Allen Toussaint: The Bright Mississippi

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: THE BRIGHT MISSISSIPPI (2009)

1) Egyptian Fantasy; 2) Dear Old Southland; 3) St. James Infirmary; 4) Singin' The Blues; 5) Winin' Boy Blues; 6) West End Blues; 7) Blue Drag; 8) Just A Closer Walk With Thee; 9) The Bright Mississippi; 10) Day Dream; 11) Long Long Journey; 12) Solitude.

General verdict: Consistently brilliant reinventions of old classics — nostalgia at its most creative.

Toussaint's output after his comeback in the Nineties is somewhat chaotic and confusing: mainly collaborations with other artists, ranging from authentic soul people like Billy Preston and Irma Thomas to whitey wannabes (hah!) like Elvis Costello, but also seemingly original recordings that are hard to locate and probably of little interest, such as a Christmas album in 1997. By the mid-2000s, however, he had re-developed some interest in classic jazz, even forming a short-lived team called «Allen Toussaint's Jazzity Project» with which he made an album called Going Places — wasn't any particular place where that sucker went, as far as I know, but it did pave the way for a bigger, grander, and obviously better remembered project: The Bright Mississippi, Toussaint's heartfelt, complex, and overall brilliant tribute to an age when jazz music was your everyday soundtrack, rather than a niche thing enjoyed by intellectual snobs, nostalgists, and non-discerning musical omnivores.

There are no original compositions here, no blatant signs of «modernity», and almost no vocals (other than a bluesy delivery on Leonard Feather's ʽLong Long Journeyʼ). But there is a lot of tasteful, seductive, inspired piano playing on old jazz standards, typically running around 5–6 minutes to achieve complete effect and plunge you into an atmosphere of... well, probably the closest musical analogy I can come up with is those mid-Sixties Duke Ellington records like Far East Suite, which had the distinction, on one hand, of sounding with a «pre-war» vibe, on the other hand, being even more sophisticated, not to mention better produced, than the old Blanton-Webster classics. So, The Bright Mississippi is, on one hand, a thoroughly nostalgic record, but on the other hand, it also tries its hand at rejuvenating some of those sounds — with modern production standards and a sort of felt-rather-than-heard idea of not having to tie yourself down with any old conventions.

Thus, even if ʽWinin' Boy Bluesʼ is credited to Jelly Roll Morton, it is, in fact, much more of an Allen Toussaint original variation on the ʽWinin' Boy Bluesʼ theme — the original was a full-band shuffle with Morton's piano almost inaudible behind the brass section, but this six-minute piece is really a long slab of solo piano improvisation that has Toussaint doing more «rolls» than you'd actually hear on any Jelly Roll Morton LP. Django Reinhardt's ʽBlue Dragʼ is not trying to copy or outdo Django's gypsy chords or Stephane Grappelli's violin moans, but replace them with different piano and acoustic guitar parts that preserve, yet also partially modify and update the spirit of the original in ways that seem surprisingly fresh and vibrant.

That acoustic guitar, by the way, is played by none other than Marc Ribot himself — a clear indication that Toussaint wanted to keep things edgy here, and for that reason he also brought about Brad Mehldau to play extra piano, Joshua Redman to blow some sax, Don Byron to handle the clarinet, and a bunch of other people who are all younger than Toussaint by a good twenty or thirty years but still completely fall in line behind the old man's conducting baton and understand perfectly well what he wants them to do. And what does he want them to do? Well, how about take an original composition by Thelonious Monk, off his fabulous Monk's Dream album way back in 1963, and put the ʽMississippiʼ back into ʽThe Bright Mississippiʼ — by actually making that theme sound all New Orleanian, with a bit of trumpet-piano interplay (instead of sax) that would have surely brought a smile to the face of the late Professor Longhair? Some might say that Toussaint and the boys trivialize these pieces — others might just as reasonably object that they are simply putting them back on the street and breathing real life into them. The only thing that matters, really, is that there's a lot of real reinvention going on here, and this is what elevates The Bright Mississippi over tons of competition.

