Photograph by Jason Villemarette. Illustration by Stacy Reece.

A Love Letter From Beyond the Grave

Released three years after his death, “Things Happen That Way” is the final album from the late, great master of New Orleans funk, Dr. John.

By Rob Rushin-Knopf

Sep 29, 2022

It’s only natural that the legendary New Orleans musician Dr. John — aka the Night Tripper and aka Mac Rebennack — would find a way to communicate from the Great Beyond. His final album, “Things Happen That Way” (Rounder Records), is a mix of covers, an old-time traditional, and a lagniappe of Rebennack originals (one old, three new). Three years after his demise, the old magic man has delivered a meaning-of-life letter from the other side of the dirt that is terrifically listenable and oddly addictive, warts and all.

Posthumous albums are a tricky business: The flurry of Jimi Hendrix albums just after his death offer ample example of quick-buck exploitation, cut-and-paste production and a whiff of mercantile necro-stalgia. Unfinished songs stitched together with studio hocus-pocus rarely conceal the twine and glue. I generally approach these affairs with gimlet eyes.

The good news is that “Things Happen That Way” mostly avoids this trap. It is an album Dr. John would be proud to call his own.

Dr. John's hands on the piano (photograph by Jason Villamarette)

An update of “I Walk on Gilded Splinters,” from Dr. John’s 1969 debut “Gris-Gris,” sits at the center of the “Things Happen.” This modern-roots production features Lukas Nelson (son of Willie) and his band Promise of the Real, and while it evokes less smoke and haze than the original, it retains the menacing swamp hoodoo that raised the hair on my neck when I first heard it 50 years ago.

Deep and bluesy, it remains harrowing despite (because of?) Doc’s advancing years. The undercurrent of hazard is a familiar Dr. John atmosphere; this is a conjure man with whom you had best not mess.

Otherwise, the album reflects the kind side of the man who inhabits the mysterious Night Tripper persona. Aside from being one of the primary drivers that made New Orleans funk a globally loved form, Rebennack has been a reliable source of joy, humor and laissez les bon temps rouler stoicism over his 60 years in music.

The messages here ring familiar to anyone who bothers to pay attention to old folks who live long and eventful lives: Time moves fast; don’t fret things you can’t change; those things will likely work out, just maybe not the way you wanted; and redemption is available. You might hear the same from your Grandma or Uncle Jim, but the good Doctor’s customary devil-may-care humor and gris-gris incantations make most of these sermonettes worth listening to time and again.

The set opens with Wille Nelson’s classic “Funny How Time Slips Away,” a perfect theme-setter with a perfectly imperfect performance. Opening with just Mac, the piece nearly goes off the rails near the end of the first chorus as his piano fill trips over the bar line a fair bit before he dials it back in. Intentional embodiment of time slipping away or momentary fumble from an aging guy heading down the other side of life’s hill? I’ve listened to that passage at least 30 times, and I really cannot say; maybe it only matters to obsessives like me. Either way, the album’s cautionary tone is established: Beware time’s arrow for it chases everyone without favor.

Two Hank Williams tunes delineate the album’s emotional spectrum. On one end, a bayou-deep, behind-the-beat groove recasts “Ramblin’ Man” into an account of why the rambler rambled way back when. Where Hank’s version wants us to believe he (kinda) regrets what he is about to do, the Doctor looks back and shrugs. Regrets? Meh. It was what it was, after all.

On the other extreme, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” is pure lamentation and sorrow, Mac’s voice a bare whisper. “Lonesome” near about broke me; I can’t stop listening to the damn thing. Covered a gazillion times, this might be my favorite version since Hank himself sang this saddest of all songs.

Photograph by Bruce Weber

But hey now, hey now. Things are not all gloom and doom here. The second half of the album finds the Doctor reminiscing a life well lived.

After “Lonesome” comes “End of the Line” by Traveling Wilburys. The great jazz drummer Herlin Riley kicks it off with a mid-tempo, second-line groove to support the chorus of Mac, Aaron Neville and up-and-comer Katie Pruitt. Remember those geezer Wilburys? Average age of 45 when this one landed. With Mac and Neville pushing 80, a deeper resonance hangs in the air. I bet I’ve played it at least 20 times so far.

The excellent new additions to Mac’s prodigious songwriting credits trace a three-song arc from salvation (“Holy Water”) to acceptance (“Sleeping Dogs Best Be Left Alone”) to self-effacing satisfaction (“Give Myself a Good Talking To”).

“Holy Water” is especially strong, a gorgeous redemption hymn that alludes to a decades-long addiction to heroin that landed Mac in prison in the early ’60s and bedeviled him until the late ’80s. Katie Pruitt flat out nails this tune and would be well-advised to make it part of her ongoing repertoire. (Lena Horne had “Stormy Weather.” Nuff said?)

Momma cried in the courtroom that day
Saw her boy who used to laugh and play
Shoved through the door, with my hands tied
When the jury spoke I was given the time

“Sleeping Dogs…” is classic up-tempo Dr. John with horns (arranged by Mark Mullins of Bonerama) straight from the Allen Toussaint playbook, while “Give Myself a Good Talking To,” a wink-and-nudge callback to “Right Place, Wrong Time,” is a useful reminder to not take it all so seriously.

The last trick up the gris-gris man’s sleeve is a slow burn of the Johnny Cash hit “Guess Things Happen That Way.” Cash ran this as an upbeat ditty of defiant optimism; Rebennack brings it all home with a what-can-ya-do shrug. I like to imagine him gliding to the other side with this song on his lips.

OK, so about the warts. The cut-and-paste stitchery is apparent in a few spots. The mix is occasionally confusing, with singers fading in and out in the oddest places. This is most evident on “Gimme That Old Time Religion,” a duet with Willie Nelson that starts out a fine idea but never quite stands up. And the Doctor’s stumble in the album’s opening moments still perplexes me.

But so what to all that. I’ve happily listened to this album a couple dozen times over the past week. Lay down your hard-earned dimes for this one folks, or Dr. John might plunk some gris-gris on your doorstep from the other side.

Go. Listen.

Rob Rushin-Knopf blogs about culture at Immune to Boredom.

Rob Rushin-Knopf

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Chattanooga-based writer/musician Rob Rushin-Knopf, Salvation South’s longtime culture warrior, blogs about culture at Immune to Boredom and appears regularly as one-half of the near-jazz duo RoboCromp.