let's find some Jazz!

As I write, I’m sitting in a small brick courtyard at a tiny ornate table drinking coffee and listening to early afternoon easy jazz. The female singer has a voice that eases away any other sound. Accompanied by a solo guitar, they are most definitely present and yet utterly unimposing. This is not a special occasion here at Cafe Beignet. This is everyday. Little birds scatter around my feet and chirp faintly around the bubbling fountain. Brass statues stand around showing off legends from the past. I am only a few meters from the busiest street in New Orleans and yet, I couldn’t feel further from the crowds. I’m trapped in a bliss that only ends when I chose. Sweet hot Beignet’s are served heaped in icing sugar. Melt in your mouth delicious. 

The previous day I sat in this exact same spot. It was late afternoon. Coffees had become cold beer. The music now with more energy. A three piece on stage, an enthusiastic banjo player leading the Bluegrass favourites. From table to table he moves. Conversing with his audience. It’s easy. This is his life and he couldn’t be happier. The trumpet smiles as he tells us when he moved here. His bright red converse only reveal his late age more. They are spotless; a younger pair wouldn’t be so clean. 

Back out in the street and cooler now. Fresher. We’re on the way to meet the rest. A haunted history tour of the French Quarter to begin our evening. We don’t see any ghosts. Then again did I really expect to? We learn the stories, the fact, the sadness of the district. We see buildings that have stood forever; only their purpose changing over time. Their balconies or galleries creep up in complex patterns to surround the high windows. The painted walls, some fresh, still keep their original colour. Our guide is an excellent story teller. Our fellow listeners are less impressive. Drunk already they stumble with us, heckling. So it’s true. American’s don’t handle their drink so well. A woman who can’t contain herself explodes on to the group, thoughts about her Father’s ghostly presence still surrounding her. Inappropriate and yet she seems to experience some twisted catharsis from giving us all a collar tugging moment. This isn’t the time. This isn’t a psychic circle. Finally embarrassed she moves to the back. And it is her husband who gets thrown off the walk. He can’t even stand. And the shame of it for me? The entertainment value was priceless.

We leave our guide at Jackson Square. It’s 10 P.M and time for the city to wake. Making our way through winding back streets we pass homes decorated in Halloween, lighting our way forward. Gas lamps flicker above hotel doorways, ambers fall from the fingertips of porch swings. Growing closer now the distinct sound of a muted trumpet, the tug of a bass. Frenchman St. ‘The Spotted Cat’ is crowded as the act draws to a close. A girl, handkerchief in her hair laments into the giant shining microphone. She’s in love. The bar clears a little and we find seats along one side of the cramped room. When was the last time this place was cleaned? Dirt clings to every molecule of air and it tastes wonderful. The taste of history, music, good times. Cigarettes burn, their smoke making my eyes water. It’s not illegal here. We wait expectantly as the next group prepares. 

‘The Moonshiners’ play classic New Orleans jazz and they do it extremely well! The clarinetist puts his full eighteen stone weight behind every screeching note he hits while ‘Phil Jupitas’ backs him on drums. A steady double bass plucks away; the singer plays banjo perfectly. The other force behind this wonderful band is the trumpet player. He’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. Lying back in his chair, feet and legs spread wide, he kicks out riff after riff of insane note combinations that make it impossible not to smile at his brilliance. People are taking pictures but they’re foolish. What they are trying to hold on to can’t be kept in a photograph. A camera won’t capture the feelings, the electricity. It can only disappoint when, a few days later, they try to relieve this evening, only to find a static pose that has no voice. Without knowing it my feet are stompin’ on the stool rung and my palms tapping fiercely at my knee. This kind of music is infectious. My whole body moves to it in a subconscious wave. A crowd of bobbing heads and shaking knees applaud each song so that the atmosphere is almost suffocating as it takes hold. This is why I’m here. A man stumbles into the bar alone but immediately finds a girl to take in his arms. They strut about knocking into body parts. But nobody cares. They’re too busy dancing themselves. Outside the guy on the door is confronting two men looking for trouble. They taunt him until he snaps and goes to punch them. The doorman is strong. He lunges them into a parked car. Punches fail to begin properly. We watch as the music beats a sound track to the brawl. We’re with the locals now and this is the way it’s done.

