What, no Trombone?

My father’s “bucket list” included a trip to the fabled City of New Orleans, the Birthplace of Jazz, and supposedly the home of ongoing Dixieland-style performance.

He was not a jazz fan per se -- in fact he couldn’t listen to anything more advanced than the simple white swing of Benny Goodman. But he appreciated Dixieland, in particular New Orleans clarinetist Pete Fountain, whose album “New Orleans at Midnight” was part of dad’s rather sparse record collection.

So he envisioned the romantic picture of Bourbon Street - the Ground Zero of Dixieland Jazz - with the joyous sounds of clarinets, trumpets, and trombones pouring out of bars and restaurants for many blocks, a Dixieland Paradise.

This may have been the scenario at some point in the past, but Bourbon Street was hardly a Dixieland Paradise by the time my dad finally got down there in the 1980s. He waited too long -- the music pouring out into the street was mostly rock and blues, with loud electric guitars and crashing drums. Apparently the baby boomers had taken over the area, and they didn’t care about Pete Fountain or any other clarinetist for that matter. Dad was swarmed by young party animals everywhere he went in the French Quarter, and the New Orleans experience was a disappointment.

I visited New Orleans for a few days last week, only a few years younger than dad was during his visit in the 80s. I had the advantage of not being as deluded as dad was. In fact, certain nephews and nieces had been there in recent years, hard rock fans who found Bourbon Street to be the ultimate Party Town.

Yet New Orleans still tries to talk up its “Birthplace of Jazz” history, and Bourbon Street still makes a few feeble concessions to it, most notably every night at the Maison Bourbon, located at the very heart of the French Quarter, at the intersection of Bourbon and St Peter. If one gets close to its open doors (close enough to block out the blaring rock music across the street), the sound of Dixieland will be heard, and you may quickly find yourself seated inside.

Or is it really Dixieland? Up front there was a trumpeter and a clarinetist, and I kept saying Where Is The Trombone? Damn, they charged me $7 for a Coke, couldn’t they afford a trombonist?

There’s an old musicians joke, something like How Do You Know When a Trombonist is at your Door? And the answer (ha-ha) is He’s the One Wearing a Domino’s Pizza Hat…

…referring, of course, to the demise of trombone in popular music ever since the mid-20th century. Jazz groups got smaller and more progressive in the 50s, and clarinets and trombones didn’t seem to fit the style, and fell into disfavor. Trumpets, and even more so saxophones, still managed to thrive, if there’s such a thing as “thriving” in the world of jazz.

The classic New Orleans jazz style of the early 20th century always had a trombone in the line-up, mixing with trumpet and clarinet for that hallmark Dixieland Sound. Yet the Maison Bourbon -- this iconic jazz house on Bourbon Street -- couldn’t find a trombonist in all of New Orleans to complete the authentic sound? Louie Armstrong would have been appalled.

The next night I went to a jazz club, called the Snug Harbor, located elsewhere in New Orleans, pretty far away from all the Bourbon Street noise, After paying a cover charge, I heard great jazz, in a room designed for a great listening experience. This large band, reading charts and also including solo improv performances, contained two young men on trombones. It was reassuring that this noble instrument is still revered and encouraged somewhere on this planet, quite appropriately down in New Orleans, despite present-day music trends.

I was tempted to go back to the trombone-less band on Bourbon street to inform them of the two young men I’d heard at Snug Harbor. But it occurred to me to me that my meddling would not be welcome, that these old New Orleans jazzers had a lifetime’s-worth of musical cohorts and could add a trombonist IF they were so inclined.

I never found out why they were NOT so inclined. Perhaps -- alas -- it was the simple economic decision to keep the group as small as possible? Less guys to pay? Musical corner-cutting in a New Orleans jazz group? I would hope not, but what else am I to think? The Maison Bourbon has a huge sign outside boasting its “Dedication to the Preservation of Jazz”, and I found myself rolling my eyes as I looked at it.

Dixieland fans should do some serious research before plucking down money for visiting New Orleans. With luck, enough of the Real Item can be found down there, in the handful of venues away from Bourbon Street. But there’s no guarantee of that, and “Real New Orleans Jazz” may be more mythical than real, and perhaps there‘s more of it to be found in one‘s own home town.