Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
Join us, please.
My first impression of Louisiana came when I discovered Trappy’s Red Devil Hot Sauce was awesome on cheese fries. I was 8. As I got older, I had more slivers of the Pelican State catch under my skin and begin to fester. I had walked into Zia Records and someone was playing Beau Jocque and the Zydeco Hi-Rollers. My mind was blown away. Next thing I know I’m buying albums from all the 2nd generation zydeco and cajun bands. By the time I was 18, I loved everything about the multi-cultural mix that is La Louisiane.
But here’s the rub. When you’re an outlaw who hates the heat and oppressive governance of their own state, the last thing you want to do is drive across the length of Texas to get to Nawlins. So, I never got there.… Until 2009.
I was working for three weeks in Maryland that summer. I took the train there and the train back. But as a treat for myself, I stayed over in the Crescent City for the first time. Here’s where the story gets a little ‘blue’. If you have sensitive eyes, you might want to skip to the comments.
I left D.C. on the Crescent in the company of some very fine Americans. We stayed up most of the night talking and drinking. I always enjoy meeting folks that have a different frame of reference of life, and I was the only desert dweller on the train that night. I settled in with a couple guys that were a blast to talk with. One kid was in college that said he took the train all the time between NOLA and D.C. He had the time table memorized and was writing down our station stops and comparing the time with the schedule in his head. I thought that was pretty cool, being a train geek. When I told them I was headed down there and it was my first time, they both said, “Oh, it’s Southern Decadence! Your gonna love it!” Notice I capitalized that. I wouldn’t of at that time. I just nodded and agreed that going to New Orleans for some southern decadence is exactly what I had I mind. Now I know what they were talking about. We all fell asleep in the lounge car around 4 a.m.
I woke up somewhere in Northern Georgia. All of a sudden there was a beautiful young girl on the train. Well, OK. We started talking and I could tell she wasn’t in the best shape. Come to find out that she was on vacation in Myrtle Beach when her appendix burst. One quick emergency surgery later and she was on the train home to N.O.
She showed me the incision and made an off hand comment that she wouldn’t be able to work for a couple weeks.
Why would a bandage stop you from working?
I dance at several strip clubs on Bourbon Street.
Well, that had an effect on the conversation.
I had been wondering who I was going to meet who could help me stay up late, dance all night long and wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed for the next round. There was no way I was going to waste an hour in this town that I loved, yet had never been to.
I rolled into New Orleans on the Lake Pontchartrain bridge, now the beginning of what would become my introduction of the theory that the world is flat: We rolled through the 9th Ward, four years after Katrina. Everybody had new roofs, but no paint. You could see the mud line where the water crested on the second story. We passed the pumping stations that failed. I saw my first above ground mausoleum. Clearly, the city had not recovered.
I checked into the Marquette Hostel in the Garden District and set off to meet my new found stripper friend. I had resigned myself that I was only going to use the streetcars for transportation, so I walked a block over to St. Charles Ave and waited. When I paid and took a seat on the next one by, I was flabbergasted that this was an original streetcar. My mind reeled. I got up and made a fool of myself, running my hands all over the fine woodwork. I marveled at the way they were able to get the trim to curve with the roof, yet still be able to slide that week’s advertisements into the slots they had made. There was no broken or shattered trim, no graffiti or initials carved into the wood. I had to talk to someone about this. Once the driver knew I was just a fan of what he spent his life doing, he opened up and answered my questions. But he never said what they did to people who were stupid enough to mess with the streetcars.
I jumped off on Canal Street and went over to the Chart Room to wait till the appointed time. The front door was only mildly blocked by a street band. Normally that wouldn’t have stopped me, but this is NOLA. Ya gotta give them the time of day, right? Well, it was worth it. I laughed and my spirit soared when this skinny white girl no older than 19, wearing a wedding dress and playing the trombone started belting out Bob Marley's’ “Them Belly Full.”
And that was my first slap in the face of just how quirky, discombobulated and full of wild abandon this town was. I stood on the corner and soaked it up. The architecture, the close quarters, the hot September air bearing down on me…. OK, that was enough of that humidity. Time to go inside.
I quickly learned that a western kid like me was going to have problems finding his favorite beer in most joints. So I decided on one beer to power me through the next several days. So, for the sake of speeding things along, just assume that I’m holding an Abita Amber Ale for the rest of the story.
Soon enough, it was time for my first exposure to Bourbon Street. Now, I had been warned that all the stuff I was looking for had migrated down to Decatur Street and I wasn’t going to like what I found up there. Well, they weren’t fooling. The place was nothing but dance houses playing whatever new electronic music they created on their computers that would be thoroughly forgotten the next week, drink stalls doling out half gallon sized goofball grain alcohol concoctions like Hurricanes and Hand Grenades. Jeez, one of those and even I would find myself in the gutter. I sure hope they water them down for Mardi Gras.
I will end this chapter by just saying I found my friend. She showed me around, thinking I would find it more entertaining than I did. It was embarrassing. All the noblest of human passions, fun, laughter, dancing, sex, art and music reduced to a hollow MTV commercial for spring break. I said goodbye and thank you for what she did for me, but I had to leave. Out the door and to the closest side street I went, all the while thinking I was guilty by association.
I wandered around a bit and got the lay of the land for tomorrow. Saturday Night being better for live music anyways, right? After all, if I was going to see as much music as I could, I had to save my strength. Besides, Bourbon Street really put a bad taste in my mouth, kinda like those awful drinks they serve.
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What's on your mind this morning