Keeping the Beat on the Street by Mick Burns Page B

during the Fairview days. In 1983, after leaving the Olympia, he formed his own Chosen Few and took up permanent residence in Jackson Square—he had a passionate belief in the integrity of the street musician. It was during this period that he became a role model for the young musicians who flocked to join him in the square—Keith Anderson, Kermit Ruffins, Dwayne Burns, and countless others. For several years, Tuba’s wife, “Lady” Linda Young, sang with the band until her tragic early death from cancer in 1997. I don’t think Tuba ever recovered from the loss.
    I got to know him pretty well over the course of several years, and he toured three times with my band in Europe during 1995 and ’96. He was capable of amazing generosity. During parade jobs, he would stoop over mesmerized children to give them candy he’d crammed into his pockets earlier. Once during a catfish supper at his Dauphine Street home, he produced several cans of English beer for me (he wasn’t drinking at the time). He’d brought them back in his suitcase—he knew I didn’t like the local beer much. He had his little phobias, he was afraid of heights and the dark. I remember him staring into the blackness from a country hotel window, and musing, “Mmm. Ain’t nobody gotta tell Fats to stay his black ass in the house.”
    During the last few years of his life, he’d been “adopted” by Walt and Ronda Rose, who provided him with a subsidized apartment in Dumaine Street and made sure he got healthy food and medication for his heart condition. Whenever I got to New Orleans, Fats was always the first person I’d call. In January this year, I was in New Orleans to make a radio documentary about Harold Dejan. On Monday, January 12, Barry Martyn and I were leaving Barry’s house on Burgundy Street at 10:40 A.M . A musician neighbor of Barry’s, called David, crossed the street and said, “Did you hear about Tuba? He died last night from a heart attack….”
    Gallier Hall, St. Charles Avenue, January 18, 12:20 P.M . This is a venue for the funerals of local celebrities, and Tuba was certainly that. The bleachers are up for Mardi Gras, and it’s crowded with people waiting to second line. By one of the doorways, there’s a throbbing percussion section of plainclothes Mardi Gras Indians—Tuba was a Wild Magnolia in his youth. Inside, the huge ballroom is divided into roughly three parts: one for a small section of the parade band (only about fifteen pieces), one for the seated congregation and family, and a third for the standees and the dancers. In the last year, Tuba had apparently formed an association with the Sudan Social Aid and Pleasure Club, and twenty or so of them had turned out for this occasion— bright orange shirts, tan pants, sashes, umbrellas, unlit cigars, all dancing their asses off for Tuba Fats. The band plays “Just a Little While to Stay Here,” “Lily of the Valley,” “I’ll Fly Away”—the congregation sings and cries. It’s unbelievably moving.
    Then outside to second line in front of the horse-drawn hearse. It’s a huge crowd and a big band. I recognize Lionel Batiste Sr., Jenell Marshal, Roger Lewis, Benny Jones, Keith Anderson, Eddie Bo Parish, Revert Andrews, James Andrews, Leroy Jones, Doc Watson, Robert Harris, and Kermit Ruffins. It’s too far away to hear who’s playing, but at the back I count the bells of fourteen sousaphones. It’s not a recipe for musical coherence, but it’s an impressive tribute.
    We move off, along Carondelet, over Canal and onto Bourbon Street. This is the first time I’ve walked through the French Quarter with Tuba without having to stop every two minutes while he talked to people—the barkers, the street people, musicians, the lady from the A&P, just about everybody. Turn right down St. Ann and into Jackson Square. In front of St.