The whole thing feels so lively that it is not until the decision to end the album with a hushed, guitar-and-piano-only cover of Duke Ellington's ʽSolitudeʼ that you discern some real sadness and nostalgia for a bygone era — a once poignant ode to a lost lover here seems to readdress its poignancy towards something larger and more elusive in scope. We no longer live in the Jazz Age, after all, and even the Mississippi is probably not as bright as it used to be: the grass may not have been greener, but the times were definitely a bit more innocent, and it does not happen often in the 21st century that artists, be they old or young, manage to successfully recapture some of that innocence and make it sound a little deeper, yet just as immediate as it used to be. I hesi­tate to call the album an original masterpiece — but it is a masterpiece of interpretation, and probably Toussaint's single greatest achievement since Southern Nights. And the fact that it became the last original recording to be released in his lifetime is quite impressive, too.

Allen Toussaint: Connected

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: CONNECTED (1996)

1) Pure Uncut Love; 2) Do The Do; 3) Computer Lady; 4) Get Out Of My Life, Woman; 5) We're All Connected; 6) Sweet Dreams; 7) Funky Bars; 8) Ahya; 9) If I Leave; 10) Aign Nyee; 11) In Your Love; 12) Oh My; 13) All Of It; 14) Wrong Number; 15) Rolling With The Punches.

Sooner or later, as long as he stayed alive that long, Toussaint must have had that one tasteful and enjoyable comeback — and the Nineties, with all their artistic health benefits for Eighties' sur­vivors, finally saw him return to a stable and perfectly normal recording career. His first record in almost ten years, and his first good record since Southern Nights, more than twenty years before, Connected is surprisingly long: a fifteen-song, hour-long marathon, presenting not only a lot of stuff that he must have accumulated throughout that time, but also a few inventive re-recordings, such as the instrumental version of ʽGet Out Of My Life, Womanʼ. The album may have sold pitifully and remained noticed only among the small fanclub of knowledgeable admirers, but it was clearly recorded as a gesture of strength and vitality.

It is not exactly at the level of inventiveness displayed in Southern Nights, and it shows no traces of the insane energy that populated his instrumental output in the Fifties, but the old man still pulls out most of his old tricks — his knowledge of cool pop hooks, exciting R&B grooves, border genre conventions, charisma, and humor. When he tries to go too modern, he may stumble on occasion: ʽComputer Ladyʼ, for instance, is an attempt to throw some puns around modern computer terminology — an attempt that probably sounded crude and silly already in 1996, but as of 2017, has probably become as incomprehensible to modern generations as all those old blues innuendos from the 1920s ("when she described herself to me, my floppy overheated" and "keep my modem hot, computer lady" are two particularly telling examples). Musically, there are a few boring adult contemporary ballads here (ʽSweet Dreamsʼ) that sound like any generic adult con­temporary ballad from that decade, although Toussaint's calm, friendly, never overstraining voice always makes even his most generic material listenable.

But on the whole, Connected is a fun ride from the opening bars of the funky pop opener ʽPure Uncut Loveʼ to the last bars of the funky instrumental conclusion of ʽRolling With The Punchesʼ. It is hard to name «highlights», but «standout» tracks would probably include ʽWe're All Con­nectedʼ, a joyful singalong about, uh, how we are all connected and shit; ʽAhyaʼ and ʽAign Nyeeʼ, where he lends his piano-playing talents to promote African rhythms and melodies; and ʽIn Your Loveʼ, whose lightly distorted vocals are a clear nostalgic reference to ʽSouthern Nightsʼ, though, as everything second-hand, there is no fear of this song ever overriding the legacy of its genius predecessor. Even these «standouts», though, are barely noticeable in the general fray.

As it always is with Toussaint, the backing band is given directions to keep things tight and pro­fessional, but not get over their heads or anything — instrumental tracks such as ʽFunky Barsʼ or ʽAll Of Itʼ roll steady, with not a single instrument ever getting to show off, oozing self-confi­dence and taste, but not a tremendous lot of adrenaline-heavy excitement. That is exactly what ought to be expected, though, if you know Toussaint at all, and it is more about collective discip­line and composing than about maniacal improvisation: not my favorite schtick of all the schticks there are, but respectable and enjoyable all the same — and, at the very least, cleansing away the horrendous debacle of Mr. Mardi Gras (see, there is a way to make authentic New Orleanian music without having to refer to Fat Tuesday in every song). And there is also a great benefit from having a voice as relatively weak, if charming and friendly, as Toussaint's — it means that it carries the exact same level of charisma in 1996 as it did in 1970, not an ounce less. With all these subtle nuances, Connected inevitably grows upon you, very slowly but very steady, with each ensuing listen, and deserves a grateful thumbs up.

