Any discussion of noteworthy bassists must include George Porter, Jr. In the world of soul and funk, his name sits alongside such greats as Larry Graham, James Jamerson, Duck Dunn, Chuck Rainey, Bootsy Collins, Jerry Jemmott, and David Hood. Narrow the field down to New Orleans, and Porter is the bass player.
He was a founding member of the Meters, whose ’60s instrumentals “Cissy Strut,” “Look-Ka Py Py,” and “Sophisticated Cissy” are bar-band standards to this day. Formed in 1965, the quartet consisted of Porter, guitarist Leo Nocentelli, drummer Joseph “Zigaboo” Modeliste, and keyboardist/singer Art Neville, also of the Neville Brothers. In addition to their own recordings, they were the rhythm section on classics including Dr. John’s In The Right Place, Lee Dorsey’s “Ride Your Pony” and “Get Out of My Life, Woman,” Labelle’s “Lady Marmalade,” the Mardi Gras Indians’ self-titled Wild Tchoupitoulas, and Southern Nights by Allen Toussaint, who produced, wrote, and played piano on many hits that featured the Meters. Their 1974 album, Rejuvenation, has been called a sampling goldmine; some of the artists who’ve dipped into their grooves include A Tribe Called Quest, Run-DMC, N.W.A., and Queen Latifah.
The Meters morphed into the Funky Meters, and since 1990, Porter has led the Runnin’ Pardners, whose members have been aboard from eight years (guitarist Chris Adkins) to 28 (keyboardist Michael Lemmler). Of 16-year veteran drummer Terrence Houston, Porter says, “Even when he’s busy, you always know where the ‘1’ is going to fall. If I get lost, it’s easy to find my place.”
The Pardners’ latest album, Porter’s Pocket, finds the funk intact on instrumentals like “Buttermilk” and “Tito’s Dumpling Machine.” In addition to solo albums, the 77-year-old’s resumé includes sessions with NOLA acts like Irma Thomas, Earl King, Snooks Eaglin, Johnny Adams, Harry Connick, Jr., and Jon Cleary, but his versatility has made him in-demand beyond the Crescent City, recording and touring with Taj Mahal, Robbie Robertson, John Scofield, David Byrne, Ruthie Foster, Albert King, Jimmy Buffett, Gov’t Mule, the Headhunters, Solomon Burke, Maceo Parker, and Tori Amos.
In Offbeat magazine’s Best Of The Beat Awards, Porter has been named “Best Bass Player” 23 times. Shortly before Hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans in 2005, he and Tab Benoit co-produced the prophetic Voice Of The Wetlands as a statement on the plight of the wetlands.
How did you become a bass player?
I was eight years old, and my grandmother and mother bought me a nylon-string guitar. To keep it, I had to take lessons, which I did for two and a half years. After my first recital, on my way to my next class, at the corner of Prieur Street and Gravier I could hear guitar music; I saw Benjamin “Poppi” Francis and this older guy who was using all five fingers, and they were playing “St. Louis Blues.” In class, I was studying that classical technique, but playing cowboy songs. I thought, “I want to do songs like that.”
Poppi was a bass player who knew how to play guitar, while I was a guitar player that eventually became a bass player. He played with a guitarist named Herbert Wing, whose band was the Royal Knights. They played tons of frat parties, and that’s how I got to meet Earl King, Ernie K-Doe, Tommy Ridgely, Benny Spellman – those iconic guys. I think I was destined to be part of that whole circle.
“Second line” refers to people following a parade, but it’s also a rhythmic pattern. Was your approach influenced by New Orleans brass bands, parades, and funerals?
I like to think that it’s back there somewhere – the knowledge of that particular style. New Orleans drummers are all very aware of the separation between snare and bass drum that happens with street music, in those bands. When I was a kid, there was a black social club three blocks away. Whenever one of the members passed away, there would be a second line. [Drummer] Johnny Vidacovich calls the second-line groove a “clave”; it kind of leans on a calypso feel. Professor Longhair did that really well with his left hand. It’s somewhat like a Bo Diddley feel, too. I heard it in New Orleans before I ever heard of Bo Diddley.
When I was playing with David and Walter Lastie in a band called Taste Of New Orleans, we were doing songs influenced by brass bands – very street oriented. To play that tuba feel on a bass guitar, I learned to not press really hard on the note. Kind of half-fret it, so it would die quickly. That’s the tuba feeling. In my early 20s, the upright bass was still part of the fabric here, and I was playing electric. If I wanted to keep a gig, I had to be more tonal-minded.
On “Fire On The Bayou,” you leave so much space. It’s just three notes.
When we started working with Toussaint, I learned more about space. He would give us specific lines, and if I veered from it, he’d stop us and say, “Porter, you just stepped on somebody’s part.” Being the songwriter, he’d hear the whole arrangement in his head. If you played more than the part he gave you, you’re stepping on somebody’s part that’s not cut yet. He said, “It’s not what you play, it’s what you don’t play that’s going to make this song happen.” I do tend to be busy when it’s called for. Especially if you’re playing with a small ensemble, being busy is okay. But I try very hard not to step on the snare drum. Stay away from the backbeat as much as I can. Every now and then, I bump into it (laughs).
On “Cissy Strut,” you and Leo are playing the melody together, which you also do on “Tito’s Dumpling Machine” on the new album.
We did that on a lot on our early recordings. I kind of went back to what I thought was the foundation of the Meters’ music back in the day – the simplicity of parts. Chris and I have a good feeling together, so putting the bass part into his guitar felt right. One thing we did with the Meters was to set up in the same room. We could see each other and play off each other.
