A classic joke may be the best way to introduce aweekend with the California Honeydrops: 5 guys walked into a bar...spiraledthrough a hole in the floor down a treacherous, horror story metal staircase,carrying instruments overhead to entertain a crowd of cult followers literallyswooning. (The dark dive of the New Parish Theater momentarily wore the face ofthe Ed Sullivan stage where the Beatles could have tipped a hat to the crowd.Women, and a few men, lunged at the air for the floating hearts they surely sawdangled before them, ready to faint, cheer, sing, dance, bear children, payoverdue parking tickets...or whatever else this musical entourage might haverequested).
The band quickly became 7 members, then 9, down to 4,up to 12, back to 8...revolving in a roulette wheel of musical flavors. Theyhad a metaphorical drink with Chuck Berry, poured a shot for Nat King Cole, hada bottle of wine with Louie Armstrong, a pint with Ray Charles, a keg with theRebirth Brass Band and a dance with Aretha Franklin in a New Orleans Jazz clubdeep in the heart of...Oakland, California. They became a brass band. A stringband. An a cappella band. A rhythm and blues, Southern soul funk band. Awashboard playin' old-timey group of sweet young men. A lecherous rock n' rollband with a strong side effect of possible fornication. Read warning labelsbefore ingesting and talk with your doctor to see if this music might be rightfor you (if you can get her to stop dancing long enough for a consult).
They played basic, simple beats and filled thatlandscape with vocal colors capable of taunting a sunset to bounce the horizonlong past dusk. Antoni Lech Wierzynkski (Lech) on lead vocals belted out afunky falsetto groove that could sing the ingredients on a can of beans mixedwith 1040 tax instructions and sound sexy. He harmonized at full volume.Yelling beautifully and playfully, he drew the audience into the experiencewith call and response of simple words like: “Oh,” and “Baby,” turned intomulti-syllable words before ending with a powerful, “Yeah!” pronounced as afull complex, punctuated sentence.
Lech sang duets with the saxophones (one to three onstage at a time). The horns went for a walk and disagreed about the pace in atextured gait of sound. Lips no longer on reeds, the high wail of the sax wouldcontinue none the less. I searched the stage for it and found Lech on the microunding out the horns with a vocal brass explosion. The conversations wentboth directions and Johnny Bones on tenor sax often finished the high notes ofLech's vocal prowess.
The first night was an infectious dance party. The secondnight told a story in the set. It built with crescendo, technically skilledsolos, variety, sweetness and debauchery.
A versatile group, performing a soul groove circus,they mixed more than just style, sound and genre; they mixed the instruments themselves.At times, the bassist, Beau Bradbury, played the drums with wire brushes andsticks; at other times he played a tambourine and cow bell; also, he played thebass. Situated in a tight piano/keyboard wedge, Lorenzo Loera sat between thetwo instruments playing the keys. Every now and then he picked up a rhythmguitar, or left all instruments to harmonize vocally with guest singers whojoined the band like passersby drawn into the infectious sounds of a secondline parade. The drummer, Ben Malament, left his throne to deflower awashboard. Belly rubbing up his torso, he smacked the corners with an extremepace and rhythm that could have made a concrete wall purr. Lech played atrumpet, guitar and starburst kaleidoscope tambourine.
They all sang and sang well, setting this band apartnot with musicality but with personality and an ability to play their voiceslike jump ropes woven through rhythm and blues painting a game the whole townwants to play. Their bodies moved synchronistically in their own separatecorners—dancing to the same subtle tide. Flesh floated buoyantly, as ifgrooving over stepping stones of funky soul glass, smoothed over years ofrelentless joy.
Lech divulged insight into the inspiration for some ofthe music. Like that tale as old as time when you save a piece of friedchicken, wrap it in tin foil and put it in your pocket for later...then forgetabout it for a day or two. Until, as Lech put it, “A pretty little honey showsup with some hot sauce and says, 'Looks like you need a little spice in yourlife.'” for a song I suspect was titled: Hot Sauce On Your Pocket Chicken.This begged so many questions for me...How many people are walking around withpocket chicken? Do vegetarians carry pocket broccoli? Are there whole groups offetishists just walking around with hot sauce hoping to land upon one of thesepocket foodies? Is it a group only known widely within the medical professionwho deal with the common resulting food poisoning that follows pocket chickentendencies?
A less mind jarring story followed to describe BedsideWindow. A sweet song in Sunday's encore that Lech wrote about his firstlove. Tired of whining about the hurt, he picked the sweetest memory he couldrecall and wrote a song about it. They followed with an a cappella version of, LoveLifted Me, with gospel claps backing the beauty of voices. Thistransitioned directly into a free-for-all, full band revelry. Someone must havesnuck a trampoline in front of the stage to have moved those bodies with suchvibrant, unhindered abandon. Some patrons may actually have flung their limbswildly enough to have launched the rest of their body onto stage. The carnageof others knocked out cold from their own exertion lined the bar. A smilespanned the lips of both.