Allen Toussaint: Mr. Mardi Gras

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: MR. MARDI GRAS (1987)

1) Mr. Mardi Gras; 2) Fat Tuesday; 3) I Know You Mardi Gras; 4) Come To The Mardi Gras; 5) I Love A Carnival Ball; 6) The Mighty Mighty Chief; 7) Long Live The King; 8) Lead Me To The Dance Floor.

If just a few more people knew about the existence of the album, chances are it would be in a very good position to make it to many of those «worst ever» record lists that people sometimes rifle through out of boredom. Problem is, while it definitely does exist (unless my own ears deceive me or something), it is so rare that it is not even found in all of Toussaint's discographies. All I know is that it was released on «Cayenne Records», presumably Toussaint's own label that never produced any other piece of product; never made it to CD format; but is at least available as a digital download today, for completist idiots like myself.

No idea about how it came to life, who played on it, how the hell did Allen, after a decade of staying away from original material, suddenly decide to make a «concept album» about the cele­bration of Fat Tuesday, and, most importantly, why did he decide that the album had to be done the trendy modern way. For all I know, this was a temporary ridiculous aberration of the mind: Mr. Mardi Gras does not just sound horrible, it also sounds absolutely nothing like any of the records he made in the Seventies (even Motion is miles ahead), and absolutely nothing like any of the records he would make during his Nineties comeback.

Simply put, this is a bunch of Mardi Gras-themed (as if this wasn't already obvious just by looking at the song titles) pop tunes whose main point is to sound as proverbially Eighties as possible. Electronic drums, cheap Casios, and synthesized poppin' bass are all over the place, and when combined with the forced simple-stupid cheerful vibe, the end result is smatteringly vulgar and crass. It's like, you know, every single cliché about New Orleanian carnival music crammed together and then smeared with electronics that make certain arcade machines from the same time sound positively luxurious in comparison. Every now and then, some of Allen's own nice piano playing breaks through, accidentally, but for the most part, the horns are the only non-synthetic part of the scenery.

Perhaps in some alternate twisted universe, where robots hold their own Mardi Gras parties, having adapted them through machine learning, this record might have a higher chance of being recognized — and, well, as a pure, unadulterated novelty it may be worth hearing; at the very least, I should recognize that I have never ever heard anything like it. But once the novelty has worn off, it simply remains as a scarecrow, reminding us all that Fifties' survivors generally sucked even harder at adapting to Eighties' technology than Sixties' veterans — fortunately, few of them even tried. Thumbs down without further consideration.

Allen Toussaint: Motion

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: MOTION (1978)

1) Night People; 2) Just A Kiss Away; 3) With You In Mind; 4) Lover Of Love; 5) To Be With You; 6) Motion; 7) Viva La Money; 8) Declaration Of Love; 9) Happiness; 10) The Optimism Blues.

If you want a good example of the disastrous direction that mainstream pop music took in the brief interim between 1975 and 1978 — well, no doubt about it, you can find plenty of examples, but somehow the difference between Southern Nights and Motion strikes me as particularly telling. Allen Toussaint has always been a nice man and a very intelligent craftsmanship, but he was never about going against the grain, and even if none of his records were bestsellers, he was still making them for the purposes of entertainment and, well, bringing a ray of simple happiness into the average house of the average American. Yet somehow, in 1975 he was able to do that in a way that did not conflict with artistic expression, inventiveness, and personality. Fast forward a mere three years — right into the middle of the Disco Age — and what we get is an album that, while not proverbially «bad» per se, is probably the most de-personalized record that Toussaint had put out in his entire career.

