JACKS AND THE BOOM BOOM ROOM HISTORY AND SPOKEN WORD By Tony Adamo

 JACKS AND THE BOOM BOOM ROOM HISTORY AND SPOKEN WORD

By Tony Adamo

Before the Boom Boom Room in San Francisco’s Fillmore District came to be, it was Jack’s. A poppin’ groove organ funk soul jazz club on Sutter Street. This jumpin’ home cookin’ get down no nonsense dive hang bar was for the working-class African Americans and late-night music junkies. They dug deep in Jacks get down twenty-four seven party hardy music scenes. The gritty soul funk blues music blew into the air in the Fillmore District. Man, have you ever gotten hip to grits, gravy and biscuits at 6 AM after you come off the bandstand playin’ a set at Jack’s? Well, be there or be square cause Jack’s got your work day pumpin’ and flowin’ at 6 AM with Jacks’s egg and spam jam. The Fillmore’s musical legacy was due to the African American business owners. Their pool halls, clubs, stores, and theaters were the glue that held the Fillmore District together in the Forty’s, Fifty’s and Sixty’s that is felt to this day. Jacks moved several times before ending up on the corner of Fillmore and Geary, where the Boom Boom Room currently resides.

You may ask how did the Boom Boom Room get its name? Alex Andreas, former bartender at Jacks asked John Lee Hooker, who frequented the club, if they could use one of Hooker’s songs as a name for the new club. Thus, the club was named “Boom Boom” after Hooker’s 1962 to hit.

JACKS

Before the Boom Boom Room took the stage/

there was Jacks a soul jazz heartbeat on Sutter Street/

Jacks on Sutter there was no other/

yeah, that’s where we gathered, the hipsters, African Americans, the working class/

a dive alive with organ funk jazz music that made you come alive

where your soul danced in smokey air.

It was a home cookin’ feelin’, no pretense here,

just hard-working folks with grooves in their souls, and peace in their hearts/

getting down till the sun came up,

twenty-four seven,

party hardy,

cuz when the music hit,

you just had to feel it in your bones.

Have you ever sunk your teeth

into grits and gravy with a side of biscuits at six AM?/

after a long night on the bandstand/

Well, Jacks egg and spam jam got you jumpin’ for your day ahead.

Jacks was a place where the heat of the kitchen

matched the pulse of the night/

“Be there or be square,” the sign should’ve read/

as the music danced, crackled, and popped, till you dropped,

the pool halls be buzzin’, laughter spillin’, eight ball in the corner pocket/

making memories woven together,

held the Fillmore tight,

like the threads of a fine quilt.

For those of us,

under the flashing lights and the smokey haze,

Jacks club still lingers tight/

a legacy so rich and deep/ man, that’s way out of sight,

from the heart of African American dreams,

building a home where music thrived,

where blues and rhythm memories painted our days,

hard like concrete that will never fade.

But 1988 came too soon,

the doors closed on Jack/

the laughter, the sweat, the love, the passion, the friendships/

were all part of the soulful echoes of Jacks/

whispering through the streets/

a soundtrack of lives lived loud and proud/

Jacks on Sutter rest in peace.

BOOM BOOM ROOM

It’s loud,

crowded, a pocket full of joy,

hip, funk, jazz and hip-hop, soul,

bands pack the dance floor,

energy buzzing that floats into the street.

When a drink spills,

man, who cares?

the blues band plays,

their notes melting away your fears.

You feel the groove, the pulse,

the vibe hits you right away,

the Boom Boom Room’s party,

highlife flowing, people talking, listening,

a heartbeat in the music that won’t fade.

Sing house boogie blasts,

louder than the city outside,

and you light up a joint,

the smoke climbing like laughter,

passing it around sharing the magic.

A woman says, “Take it daddy, I’m all yours,”

as she moves, pumps and grinds to the DJ’s mix,

the dance floor is electrified,

the crowd chants, “Don’t stop now!”

Keep that acid jazz groovin’ high,

the energy ignites the night,

the Boom Boom Room is more than just a place,

it’s an echo of life, love and friendships made where the music never dies,

at 1601 Fillmore the heart of the beat is where life’s dreams are made,

and the Boom Boom Room will never fade.

