No place for ironic fugly sweaters here

For anyone who hasn’t yet been disappointed, Joe’s Pub is a misnomer. “Pub” emanates sweaty man-stink and liquor. But this audience is delicately composed of upper-class and middle-aged statues.
Yet another fullstop in my search for a great all-ages, no-cover jazz venue. (next stop is Fat Cat)

Disappointments keep piling on. In addition to the $40 ticket, there’s a $12 meal minimum. Which is easy considering that’s the price of the hummus appetizer. I puncture the plain, applesauce-textured slush pile and wait for the only reason I’m here: Allen Toussaint.

Allen Toussaint is a legend in the New Orleans jazz scene and he knows it. After an introduction and few apologies from the Joe’s Pub manager, Toussaint emerges from the velvet black curtains.

In a sparkly tuxedo. Sparkly. Tuxedo.
Sparkly.
Tuxedo.

The best part? It doesn’t fucking matter. Yes, he may look like a washed-up 3PM game show host, but I don’t really care. (Although I’m slightly disappointed by the simple setup: no drums or bass. not even a trio Toussaint? a trio?). Because Allen Toussaint is first and foremost a storyteller.

Toussaint’s fingers spread, spring and bounce up and down the piano keys, it’s as if the last 50 years haven’t happened. Rock, hip-hop, rap, dub-step have all been erased and you’re kicked down the well of history to land in the South in all its jazz and blues glory. Toussaint begins with “Southern Nights,” which is a catchy, nostalgic lullaby. He then goes through some of his classic songs, finishing each with a song about the characters. But his masterpiece is his final song.

Toussaint lulls us back in a full circle. We recognize the “Southern Nights” piano riffs, high and lazy, laid back to the point of being out of tempo but it still makes it. Toussaint soothes us with the piano as he begins to tell stories of traveling to visit his Creole relatives, his low baritone voice raspy, he smiles a little between each memory and each riff. He spreads a web around us and we see the Southern Nights as he did as a kid. Houses a shotgun apart and bleached bone-grey. Aunts with funny names and accented tirades who can smother you in too-large bosoms, dying from love and maternal warmth. Lounging safe and warm on a porch engulfed by a blackness and silence unknown in the city. His music becomes a magic act has he conjures up this Southern Night In the middle of the afternoon in the middle of New York City. Its a blackness that covers and soothes everyone in the room. And when you leave the light's a bit too bright and the city a bit too loud.

Song as a story. I'm disappointed that it's a surprise.