Did you listen to bass players like James Jamerson or Duck Dunn or Bernard Odum with James Brown?
Not that I know of. I thought my bass lines were not necessarily influenced by much of what I heard, although we played several Booker T. & The MG’s songs. I never knew who James Brown’s bass player was, but I remember being about 16, playing stuff on Live At The Apollo with Herbert Wing’s band. But Poppi was the bassist in that band; I just played one song now and then, like if he had to use the bathroom. Or I’d play drums, same thing.
The Royal Knights were a cover band, for the most part. As a musician with big ears, I learned all that stuff by listening, although not necessarily playing it. I was like a sponge, and that stuff would sink in and stay.
With David Lastie’s band, it was a totally different thing. He was playing traditional jazz, as opposed to bebop. I hung out with Walter Washington and learned about people like Bobby “Blue” Bland. Growing up, most of the time we didn’t have a record player in the house, just a radio. When my dad had a record player, he listened to saxophone players like Dexter Gordon and Stanley Turrentine, and Mom loved keyboard players Jimmy Smith and Shirley Scott. When my pop wasn’t at home, we didn’t touch those records (laughs). There was the black station, WBOK, and WTIX was the white station. WTIX would play early rock and roll, like Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry. WBOK played local R&B stuff, Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions, Ben E. King, and doo-wop.
I had a pretty well-rounded experience growing up, so by the time I was getting to play, I had a chance to interpret it to where I was at. I had a broad interpretation of all this music when I got to gig. Playing with Earl King, you knew where it was going. With Snooks Eaglin, you never knew what you were going to play. He didn’t even call out what key he was playing in (laughs). “Catch up, Porter. Pay attention, boys. You might learn something.”
There’s a video online where you explain how people play “Cissy Strut” incorrectly.
They overthink it. I think younger players in the early ’70s learned it from the jazz community, who did both parts, A and B, wrong. “Cissy Strut” was not an everyday-people recording; it was musicians’ musicians. We got very little acknowledgment in the “people world,” but musicians knew us.
You pick with two or even three fingers on the right hand.
I use my thumb with the index and middle together sometimes. I guess that’s a carryover from my classical-guitar training. I was in Europe with John Scofield, and I cut the tip off my middle finger trying to punch a hole in a laminate. Fortunately, it was really calloused, so it didn’t go really deep. But my third finger, next to my pinky, started filling in. My index and third finger took the role. When I was starting out, I played more with my thumb. But I knew there were things I could do faster by using my fingers, like up and down strokes. I tried using a pick for a while, but it wasn’t comfortable. When I’m using my thumb, I usually move closer to the neck, to get a muted sound. When I want to cut through, I play behind the pickup, as far from the neck as I can.
On a session, how often are you given a specific bass part as opposed to just the song’s structure and you’re free to play your own ideas?
It’s probably 50/50. With Toussaint, if you listen, my bass line is in his left hand at least 90 percent of the time.
Did you play on a session with Paul McCartney?
We need to clear this up. In 1975, after Wings had finished Venus and Mars in New Orleans, it was during Mardi Gras. They recorded “My Carnival.” We were listening to a playback, and Benny Spellman told Paul, “Man, what you need on this is the sound of cowbells and some street noise – like it’s real New Orleans.” About six of us went in, set up two microphones, and we were beating on bottles and tambourines, to get the percussion sound moving from side to side. But that’s buried in the fade-out. That’s the extent of my recording with Paul McCartney. I never played bass on a McCartney record. I’ve been telling that story for 15 or 20 years, but it still gets repeated.
What was the 1975 tour with the Stones like?
It was scary and amazing. I knew of the Rolling Stones, but I wasn’t a fan. I heard that Ronnie Wood said, “If we’re playing in Louisiana, we need to get the Meters as the opening act.” Around ’72, we played Royal Albert Hall in London with an all-star New Orleans show. It was Earl King, Allen Toussaint, Dr. John, and the Meters played behind everybody. Ronnie Wood wasn’t in the Stones yet, but Charlie Watts, Mick, and Keith met us.
The tour went really well, except the promoter in Baton Rouge treated us really bad – no catering, nothing. Jagger was pissed. “This is how the local promoter treats you guys?” It made my heart feel warm to know that these British musicians cared, and they made it known that the Meters needed to have the kinds of things artists should have.
It was very humbling – and, like I say, scary. In Memphis, I’d never seen that many people when I walked onstage. Just a sea of [51,500 people at Liberty Bowl Memorial Stadium].
Where were you when Katrina hit?
We were already gone. The night before, my wife and daughter, Katrina, had prepared food. I was sitting in my gazebo in the front yard with my granddaughter in the swing with me, and she looked up with this scared look on her face, and said, “Grandpa, when are we leaving?” I said, “Right now.” I had never run from a hurricane before; we’d always hunkered down and lived through it. But we packed up the vehicles and caravanned out. We got rooms in Tuscaloosa and watched the storm on television. When we eventually came back, the house had nine feet of water. My mother’s house had 14, all the way up to her ceiling.
How did the music community rise back up after Katrina?
Slowly. We were scattered. Allen was in New York, most of the Nevilles were in Nashville, Cyril Neville was in Texas, Leo and Zig were already in California before the storm. It was a deep change for the music community, because once the city opened up, there were a lot of musicians who weren’t from here, playing what they called New Orleans music. It took a turn, and it wasn’t exactly for the worse, but I’m not sure it was for the betterment. I don’t think it will ever be back, because we’ve lost too many of the original players, the architects of the New Orleans sound. Those ideas are all gone.
This article originally appeared in VG’s June 2025 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.