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11

Taking Giant Steps Reviews Was Out Jazz Zone Mad by Tony Adamo

This review was first published electronically by All About Jazz

Kirpal Gordon: As a bassist, composer and arranger who has worked with spoken word artists and vocalists, what did you make of the blend that Tony Adamo and his band created in his latest release from Ropeadope Records, Was Out Jazz Zone Mad? The first thing that jumps out to me is its jazz-funk-blues direction driven by that Hammond B3 organ and guitar.

Benny Gottwald: I was immediately hit by the power of that B3; Roger Smith and Mike LeDonne are not messing around! Another voice that jumps out to me, as a bassist, is Mike Clark’s superb drumming. He threw me for a loop! First he comes in with feel-good swing pockets on tunes like “Birth of the Cool” only to contrast that with his highly syncopated funk grooves in “Fly, Jump, or Die.” Clark speaks to the diverse and capable krewe at play on this record. Sticking with “Birth of the Cool,” I was also highly impressed by Adamo’s layering of references to the jazz canon; on that track, most obviously named in honor of Miles, the cat talks about taking “giant steps ‘round midnight.” He’s got the energies of three greats—Monk, Miles, and Trane—all intermingled in one big mind of a song, and if you listen closely, you can hear the band comping on the changes to “Giant Steps.” You gotta dig that layering of influence, all compounding together, balancing out the musical and lyrical blend.

Kirpal Gordon: I hear you on the layering and the blend in 

“Birth of the Cool.” Adamo is like a gone scat-singer 

improvising in and out of the song form. He bends-mends-

soars-roars syllables of whack-a-doodle wonder, incredulity 

and well-being on the chronic. He’s got that jazz DJ love of the

tradition, but now Hometown’s a blues shouter as well! He 

sang some on Tony Adamo & the New York Crew, an earlier 

CD, but he really stretches out with this band underneath him. You’re so right about the rhythm section, especially on the 

opening track, “Rain Man.” With Mike Clark working that drum 

kit, Adamo locks into that funky jazz feeling; it’s frisky, too. The

band is particularly steady and strong, throwing him invitations

to further his flow on two vocal tributes---“Bb King Blues,” a 

blues shuffle, and “Boogaloo the Funky Beat,” reminiscent of 

James Brown---and Adamo lifts off. He croons and then he 

rhymes, then sings some more; after musical solos, he 

improvs on the artists that he roll-calls to mind before returning

 to the head. It’s a joyous dexterity: vocalese hoo-doo meets 

the jazz tribute poem; spoken word spontaneity bursts into 

song. He’s gone to the Gil Scott-Heron School of Crossover Crossroads, and the band is with him working deep grooves 

that he slides his syllables through. The trick with funk is to 

keep it greasy and not let the riff wear out its welcome. The 

best example of the ensemble keeping its many parts well-

oiled is in the laid-back “Too Funky to Flush” (check “Stormy

Monday”), Adamo’s shout out to the Big Easy, its ettoufee and 

its clave, its blues wisdom and its Congo Square drumming. 

Let’s just say: smiles are guaranteed.

Benny Gottwald: Yes, “Too Funky to Flush” indeed had “black magic dancing in my veins.” I was immediately impressed by how such a lyrically evocative tribute to Nola could chill out on the axis of a smooth 6/8 feel. Talk about juxtaposition, especially when they hit the stop-time; that B3 keeps it real while Adamo paints a Big Easy portrait, letting the tune begin to cook just like mother’s gumbo. “Too Funky to Flush” is, of course, not the only tune where Adamo takes the sounds he’s heard in the street and throws them into the mix of a song. “Boogaloo the Funky Beat” does this big time. Yeah, one could couch it as a tip-of-the-hat to James Brown, but that funk won’t stay on the couch for very long; it’s a get-up-and-groove kind of vibe. Tony Adamo really is the chef on this record for sure, some lyrical spoken word benedictions here and some lofty crooning there. He tells us as much: “mixin’ it up now, home cookin’, rice and beans with cold beer on the side.”

