Zoots suits and saxophones: Big Bad Voodoo Daddy shakes it up on Mt. Snow

They say it is the journey rather than the destination that really matters, but that credo sure didn't apply to my strange and circuitous route in discovering the pleasures of top-notch big band music.

It was the mid-'80s and I was a punky college student working towards a nebulous degree in multi-media and interdisciplinary arts — hair white, pink, black and spiked, crucifixes dangling from multi-pierced ears and no doubt the regulation snarky attitude. Having been a tap dancer for many years before adopting my rebel uniform, I'd decided to create a fabulously irreverent final project for my performance art class by integrating tap — a classic, revered medium — into a raw and raucous theatrical extravaganza comprised of loud music, bad poetry, annoyingly bright strobes and the sound of breaking glass provided by a goggled classmate stationed at a shard-filled trash can backstage, sledgehammer in hand.

I'd practiced for weeks, hoping to perfect my perfect storm against traditional theater, memorizing every measure of the music and every disgruntled triple time-step. On the big night, the curtains rose and I began tapping across a blacklit stage — which proved absolutely no point since I was attired in de rigueur gothic black — as Frank Sinatra's dulcet tones sang "I've Got You Under My Skin" through cheap speakers that rattled when the Nelson Riddle Orchestra built up to its mid-song, horn-heavy crescendo (cue sledgehammer).

What I couldn't admit to myself was that during all that rehearsing, I'd fallen in love with Sinatra and the entire big band sound. I hadn't tapped in front of an audience since leaving the troupe I'd been with a few years before and even then it was usually to the fairly sparse accompaniment of our ragtimey pianist. This business of shuffling to Cole Porter's heady lyrics, Sinatra's debonair voice and the blustery sound of a jazzy orchestra was a new sensation.

Not too long thereafter, my housemates began sticking their heads into my room with quizzical looks wondering what the heck this symphonic, unabashedly brassy racket was emanating from my room on the fourth floor of our otherwise renegade Haight Street digs. No more was Jane's Addiction, Iggy Pop or The Clash thundering through the halls, it was Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey and, of course, the great and powerful Mr. Riddle.

"Swing," I remember saying to John, our rarely seen roadie roommate who was usually out on tour with bands like Metallica and Iron Maiden, but who'd come home long enough to snarl "What the —— is that?" down the hall. An incredulous grunt and a slammed door, followed by his attempt at battle of the turntables, was his only reply. No matter — swing sounds even better on headphones.

Something about Glenn's sultry sax harmonies, Benny's buttery clarinet, Tommy's jaunty trombone and Nelson's barely tethered volcanic arrangements had duly displaced the crunchy walls of sound that usually held up my musical sky and it freaked me out as much as anyone else. I found myself browsing the dusty "Standards" sections of funky old record stores and coming home with heavy platters by everyone from swing icons like Artie Shaw and Teddy Wilson to lesser known, more contemporary groups like the Squirrel Nut Zippers and Royal Crown Revue.

As luck would have it, soon after I discovered the latter, they happened to be playing King King, a renowned L.A. nightclub, when I was there visiting a friend. I'd never been to a live swing show before, but one pounding bar of "Hey Pachuco" and a quick look at the band's gangster pinstripes and wide-brimmed fedoras, not to mention the sea of nimble dancers doing the jitterbug on the floor beneath the stage, and I became an instant devotee.

As luck would again have it, the same band was appearing at Slim's in San Francisco the day after I got back, so there I was again, gazing up at them like any self-respecting groupie would be, only this time I was also trying out the Lindy hop in a skirt as tight as the horn section. Ah, those were the days of shifting musical allegiances, morphing fashions and seriously confused hair. Gone was the black and pink, for I'd become more of a Marilyn-esque jumpin' jivette, pretty much over night.

This, however, was no passing phase — well, musically anyway. In my opinion swing remains one of the most energizing, high-caliber and ageless genres in American music, one that galvanizes generations and inspires future musicians. With a grade school son practicing clarinet every day, I've been spinning my vintage vinyl more than usual lately, so those elder hep cats like Goodman and Shaw can show him exactly what that "licorice stick," as they call it, can do.

Better still, this Sunday night we all have a rare opportunity to don our finest duds (think "Some Like It Hot" meets "Double Indemnity") and indulge in a night of gutsy and gusty swing-era bravado in the illustrious form of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. An eight-piece musical mob that hails from the left coast, these guys promise to rattle the rafters at the Grand Summit Hotel's Ballroom at Mount Snow, with original tunes, smokin' musicianship and dazzling collective charisma.

Expect full-on swank, with broad-shouldered suits, silk ties, muted trumpets and an upright bass that's just gotta have a machine gun stashed inside it. With spirited and suave leader Scotty Morris at the helm wielding a dangerous Gibson and velvety bootleg voice, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy offers an energizing, melodious dip into the days of mobsters and speakeasies.

Having started out as a jazz trio in 1989, the band's name was bestowed upon them when blues guru Albert Collins signed a poster for Morris, "To Scotty, the big bad voodoo daddy …" Within a few years, its ranks had more than doubled and they'd become a central force in the swing revival of the 1990s, honing an authentic sound with piano, drums, trombone and a stick of licorice added to the mix.

Having cut six acclaimed CDs that are crowded with fun, fierce tunes like "Zig Zagitty Woop Woop", "You, Me and the Bottle Makes Three Tonight" and "Go Daddy-O," BBVD is one talented posse of professionals who command a bandstand with sharp, dastardly aplomb.

So whether or not you're doing it up proper tonight for Valentine's Day, on Sunday grab your baby — and if you don't have one, come anyway as there are sure to be willing Lindy's hoping to Hop — because this kind of zoot-suited, wing-tipped, badass big band doesn't roll into town too often.

Al Capone once said, "I am like any other man. All I do is supply a demand." Though their product is slightly less nefarious, it's every bit as addictive, for Big Bad Voodoo Daddy supplies what is a staunchly loyal, universal demand for music that is entirely elegant and a little old-fashioned but with a delightfully sinful edge; to wit, the perfect romantic evening.