Granted, its very title does not exactly display a lot of ambition: the idea was clearly to make a record of dance tunes, from fast and raunchy to slow and sensitive, and see if there was any chance for Allen to compete with the disco kings of the era. But it does not take a genius to figure out that the idea was doomed from the start: the only disco music that transcends its formula is music in which you believe, with a religious fervor, and to believe in disco, you have to be young, wild, a bit crazy in the head and willing to throw in that little extra something which will make some people cringe and other people fall in love with you. Meanwhile, the first and last time that we ever saw the humble, friendly, cautious Allen Toussaint let his hair down was in... 1958, right? And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to place your bets.

The opening number, ʽNight Peopleʼ, probably matches our expectations of «disco Toussaint»: it is not 100% disco, more like light funk-pop, more melodically complex than the average disco number, yet less sweaty and exciting than a disco classic — so stiff, in fact, that it is not even clear if we should perceive the song's lyrics ("night people... hanging out... looking at each other... waiting for something to happen...") as admiring and celebrating nighttime club life or making subtle fun of it. I'd rather have the latter interpretation, because the only thing that can make the song valuable is a splash of puzzled irony — but if there is puzzled irony here, I sure wish he'd make it more noticeable, because you won't really feel it until you sit down with the lyrics and a magnifying glass. As for the music, it does match that "waiting for something to happen" vibe, because nothing much ever happens in the song, that's for sure: just the same soft, repetitive funky groove without any key changes, solos, anything to distinguish its last minute from its first. And, unfortunately, this formula is pretty much put on rinse-and-repeat for the rest of the record.

It gets even worse by the time the third track comes along, initiating a string of generic ballads whose only redeeming factor is Allen's always pleasant singing voice. Further on down the road, it still gets worse when you realize that the title track, ʽMotionʼ, is actually one more of those slow generic ballads — and it goes on for six minutes, twice as long as the average track on here. Throw in such downer titles as ʽLover Of Loveʼ and ʽDeclaration Of Loveʼ, and the picture is more or less complete.

Things may have worked out fine if he threw in some effort to make this a comedy record: there are a few numbers that are more explicitly «funny» than others (ʽLover Of Loveʼ is actually a semi-facetious vaudeville tune, and ʽViva La Moneyʼ continues the eternal subject of "that's what I want" with a Vegas-funky arrangement), and the only track here that I really like is ʽThe Opti­mism Bluesʼ, another music-hall experiment that closes the album on a Randy Newman sort of note. Alas, there was never any intention of this: none of the songs fall under the definition of «pretentious», but few, if any, are written as pure jokes.

In this context, it hardly helps that Bonnie Raitt and Etta James are enlisted as backup vocalists, and it certainly does not help that Toto's drummer Jeff Porcaro is sitting in on percussion, and it almost does not help that notorious session player Larry Carlton is contributing his guitar licks (almost, because there is some exqui­site slide guitar work on ʽTo Be With Youʼ and a few other tracks — all of it nullified because the songs themselves are uninteresting). Ultimately, Motion is just a waste of talent, a certified thumbs down album if there ever was one (not horrendous, just dull), and the best thing that Toussaint could do after it predictably bombed both critically and commercially was to take some time off — in fact, a lot of time off. He didn't have to do it like he did, but he did, and I thank him.

Allen Toussaint: Southern Nights

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: SOUTHERN NIGHTS (1975)

1) Last Train; 2) Worldwide; 3) Back In Baby's Arms; 4) Country John; 5) Basic Lady; 6) Southern Nights; 7) You Will Not Lose; 8) What Do You Want The Girl To Do?; 9) When The Party's Over; 10) Cruel Way To Go Down.

Third time's the charm: reading whatever you may find of the brief, scant accounts of Toussaint's Seventies output might give the impression of a fairly even career, but listen to these records just a wee bit closer, and it is difficult not to perceive a little something «extra» on Southern Nights, an album that tries to make a difference where its two predecessors sounded more like technical attempts to accommodate the artist's presence in a musical decade so different from those in which he'd originally emerged and thrived as «Creative Assistant» to everybody.