Kirpal Gordon: Hey, Adamo is a force of nature. Now if we’re talking favorite track, I lean toward his tribute to Leon Thomas, “General T.” The band morphs out of guitar-organ funk blues to music that stuns and steps listeners into another dimension. Reverend Adamo marries his praise shouts to the spooky, trippy, atmospheric sound that drums, trumpet, bass, alto saxophone and piano lay down. Talk about a taste of Wayne Shorter’s “Iris” from the mid-Sixties Miles Davis Quintet: The band’s got tentacles reaching into space; they touch many stars. They comp, roll, weave, crescendo and wrap within and without Adamo’s recollections of Leon Thomas at the Village Vanguard. He describes General T’s approach as “Keepin’ his words zip-locked fresh,” but the same could be said of Adamo, whose power of jazz wit-ness never fails or stales.

Benny Gottwald: Adamo put me back in the Vanguard with General T himself. The Reverend is marrying musical elements left and right with unlikely beauty. Check the B3’s left hand on “I’m Out the Door,” giving hard swing and talking up a storm with the drummer—Joey Defrancesco and Billy Hart would be proud! One listen to that track and I am sitting in the studio while Bobby Hutcherson plays his last record, enjoying the view while the cats come out to play chorus by chorus. If you had to get my favorite track on this record, it might just be that one.

Kirpal Gordon: Taken all together, his tales and regales on these tracks celebrate his love of this musical art form. He’s acknowledging, much like Walt Whitman did on opera, that funk-jazz-blues is a manifestation of his muse. And like our national bard’s “Song of Myself,” Adamo’s song-poems celebrate his own exodus from the Moloch madness of Western civilization and his initiation into a deeper experience of meaning via the jazz life. No wonder he’s enthusiastic. He’s escaped the asylum. It’s all there on the final track, “Fly, Jump or Die.” Adamo mixes tales of his Bronx neighborhood jumping from building to building eight stories high with observations on how a tenor saxophonist flies, jumps or dies their way through a solo followed by a guitar solo that flies, jumps and re-births his theme. A smart end to a new direction from Adamo and krewe. Click this for more: https://ropeadope.com/artists/#/tony-adamo/

Personnel: Mike Clark: drums; Donald Harrison: saxophone; Bill Summers: percussion; Lenny White: drums; Michael Wolff: piano; Richie Goods: bass; Tim Ouimette: trumpet; Mike LeDonne: organ; Jack Wilkins: guitar; Delbert Bump: organ; Elias Lucero: gutiar; Roger Smith: keyboards; Kyron Kirby: drums.

Tony Adamo & the New York Crew: Makin' It New, a CD Review

 

 

Reviewed by Kirpal Gordon

 

reprinted from Jazz Times

 

            The killin’ist thing about Tony Adamo & the New York Crew is that everybody in the band, especially the dope rhyme sayer, has got big ears all the way back to New Orleans and ancient-forward into the ever-evolving Multi-New Thing. It’s big ears working together that’s keeping this CD in Jazzweeks Chart Top 200 List since its release, a totally unheard of phenomenon for jazz-spoken word collaborations.

Although singing the talents and wonders of the giants who make this music immortal is nothing new, Adamo and the New York Crew pour out on these eleven tracks joyous lagniappes of praise, the song-cup running over with each additional solo. It’s one thing to express an artful appreciation of the Jazz Messengers, for example, in a song, but it’s a whole other monster of tribute when the band rocks Blakey’s sound so righteously. Former Headhunter Mike Clark (drummer, co-writer and producer) swings beyond emulation into stratospheric celebration and the whole band follows as Adamo catalogues the great players who have graced the bandstand with Bu. Tony lays out, the alto sax and trumpet blend beautifully and piano, trumpet, sax all solo before he reappears and everyone trades eights.

Like Sun Ra said, “Space is the place,” and Tim Ouimette, musical arranger, co-writer and trumpeter, masterfully spaces things so that each praise song layers in many textures and qualities. Bassist Richie Goods, pianist Michael Wolff and percussionist Bill Summers round out the rhythm section, all of whom have worked with the songwriting team of Adamo and Clark previously. The ease, grace and Old School range of the band is further enriched by Donald Harrison on alto saxophone, who brings his own Big Easy roots perspective to this praise-the-trad project. Indeed, the players deliver context, fusing the lyrical phrases of Adamo with the living musical tradition.

