Andrew Don’t Dance!

Andrew Hyde Relives His Twinkletoed Escape From The Dancefloor In Louisiana!
I don’t dance. Don’t ask me, don’t be offended if I say no.
What’s so difficult about that?
It’s true that I have danced on several occasions. One time The Bushwhackers played at the Colac Recreation Centre, and blinded by teenage love I trotted around, up and down, swinging the left foot in and out.
The next day, and for two weeks after that, I couldn’t walk, play footy or ride my bike.
That’s one big black mark against dancing!
Another time I was hunted down like a fugitive and forced to squire a young maiden to the Senior Students Ball. No matter where I ran, she or her friends tracked me down and applied the, ‘But you have to,’ pressure like a steam train. They wouldn’t listen to my protests, ‘I can’t dance, I hate dancing, don’t make me fucking dance.’
They grinned at me through pimples and braces, ‘But there’s lessons.’
Lessons? My God, they clashed with footy training, new episodes of ‘Cop Shop,’ evening meals with the family. Can’t make it, can’t do it.
Nope. Tempted by the smiles and scared by the anger of the pack, I gave in and danced. Pride of Erin, Evening Three Step and Mexican Hat Dance. Clammy hands, tipsy mothers and cold, hard stares from massive fathers. Never again!
But no! The last time was when I was coerced into being best man at a mate’s wedding. Didn’t see dancing coming this time. Just had to get suited up (almost as bad as dancing), make a few speeches, drink a heap of piss and grab a pizza before sleeping in the back of my car down by the lake.
Bridal waltz? What the? How’s that go? I gotta dance? Yer joking me!
Even captured on camera, somewhere.
But that was it. Dancing history over. Been there, danced that. Done and dusted. From now on my twinkling shoes would be packed away. No more need for suits, can chuck the cummerbund out, hide the photos away for the occasional sneaky look and laugh.
Whenever the local debs came around I’d tut tut and say, ‘how archaic, how sexist. What a waste of money, time and effort.’ As my U-18s footy coach had said, ‘There’s better places to be with girls and better things to do with them!’
Well that was just fantasy too.
I tell a lie. There was one other time I was moved to dance. Actually invented one. I called it the ‘Sergeant Small Dance’ and I put the tricky moves together one boozy night at the Pier Hotel in Frankston in the late1980s.
Weddings Parties Anything were all the rage and my mates and I followed them all over the country. Portland, Tathra, Sydney, The Central Club in Richmond, even a gig in London. We were there when they backed Stevie Ray Vaughan at Festival Hall in Melbourne and when they backed B.B King and U2 at the Tennis Centre.
So, on this fateful night as they rollicked into Tex Morton’s ‘Sergeant Small’ I decided that jumping around, spilling my beer and smashing into my mates wasn’t enough.
I invented a dance.
As Mick Thomas crashed his way into the chorus, I went into action. He bellowed, ‘I wish that I was 16 stone and only seven foot tall!’
I thrust my hands and arms in front of me at shoulder level and drew them down to my hips indicating a massive beer gut, then I leapt in the air throwing my hands above me to show how tall I was.
Mick, oblivious to my maniacal thrustings and leapings, continued, ‘I’d go back to Western Queensland and beat up Sargeant Small!’
And to complete my dance routine I’d ball my hands into fists and punch the air with wild abandon.
That was about it.
It actually caught on for awhile, but as the Weddoes’ legend grew and the crowds amassed, the antics of the audience became more and more outrageous. Whitebait was tossed through the air, paper aeroplanes wafted about and the band were always ready to duck the showers of ten cent pieces that were chucked at them during ‘Ticket in Tatts.’
So, despite being forced to dance on a couple of occasions, mostly after being threatened by marauding packs of women, and even taking credit for designing an elaborate dance for one of Melbourne’s greatest bands, by my thirties I thought my dancing days were over.
I had developed a startling range of excuses. Bad backs, dodgy ankles, patella tendonitis. I had ‘em all. All the time in fact. Wouldn’t be able to open the bowling for Otway on Saturday if I stuff up my knees tonight.
I was unfailingly polite when approached by women with that come-dance-with-me look in their eyes, ‘Thanks but no thanks. I’m flattered that you asked me. Gotta sore knee. Just took medication for the back spasms. Oh look, Austin is free, he’s a great dancer. Sorry time to go, my taxi’s here.’
And it worked. Sat through some excruciating fund raising evenings in country halls. But didn’t dance, ‘Sorry, don’t like it. Nah, back’s still bad. Gotta play footy in the morning.’
