Sunday night being off time for both me and Big Man, we decided to make it a busman's holiday by going out to hear music after the parades last Sunday. (There were 2 daytime parades on Sunday, January 27th: Krewe of Carrollton and Krewe of King Arthur; the sun broke through and shone on both parades, and a good time was had by all.) After checking the copious listings for live music in the city (on a Sunday night!), we settled on the Maple Leaf Bar Uptown on Oak Street, where blues guitarist Walter "Wolfman" Washington was playing in a trio with drummer Russell Batiste and keyboardist Joe Krown.
Other than plans to hear great local music, we had an ulterior motive for the choice -- Big Man is acquainted with a saxophonist who played for years and years with Wolfman, and the sax man has been trying to introduce the two to each other but the timing never worked out. Big Man thought he could introduce himself at the gig, mentioning the sax man's name. Seemed like a plan.
Getting ready to go, I found to my chagrin that I'm not as young as I like to think. The accumulated physical pressure of all the walking at 7 (count 'em, *7*!) parades since the first (rainy) one Friday night had blown my weak ankle (broken in a bad fall in 2001). Whether I liked it or not, and believe me, I didn't, the only way I was going to the Leaf that night was with a cane like an old lady. Geez.
The first set was advertised as starting at 10 pm, which we didn't believe, so we drove around looking at houses, trying to kill time, and finally parked across the street from the Leaf at about 10:10 pm. Entering, we were told the cover was $5 each, that the music would start in about a half-hour (so much for the listing in the paper!), and that the crawfish were out back. We looked at each other -- crawfish? We don't know nothin' 'bout no crawfish!
Parenthetical aside: Where else in America, or anywhere for that matter, can you go out, dressed casually, to hear really good live music on a Sunday night? And if you could, would it be a mere $5 a person? And even if, improbably, both of the first two were true, where else in heaven's good name could you get free boiled crawfish too? Only one place in the whole wide wonderful world, this place, this beloved old girl, this dear old wounded city. What a gift it is to live here.
Big Man bought me an Abita and himself a diet Coke, and we walked through to the patio bar in the back, where the pool table had been covered with a sheet of plywood which was topped with the detritus of a crawfish boil: small boiled crawfish, chunks of corn, small new potatoes, a few mushrooms, heads of garlic, halves of lemons (and oranges! never saw oranges in a crawfish before; take note for future reference), and lots and lots of picked-over crawfish shells. A few folks were standing around, peeling crawfish, sucking heads, picking through the debris looking for something, like the few pieces of hot sausage that were left. Seeing us arrive, someone said that another pot was boiling now and should be out soon, and noticing my cane, brought me a chair. (Maybe this old disabled lady routine is not all that bad.)
We picked and ate crawfish for a while, and then wandered back out to the main room, where the trio was slowly arriving and even more slowly setting up. Then an overwhelming aroma of fresh hot crawfish assailed our nostrils. Even though we had eaten a perfectly good dinner before arriving at the Maple Leaf, we hustled back to the crawfish pool table (another chair being provided for me by a young man calling me "sweetheart"), and ate some more. Everyone at the table agreed that the crawfish were early and way too small, almost too much trouble to eat, as we ate and ate.
Finally, in the general neighborhood of 10:45 pm or so, the band began to strike up a tune, and we went back to the tin-ceilinged main room, which was much more crowded than it had been earlier. I got a seat on one of the benches that line both sides of the room (again, the old disabled lady routine). The crowd was the usual Maple Leaf bunch: college kids, Baby Boomers, a few older folks, a few looking like their IDs hadn't been properly checked (but maybe that's just me -- 21 year-olds look so darn babyish!). The trio did not react much with the crowd; there were few announcements of song titles and such. They just stood up there on that little little-bitty stage and played their hearts out, tight and hot and New Orleans-inflected.
The first hour fly by, and the set ended before we knew it. Big Man followed the musicians outside to Oak Street to introduce himself and pass a few words, see if he could sit in. I stayed inside -- no point in me limping out there. Big Man popped back in to say that the sax man's name had been the right entree and he was going back to the car to get his horn, since they had invited him to sit in for a tune or two. He came back in with the small gig bag and began to discreetly warm up against the side wall with the mouthpiece and trumpet.
The trio came back on and played about 2 or 3 tunes, and then invited Eric to the stage. The remaining mike was behind Russell's drum kit, so Big Man stood back there, and played like he had been rehearsing with them. He blew sweet and pretty, and hot and high, and he added a little somethin' behind Wolfman's vocals. Wolfman and Joe Krown exchanged looks while Big Man blew, and the crowd responded to him with claps and cheers. He was a hit!
When the song finished, Big Man took a little bow and started to leave the stage. But Russell Batiste told him to stay (his actual words, I believe, were, "Don't go, man!") and Big Man ended by playing the rest of the set with them. Modestly, after every song, he made to go, but each time was prevented by a member of the trio.
At the end of the set, Russell Batiste asked Big Man, "Do you know 'Secondline'?" Big Man pointed down to where I was sitting, and said, "My wife's a native -- she MADE me learn it!" And then he proceeded to blow that old familiar start to "Secondline" -- BADA BAAAH-DA! And I and a few other people hollered back HEY! But Russell didn't think it got a big enough response, so he made Big Man blow again -- and again. But each time, it was only a few of us giving the response -- the crowd was obviously mostly out-of-towners who didn't know any better. So Russell gave Big Man the go-ahead and they went on to play the whole song, which the crowd danced to wildly and cheered and clapped when it was done. Joe Krown made a point of thanking Big Man and introducing him by name to the crowd, almost as if he had been a real member of the group.