But the big ears thing with these first-call musicians really begins with the spoken word. Adamo, a Bronx paison, has fused many elements into his style beyond the obvious Gotham props to Gil-Scott Heron in the Seventies and the Beat and Black Art Movements of the Sixties. As for his inventiveness in the formation of phrases, there’s more than just a taste of Lester Young and Mezz Mezzrow musically and linguistically (the groove be the place) as well as philosophically, that is, it may now be considered hip to be hedonistic or narcissistic, but the code as manifested by Mezz and Prez spoke of the wheel of compassion, understanding, at-one-ment as well as the hard road of injustice. Adamo is walking this I’m You/You’re Me, Have Mercy talk. It’s a New York lineage that began with Walt Whitman and there’s no better company to keep.

In terms of how his tongue works, Adamo’s got the golden-pear-toned, shucks-by-golly, just-gimme-the-high-life-and-leave-out-the-rest, spooky disc jockey voiceover, a shock-mock-crock of total incredulity, a rumbling-crumb-bum-stumbling cross between Chuck D and Murray the K with his swingin’ soiree. His poetic line is free-versed bebop Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut, cousin to Eddie Jefferson’s weird word elasticity and kin to Babs Gonzalez’s mad hatter, flipped wig chatter with a chauffeured Moor to the Other Shore, but balanced by his deep baritone hugging a Jack Kerouac tenderness basted in bourbon, Buddha and the blues, delivered in a “hey man, this really happened” sincerity reminiscent of Allen Ginsberg. Ah, but Adamo can do more than recite rhymes or pull your coat to what’s really up and this is where shit gets scary: he whoops, swoops, croons and hollers! He second-line shouts! He bursts into song! Like Nuyorican Miguel Algarin, his sung words dance in the air with his spoken words. Like Newark griot Amiri Baraka raising up Coltrane, like Old Man Yeats writing of the dancer and the dance, like Ramakrishna singing of the Divine Mother, Adamo becomes the song he’s praising!

That’s why Bright Moments abound throughout. First tune out of the gate, it’s Lenny White (for real) kickin’ ferocious ass on the drum kit as Adamo bends vowels with his bare hands, bleeds through consonant clusters and rides the tributaries of sound current tributes for trumpeter Eddie Gale over Wolff’s Afro-Cuban-ish ostinato. When his river of acclaim runs over, Harrison jumps in and takes it further; nothing stays put except that repeating piano! Everything’s swinging, shifting, and getting four-dimensional. Six minutes in, this listener knows something’s cookin’ and can taste it.

Regarding the rhythm section, check how they drive each other in the next tune, “City Swings,” another Big Apple tribute: Goods walks that full bodied bass as Wolff’s piano becomes the sound of cobblestones while Clark turns cymbals into street lamps and tom toms into footsteps and it draws the best out of Adamo. For straight-up soul jazz salutations, check his “dope-a-licious” shout out to Eddie Harris and his “Listen Here Listen Up” as Adamo speaks, sings, shouts and shapes sounds into a verbal free-form improv on the power of the pianist’s funk, proof that one can dance to spoken word when this band’s bringin’ it  on the sanctified strength. “General T” is another I’ll-Take-Manhattan tone poem homage, an accolade to a Village Vanguard word slinger who “was talkin’ smooth and preachin’ fire” as the New York Crew cooks a melody in Miles mid-Sixties Quintet eerieness with a strong resemblance to Wayne Shorter’s “Iris.” Sax and trumpet get gorgeous via long-tone blending with the word play, and when Harrison and Ouimette drop out, the rhythm section kicks in underneath Adamo, feeding him and he responds with “funk-spastic” story telling and Harlem history connecting: “Like an ace to a flush, I was in no rush.” The collection’s swingin’est surprise is “You Gotta B Fly,” a Killer Joe-ish uptempo vehicle with a vocal that Adamo totally nails. His singing is so bopright delicious it leaves the spoken word chorus he takes in the dust. The guitar solo by Jean Santalis is another unexpected pleasure. Like the CD itself.

The whole she-bang is for real. Only one question remains: when is Tony Adamo and the New York Crew playing the Big Apple?

For purchase & more info: www.Urbanzonerecords.com