I checked out the beer. Volunteered to be bouncer. Had to change a tire. Heated up the sausage rolls. Read the names on the Beech Forest Great War Honour Board. ‘Gotta get going, early start tomorrow.’
And so it was. Andrew don’t dance. Don’t have to, don’t like it. Don’t ask me.
But this year I visited Louisiana. Cajun country. Spiritual home of the accordion, the fiddle, gumbo, crawfish and Cajun style DANCING.
What on earth was I thinking. And I was with people I didn’t know. People who didn’t understand my ‘don’t dance’ thing. Single women, married women, old women, young women and not enough good looking guys!
Didn’t stand a chance really.
I suddenly realised I was going to be in trouble when Sara-from-Brighton came sashaying across the floor at B.B King’s club on Beale Street, Memphis. She was a little pissed and she was doing this dancy dancy, pointy pointy thing, and she was pointing at Brian and me.
I looked down at my beer. Brian looked away.
But Sara kept coming. Pointing at us. Doing the dance thing. It was me or Brian for sure. I tried to start up an animated conversation with Al-from-Queensland but he was already talking to someone else. I hoped that Brian would cave in.
But no, Brian looked Sara straight in the eye and said, ‘Sorry, but I have a crook knee.’
The bastard, he was using my material! I went for the say-no-and-hope method, ‘Sorry Sara, gotta get going soon.’
Bloody liar, I was there for the duration, but I thought if she drank enough (and she did) that she’d forget (unlikely).
She was distracted by the younger, and much better looking, Pat. Phew, crisis averted.
‘I really do have a crook knee,’ Brian confided to me as Sara waltzed away, ‘But I bloody hate dancing too.’
‘Yeah yeah,’ I thought as I continued in my quest to find an American beer worth drinking. That search would prove to be as futile as trying to avoid dancing.
The warning signs came thick and fast in New Orleans when we dined at ‘Napoleons’ in the French Quarter. Dinner was excellent, the drinks were cold and the company was grand. Then this excitable American lady started bossing us around. It was like being back at school. We were going to learn how to dance ‘Cajun Style.’
Ripper! I slunk away. Hid on the balcony for a few minutes cradling my beer. Spent some quality time on my own imagining the Mardi Gras procession snaking through the streets. But no, the indomitable Nancy Covey found me there. ‘Just gotta go to the dunny,’ I mumbled as an excuse. She looked dumbfounded by this language/cultural gap, ‘Come on, we all have to learn how to swirl.’
‘Go and swirl love, have some fun,’ I thought as I snuck off to the bathroom.
It didn’t end there. I found the affable Elsie and Nerida scoffing down unfinished drinks in the dining room. ‘Fucking hate dancing,’ explained Elsie derisively.
This seemed perfect. Women who hated dancing, but loved drinking. Aussies, thousands of miles from home, in a foreign land. Bonding. Maybe they’d want to talk about footy or the cricket World Cup or how shit the beer was. The evening was turning around my way.
But no, Nancy came swirling through again. She must have been forewarned about us and she was keen to get us doing it Cajun Style. ‘Come on guys,’ she pleaded, ‘The dancing tutors will be hurt if you don’t at least try.’
Ah, the blackmail, the threats. Never mind, I could handle this. I slipped into the back of the ballroom and hid behind the rest of the Australians who were crowded together attempting to be invisible. Trying to be anonymous. Shadows.
I think I caught Brian dancing, but my memory is a little vague. A few drinks became a lot, a trip to the Howlin’ Wolf Club to see Littlefeat, then countless bourbons at Jimmy White’s corner bar have blurred the finer details of the evening.
But I didn’t dance. No swirling for me!
In the days to come I tramped around the New Orleans Jazz Festival checking out some amazing bands, new and old, funky, wild and traditional. There was a bit of dancing going on at the outside stages, but thankfully Security held things in check in the inside venues.
Who would even think of dancing when Sonny Landreth was igniting his stinging slide guitar? Or when Richie Havens was floating away before our eyes? There wasn’t room to even wiggle during the New Orleans Social Club’s funky set and dancing seemed completely inappropriate when rooted to the spot by Gillian Welch’s mesmerising performance.
I might have wiggled my hips just a little during the Dirty Dozen Brass Band’s fun-filled hour, but the dancing for all of us was being done on the right of stage by the whirling dervish, Beatle Bob.
Bob popped up again during Terrance Simien’s rocking zydeco performance. And if you thought I was about to launch into the ‘Sergeant Small’ routine, well that was just me jumping to grab the cheap jewellery he was flinging into the crowd.