As they began packing up to leave, the members of the trio made sure to get Big Man's contact info, so it's not impossible that he could, sometime soon, play the Leaf for real, and not just sitting in. But even so, it was a great time and it felt so good to see my Big Man on the stage of the Maple Leaf!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Parading and Raining
Last Friday evening, January 25th, was supposed to be the first night of "real" parades in Orleans Parish. ("Real" in terms of full-size floats, marching bands, an array of throws, and so on; Krewe du Vieux may be the official first parade of Carnival, but it's not "real" in the sense above.) Unfortunately, it was a rainy day and got no better as darkness fell. The weather pros on TV tried to make the best of it -- "the front may quickly move through," "it may not rain all night," and the like -- but the fact of the matter is, it was raining all day, and it was planning on raining all night.
Two parades were scheduled, Oshun and Pygmalion. I knew Oshun from 16-18 years ago, when the African-themed krewe paraded through Mid-City and had marvelous Barth Brothers designed floats that were self-propelled, and not dragged by tractors, as almost all Carnival floats are, but I was not familiar with Pygmalion, which is apparently a krewe from another area of the city that at some point in the past gotten permission to parade the Uptown route. (Those fancy floats from Barth turned out to be gorgeous in theory but duds in practice -- the enclosed area for the driver in front tended to accumulate carbon monoxide. As far as I know, those floats were only used once and then scrapped forever.)
I had previously made plans with my sister L, who lives just off Napoleon near St. Charles, to see the parade together. (I had originally thought Big Man could join us and then head to work on Bourbon Street, but it turned out that he got an earlier gig and had to miss these parades.) So in the steady drizzle, I was driving from my house in the lower Lower Garden District to my sister's, and I was concerned that I had not left my house early enough to make the start of the parade, so I dialed my sister on my cell. She answered her phone by saying bluntly, "Are you bailing?"
I was outraged. "Bailing? Bailing? How can you ask me that! I'm on my way now to your house -- don't leave without me." She apologized for jumping to unwarranted conclusions, and said she'd wait for me. She also said it was raining pretty hard by her house. I moved my radio dial to a news channel, to check if the parades had been cancelled, but apparently not. I made it to L's house, using back routes to avoid the traffic and barricades on St. Charles Avenue, and the rain had settled to a light but steady drizzle.
Carrying my new purple folding umbrella, purchased just for rainy parade-watching, I entered L's house, where she and her friend R were doing parade preparations -- fixing alcoholic drinks in go-cups. Thus fortified, the 3 of us (L's husband had bailed) walked down Napoleon to the corner of St. Charles -- not our usual parade spot, but with the weather, we did not want to walk as far as our normal parade-viewing place in front of Sophie Gumbel Guild on the corner of Napoleon and Perrier. The parade had just started rolling as we arrived, with the big police van in front making the corner. If you were not from here, you would be surprised to learn that we were not the only ones there -- there was a large less-prepared group under the awning of the still-closed-since-the-Storm Copeland's, other folks with umbrellas, still others with zipped-up hooded parkas. There was also a clump of glum-looking NOPD with rain ponchos over their uniforms.
We took our place at the barricade next to an African-American family, two adult women, several kids. We all congratulated each other on being "real New Orleanians," the kind who come out in the rain for a parade. "It's our duty," L seriously told the group around us, "these krewes can't have a real parade unless we're here. We owe it to them." We all agreed with this -- we were being responsible, accountable New Orleanians, supporting our fellow New Orleanians in the parading krewe, and not crazy, obsessed nutballs standing in the pouring rain to no good purpose.
And it was pouring down rain. Make no mistake -- this was not a mist or a drizzle or intermittent rain, this was a full-fledged downpour. Our hearts went out to King Shango and Queen Oshun in their velvet and taffeta and rhinestone finery; we fervently hoped there were tumble dryers and lots of warm beverages waiting for them at the end of the parade route. As the king rolled by, I remembered the traditional cry of the followers of Shango in the African Yoruba faith, and I hollered, "Shango does not hang!" I do not know if the king heard all of what I said, but he heard his name, and turned towards me and waved his scepter over me in true Carnival style. I waved back.
We felt so sorry for the school marching bands in the parade. They were all wearing rain ponchos or capes, but the rain streaked down their faces. I'm sure they felt miserable, and the $1200 or so that the krewe gave their schools for their participation was surely not enough for how they felt. Oshun's bands were from some of the city's Creole neighborhood schools, and we saw St, Mary's Academy and Xavier Prep, both all girls, both very good and very wet. We shouted encouragement to them as they splashed past us, "Y'all look great! You're so brave! Thanks so much for being here!" Then L, who walked in parades as chaperone in her days as school counselor, began calling kudos to the parents and teachers marching with the bands. "Yay chaperones! Y'all are so fabulous!" earning grateful and appreciative smiles from the sodden grown-ups as they passed by.
Around the middle of the parade, another friend showed up, who we almost didn't recognize, since he was covered head to foot in hunting gear, waterproof overalls and boots, and a camouflage parka with the hood drawn tight. "How much did I miss?" he hollered over the marching band going by, "I couldn't leave my house, because my wife didn't want me to go!" We scoffed at such caution, and explained it, as we do everything we don't like in New Orleans, by saying his wife was not from here.
A band whose bus had gotten caught in traffic finally arrived, and the police in front of us stopped the parade, moved us to the side, and opened the barricades for the young people running from the buses in full uniform, instruments in hand. We hollered to them, "Be careful! Don't run, they're holding the parade for you! So glad you're here!" and the kids flashed grins to us as they rushed by. It was interesting to see how they must have entered the bus in formations, because as they ran, they just formed up perfectly, in the order they exited the bus. As the police moved the barricade back, we thanked them for their service during Carnival, and one officer said bitterly, "Don't thank me -- I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to." (Usually NOPD officers are a little more gracious when thanked at Carnival, but we cut the guy some slack, seeing how wet and miserable he was.)
