night of New Orleans' soul, but there was more yet to come as Cowsill and Theresa Andersson teamed up in a moment of serendipity and spontaneous musical art that could only happen in new Orleans.
With no rehearsal, the two women, backed by Marc Stone’s band on some of the numbers, delivered a solid set and perfectly pitched performance that will never be duplicated. What is even more remarkable is that the clock was pushing 2 AM, and both Andersson and Cowsill had been awake since 5 AM the previous day in preparation for their Acura Stage performances. Luckily, photographer Jaisun was there to deliver some fine images of a fleeting moment. This writer had a high definition video camera in the trunk of her car, but could not bring herself to leave the room and miss a beat of music that filled the heart and soul with healing grace.
The opening tune was a Susan Cowsill set staple—Donovan’s beautiful lament, “Catch the Wind.” There was no chilly moment of uncertainty, as Andersson’s electrified fiddle soared through the melody and her vocal harmony melded perfectly with Cowsill’s interpretation. Jaisun and I looked at each other and mouthed the “wow.” I could not help but remember the iconic moment when Mama Cass mouthed the same “wow” when she saw Janis Joplin perform at Monterey Pop. Jaisun resumed clicking away and I was praying that the moment was there on film. It is.
The tone shifted to steamy Mississippi delta night blues when Stone’s band got solidly behind “Mississippi,” an Andersson classic interpretation of the Bobbie Gentry tune.
M I double S I double S I double P I
M I double S I double S I double P I
Right in the middle of the cotton belt
Down in the Mississippi Delta
Wearin last years possum belt
Smack dab in the Mississippi Delta
Sittin and scratchin' mosquito bites
Old fox done give him the slip
Watchin' the mornin' glories grow
In Biloxi on an overnight trip…
Hearing those lyrics belted out by Cowsill and Andersson not a hundred yards from the levee, where Cowsill and I sat “scratchin mosquito bites” and watching trees sway in the wind a few hours before, was a once in an all too short lifetime experience.
It occurred to me that this was real life. A steamy night on a Mississippi River levee, in a tiny juke joint, with the spring waters rising, cicadas humming, flood warnings on the backwaters and bayous, and honest, bluesy music hanging in the night air. Yeah this was it. The real deal. Wow.
Writer’s Note: I have been nervous about doing too much writing about music in New Orleans because I have become friends of many of the musicians, writers and performers here. But, I have decided to make my own ethical rules as I go along. No one has paid me a dime to support this music. It is something I believe in and once you become part of the community of New Orleans, there is no escaping getting to know fellow writers. That is the definition of community and I am proud to know some of the people here. New Orleans reminds me of the stories I have read about ex-pat artists and writers in the glory days of Paris. Those were the times when writers and artists and poets and patrons supported each other. There was no mad money machine (think record labels) behind the writers’ community in those days. When I see how the mainstream media is favored at festivals, I think it is time to be bold and do what is right and necessary. In other words to paraphrase Betty Davis, “When you need a broad with balls, call me.” I am honored to stand shoulder to shoulder with the fine, under-rated and under-appreciated artists of New Orleans who have risked all to come back to the city and music they love.
Harris’ gesture cannot be defined, quantified or replicated. It was a moment that spoke to truth, beauty, art and elegance.
The Betty Harris show would have been enough to fulfill anyone’s dream of a fine night of New Orleans' soul, but there was more yet to come as Cowsill and Theresa Andersson teamed up in a moment of serendipity and spontaneous musical art that could only happen in new Orleans.
With no rehearsal, the two women, backed by Marc Stone’s band on some of the numbers, delivered a solid set and perfectly pitched performance that will never be duplicated. What is even more remarkable is that the clock was pushing 2 AM, and both Andersson and Cowsill had been awake since 5 AM the previous day in preparation for their Acura Stage performances. Luckily, photographer Jaisun was there to deliver some fine images of a fleeting moment. This writer had a high definition video camera in the trunk of her car, but could not bring herself to leave the room and miss a beat of music that filled the heart and soul with healing grace.
The tone shifted to steamy Mississippi delta night blues when Stone’s band got solidly behind “Mississippi,” an Andersson classic interpretation of the Bobbie Gentry tune.
M I double S I double S I double P I
M I double S I double S I double P I
Right in the middle of the cotton belt
Down in the Mississippi Delta
Wearin last years possum belt
Smack dab in the Mississippi Delta
Sittin and scratchin' mosquito bites
Old fox done give him the slip
Watchin' the mornin' glories grow
In Biloxi on an overnight trip…
Hearing those lyrics belted out by Cowsill and Andersson not a hundred yards from the levee, where Cowsill and I sat “scratchin mosquito bites” and watching trees sway in the wind a few hours before, was a once in an all too short lifetime experience.
It occurred to me that this was real life. A steamy night on a Mississippi River levee, in a tiny juke joint, with the spring waters rising, cicadas humming, flood warnings on the backwaters and bayous, and honest, bluesy music hanging in the night air. Yeah this was it. The real deal. Wow.
Writer’s Note: I have been nervous about doing too much writing about music in New Orleans because I have become friends of many of the musicians, writers and performers here. But, I have decided to make my own ethical rules as I go along. No one has paid me a dime to support this music. It is something I believe in and once you become part of the community of New Orleans, there is no escaping getting to know fellow writers. That is the definition of community and I am proud to know some of the people here. New Orleans reminds me of the stories I have read about ex-pat artists and writers in the glory days of Paris. Those were the times when writers and artists and poets and patrons supported each other. There was no mad money machine (think record labels) behind the writers’ community in those days. When I see how the mainstream media is favored at festivals, I think it is time to be bold and do what is right and necessary. In other words to paraphrase Betty Davis, “When you need a broad with balls, call me.” I am honored to stand shoulder to shoulder with the fine, under-rated and under-appreciated artists of New Orleans who have risked all to come back to the city and music they love.
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