Well, it's a subtle difference, actually: all Southern Nights does is explore a slightly larger num­ber of musical styles and employ a few extra production techniques — yet, somehow, what emerges in the process is an album that also feels deeper, more serious, even more soulful than it used to be. If anything, Toussaint here seems, if not directly influenced, then at least indirectly inspired by Stevie Wonder and his brilliant successes in transcending the conventional formula of R&B with his technical innovations and individualistic approach; although the music is still largely groove-based, the melodies on the whole are much more elaborate, and everything is marked with special touches — a piano or organ flourish, an odd cross-fade, a weird sound effect, a particularly melancholic brass riff, whatever gets your goat — that suggest treating the album as an actual art piece, rather than just thirty more minutes of modest entertainment.

The record's central piece is, of course, the title track, which most people probably know from Glen Campbell's 1977 hit version — distilled into a rather one-dimensional, near-disco romp that is far more danceable and perhaps even catchier than the original, but completely devoid of the odd magical flavor that Toussaint gets from slapping a few simple effects onto the piano track and, most importantly, his vocals which he runs through a Leslie speaker, so that the question of "have you ever felt a southern night?" sounds sort of vaporized, as if coming from some friendly water demon. Eulogizing the beauties of the South is nothing new per se, but this here is an entirely different approach, putting more emphasis on the dreamy atmosphere than on the more usual «earthiness» and «soulfulness» in doing so — and then, as Toussaint throws the line "wish I could stop the world from fighting" into the mix, it turns out that admiring the attraction of South­ern nights is actually just a pretext for something decidedly bigger.

I cannot say that any of the other tracks go for a similarly ambitious goal, but they all have some­thing to offer. ʽLast Trainʼ is Toussaint's ʽLocomotive Breathʼ — not as tense or apocalyptic, but still comparing the mad life of today's world to a choo choo train, suitably backed by huffing and puffing percussion and steam-blowing backing vocals. ʽBack In Baby's Armsʼ features one of his weightiest arrangements — slow, solemn, with a full gospel choir to stress the importance of said baby's arms — and while the track may have needed a Phil Spector to fully realize its potential, it is still more memorable, or, rather, more noticeable than the ballads on his earlier albums. ʽCountry Johnʼ, while not having the snarly syncopated snazz of a ʽSuperstitionʼ, still has plenty of power to entrance you with its rhythm section, particularly when the brass section and the looped backing vocals start spiralling, dizzy-dizzy, around Toussaint's chorus.

And so it goes all the way to ʽCruel Way To Go Downʼ, which, surprisingly, sounds not unlike one of those semi-depressed Dylan tunes circa Planet Waves — slow, brooding, melancholic roots-rock with a surprising lyrical and vocal twist, as the singer-songwriter whom we'd generally known as a strong, wilful, sarcastic character, suddenly plunges into darkness and vulnerability: "Lost and found in a sea of love and tossed around / Loneliness must be a cruel way to go down". After nine songs in a row that had their share of irony, bitterness, social critique and personal troubles, but still showed a largely optimistic and fun-loving spirit, this last song is a shocker, as Toussaint employs every trick in his book to weave an aura of inescapable grief. Guess those baby's arms ultimately did not help — yet, in any case, this is a final crowning touch that, along with the title track, really gives the record its individuality.

All in all, Southern Nights is clearly Toussaint's peak as a solo artist: the closest he has ever come to becoming an «accomplished» singer-songwriter, with lots of personal, confessional touches that could easily be missed on his other records due to all the extra humility, and that were certainly absent from the catchy, but alienated material that he penned for other people. If you only need one record from the guy, this is clearly the one to get; if you only have time for one song from the guy, ʽSouthern Nightsʼ is the one to cherish. In any case, the final verdict is an irreversible thumbs up; too bad that the times hindered him from capitalizing on its strengths, as the disco age forced its own rules on the man.

Allen Toussaint: Life, Love And Faith

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: LIFE, LOVE AND FAITH (1972)

1) Victims Of The Darkness; 2) Am I Expecting Too Much?; 3) My Baby Is The Real Thing; 4) Goin' Down; 5) She Once Belonged To Me; 6) Out Of The City; 7) Soul Sister; 8) Fingers And Toes; 9) I've Got To Convince Myself; 10) On Your Way Down; 11) Gone Too Far; 12) Electricity.