When the last Oshun float rolled by, we learned that Pygmalion had been cancelled because of the rain, and we went slogged home, where L's spouse cranked up the gas fire logs in their living room. We gathered around with glasses of wine and told Carnival stories til the rain stopped.
We caught a lot of (wet) beads at Oshun, and we believe it was because the krewe members were so glad to have any kind of crowd at all. My sister is right: It was our duty to be there. Carnival is a kind of covenant between the folks on the floats and the folks on the ground. We need each other to be there for Carnival to happen. And last Friday night, in the pouring rain, we both held our end up.
Two parades were scheduled, Oshun and Pygmalion. I knew Oshun from 16-18 years ago, when the African-themed krewe paraded through Mid-City and had marvelous Barth Brothers designed floats that were self-propelled, and not dragged by tractors, as almost all Carnival floats are, but I was not familiar with Pygmalion, which is apparently a krewe from another area of the city that at some point in the past gotten permission to parade the Uptown route. (Those fancy floats from Barth turned out to be gorgeous in theory but duds in practice -- the enclosed area for the driver in front tended to accumulate carbon monoxide. As far as I know, those floats were only used once and then scrapped forever.)
I had previously made plans with my sister L, who lives just off Napoleon near St. Charles, to see the parade together. (I had originally thought Big Man could join us and then head to work on Bourbon Street, but it turned out that he got an earlier gig and had to miss these parades.) So in the steady drizzle, I was driving from my house in the lower Lower Garden District to my sister's, and I was concerned that I had not left my house early enough to make the start of the parade, so I dialed my sister on my cell. She answered her phone by saying bluntly, "Are you bailing?"
I was outraged. "Bailing? Bailing? How can you ask me that! I'm on my way now to your house -- don't leave without me." She apologized for jumping to unwarranted conclusions, and said she'd wait for me. She also said it was raining pretty hard by her house. I moved my radio dial to a news channel, to check if the parades had been cancelled, but apparently not. I made it to L's house, using back routes to avoid the traffic and barricades on St. Charles Avenue, and the rain had settled to a light but steady drizzle.
Carrying my new purple folding umbrella, purchased just for rainy parade-watching, I entered L's house, where she and her friend R were doing parade preparations -- fixing alcoholic drinks in go-cups. Thus fortified, the 3 of us (L's husband had bailed) walked down Napoleon to the corner of St. Charles -- not our usual parade spot, but with the weather, we did not want to walk as far as our normal parade-viewing place in front of Sophie Gumbel Guild on the corner of Napoleon and Perrier. The parade had just started rolling as we arrived, with the big police van in front making the corner. If you were not from here, you would be surprised to learn that we were not the only ones there -- there was a large less-prepared group under the awning of the still-closed-since-the-Storm Copeland's, other folks with umbrellas, still others with zipped-up hooded parkas. There was also a clump of glum-looking NOPD with rain ponchos over their uniforms.
We took our place at the barricade next to an African-American family, two adult women, several kids. We all congratulated each other on being "real New Orleanians," the kind who come out in the rain for a parade. "It's our duty," L seriously told the group around us, "these krewes can't have a real parade unless we're here. We owe it to them." We all agreed with this -- we were being responsible, accountable New Orleanians, supporting our fellow New Orleanians in the parading krewe, and not crazy, obsessed nutballs standing in the pouring rain to no good purpose.
And it was pouring down rain. Make no mistake -- this was not a mist or a drizzle or intermittent rain, this was a full-fledged downpour. Our hearts went out to King Shango and Queen Oshun in their velvet and taffeta and rhinestone finery; we fervently hoped there were tumble dryers and lots of warm beverages waiting for them at the end of the parade route. As the king rolled by, I remembered the traditional cry of the followers of Shango in the African Yoruba faith, and I hollered, "Shango does not hang!" I do not know if the king heard all of what I said, but he heard his name, and turned towards me and waved his scepter over me in true Carnival style. I waved back.
We felt so sorry for the school marching bands in the parade. They were all wearing rain ponchos or capes, but the rain streaked down their faces. I'm sure they felt miserable, and the $1200 or so that the krewe gave their schools for their participation was surely not enough for how they felt. Oshun's bands were from some of the city's Creole neighborhood schools, and we saw St, Mary's Academy and Xavier Prep, both all girls, both very good and very wet. We shouted encouragement to them as they splashed past us, "Y'all look great! You're so brave! Thanks so much for being here!" Then L, who walked in parades as chaperone in her days as school counselor, began calling kudos to the parents and teachers marching with the bands. "Yay chaperones! Y'all are so fabulous!" earning grateful and appreciative smiles from the sodden grown-ups as they passed by.
Around the middle of the parade, another friend showed up, who we almost didn't recognize, since he was covered head to foot in hunting gear, waterproof overalls and boots, and a camouflage parka with the hood drawn tight. "How much did I miss?" he hollered over the marching band going by, "I couldn't leave my house, because my wife didn't want me to go!" We scoffed at such caution, and explained it, as we do everything we don't like in New Orleans, by saying his wife was not from here.
