Karl Denson: Midnight Flautist

"Tell those people to call me 'midnight slut' to my face!" Denson's words followed me and my laughter down the stairwell of Chelsea's artist room after my interview. I had rather fancied the nickname, and was smug knowing I framed the question as if a multitude of people called Karl Denson this vulgar endearment. Two friends and I had created the nickname in New Orleans; that's the setting in which Karl Denson first introduced himself.

Denson is infamous for his annual to bi-annual late-night shows at either Tipitina's or House of Blues in NOLA, starting at 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning and lasting well past sunrise-hence the nickname. I've characterized the experience as a "funk stomp" when relating it to someone oblivious to the ritual. When asked if he agreed with the term, Denson corrected me by saying "No, that's what you call a good ol' fashion throw down, if it's done correctly." The height of the sun and the width of your stagger is the empirical evidence measuring the success. Endurance and tolerance are required for the late night benders of funk-dancing and jazz-boozing. Several hours deep into the experience, everyone is covered in their sweat. Fatigue prevents graceful dancing. Then the stomping begins. Denson claimed that his stamina to lead these shows comes "partly from the fact I really like my job, and partly because people come there to be punished." He continued to speak of the audience to his ritual. He said the audiences arrive with the confession: "I've been bad." He continued, "When you come to a show at 3 o'clock in the morning, you want to be punished." "That's my job," he confided-reprimanding his fans by blowing across his flute or into his saxophone. Why hasn't the whole world been subjected to this flautist who claims to be a disciplinarian?

Baton Rouge was commended by Denson's trio project, KD3, on Friday September 29^th at Chelsea's. Not a "good ol' fashioned throw down" by any means but a remarkable performance nonetheless. "This is a different band," Denson informed hecklers shouting classic requests, pursued by "Damnit we stuck together, freak out because we stuck together." His shows are something rare: an Afro-ed platypus of funk leading a trio consisting of drums, organ, and woodwinds. I'm sure Denson won't favor this description either, but could there be a more fitting animal for jazz and funk than the platypus? Just as funk takes elements of all the genres of music and combines them, the platypus is a compositional wonder of evolution.

The marsupial man packed his black duffel bag with clothes, hand painted cases and his instruments. These few items were scattered on the carpeted floor upstairs at Chelsea's. When I interviewed him, he dug into them occasionally to find the perfect item he needs for his life on the road. Karl Denson leads a complex composite life. Like the platypus, and his subject of funk and jazz, he cannot be written off to a single species. The man is 36 years old and touring the world with his flute and saxophone-he's got a wife and three kids at home. The platypus' survival depends on food; food highlights Denson's survival on the road. Between songs, confused as to whether Charlotte was North or South Carolina, Denson bragged of the famous duck and dumplings the band ate there. Later, he related that the band ate a "fire breakfast in Mobile this morning."

Denson first received notoriety as a studio and touring saxophonist with Lenny Kravitz. Afterwards he gained a reputation for his relentless live performances. Denson's flute and sax solos make traditional call and response, highly syncopated jazz seem a geriatric Morse code for archaic listeners. On stage, at Chelsea's, his intense wide eyes stared at the crowd in strong contrast to the rapid succession of notes he sent. During one of his vivace, sax solos, Denson played blind, and I swore he prayed through that damn thing. His entire back became covered in sweat like a revivalist. Every solo was a primal finale of prayer, the one you say, not in words, but sounds, when the plane's going down-shrieks and shrills reminiscent of desperate whale songs, combined with fluttering sounds of wings flapping from the high register. In between a two measure break Denson leaned back and beat a cowbell with a drumstick. Sometimes he reached for a tambourine, stood back, and swayed with his arms behind his back grooving on the organist's and drummer's solos.

Denson began the show joking, "Baton Rouge, are ya batting a 1000?" and followed up with more jokes throughout the set. Another memorable moment, after a fast paced, yet still euphonic song, Denson dedicated a song to Harry, his dog, claiming the song had "that kind of energy; makes you want to get out in the desert and bark." To contrast his humor, I asked Karl D if he did race and politics and received a "yea" closely followed by a more adamant "Hell yeah, every day, all day in the van." He admitted to being a conservative Christian and qualified his sense of humor by adding "that will get you into enough trouble." The silver cross dangling from black rope paired with sax ties suddenly stood out, as well as his large wedding band. He did pray through that damn thing.

Equating Denson with New Orleans, I couldn't resist asking him his perspective on New Orleans, post Katrina. He spoke of the necessity of people putting the screws to the government for adequate and quick help, as well as putting the screws to themselves- embracing self empowerment. Denson originated from California but lived in New Orleans for several years. 'Jacked' and 'straight tore up' were the descriptions he selected for the city and his old neighborhood. He was down for Jazzfest and said he had fun but was amazed-"in a terrible way."

The owner of Chelsea's walked in to deliver a six pack and some ice. Denson seemed quite content mixing vodka and cranberry juice from the mini fridge. At one point, he spilled some on the carpet. "There's anti-oxidants in that stuff," he chuckled and stomped the stain, proceeding to tell me and others in the room that his drink was "the real deal" and he "love[s] this stuff." Karl D praised the owner saying, "good little room you're running, keeping the music going in the Red Stick,