Tubas

My ears are ringing and I’m still bouncing along to the hectic, sweaty, steamy, mardi-gras soaked windy melodies of the Hot 8 brass band last night. Pumping, shrieking, plodding and wild at once, the tunes of 8 Louisiana homies whipped up a Cargo micro-climate as the atmosphere pumped – swiftly edging to saturation point and beyond with sweat and bombastic excitement.

Shaking their thang on the hottest evening of the year can’t have felt too uncustomary for the larger than life southerners, their XXXL t-shirts and white towels (reduced to tea-towels when slung across the shoulders of BIG Al) have surely taken a beating or two in the tropical climes of the deep south.

Music flows in the veins of Hot 8 – their style is free, energetic and tight at the same time, just as great live music should be. A brass version of Snoop’s What’s My Name was a rowdy, hip-hoppy party and I loved every perspiration- and beer-drenched moment of it.

Clean and back at work, I can’t stop thinking about that well-worn hippo of a tuba. One of the most delicious sounds in the whole world has to be the deep bassy farting of Big Pete’s instrument – the opening chords to Sexual Healing are big, bellowing and blissful beyond words.

There’s something so darned cool, even on the heaviest of British summer evenings, about a 300+ pound man playing a trumpet like it’s a hot little piccolo.

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