A band whose bus had gotten caught in traffic finally arrived, and the police in front of us stopped the parade, moved us to the side, and opened the barricades for the young people running from the buses in full uniform, instruments in hand. We hollered to them, "Be careful! Don't run, they're holding the parade for you! So glad you're here!" and the kids flashed grins to us as they rushed by. It was interesting to see how they must have entered the bus in formations, because as they ran, they just formed up perfectly, in the order they exited the bus. As the police moved the barricade back, we thanked them for their service during Carnival, and one officer said bitterly, "Don't thank me -- I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to." (Usually NOPD officers are a little more gracious when thanked at Carnival, but we cut the guy some slack, seeing how wet and miserable he was.)
When the last Oshun float rolled by, we learned that Pygmalion had been cancelled because of the rain, and we went slogged home, where L's spouse cranked up the gas fire logs in their living room. We gathered around with glasses of wine and told Carnival stories til the rain stopped.
We caught a lot of (wet) beads at Oshun, and we believe it was because the krewe members were so glad to have any kind of crowd at all. My sister is right: It was our duty to be there. Carnival is a kind of covenant between the folks on the floats and the folks on the ground. We need each other to be there for Carnival to happen. And last Friday night, in the pouring rain, we both held our end up.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Krewe du Vieux's "Magical Misery Tour"
Last Saturday night was the first parade of Carnival, the raucous and rowdy Krewe du Vieux. (They're bawdy too -- local TV promoted the parade while warning the unwary of the nature of the satire and costuming. Channel 6 went so far as to advise viewers that the parade was not suitable for children. Didn't matter -- there were New Orleanians in attendance with kids in tow. My dad would have done the same.)
In what was both a tremendous coup and a fantastic honor, my spouse Big Man, in town for his first Krewe du Vieux, was asked by a historic brass band (formerly headed by the man who until recently was the city's oldest jazz musician) to march with them. We dutifully headed off Saturday afternoon to the justly-renowned Meyer the Hatter shop (where we were extravagantly greeted by one of the scions of the Meyer hat dynasty) to purchase a traditional white jazz hat for this very purpose.
(I am amazed and thrilled that the very first year we come home to belle NOLA, it turns out that Big Man gets a gig playing 5 nights a week when many musicians are finding it hard to get work, and on top of that, to walk into town and hook up with one of the oldest and most respected brass bands. It must mean that we are both supposed to be here. Just recently, a new musician friend asked Big Man if it had been difficult to get his wife -- meaning ME! -- to move to New Orleans. Big Man didn't get into all our details, he just said drily, "No, not really.")
I attended the parade with two old friends, one of whom was still celebrating his 60th birthday -- which had officially occurred the day before, but this being New Orleans, we had to keep on going with the festivities. This was my first time seeing Krewe du Vieux in 15 years -- since the year I moved away from New Orleans to begin my ministry in Tennessee. In the manner of New Orleans Carnival, some things had changed a lot and some things had not changed at all.
What had not changed was the Krewe's biting and often hilarious satire of current events (usually but not always local in origin), almost always expressed in sexual and/or scatological terms. As I had remembered, there were a lot of heaving bosoms in tight bustiers or corsets (despite the biting wind!), and lots of flailing phallic symbols and stand-ins, as parts of costumes and decorating the floats.
A couple of things had changed -- floats were MUCH more elaborate than I remembered from the past, and many had animation of some kind (moving parts, twirling wheels, blowing bubbles, etc.). Also, the marchers (members and hangers-on of the various subkrewes that make up Krewe du Vieux) had many more throws than in years past. A lot of the throws were themed, and others referenced old-time (long-lost) "classic Carnival." For example, I got 4 pairs of lovely GLASS beads, which, believe you me, I'll be wearing, and not just during Carnival.
The theme throws were well thought out and very funny. The members of Krewe du Jieux (pronounced "jew" of course) were carefully handing out to favored parade-goers handsomely decorated and painted bagels. These were much sought-after, and I managed to get one. On close examination, the trinket turned out to be an actual, real bagel, painted, sequined, jeweled, and glittered. I think I'll have to spray it good with polyurethane or something to preserve it, and keep it from molding. (I remember a Zulu coconut I got one year that not been properly drilled and dried out and after a while it developed a memorable Smell that required me to do something almost unheard-of for a coveted Zulu coconut -- I actually had to THROW IT AWAY!) By the way, Krewe du Jieux is not the only Jewish group in the parade -- there's also Krewe du Mishigas (which means craziness in Yiddish, although it is alternate/bad? spelling), whose theme this year was warding off the evil eye. Their costumes with giant evil eyes on their heads reminded me of our family group costumes (created by my mother) way back in the day with big eyes on our heads to represent One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eaters.
Krewe du Vieux's theme this year was "Magical Misery Tour" and apparently all the subkrewes were asked to stick, more or less closely, to using Beatle songs. As always, puns were the order of the night and everything pointed back to goings-on in the city. The mostly-absent mayor was lampooned as "Nowhere Man." The Krewe poked the Road Home program with "You Never Give Me My Money" and contractors dumping piles of debris everywhere got "Why Don't We Put It in the Road." The U.S. Congress -- being of so little help to the region after Katrina -- were deemed "Fools on the Hill" (of course). Everyone trying to rebuild their homes and lives got "All We Need Is Cash" as their appropriate theme song. And so on and on, ad hysterium. (Go to http://www.kreweduvieux.org to read all about it yourself. I'd create a link, but I can't seem to get that darn function working right now!)
Senator David Vitter came in for some unrelenting and well-deserved drubbing for his escapades with prostitutes, and there was, almost predictably, a whole group of marchers dressed as the hamburger-chain mascot Wendy, in honor of the local professional gal with Vitter in her address book and speed-dial.