But avoiding the old shuffle was easy out at the Fairgrounds. It was when we went on Nancy Covey’s Cajun Tour that the pressure mounted again. Apparently dancing is an integral part of the Cajun culture. Again this seemed fanciful to me, another example of a female plot. But my dancing antenna were on high alert.
Night one in Cajun Country we travelled to Eunice, home of all things Cajun. That night we were entertained at Geno Delafose’s ranch. The BBQ was excellent, the beers were crappy but cold and the locals were warm and welcoming. Geno was a lovely fellow and he greeted us as old friends. His mother, Joanne, the children and grandchildren, Geno’s neighbours and our fellow travellers all made for excellent company.
Geno is a zydeco musician and after dinner he and his band set up on a flat bed truck and played us a joyfilled, soulful set. I loved it. A big yellow moon was rising above the ricefields of rural Louisiana and I wondered then, as I did many other times on the trip, how on earth I had arrived at this place.
But then the dancing started. I hung back, the usual first step of avoidance. I became chummy with an elderly librarian from California. We talked books and teaching and shared a glass of red. She couldn’t dance as she was very ill, and me, well she needed some company didn’t she?
But Nancy, whom I now discovered was Richard Thompson’s wife, wasn’t to be deterred by my noble gesture in comforting the ill. No way, it was, ‘Come on Andrew, I want to dance with you. I need a partner, EVERYBODY has to have a go.’
‘No they bloody don’t,’ I thought. ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I muttered. But Nancy was not to be defeated. ‘Everybody is having a go, it’s fun.’
‘Go on Andrew,’ said my Californian. Arrgh, the female conspiracy! They were moving into the pack approach. ‘My knees, my back, my ankles!’ I cried.
‘Even Brian is dancing,’ countered Nancy.
Bloody hell I thought, even our leader with the bad knee has caved in.
So I pulled out the last resort tactic. Obviously there was no taxi on its way, no other single guys were untaken.
‘I’m sorry Nancy, but I don’t dance. It’s nothing personal, but I am having a good time and if I dance I won’t. Please don’t push me to do it. Please.’
Pathetic isn’t it? But it worked. Off she swirled, the lively wife of the rock star. Off to cavort with another hapless male.
Later that night as we boarded the bus, Nancy took me aside and patted my arm affectionately and whispered to me, ‘It’s alright, Andrew, it’s alright. You need to look after the little man inside.’
I think she was genuinely concerned for my wellbeing. Strange.
Tougher still was when the lovely Helen-from-Seddon bailed me up where I was hiding in the stables. I was busy patting horses’ noses and talking to the elderly ranch foreman. Checking out the tools and ropes hanging on the walls. Smelling the straw and the grease and the shit. Feeling like somehow I was back home again.
‘Come on Andrew, one dance for me,’ she implored. Now, this was getting serious. Nancy I could knock back because she was American and didn’t really understand, but Helen was from Melbourne and I had already struck up a bond with her and her husband Bernard as we motored down Highway 61.
I tried humour, ‘But you barrack for Geelong!’ and I tried the Nancy trick, ‘I won’t enjoy it, I hate it, leave me alone.’
She chided me, ‘I bet you would dance with Alex if she asked.’
Alex was the willowy blonde-from-Portarlington. ‘Who is Alex? No way,’ I said, ‘I don’t dance with anyone.’
I gave her the look. The look that said something terrible had happened long ago and it wasn’t worth pursuing, digging up.
Helen looked perplexed at this, but gave me a way out, ‘One dance, before we finish the trip, just one time, OK?’
That would do for now.
What are the odds? In the heart of Cajun country. With the accordion squawking, the washboards clacking and every member of the tour dancing. Just me and the sick lady from L.A. not jigging about.
Pretty hard to get out of that one, but I did.
Cos, Andrew Don’t Dance!
Postscript
The next day we went on a tour of the historic Eunice radio station, KBON 101.1fm. Whilst we were waiting for Brian and Nancy to be interviewed we were joined by a group of musicians who had arrived to record a promo.
The group all belonged to the same family. Two sisters, a younger brother on fiddle and a three year old brother as well.
They struck up a Cajun waltz extolling the virtues of Christianity and gravy, rice and beans. One of the sisters tried to get the little toddler to dance. He immediately started crying inconsolably and hid behind his other sister.
I looked across at Helen. ‘See, what I mean,’ I mouthed. I gave the little fellow a grin and the thumbs up, ‘I’m on your side mate.’
Good luck little man.