The formula of Toussaint stays in full force for this follow-up, another collection of pleasant, low-key, restrained soul and funk grooves with his New Orleanian flavor. The biggest difference is that all the numbers are vocal this time, and everything is allegedly composed by Toussaint himself, so you might as well call this a «singer-songwriter» record, except that this term is very rarely applied to groove-dependent collections of tunes — this is, after all, «body music» first and «mind music» second, much as some people would like to convince us that there is no clear-cut distinction between the two (and I agree with the «clear-cut» bit).

On a couple of these numbers, Toussaint actually goes as far as to add a tint of menace to the sound: ʽOut Of The Cityʼ, in particular, is a gritty standout, with a threatening guitar riff and a subtle social undercurrent, symbolized in its "I don't wanna run no more" chorus, distorted through something like a Leslie cabinet — although Allen's vocals are so naturally friendly that he is unable to properly capitalize upon the menace and despair potential of the song. There's also ʽVictims Of The Darknessʼ, a sort of a warning song against, well, all sorts of evil in general, but it does indeed play out as a warning — subtly suspenseful, with mildly disturbing syncopation, never spilling out into anything truly moving.

On the whole, though, the songs rarely depart from standard love-and-heartbreak topics, are no­where near the level of catchiness of Allen's Sixties' hits, and rarely feature any outstanding mu­sicianship — the best I can say is that the album never gets proverbially «dull» due to the overall number of styles: there's happy, up-tempo R&B (ʽAm I Expecting Too Much?ʼ), mid-tempo swampy funk (ʽGoin' Downʼ), passionate, tempestuous soul balladry (ʽShe Once Belonged To Meʼ), and... well, maybe it's not so much about the actual genres as it is about the instrumental diversity, with some songs being more driven by brass, some by piano and organ, some by guitar, and some by everything at once.

But it is easy to see why an album like this could be entirely overlooked in the era of Stevie Wonder, Al Greene, and Curtis Mayfield — like its predecessor, this is an album that you turn to only at the stage when you are tired of genius, and intentionally want to go for something that would be very much middle-of-the-road: 100% tasteful, directly unassailable from any position, but also completely unremarkable in any possible aspect. Essentially, there is nothing I can say about any of these songs that would make a difference.

Allen Toussaint: Toussaint

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: TOUSSAINT (1971)

1) From A Whisper To A Scream; 2) Chokin' Kind; 3) Sweet Touch Of Love; 4) What Is Success; 5) Working In A Coalmine; 6) Everything I Do Gonna Be Funky; 7) Either; 8) Louie; 9) Cast Your Fate To The Wind; 10) Number Nine; 11) Pickles.

Throughout the Sixties, Toussaint was too busy writing and producing hit songs for a host of artists to ever focus on a solo career, releasing only a tiny handful of singles under his own name (the most famous of which was probably ʽGet Out Of My Life, Womanʼ in 1968, and even that one was first made into a hit by Lee Dorsey two years before). However, as the Seventies came along and established a pattern of formerly behind-the-scenes songwriters coming out to lay claims to full-fledged artistry (Carole King probably being the most famous examples), Toussaint apparently decided that it wouldn't hurt to try. Backed by his good friend Mac Rebennack, a.k.a. Dr. John, on guitar and organ (all piano duties are understandably handled by Allen himself), as well as a dozen seasoned, but little-known session players (Merry Clayton of ʽGimmie Shelterʼ fame is here on backing vocals, as a matter of fact), Toussaint makes his first big move as a solo artist — and immediately falls flat on his face!

Well, no, not quite. True, the record sold poorly, was barely noted in its own time and even today remains more or less a collector's item, to the extent that even the basic discographic information on it tends to vary from source to source (from what I can reconstruct, the original title was simply Toussaint, the recording sessions took place in 1970, and the LP was released in 1971;  more than a decade later, it was re-released as From A Whisper To A Scream, with one extra track on Side B, and this is the version I have). It is also true that the record is quite low-key, and does not have even a third part of the exuberance and youthful aggression of The Wild Sound: this new sound of Allen's is anything but wild, particularly when you compare it to his funky competitors such as James Brown or Funkadelic; in the dizzy, explosive context of 1971, when «thunder gods» still ruled the world of pop, rock, and R&B, it could hardly be hoped that a lot of people would pay attention to anything this humble.

