James Andrews, the Music Mayor of New Orleans, is headlining this week’s Jazz Festival

When the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival kicks off this week, a host of local heroes will dominate the lineup. Among their ranks, as usual, there will be Trombone Shorty (Troy Andrews), the hottest musician in the Big Easy; Generator won Oscar and Grammy awards Jon Batiste, who sported the 2022 festival’s official poster; Dixie Cup, featured above this poster of the year; Irma Thomas, the soul queen of New Orleans; and perennial crowd-pleasers Boyfriend And Big Freedia. Also on the bill are representatives of a group of musical families from the Crescent City, with names like Batiste, Benoit, Boutté, Brunious, Lastie, Marsalis, Neville and Payton. There will be tributes to the late Wayne Shorter and Tina Turner, as well as what doubles as jazz funerals for Russell Batiste and Jimmy Buffett — the latter of whom began his musical career in Nola. Leading the whole shebang — unsurprisingly — will be a band of scruffy rock and blues veterans (in their 80s, 80s and 76s, respectively) who collectively call themselves the Rolling Stones.

But this year there will be a New Orleanian on stage with an especially large presence. And that would be the legendary Tremé trumpet James Andrews (the eldest brother of Trombone Shorty), who was sometimes unsung and underappreciated in a town that produced giants of jazz and blues.

Andrews, also known as 12, is perhaps best known for his appearances on the HBO series Treme. And for returning with his brother Troy to devastated New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, where, 17 days after the deluge, he swore to the spirits gathered in Jackson Square: “We will rebuild this city.” this street, little by little.” Today, however, Andrews still has a voice and a presence. “Forget New York City jazz,” he recently declared, sounding like an official civic messenger. “New Orleans is the home of traditional jazz. We’re on a mission to continue introducing the world to New Orleans music. To spread it everywhere.”

It’s been quite a month for 55-year-old Andrews. Between shows in Switzerland and Ottawa, he performed a showcase in April on the final day of the annual French Quarter Festival, a friendly gathering of 1,700 artists performing at more than 20 locations throughout one of the most storied and historic districts in New Orleans. He has a new album, James Andrews and the Stars of Crescent City— “Available on vinyl!” as he shouted from the stage. “Received Next This year’s Grammy!”—was recorded at his brother Buckjump’s studio in the Lower Garden District. He has a new initiative, the New Orleans Musicians Burial Fund, aimed at helping cover funeral costs for performers who, as Andrews explains, “don’t have insurance for a proper burial.” or, if they or their family so desire, to have a dignified jazz funeral.”

And this Saturday, he’ll take on his usual role at Jazz Fest, certain to put on a standout performance of the festival thanks to his knack for electrifying the crowd with his manic energy, Unbridled optimism and wise sayings in a gravelly voice. In effect, Andrews has become a kind of musical mayor for the city—“one of the main cultural ambassadors from the birthplace of music,” as Karen Dalton Beninato says the new disc’s liner notes. “I’ve been to every Jazz Festival,” he asserts, explaining his attendance numbers, dating back to 1970 (when the event was founded by music festival impresario George Wein , with Quint Davis and Allison Mining Company). “There’s a picture of me—at five o’clock!—in the first picture, in Congo Square.”

Since the passing of the family matriarch in 2021, Lois Nelson Andrews, son James, the oldest grandchild, has assumed leadership of the Andrews, Nelson and Hill families. This circle included his musician siblings Troy, Terry “Buster,” And Bruce Lee (as well as the late Darnell “D-Boy”), along with many cousins ​​such as Keva Vacation (she sings on his new album), Revert “Peanuts,” Glen David, Glen “Buddha” Finister, Eldridge, Tyrone, Rodrick, and the late Travis “Trumpet Black” Hill, as well as “a few Tyreeks and a million Glens,” Andrews said. “And Herlin Riley, Who did you play with? Wynton Marsalis—and all these young people are coming, including my son Jenard.”

“If it wasn’t for James Andrews,” drummer Glen Finister remarked late last year, “a lot of us wouldn’t be playing music and wouldn’t be where we are…. James took everyone to their first show.” (Full disclosure: My son, Sam friend, a musician living in New Orleans, played the first Jazz Fest with Andrews and occasionally performs with him.)

With Jazz Fest fast approaching, the Crescent City Allstars’ most recent headlining performance is still fresh in my memory. Two Sundays ago, as the sun set on the French Quarter Festival’s Jackson Square stage, Andrews addressed the crowd, his limbs and his trumpet all swaying like one of those pump-up stick figures Flying vapor is common in used car sales lots. He urged the audience to raise both hands in the air as if in celebration. Then, looking out at the sea of ​​waving arms, he said: “Watch your wallet! This is the French Quarter!”

He played his original composition “The Big Time Stuff,” along with John Boutté“Treme Song (Down in the Treme)” by Andrews was used by Andrews as the theme song. He then imitated his late grandfather Jessie Hill’s signature, “Ooh Poo Pah Doo,” along with the chorus of the roaring crowd.

He brought his cousin Keva Holiday to the stands to sing the gospel song “Oh Happy Day.” He launched the jazz icon Cassandra Wilson. He brought up Trombone Shorty—to play drums, no less—shouting to the audience as he thrust two James Andrews albums into his brother’s hands, “Repeat after me: Crescent City Allstars dot com! Crescent City Allstars dot com!” He raised a Mardi Gras Indian in full regalia and a series of children called budgies (traditionally costumed, umbrella-holding, floral-shirted people whose ranks were given to him by his mother). revived).

And then he brought the house down, literally. Without notifying the police — or he announced it from the stage — he asked everyone in Jackson Square to follow him in an impromptu “second row” procession to a nearby bar. “Today is the 40th anniversary of the French Quarter Festival,” he said. “We are never done this first.” And with that, the rude man with the brass band strode northwest up St. Peter’s Street, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The festival-goers followed him. We, 20 abreast, weaved in and out of traffic to the spacious, old-fashioned pub B Mac’s, where the owners had no idea what had happened to them.

“They are good people,” Andrews emphasized. “I want to throw them some business.”