Sweet Home Murrumbeena

It’s been a week now and it is difficult to believe that I have been back so long. Not that the trip is starting to fade – there were too many memories for that.

My final few days in the US were spent in what I reckon is the best tiown I have been to in America – Oxford, Mississippi.

Memphis, Tennessee

On Monday April 23 we plan to go to Sun Studios, Graceland and the Rock & Soul Museum. We’ll dine tonight on Beale Street.
On Tuesday April 24 we will visit the Stax Museum and the amazing National Civil Rights Museum. We’ll sample some of the local cuisine away from Beale Street.

On Wednesday April 25 we will head off to Helena, Arkansas where we will visit Sonny Payne and see him present the King Biscuit Time show – the longest running radio show in history – at the Delta Cultural Center. We might even get to sit in with him.

Then we will head to Clarksdale, Mississippi where we’ll visit the Crossroads, the Delta Blues Museum, Morgan Freeman’s Ground Zero club for a snack, Cathead Records for some CDs and then down Highway 61 to Vicksburg where we will stay at the Ameristar.

On Thursday April 26 we head on in to New Orleans and check in to the Bourbon Orleans where we will meet up with Nancy Covey’s Cajun Country tour. In the evening we will all have dinner together and maybe head out to a club.

Friday April 27 – Sunday April 29 – It’s Jazz Fest all the way with gigs at night.

Arriving In Memphis

We will be picking you up at the airport in several mini-buses and we will ferry everyone to the hotel.

In Memphis you are staying at the Holiday Inn Select Downtown which is on Union right opoosite the famous Peabody and just a few minutes walk to Beale Street. Check it out at: http://www.ichotelsgroup.com/h/d/hi/160/en/hd/memdn

A couple of us are staying next door at The Best Western Benchmark which does not have a swimming pool but which does have a Denny’s downstairs where you can get The Lumberjack Breakfast!

The Tour – What You Need To Take!

This will be a work in progress for the next week or so.

Here is what you need (apart from your E-ticket and current Passport):

MONEY

- US dollars. Buy them now the Aussie dollar is looking good. Allow at least $50 a day each for food and drinks.

- ATM Card. Check with your bank to make sure that your card works there. If it is on a Cirrus network it will.

- Credit/Debit Card. You will need one of these if you want to rent a car etc.

- Travellers’ Cheques. I always take some to save the ATM transaction fee.

CLOTHING ETC

Be prepared for 6 days of combat at Jazz Fest. While the weather last year was fantastic it won’t necessarily be the same next year. So expect hot and humid and hope for the best.

- Comfy walking shoes. Essential

- Walking socks. Thin polyester socks can be a pain in the heel.