But apart from these historic considerations, Toussaint is a pretty decent album. Allen's motto for it is established with the last number on Side A — ʽEverything I Do Gonna Be Funkyʼ — yet he establishes it in such a quiet, unpretentious, and calm manner that I am automatically reminded of J. J. Cale: had old J. J. decided that he, too, wanted to be funky from now on, he would probably have recorded something precisely like this. The song is not even properly «funky» by itself, just a regular 4/4 groove with minimal bass, quiet interplay between a distorted rhythm guitar and lead slide licks, and brief, punctuating touches of brass. Absolutely nothing special — but, some­how, still burning with a quiet, steady, and very determined fire that really makes you want to believe the man.

Everything else on the first side is done according to the same approach: quiet, relying on short and sweet melodic guitar phrases — but, unfortunately, also downplaying Toussaint's talents as a piano player; his biggest break comes on Harlan Howard's ʽChokin' Kindʼ, but even there Dr. John quickly overshadows him on the organ. All in all, the songs do not even sound much like the product of a singer-songwriter, because Toussaint's singing voice, while pleasant, friendly, and versatile, is strictly defined as one out of many sonic ingredients: Merry Clayton and Venetta Fields on backing vocals are just as loud as the frontman, and Toussaint never resorts to ad-lib­bing, never jumps out of his seat to attract attention — which is, admittedly, very cool and noble of him, but also depersonalizes him to a large degree. And although his ʽWorking In The Coal­mineʼ is a catchy and poignant song, his version here hardly improves on Lee Dorsey's original, although the arrangement is oddly more carnivalesque, with brass fanfare and slick funky guitar framing Allen's so naturally optimistic and friendly voice that the whole thing becomes ironic: surely Lee Dorsey did not sing about the sufferings of a coalmine worker that cheerfully.

The entire second side of the album is left for instrumental compositions, and this is where we could hope, perhaps, for some let-your-hair-down wildness: but no dice — these funky instru­mentals are quite restrained, too, and focused on band interplay rather than showcasing individual skills, with the lone exception of Vince Guaraldi's ʽCast Your Fate To The Windʼ, where Allen finally takes center stage and lets his piano do most of the talking, with some cool key changes and a beautifully fluent and expressive solo in the middle. Everything else is just groove after groove, tasteful and pleasant, but not much to write about: no flash (except at the end of ʽPicklesʼ, where Toussaint wraps things up with a few Chopin-esque flourishes), just business.

All in all, this is an inauspicious, but respectable start to a true solo career; I would only recom­mend it, though, to those who like their funky grooves very low-key and restrained, speaking through subtlety and ellipse, rather than loud, sweaty, and punchy. Oh, and with a brassy New Orleanian flavor, of course — the kind of atmosphere that teaches you to always look on the bright side of things, no matter how much they suck.

Allen Toussaint: The Wild Sound Of New Orleans

ALLEN TOUSSAINT: THE WILD SOUND OF NEW ORLEANS (1958)

1) Whirlaway; 2) Up The Creek; 3) Tim Tam; 4) Me And You; 5) Bono; 6) Java; 7) Happy Times; 8) Wham Tousan; 9) Nowhere To Go; 10) Nashua; 11) Po Boy Walk; 12) Pelican Parade; 13*) Chico; 14*) Sweetie Pie (Twenty Years Later); 15*) Back Home Again In Indiana; 16*) Naomi.

Most people only come across the name «Allen Toussaint» in parentheses — credited for such well-known hits as ʽFortune Tellerʼ and ʽI Like It Like Thatʼ (and even then, it is not always obvious, since some of them were officially credited to «Naomi Neville», so that the royalties could generously go to the man's parents). Those who are somewhat more interested in the cultu­ral life of New Orleans after the rock revolution know his solo LPs, a small, but steady stream of which only began to emerge in the early 1970s. But I'm pretty sure that very few have ever heard the one and only solo record that he cut in 1958 — young, beardless, suit-and-tied, and still going by the moniker of «Al Tousan».