Tearing myself away from the bar because there’s so much to see, we cross to the next sounds. A Jazz Funk band. At first we’re part of the only few in there. But as the jamming grows feverishly the bar begins to fill. Everyone is dancing. The group on stage are again amazing. Tenor sax, keys, bass, drums and guitar each take turns to wow. Suddenly a man walks in playing a Euphonium. He jumps on stage and takes a solo. He’s only been in the room a few seconds and yet he already knows the tune by heart. He passes round the tip tin and of course we all offer up the green. The night continues as we try out more doors on the street. The ‘Apple Barrel’ is the smallest bar I’ve ever been in. Just large enough to be somebody’s front room a four piece is crammed into one end. Onlookers squish between each other. Fighting to see. Fighting for air. A few people are scattered around two small tables covered in years of spilled beer. The singer is Krusty The Clown but he doesn’t have green hair. A tambourine makes an unexpected entrance from the street. She joins in, her rhythms unbelievable. Smacking it hard against her wrist, forearm, elbow and knees this woman gives it her all. It’s as if rhythm flows freely through her, exiting through the instrument she holds in her hands. Everyone cheers her on. A spectacle and a marvel, she swings her hips. 

It’s 3 A.M but I don’t feel it. As people start to disappear down alleys and the bands pack up to leave I wish it was all just beginning. We walk back to our hotel lost in our own personal critiques of the night. New Orleans now running in our blood. But it almost wasn’t this way at all...

* * *

The stench hits us first. A surge of facies, urine, stale alcohol, sweat, horses, bins, drain water, heat surrounds and clothes us. You’d stop breathing altogether if you could. The smell is almost blinding; its fog that thick. But then we turn a corner and for a moment it’s gone. People crowd the broken and severely degraded sidewalks. Don’t keep an eye on where you’re going and you’ll twist your ankle for sure. I don’t know how many times we both tripped over as we made our way through the packed streets. Balconies and galleries spit down on us; their flowers freshly watered. Somewhere, someone is playing an out of tune recorder. Turn another corner and suddenly without warning, you reach it. The mass of luminous signs blaring into our faces. Cheap drinks, 2for1’s, sex, ladies and trivial souvenirs are shoved down our throats. Girls wearing nothing; shaking their asses in open doors while their ‘bouncers’ attempt to tease a group of suits in. And children are walking past with their parents. Little boys wide eyed and giggling clutch their Dad’s hand; necks strained backwards. It just seems wrong. Horrific Karaoke blares from across the street as bands playing hackneyed covers try to compete for domination. Is this what we came for? Or did we just stop off in hell? Bourbon St stinks.

Knowing no better, my dream of New Orleans is shattered within the first hour of being here. I look at Ollie and he already knows. My heart is breaking. We find a place to eat, to reassess what we’ve just walked into. We order sandwiches. They arrive and instantly I become a vegetarian. Over an inch thick with meat I can barely get the damn pig in my mouth. For the first time since we’ve been here we agree; this is too much! Even for Ollie, so much meat is a difficulty. But he manages, of course! We move on and back to the booze. Here, a soft drink is the same price as alcohol. I almost start drinking again just to try and ease the pain. Something small and hard whacks me on the head. I look up. Men and women are standing on hotel balconies throwing Mardie Gras beads at passers by below. It’s chaos as cheap plastic collides with the ignorant. Pot luck whether

the head sees the funny side. Sitting in the only bar not blaring out crap we listen to a guy singing the blues. He’s the size of a small car but has a voice that’s surprisingly high. He’s good but he’s not all that I came for. 

Bourbon St is only just getting busy when I decide to leave. I can’t stand it any longer. Back at the hotel I get on the computer to do some research. What we’ve just experienced can’t be all there is. New Orleans can’t have evolved to be as empty as this?

* * *

The next morning we go back into the French Quarter with a new sense of optimism. As it turns out we had been in the wrong place. A friendly guy in a walking tour shop sits us down for half an hour. He chats about his city, which he clearly adores, and tells us like it is. The places to go. The places not to go. What to see (the houses and buildings really are beautiful!). Where to eat. Who to speak to. Who not to. And most importantly, where the real music is. And it’s all about Frenchman St. As we leave he shakes Ollie’s hand but me? Well I get a hug! This man has given me hope. New Orleans can be everything I wanted. I’ve just got to walk on the right side of the road.

New Orleans is an extraordinary place. It contradicts itself with every new corner you take. It has an undefinable atmosphere that whips you up and carries you along relentlessly, tirelessly and unforgivingly. New Orleans can be what ever you want it to be. It makes no excuses and it isn’t about to quieten down just because you want to find some peace. On first impression you might feel cheated. That the history and music you hoped for has been lost. But it hasn’t. The city won’t just hand it’s most deepest treasures over. You have to make the effort You have to want to find them. And if you are willing to take the time, I promise you it’s worth it. Whether it’s the best place to eat Jambalaya (seriously yum!), to hear the best music (some roads are filled with the greatest street performers), the most haunting, captivating stories or to shop for beautiful antique jewelry you can’t be disappointed. Forget the degrading banality. Disregard the cheapening of self and soul. Look deeper. Push further. And then there, in that unimposing courtyard set back from the world, amongst the birds and the cobbles, you will find, your New Orleans.

28/10/11