With all the secrecy that traditionally surrounds Carnival preparations and themes and costumes, even in Krewe du Vieux, it seems that at least 4 of the subkrewes had settled on some version of "Sergeant Pepper" as their theme. There was (naturally) "Senator Vitter's Lonely Whore's Club Band" and for former DA Eddie Jordan, who resigned under pressure for firing every single white employee of the DA's office, there was "Sergeant Eddie's Only Honkies Banned." There was also a "Sergeant Pecker's" -- and we all would have been disappointed if there hadn't.
One subkrewe, the Krewe of PAN, touched my heart with their unusual literary theme, an evocation of 19th century New Orleans writer Lafcadio Hearn, using the same quote that I have quoted in 2 recent sermons about recovery in New Orleans, the one that ends, "But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio." The members wore "sacred seersucker" robes as costumes, and flaunted the "sacred fleur de lis." There were references to the peculiar and beloved New Orleans patois ("your mama an' 'em," ) and celebrations of our Creole and Cajun food, liberally seasoned with the "Holy Trinity" (to "allay'all" outsiders, that's onions, bell pepper, and celery -- vital necessities for our kind of cooking). There was more, lots more, but you get the picture. While PAN did not exactly hew to the Beatles-song theme, they were touching and emotional and true to our beloved, wounded-but-wonderful NOLA.
By moving around the Marigny just a little bit, I managed to see the parade 3 times (two of those times, I broke in to kiss Big Man!), and each time it went by, it got a little crazier, a little more chaotic, a little more, shall we say, enhanced by various substances. Despite the cold weather, a good time was had by all. It was a fitting start to the Carnival season.
In what was both a tremendous coup and a fantastic honor, my spouse Big Man, in town for his first Krewe du Vieux, was asked by a historic brass band (formerly headed by the man who until recently was the city's oldest jazz musician) to march with them. We dutifully headed off Saturday afternoon to the justly-renowned Meyer the Hatter shop (where we were extravagantly greeted by one of the scions of the Meyer hat dynasty) to purchase a traditional white jazz hat for this very purpose.
(I am amazed and thrilled that the very first year we come home to belle NOLA, it turns out that Big Man gets a gig playing 5 nights a week when many musicians are finding it hard to get work, and on top of that, to walk into town and hook up with one of the oldest and most respected brass bands. It must mean that we are both supposed to be here. Just recently, a new musician friend asked Big Man if it had been difficult to get his wife -- meaning ME! -- to move to New Orleans. Big Man didn't get into all our details, he just said drily, "No, not really.")
I attended the parade with two old friends, one of whom was still celebrating his 60th birthday -- which had officially occurred the day before, but this being New Orleans, we had to keep on going with the festivities. This was my first time seeing Krewe du Vieux in 15 years -- since the year I moved away from New Orleans to begin my ministry in Tennessee. In the manner of New Orleans Carnival, some things had changed a lot and some things had not changed at all.
What had not changed was the Krewe's biting and often hilarious satire of current events (usually but not always local in origin), almost always expressed in sexual and/or scatological terms. As I had remembered, there were a lot of heaving bosoms in tight bustiers or corsets (despite the biting wind!), and lots of flailing phallic symbols and stand-ins, as parts of costumes and decorating the floats.
A couple of things had changed -- floats were MUCH more elaborate than I remembered from the past, and many had animation of some kind (moving parts, twirling wheels, blowing bubbles, etc.). Also, the marchers (members and hangers-on of the various subkrewes that make up Krewe du Vieux) had many more throws than in years past. A lot of the throws were themed, and others referenced old-time (long-lost) "classic Carnival." For example, I got 4 pairs of lovely GLASS beads, which, believe you me, I'll be wearing, and not just during Carnival.
The theme throws were well thought out and very funny. The members of Krewe du Jieux (pronounced "jew" of course) were carefully handing out to favored parade-goers handsomely decorated and painted bagels. These were much sought-after, and I managed to get one. On close examination, the trinket turned out to be an actual, real bagel, painted, sequined, jeweled, and glittered. I think I'll have to spray it good with polyurethane or something to preserve it, and keep it from molding. (I remember a Zulu coconut I got one year that not been properly drilled and dried out and after a while it developed a memorable Smell that required me to do something almost unheard-of for a coveted Zulu coconut -- I actually had to THROW IT AWAY!) By the way, Krewe du Jieux is not the only Jewish group in the parade -- there's also Krewe du Mishigas (which means craziness in Yiddish, although it is alternate/bad? spelling), whose theme this year was warding off the evil eye. Their costumes with giant evil eyes on their heads reminded me of our family group costumes (created by my mother) way back in the day with big eyes on our heads to represent One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eaters.
Krewe du Vieux's theme this year was "Magical Misery Tour" and apparently all the subkrewes were asked to stick, more or less closely, to using Beatle songs. As always, puns were the order of the night and everything pointed back to goings-on in the city. The mostly-absent mayor was lampooned as "Nowhere Man." The Krewe poked the Road Home program with "You Never Give Me My Money" and contractors dumping piles of debris everywhere got "Why Don't We Put It in the Road." The U.S. Congress -- being of so little help to the region after Katrina -- were deemed "Fools on the Hill" (of course). Everyone trying to rebuild their homes and lives got "All We Need Is Cash" as their appropriate theme song. And so on and on, ad hysterium. (Go to http://www.kreweduvieux.org to read all about it yourself. I'd create a link, but I can't seem to get that darn function working right now!)
Senator David Vitter came in for some unrelenting and well-deserved drubbing for his escapades with prostitutes, and there was, almost predictably, a whole group of marchers dressed as the hamburger-chain mascot Wendy, in honor of the local professional gal with Vitter in her address book and speed-dial.
