THE FOURTH/ Voodoo Daddy swings to a new sound

Gazette, The (Colorado Springs), Jul 4, 2003 by BILL REED

Outwit. Outlast. Outplay.

That's how Big Bad Voodoo Daddy became the sole survivor of the swing revival fad of the late '90s.

"We're the last band standing," says bandleader Scotty Morris. It's a remarkable feat,when you consider that Voodoo Daddy was the standard bearer for the now defunct musical movement.

After hopping around as the house-band hep cats in the 1996 movie "Swingers," they were the face and the sound of neo-swing.

They moved better than 3 million albums worldwide and played halftime at the Super Bowl in 1999.

They worked with everyone from Drew Barrymore ("Olive the Other Reindeer") to Scooby-Doo, from Stevie Wonder to Bill Clinton.

Then the swing revival died.

But the Voodoo Daddy story didn't begin, or end, with "Swingers."

Morris had his band of seven together in 1991 - guys who got tired of the same ol' rock sound and started fishing around for something new. They were a fun jazz band with a solid grass-roots following in California.

Around 1993, Morris says, things began to change. A scene began to form around this "horn-based swing band."

The band jumped on the wave and rode it around the country for the next seven years. The swing scene thrived in California, spread nationally as the '90s marched on, and then crested with the new millennium.

By 2001, Morris was exhausted, the neoswing thing was played out and the Voodoo Daddy was in need of some new magic. They had toured constantly from 1994 to 2001, making 12 laps around the States.

"I was pretty much dried out as a songwriter," Morris says. "I just didn't have anything in me. I had no inspiration."

They toured overseas, where they could delve into new material without the weight of their fans' preconceptions. Then inspiration struck again. Last year, Morris caught the New Orleans Jazz Festival and fell in love with N'Orleans jazz all over again. Soon he was turning out Louisiana-spiced jazz, the guys in the band were digging it, and the Voodoo Daddy was excited about music again.

"At that Jazz Fest, something happened," Morris says. "All of a sudden, the floodgates went wide open. I started writing like crazy. I turned it over to the band and everything just started to explode. It was time to make a new record."

They holed up in an abandoned poker club in Ventura, Calif. - the town lent it to them, hoping they'd reverse the "bad juju" infecting the place since a dealer was killed there - and used the vibe to create a new sound. Wailing trumpets, down-south grooves and, as always, that Voodoo Daddy lust for a good time.

"We're just playing exactly what we feel, you know," says Morris.

The album "Save My Soul" lands in record stores Tuesday, just four days after Big Bad Voodoo Daddy headlines the July Fourth extravaganza at Memorial Park.

"Save My Soul" is the band's passport into new musical territory, allowing them to escape the limited range of swing revivalism. But Morris says records are just the band's way to get back out on the road, where they love to be.

The band (now up to nine touring members) also is not limited to clubs and concert halls. During their current 100-city tour (told ya they love the road), fans are catching the Voodoo Daddy at community festivals - such as the gig in Colorado Springs - as well as collaborations with symphonies.

"Our crowd is 8 to 80," Morris says. "This is the kind of band that could play a punk rock club on Thursday, a jazz club on Friday, a corporate event for IBM executives on Saturday, and a huge festival on Sunday."

Like all things built to last, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy isn't afraid to adapt.

"I don't think people even think of us as a swing band once they've seen us," Morris says. "It's just the ultimate party machine."

Otis Taylor explores dark, macabre side of the blues

Otis Taylor's trance blues can be downright spooky.

There's his voice, which sounds a bit like John Lee Hooker, but more brooding than good-time.

There's the sound of his music, which drifts in and out of hypnotic grooves rather than relying on bouncy chord changes.

There are the elements of his personal story - his greatgrandfather was lynched and his uncle was murdered - that find their way into songs, as he fearlessly charges into the territory of race, murder and injustice.

And there's his fascination with troubling stories. Take, for example, the song "House of the Crosses" on his new "Truth Is Not Fiction" album. It's about a prison guard whose prisoners include his biological father - the man who raped his mother, killed two others and now invades his thoughts every single day.

Taylor, 54, laughs about his dark reputation. "I'm just good at writing macabre-ish, twisted little tales," he says from his home in Boulder. "I'm a storyteller. I try to paint pictures inside people's heads."

Taylor guarantees that when The Otis Taylor Blues Band plays the Colorado Springs Jazz Festival at Memorial Park on July Fourth, the crowd will be entertained, even if they're taken aback.