They arrived in a clown car. Swerving recklessly through the streets of downtown LA with majorettes spilling out the windows, arms and instruments dangling, a blur of gold tassels and red crushed velvet. Behind the vehicle a long banner trailed soulfully, like the wail of a police siren solidified in cloth. March Fourth Marching Band

Ok, ok, sorry. I was exaggerating. There was no clown car. No gaily painted Priscilla Queen of the Desert funny business either. Just a regular old tour bus, outside the entryway to the Edison, which ironically had just refused me entry.

A disgruntled blond in a flapper costume served me a steaming plateful of stink-eye before informing me that—the doors opened at 8. Fine, I said. I was in no mood to argue. Fifteen minutes to kill. I hovered at a polite distance from the club.

That’s when I spotted the cowboy hat. As in—I’ll be the only person wearing a cowboy hat. It was Kenneth the tour manager, standing in front of the aforementioned bus. I went up to him. Pleased to meet you, I said. We spoke on the phone. Within moments, men in bastardized band uniforms surrounded me.

A lone saxophone player was warming up in the parking lot nearby; he struck a low throaty note. I noticed strange contraptions made of welded bike and instrument parts scattered on the ground at our feet. The Oregonian marching band boys were rolling American Spirit tobacco, passing it around. Everyone stood, quiet, cigarettes glowing expectantly.

“Ask me a question. I dare you,” John Averill, the bass guitarist said. “I double dog dare you. I…”

“I nipple dog dare you!” Andy Sterling, the dark haired drum major, chimed in.

We cracked up, as I scribbled in my notebook. That was brilliant, I’m putting that in there, I said. This was going to be a great interview. But I knew that already.

Really, it was impossible to live in Portland and not know about March Fourth, and I lived there for quite a few years. This band is legendary. Yet somehow I always missed seeing them while in their Pacific Northwest stomping grounds. For instance, they played at a festival where I was tending a booth in the wine tent a few summers ago in Carlton, OR. My boss conveniently scheduled herself the day they were playing and gave me the afternoon off. Foiled again!

When I heard they were coming to play at a venue in DTLA, just a few blocks from me, I squealed. The good thing is that if you live long enough in a big city, everyone will come to you. Thank god.

Richard Cawley the March Fourth resident sculptor joined our circle outside the bus. He created the welded costume pieces the band wore. That explained the strange contraptions.

The trombone player whipped up his shirttails suddenly, as if to undo his pants. No worries, he was only trying to show me his belt buckle, which was also designed and created by Richard. The insignia, nicknamed the March Fourth ninja star, was also used for the pendant necklaces that some of them wore. And a ring, which featured wings of glory, shooting deep into the dark skies of the night! (Their words, not mine)

I noticed the back of the ring had a strange open design. The jewelry doubled as a beer bottle opener. Clever. Very clever.

This was March Fourth’s debut appearance at the Edison, and it seemed strange since the place looked like it was built specifically for stilt walkers and a 25 piece, funky hybrid marching band. They blended right in, like wild animals in a meticulously replicated habitat at the zoo.

“This place is right up our alley,” Andy remarked, and then looked around comically. “Wait a minute…we’re in an alley.”

“The Harlem Place Alley,” I said. “To be exact.”

“Well, I guess that would make this our new address!”

Should I mention the “ghetto dog” carts that would inhabit the alley later? Is that considered a perk of the residence or a health hazard? A large rat raced alongside the fence on the far side of the alley from us as we debated this point. We laughed. There goes dinner.

“Wait! Come back here,” they yelled at the rodent. “We’ve got plans for you!”

This would be the point in the interview where I asked another lame question. The answer was no, and I had to laugh. No, none of them were in marching bands as kids.

“Well, maybe some of the trumpet players,” they said. “But it isn’t a requirement for joining the band.”

March Fourth was my favorite type of success story— a concept created on a lark for a Mardi Gras celebration, they thought they’d do it up right: Fat Tuesday New Orleans parade style. Next they played a Portland peace march. Amazed after hearing the crowd’s reaction, they agreed—they’d found their calling. March Fourth!

Next they let me in on a little secret. Their musical roots lie elsewhere, far south of Louisiana, in Latin America. They confessed that they may have pilfered the entire percussion section from a 40 piece Brazilian Samba ensemble a few years ago.

Its no wonder their music has such exotic influences, with so many members, so many musical backgrounds. I could hear little hints of gypsy jazz, Samba flavor and rock weaving gladly through the brassy big band numbers. And then there’s the diversity offered by the dancers and stilt walkers, who added belly dance, striptease, and vaudeville to the mix. It’s a musical melting pot, very much like another PNW favorite Pink Martini, who they often play with.

The crowd at the Edison, stiff as they seemed at first, warmed up by the second set. Limbs started moving, then shaking. Feet started stomping, cocktails flowed, and the mob vibrated enthusiastically to the beat.

It’s just the happiest music ever. Enough said.

The best part was that they said they’d be back, thanks to the appreciative reception at the Edison, and a loyal fan base of Californians. In fact, if you get a chance, March Fourth is playing in Eagle Rock on Saturday October 3rd, and the LA Knitting Factory on Monday the 5th. I highly recommend seeing them.  Obviously.

And it’s been a tough year. Who couldn’t use a little joyful noise?

But it was time to go inside and wrap up my interview; the show was starting. Soon they would make their grand entrance down the long staircase into the heart of the Edison, a crowd waiting to welcome them. I bid them farewell, with a promise to join them for an absinthe later. Surprisingly, Andy leaned in and apologized.

“I’m sorry we were so…stodgy.”

“Formal,” John said, nodding. Deadpan.

Light from the streetlamps glinted off the gold lame’ disco-era tunic under Andy’s velvet jacket.  They puffed their cigarettes and grinned.

I shook my head and laughed. “Oh definitely,” I said. “You guys were way too serious.”