- Shorts

- Cotton slacks. You don’t want to be wearing denim in New Orleans unless you want to find out what nappy rash is like!

- Nice loose cotton Hawaiian shirts for going out at night. Good instead of sweaty t-shirts.

- A hat or cap (which you can buy there).

- Your favourite carry bag. I always like to cart my accoutrements around in a handy leather bag, although I have been known to use a plastic supermarket bag (which kind of dents the image).

EXTRAS

- Paw Paw Ointment – the miracle cream. Get a small jar and if you get blisters or heat rash you will thank me for the rest of your life.

- Sunscreen. You can get it there.

- Camping chair. We’ll get it at Walgreens or WalMart for US$12.99.

- A good camera (digital or otherwise). See Buying Things In The US.

- Binoculars

The Daily Playing Times Have Been Announced

Go to www.nojazzfest.com and start planning your days!!

The challenge is to come up with a grid that moves you in one direction and also alows you to see the most number of acts with the least possible movement!

If it is your first visit make sure you start with the Gospel Tent.

Things To Do In Memphis

Here are some of the places we will be visiting in Memphis. Check them out:

The Stax Museum Of American Soul www.soulsvilleusa.com

Sun Studio www.sunstudio.com

Graceland http://www.elvis.com/graceland/

The Rock N Soul Museum http://www.memphisrocknsoul.org/aboutus.htm

The National Civil Rights Museum http://www.civilrightsmuseum.org/

The Daily Schedules Have Been Announced

The daily schedules have been announced and you can find them at www.nojazzfest.com

In brief:

Friday April 27: Dr John, Van Morrison, Lucinda Williams, Percy Sledge, T Bone Burnett, subdudes, Zachary Richard etc. How about that for a first day!

Saturday April 28: Rod Stewart, Norah Jones, Pharoah Sanders, Calexico, Johnny Rivers, Richie Havens, Mose Alliosn, Sonny Landreth, Jon Cleary, Tab Benoit etc.

Sunday April 29: Jerry Lee Lewis, Gillain Welch, Irma Thomas, Bonnie Raitt, George Thorogood, Marcia Ball, Arturo Sandoval, The New Orleans Social Club.

Friday May 4: ZZ Top, George Benson, Counting Crows, Tony Joe White, Ivan Neville’s Dumpstaphunk, World Saxophone Group, The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Danilo Perez, Chuck Leavell with the Randall Bramblett Band, Lil’ Band o’ Gold etc.

Saturday May 5: Allman Brothers Band, Stephen Marley featuring Jr. Gong, Cowboy Mouth, John Mayer, Galactic, Roy Hargrove Big Band, Buckwheat Zydeco, Nicholas Payton, Joseph “Zigaboo” Modeliste, Irma Thomas’ Tribute to Mahalia Jackson, The Dixie Cups, The Holmes Brothers, Snooks Eaglin, The Iguanas etc.
Sunday May 6: Harry Connick Jr., Steely Dan, Allen Toussaint, Joss Stone, Taj Mahal, Branford Marsalis, The Radiators, BeauSoleil avec Michael Doucet, Anders Osborne, Frankie Ford, Big Chief Bo Dollis & the Wild Magnolias, Terrance Simien & the Zydeco Experience, Marva Wright & the BMWs, Eric Lindell, Nathan & the Zydeco Cha Chas etc.

The Bourbon Orleans

Check out where we are staying in New Orleans:

http://www.bourbonorleans.com/index.html

Very impressive and very handy to the House Of Blues and other venues.

The Get Together

Next Saturday, March 3, we are having a get together for everyone going on the tour. This will be in the dining room of the Lomond Hotel, 225 Nicholson Street (on the corner of Blyth Street), East Brunswick. Be there at 12.15pm or drop into Triple R – on the opposite corner and have a look at the new studios and the Off The Record team.

Lunch at the Lomond is good and affordable. The steak sandwich is gigantic! Vegetarians are catered for as well (though we try not to encourage them).

Let me know if you are coming by emailing me at bwise@bigpond.com