With all the secrecy that traditionally surrounds Carnival preparations and themes and costumes, even in Krewe du Vieux, it seems that at least 4 of the subkrewes had settled on some version of "Sergeant Pepper" as their theme. There was (naturally) "Senator Vitter's Lonely Whore's Club Band" and for former DA Eddie Jordan, who resigned under pressure for firing every single white employee of the DA's office, there was "Sergeant Eddie's Only Honkies Banned." There was also a "Sergeant Pecker's" -- and we all would have been disappointed if there hadn't.
One subkrewe, the Krewe of PAN, touched my heart with their unusual literary theme, an evocation of 19th century New Orleans writer Lafcadio Hearn, using the same quote that I have quoted in 2 recent sermons about recovery in New Orleans, the one that ends, "But it is better to live here in sackcloth and ashes than to own the whole state of Ohio." The members wore "sacred seersucker" robes as costumes, and flaunted the "sacred fleur de lis." There were references to the peculiar and beloved New Orleans patois ("your mama an' 'em," ) and celebrations of our Creole and Cajun food, liberally seasoned with the "Holy Trinity" (to "allay'all" outsiders, that's onions, bell pepper, and celery -- vital necessities for our kind of cooking). There was more, lots more, but you get the picture. While PAN did not exactly hew to the Beatles-song theme, they were touching and emotional and true to our beloved, wounded-but-wonderful NOLA.
By moving around the Marigny just a little bit, I managed to see the parade 3 times (two of those times, I broke in to kiss Big Man!), and each time it went by, it got a little crazier, a little more chaotic, a little more, shall we say, enhanced by various substances. Despite the cold weather, a good time was had by all. It was a fitting start to the Carnival season.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
New Year Thoughts
It's January in the Crescent City, and many of the city's deciduous trees, having changed color only last month, are now dropping their orange and yellow leaves. The streets and sidewalks are clogged with leaf litter, swirling in today's brisk wind. (In some areas to the east, tornado warnings are in the forecast.) At the apartment complex being (re)built across the street from my house, workers are laying fresh sod. It is so muggy and warm, I am contemplating turning on the a/c at the house, and I'm sure using it in the car. My hair is frizzed out to the nth degree. Welcome to January in New Orleans.
Adding to my list of "things you only hear in New Orleans," I overheard two women talking at my sister's New Year's Eve Party. One said to the other, "I couldn't believe it! It was awful! I called my brother the day after Christmas and asked for his turkey carcass to make gumbo, and he said HE HAD THROWN IT OUT. Can you imagine?" The other woman sadly shook her head, "It's terrible. Same thing happened to me with my neighbor's carcass -- just threw it out. How are we supposed to make New Year's gumbo like that?" They tsked-tsked together over this complete lack of forethought and consideration for the traditional niceties. I don't know how they ended up making their gumbos, but, being New Orleanians, I know they found a way.
Later that night, I headed to Bourbon Street in order to be with Big Man at midnight -- a custom of ours no matter where his gig is for New Year's. The Quarter was packed, but the out-of-towners celebrating in the French Quarter apparently didn't realize they could have parked in the CBD, for my son's parain and I had no trouble finding a free parking space in all the madness. We made our way past the brand-new, elevated, mobile police station, deployed at the hotspot corner of Canal and Bourbon, and through the partying throngs of Hawaiians and Georgians in town for the Sugar Bowl football game (in terms of physical attractiveness, the former have it all over the latter) and pushed our way into the club where Big Man plays. I've never seen the place so crowded. There was some confusion over exactly when it turned midnight, and so the band played "Auld Lang Syne" twice, Big Man and I kissed, and somewhere in there, 2008 officially began.
We held a Jazz Funeral for 2007 at my church, and we laid to rest all the cares and stress of this past year. Fear, anger, worry, grief, pain, rage, despair, bitterness, alcohol and drugs as a way of coping -- everything was put into the casket and symbolically buried, and we second-lined around and through the ruined and not-yet rebuilt church complex. Let us start the new year with open hearts and clean slates. Let us deal with what we have to deal with, and leave the rest to God. What else can we do?
Cautious optimism is the order of the day, and it is how we start this year.
Adding to my list of "things you only hear in New Orleans," I overheard two women talking at my sister's New Year's Eve Party. One said to the other, "I couldn't believe it! It was awful! I called my brother the day after Christmas and asked for his turkey carcass to make gumbo, and he said HE HAD THROWN IT OUT. Can you imagine?" The other woman sadly shook her head, "It's terrible. Same thing happened to me with my neighbor's carcass -- just threw it out. How are we supposed to make New Year's gumbo like that?" They tsked-tsked together over this complete lack of forethought and consideration for the traditional niceties. I don't know how they ended up making their gumbos, but, being New Orleanians, I know they found a way.
Later that night, I headed to Bourbon Street in order to be with Big Man at midnight -- a custom of ours no matter where his gig is for New Year's. The Quarter was packed, but the out-of-towners celebrating in the French Quarter apparently didn't realize they could have parked in the CBD, for my son's parain and I had no trouble finding a free parking space in all the madness. We made our way past the brand-new, elevated, mobile police station, deployed at the hotspot corner of Canal and Bourbon, and through the partying throngs of Hawaiians and Georgians in town for the Sugar Bowl football game (in terms of physical attractiveness, the former have it all over the latter) and pushed our way into the club where Big Man plays. I've never seen the place so crowded. There was some confusion over exactly when it turned midnight, and so the band played "Auld Lang Syne" twice, Big Man and I kissed, and somewhere in there, 2008 officially began.
