Andrews has been on the road for a few months now, playing everywhere from Japan and Chile to Georgia and California, and so visits back home are few, brief, and dominated by studio time as he works on a new album. The dressing room looks like a family reunion-his brother Buster is here, with his father, his godmother, cousins and friends. He’s wearing dark jeans, a gray Express polo with a red lion on the front, and around his neck a string of black beads his nephew gave him.
Twenty-five years old, he’s lanky and muscular, with a thin shaved head and cheeks that swell up to the size of softballs. Folks are milling around the dressing room, but he’s quiet, sitting in the corner, straddling the arm of a beat-up leather couch and tapping out a silent solo on his tarnished vintage trumpet.Īndrews, better known as Trombone Shorty, isn’t the regular sort of New Orleans jazzman.
He has every reason to be-it’s two o’clock in the morning, people are still pouring into Tipitina’s in Uptown New Orleans for his show, and he already played an hour-long set today in the pounding Louisiana sun at Jazz Fest.
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