Which is, frankly, a shame, because believe you me, this is one of those cases where the lauda­tory title does not lie — The Wild Sound Of New Orleans, in this instance, does indeed trans­late to «that particular type of sound from New Orleans that can be really wild», rather than «this is the way they all sound in New Orleans, and we're calling it ʽwildʼ because it's, like, wild, man! Wild — good word, that! Could be ʽgroovyʼ, but we didn't have space for two more letters on that sleeve». Although the entire album consists of nothing but instrumentals, and even though most of those instrumentals begin to sound pretty samey after a while, this is far closer in spirit to truly rebellious rock'n'roll than any of its spiritual predecessors, from Amos Milburn all the way up to even Fats Domino.

Some part of it belongs to Toussaint's backing band, including Domino's baritone sax player Alvin "Red" Tyler, and bombastic drummer Charles "Hungry" Williams, both of whom raise so much hell on the faster numbers here that it is a wonder how the flimsy walls of New Orleanian studios never fell apart during any of them. It almost feels as if they were so completely happy to get this chance to emerge from the shadow of Fats Domino as a frontman and develop their own grooves instead of having to humbly support the pop melodies of Domino / Bartholomew, that they really went wild all the way: just throw on the opening ʽWhirlawayʼ and be ready to ack­nowledge that few compositions from the early rock era can match this in energy, tightness, and pure, dizzy, giddy fun.

The main culprit, however, is Toussaint himself, who, at 20 years old, was already a fine rival to Fats — actually, his chief inspiration was not so much the straightforwardly boogie-oriented Domino as the somewhat more sophisticated Professor Longhair, from whom he'd learnt some of the quirky New Orleanian flourishes; but Professor Longhair, as befits a Professor, was far more restrained and never let his hair down as much as Toussaint lets down his (figuratively speaking, that is: they didn't call him Longhair for nothing, while Toussaint's growth never went beyond the usual curly style). Anyway, Toussaint is unquestionably the primary hero of ʽWhirlawayʼ — he knows that the perfect way to handle a boogie is not to let the listener hang loose for even one second, and he has a speedy, breathless way of keeping it up that probably does not resonate with the punkish fever of a Jerry Lee Lewis, but he also spends far less time banging his thumbs against the same two keys than Jerry does — a trick that might quickly get irritating if you did this twelve times in a row on an instrumental album. He does have his trademark tricks that crop up repeatedly, but that is more so that you recognize the sound than because he is running out of ideas. And when he does begin to run out of ideas, he knows exactly where to cede the spotlight to the sax player for a few bars.

Not all of the album consists of fast boogie numbers: some are relaxedly mid-tempo, including what is arguably the best-known composition here — ʽJavaʼ (the spirit of which would later be brilliantly conveyed by the Muppet Show sketch); others can even be slow, like the blues shuffle ʽPo' Boy Walkʼ, with an odd «buzzing» electric guitar lead part for a change, or the country waltz ʽUp The Creekʼ. In fact, despite the similarity of arrangements creating the illusion of mono­tonousness, Toussaint runs through a pretty impressive set of styles: rock'n'roll, blues, country, gospel-soul (ʽHappy Timesʼ), top-hat vaudeville (ʽMe And Youʼ), and flat-out Mardi Gras an­thems (ʽBonoʼ; ʽNashuaʼ, semi-quoting ʽWhen The Saints Go Marching Inʼ). And my personal favorite was not even on the original album in the first place: the bonus track ʽChicoʼ, although it spends much of its time on mariachi sax solos, has an awesome piano lick («ringing doorbell») that I do not think I have even heard before on any other song.

Bottomline is: The Wild Sound Of New Orleans is a wonderful record that, sadly, could pro­bably not avoid falling through the cracks — as a «pop» album, it could never be popular due to the lack of vocals, and as a «serious» album, it was way too much oriented at the pure entertain­ment sector. But surely this type of music has to have its own niche, too, so let this thumbs up rating be a small contribution to the Allen Toussaint Preservation Society.