We held a Jazz Funeral for 2007 at my church, and we laid to rest all the cares and stress of this past year. Fear, anger, worry, grief, pain, rage, despair, bitterness, alcohol and drugs as a way of coping -- everything was put into the casket and symbolically buried, and we second-lined around and through the ruined and not-yet rebuilt church complex. Let us start the new year with open hearts and clean slates. Let us deal with what we have to deal with, and leave the rest to God. What else can we do?
Cautious optimism is the order of the day, and it is how we start this year.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Report on the Public Housing Issue
Despite being unable to return to the City Council chambers yesterday due to other commitments (the minister of our sister church in the city and I had both been at hearings earlier this month, and he had attended the clergy meeting with the newspaper's editors), here's news based on local TV reports, and from first-hand accounts from fellow members of European Dissent:
At least 3 council members had announced publicly that their minds were already made up and would vote for demolition. Two-three council members were considered probably and likely "no" votes by anti-demo activists, and one was thought to be a "swing" vote. Activists had been involved in many public protests before yesterday's meeting -- some of them witty, such as the rehearsed caroling at the homes of 2 council members (complete with home-made sugar cookies iced "1 for 1") -- they were chased off by NOPD; and young people (including one from my church) arrested for camping out at the closed projects in their holiday PJs, with signs saying, "Home for the Holidays" -- as well as more conventional ways of expression.
Despite months of organized protests and private meetings with council members and the editorial board of the Times-Picayune newspaper, city officials acted totally unprepared yesterday morning for the large crowds of both pro-demolition and anti-demolition representatives who descended upon City Hall for the vote by the City Council on whether or not to approve permits for the demolition of the Big 4 closed-since-Katrina public housing projects. (With all they knew in advance, it would have been much better and less provocative if the meeting had been moved to a much larger venue.)
It did not take long for the council chamber to fill up with spectators, while something more than a hundred or so (maybe as high as 200) people were unable to enter, and began chanting outside. Inside, one white council woman, responding to calls to "resign before recall." sarcastically waved and blew kisses, which led a few protesters (who apparently had skipped the nonviolence training required of anti-demo protesters) to attempt to jump the barrier separating the spectator area from the council. There was something of a melee, and 2-3 protesters were arrested, after a struggle with police that made the national news. The council was adjourned for things to clear up for about 45 minutes.
Back outside, in heavy wind and rain (tornados were feared but did not materialize), the locked-out chanting protesters were confronted by nervous NOPD, who shut a barred iron gate to keep protesters out of the sheltered porte cochere between a court building and the council chamber. The crowd pushed back, and the police responded with mace or pepper spray (reports differ) and tasers. One young woman went into seizure. Several people (numbers unclear at this point) were hurt. Police reported that protesters had punched a deputy, but this is not shown on the TV video and is disputed by spokespeople for the protesters. About 6 people were arrested for disturbing the peace. Once all the protesters had left, either going to seek medical treatment or shelter from the weather, the NOPD unlocked the gate and announced piously that anyone who wanted to enter the council do so.
When order was restored inside the council, individuals were allowed to testify, first pro-demo, then anti. Pro-demos included "the usual suspects" (white neighbors, developers, etc.) but also many former residents, who spoke of the horrendous conditions at the " 'jects" even before Katrina. (That is true -- one issue, hardly addressed in the media, is why the agencies involved were allowed to let the sturdy buildings deteriorate and be a haven for rodents and roaches, let alone drug-dealing and crime.) Equal time was given to both sides, and the antis were well-spoken, passionate, and, for the most part, reasoned. Pleas were made for a compromise -- a 60-day moratorium instead of an up or down vote right then and there -- which many protest leaders thought had been worked out with the 3 council members thought to favor denying or delaying demolition.
But in the end, after 5 1/2 hours of testimony, all 7 council members, black and white, voted for demolition. (Interestingly, one black council member, who had been thought to be anti-demo, was near tears as she made her public statement before the vote.) The council averred that deals had been struck with HUD to replace demolished units 1 for 1, and to reopen units in some of the undemolished projects for homeless and displaced New Orleanians. (None of this in writing, however. Most council members spoke of hopes, dreams, and reliance on HUD's promises and assurances -- nothing concrete.) What seemed clear was that the minority black council members had been pressured with visions of further racial rifts in New Orleans if the vote split on racial lines -- and sure enough, all media reports after the vote trumpeted the council's new "unity."
There are some avenues left to be explored, but right now, it seems the demolitions will go on. Like many New Orleanians of good will, I am of 2 minds -- we've got over 12,000 homeless folks right now, many of them working, and we've got thousands of New Orleanians living in the diaspora, longing to come back to the only place that will ever really be home. And some of the projects are sturdily built, garden-style apartment blocks that could be renovated into nice places to live. BUT the 'jects were indeed havens for crime, drugs, violence, rodents and roaches, that warehoused generations of poor families. Mixed income would be perfect, but only IF it's on on higher ground and IF there truly is 1 for 1 replacement and IF "affordable housing" is tied to income with provisions to alleviate the hardship of big up-front deposits, and IF the new units are as well-built as what is being demolished. Lots of big ifs.
Don't let what's being shown on TV or in the NY TImes photos keep you from visiting. What's happening over public housing is not happening everywhere, and not all the time. And no one here, least of all the poor or working poor, is served if on top of everything else, we start losing visitors and the money they spend. There's still lots that both skilled and unskilled volunteers can do here, and when you're finished working hard, there's great food and wonderful music to refresh your body and soul. Even a diminished and wounded New Orleans is a great place to be, and I urge you and your congregations to get involved with us.
