It wasn’t just the sound of the sixties—it was a whole sixties experience. Not only did Herb Alpert treat us to just over half of his most famous album, Whipped Cream & Other Delights from 1965, a canon of the 1960s vibe, but he treated us to over a dozen more songs, including a handful from the 1966 follow-up, !!Going Places!!. Accompanying these songs was a steady stream of Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass film productions on a large screen at the back of the stage and two smaller screens on the side.
As someone who was too late for the sixties but adores the aesthetic, I was enthralled by the saturated colors, splashy sounds, mod geometric prints, and whimsical comedy associated with Alpert’s music. It is the soundtrack of the sixties game show—specifically, The Dating Game, as well as the Clark Teaberry Shuffle, imploring you to “Have a little fun” in your day with Teaberry chewing gum and a peppy step to the tune of Alpert’s “Mexico Shuffle.” The glorious sensory overload meant it was impossible to focus, shifting between the incredible and legendary Herb Alpert at the front and center of the stage, flanked by a newly formed Tijuana Brass ensemble, and the evolving screens showing this slice of sixties life. We saw Alpert and the original TJB band blowing their horns poolside, atop sand dunes, in dance halls, in a bullfight arena, near breaking waves, on a variety show stage—seemingly anywhere imaginable.
The immersion didn’t stop at sight and sound. Between songs, Alpert took to reminiscing. He chatted just long enough to qualify as storytelling (rather than banter) with insights into the public’s almost too-positive response to the Whipped Cream album cover. He told us of his interactions with Sam Cooke on the subject of how you know you’re listening to a “good” song (A: close your eyes and see if you can feel it). He shared some of his conversation with Louis Armstrong before showing a video of the two of them side-by-side in an interview setting. Coming from an era when weeks atop the Billboard chart meant everything, he shared a story of the one that got away (“Louie Louie”) because he didn’t “get it” then—and he still doesn’t today. Alpert celebrated his ninetieth birthday this year, but I think he feigned some nonagenarian confusion as a storytelling device, because every time I started to worry he’d lost his meandering train of thought, he brought it all around full circle. His tone suggested a million digressions, but this was a well thought out narrative.
Take, for example, Alpert’s build up to the most unexpected treat of the night. He began with a charming tale of how he came to perform vocals on a single song in his decades-long career. His friend, Burt Bacharach, asked if he could sing, to which he replied, “I can carry a tune, depending on the tune.” Alpert picked “This Guy’s in Love” from the Bacharach catalog as something within reason and apparently sang with such sincerity that the vocal track was wrapped in a single take. He implored the audience to sing along with him, and as I dutifully chimed in with my contribution, I realized the Mike Patton version I know best (appearing as an “I Started a Joke” B-side) was far more bombastic than was expected of us. Alpert’s version is more subdued, more conversational and tentative, pleading and tender. In the background, we watched a slide show of old photos of Alpert and his wife, Lani Hall, standing nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye, cheek-to-cheek, and with lips locked.
This tribute was followed by a funny anecdote about the scene when Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass engaged Sergio Mendes & Brasil ‘66 to join them on tour. Alpert promptly informed the fellows of TJB there would be no romantic engagement with their tour mates, and of course, granted himself an exception, giving him sole access to Lani Hall, one of two female singers in Brasil ‘66. The story ends happily, as Alpert and Hall celebrated fifty years of marriage this year, and at the story’s conclusion, out walked Lani Hall herself. She stepped up to the microphone next to Alpert’s stool and, to my gobsmacked delight, sang a few Brasil ‘66 classics, which she dedicated to Sergio Mendes: “This is for you, Sergio. I’ll never forget what you did for me.” Alpert looked on admiringly as she performed “One Note Samba” and “Tim Dom Dom” alongside the talented TJB ensemble. As always, while Hall sang, the big screen played what appeared to be a vintage music video for the Brasil ‘66.
The audience for this show obviously skewed to those who were around when Herb Alpert dominated the charts, and it was a surprisingly boisterous lot. The hand clapping was eager, if offbeat. I swear a woman’s voice behind me in the balcony yelled “GO!” when he delay-started “A Taste of Honey” due to her random hand claps after the vibraphone intro, which she was hell-bent on doing in time with the kick drum kick-off. There and elsewhere, the hand claps could not be stopped, and I’m 99% sure Alpert ended a song early because the crowd’s momentum was running away from him.
Alpert feigned audience participation, asking between songs if anyone had “Ideas? Thoughts? Questions?” Few ideas were forthcoming, aside from the occasional scream of “We love you!” Even when an actual question was posed—“Tell us about all the musicians you have produced!”—Alpert dismissed them and returned to the stories he wanted to tell us. It was the seasoned delivery of a Johnny Carson-era couch interview veteran.
Throughout it all, Alpert was the consummate bandleader. He kept time from his bar stool at the front of the stage with something like the Spanish drag—gliding his right foot out to the right and bringing it back to the stool, like a chair dancing version of the tango that showed us how he felt the rhythm. He conducted the volume and verve of the stage, uniting the brass, keys, percussion, and strings in a single, musical tide of emotion. He called out the solos for each bandmate in “Love Potion #9,” where I recognized so many elements I’ve come to think of as quintessential to a burlesque soundtrack—the cymbal crashing in time with a luscious hip bump, the trombone suddenly sultry at the low end of the scale. Boudoir-red stage lights affirmed the effect.
At one point, Alpert mentioned “Ladyfingers” seeing a revival thanks to a Tik Tok creator using it as a soundtrack. The Teaberry Shuffle seems prime material for revisiting in the 30-second content age. Honestly, Alpert’s material in general seems perfectly suited for the selfie, emoji, Tik Tok dance era. His moods are so essential they could be used like a facial expression recognition test, but with sound expression. We heard what ‘sexy’ sounds like. And what does ‘groovy’ sound like? It sounds like “Rise” from 1979, the latest composition Alpert played for us, complete with a spinning disco ball background. What does ‘swingin’’ sound like? Surely, that’s Alpert’s treatment of “Lollipops and Roses.” Give it a listen and try not to snap your fingers like Dean Martin with a martini. “Silly” is the sound of “Whipped Cream.” Just listen to those peppy horns. Forlorn sounds like his trumpet-centric version of “Smile,” played as a tribute to one of my all-time favorites, his fellow Bacharach collaborator, Karen Carpenter, bringing a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes as her beaming grin filled the big screen.
Between these core sounds and the infinite loop of Herb Alpert blowing his trumpet on location, his unique style seems poised for a retro rebirth. It harkens back to those silly Laugh-In times when colors were bright and gags were slapstick, and it translates well to short attention spans. I literally gasped, “Oh no!” when the stage lights came on at his second (but not final) attempt at goodbye. Alpert earned a standing ovation with each tease. Given his age and the fact that this ensemble hadn’t toured in thirty-five years, I’m guessing the audience in the theater that night saw a last-of-its-kind performance. Seeing Lani Hall was the cherry on top, with so many giggles sprinkled throughout. For all its humor and lightheartedness, it gave me much to reflect on, both musical history and future, and that is the most I could hope for in a concert. | Courtney Dowdall
