John Kennedy Toole, in “Confederacy of Dunces,” described New Orleans as a Hoboken on the Gulf of Mexico. Poetic justic, or a hip town hall bueraucrat, brought a great New Orleans band back to its ‘roots.’ Doctor John’s Band rolled into Hoboken like a Hail Mary Mother of All Amazing Grace T-Boomers. These Crescent City gunslingers brought Full Moon Fever to the Edge of Town. Today was Hoboken’s bi-annual Arts and Music Festival, which fills the first 7 blocks of the main drag with Stands and Tables for Vendors of Food and Shoppe goods to collect sweet hard, tax-free US dollars. On both ends of the Commerce was a music stage with a day-long bill of acts. Headlining the Main Stage, down on Observer Highway, was Doctor John.
I headed down there because I had reversed in my mind the closing lineups: I aimed to see local blues legend Joe Taino, who was actually on the ’6th Street’ stage. When I realized my error, I stayed put. Had to. For one, I have the privilege of seeing Taino nearly every Saturday at his blues jam. For another, I could not move. Doctor John and his Funkmeisters hypnotized me.
Look into his eyes and you’ll see Santy Claus kissing the Easter Bunny. The city must have insisted he wear black sunglasses to minimize the number of freak-outs. Even with the shades, a penetrating glance could induce paganism in the pope, and shackle a Freemason.
All the hundreds of cool people in town made their way to the white castle where hellish, twirling whirling Canjun blues held sway. There was the old toothless lady wearing a Peace necklace next to her floral friend. Your mid 40s bad ass weekend warriors. Adorable 20s girls bopping in their unzipped sweat jackets. We were all happy to be down in the zone. We were all glad to be gone from the throng of happy shiny people exchanging notes about their condos and kids between comments on the strange vendor cuisine. Let them have their Fried Oreos! We have rock and roll and many things we can’t recognize or name, but can only shuffle our feet in time to.
Doctor John cuts a terrifying and marvelous figure sitting at his Roland keyboards. Born and raised in a slanted walk-up at the corner of HeeBee and JeeBee, he’s grown into a pirate, stealing pages from Jerry Garcia’s diet and Long John Silver’s wardrobe. He’s surrounded by hard-working, can’t and don’t want to be anything but musicians. Hell, just look at their clothes and smiles, and you know that image means absolutely nada to them. The Bass Man and Drummer brought the funk when the big man asks them to bring it. The guitarist is an honest axe man who might have a dark secret–blackmailed into the gang but enjoying the Stockholm treatment.
The 90 minute set featured a range of sounds, and included 70s covers and intriguing, altering tempo ballads. Doctor John’s chops on the keys set the mood and melodies. It was an excellent way to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon. It was a free show, a great show, and for that, we must tip our hats to the city of Hoboken for bringing in these cats. And distracting the yuppies with zepolis.