At least 3 council members had announced publicly that their minds were already made up and would vote for demolition. Two-three council members were considered probably and likely "no" votes by anti-demo activists, and one was thought to be a "swing" vote. Activists had been involved in many public protests before yesterday's meeting -- some of them witty, such as the rehearsed caroling at the homes of 2 council members (complete with home-made sugar cookies iced "1 for 1") -- they were chased off by NOPD; and young people (including one from my church) arrested for camping out at the closed projects in their holiday PJs, with signs saying, "Home for the Holidays" -- as well as more conventional ways of expression.
Despite months of organized protests and private meetings with council members and the editorial board of the Times-Picayune newspaper, city officials acted totally unprepared yesterday morning for the large crowds of both pro-demolition and anti-demolition representatives who descended upon City Hall for the vote by the City Council on whether or not to approve permits for the demolition of the Big 4 closed-since-Katrina public housing projects. (With all they knew in advance, it would have been much better and less provocative if the meeting had been moved to a much larger venue.)
It did not take long for the council chamber to fill up with spectators, while something more than a hundred or so (maybe as high as 200) people were unable to enter, and began chanting outside. Inside, one white council woman, responding to calls to "resign before recall." sarcastically waved and blew kisses, which led a few protesters (who apparently had skipped the nonviolence training required of anti-demo protesters) to attempt to jump the barrier separating the spectator area from the council. There was something of a melee, and 2-3 protesters were arrested, after a struggle with police that made the national news. The council was adjourned for things to clear up for about 45 minutes.
Back outside, in heavy wind and rain (tornados were feared but did not materialize), the locked-out chanting protesters were confronted by nervous NOPD, who shut a barred iron gate to keep protesters out of the sheltered porte cochere between a court building and the council chamber. The crowd pushed back, and the police responded with mace or pepper spray (reports differ) and tasers. One young woman went into seizure. Several people (numbers unclear at this point) were hurt. Police reported that protesters had punched a deputy, but this is not shown on the TV video and is disputed by spokespeople for the protesters. About 6 people were arrested for disturbing the peace. Once all the protesters had left, either going to seek medical treatment or shelter from the weather, the NOPD unlocked the gate and announced piously that anyone who wanted to enter the council do so.
When order was restored inside the council, individuals were allowed to testify, first pro-demo, then anti. Pro-demos included "the usual suspects" (white neighbors, developers, etc.) but also many former residents, who spoke of the horrendous conditions at the " 'jects" even before Katrina. (That is true -- one issue, hardly addressed in the media, is why the agencies involved were allowed to let the sturdy buildings deteriorate and be a haven for rodents and roaches, let alone drug-dealing and crime.) Equal time was given to both sides, and the antis were well-spoken, passionate, and, for the most part, reasoned. Pleas were made for a compromise -- a 60-day moratorium instead of an up or down vote right then and there -- which many protest leaders thought had been worked out with the 3 council members thought to favor denying or delaying demolition.
But in the end, after 5 1/2 hours of testimony, all 7 council members, black and white, voted for demolition. (Interestingly, one black council member, who had been thought to be anti-demo, was near tears as she made her public statement before the vote.) The council averred that deals had been struck with HUD to replace demolished units 1 for 1, and to reopen units in some of the undemolished projects for homeless and displaced New Orleanians. (None of this in writing, however. Most council members spoke of hopes, dreams, and reliance on HUD's promises and assurances -- nothing concrete.) What seemed clear was that the minority black council members had been pressured with visions of further racial rifts in New Orleans if the vote split on racial lines -- and sure enough, all media reports after the vote trumpeted the council's new "unity."
There are some avenues left to be explored, but right now, it seems the demolitions will go on. Like many New Orleanians of good will, I am of 2 minds -- we've got over 12,000 homeless folks right now, many of them working, and we've got thousands of New Orleanians living in the diaspora, longing to come back to the only place that will ever really be home. And some of the projects are sturdily built, garden-style apartment blocks that could be renovated into nice places to live. BUT the 'jects were indeed havens for crime, drugs, violence, rodents and roaches, that warehoused generations of poor families. Mixed income would be perfect, but only IF it's on on higher ground and IF there truly is 1 for 1 replacement and IF "affordable housing" is tied to income with provisions to alleviate the hardship of big up-front deposits, and IF the new units are as well-built as what is being demolished. Lots of big ifs.
Don't let what's being shown on TV or in the NY TImes photos keep you from visiting. What's happening over public housing is not happening everywhere, and not all the time. And no one here, least of all the poor or working poor, is served if on top of everything else, we start losing visitors and the money they spend. There's still lots that both skilled and unskilled volunteers can do here, and when you're finished working hard, there's great food and wonderful music to refresh your body and soul. Even a diminished and wounded New Orleans is a great place to be, and I urge you and your congregations to get involved with us.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
"Let's Get This Gig Going!"
On Saturday, November 24, I attended the funeral of the man who had been, up til a week or so ago, the oldest living jazz musician in the city, Ernest "Doc" Paulin. We had two special family connections to Doc Paulin and his brass band. The first goes back to my first ministry outside New Orleans, in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and the second is quite recent.
Back in 1993, when I was first called to the church in Chattanooga, my son and I were pretty homesick. We missed our family back home, but we also sorely missed our New Orleans food and holidays and traditions and especially our music. When we learned that the National Folk Festival was to be held in Chattanooga for the next two years, we were excited -- but we were even more elated to find out that the festival would be kicked off with a New Orleans-style parade led by the Doc Paulin Brass Band! On that evening, we gathered our secondline umbrellas, our handkerchieves, and our dancing shoes, and drove downtown to be a part of it. We met up with Doc Paulin and his sons and the other musicians in the band, told them we were from home, and let them know we were their secondline! (A couple of the musicians actually recognized me, and said, "Didn't we play your going-away party at a church?" Brass bands in New Orleans being what they are, some musicians from the Paulin band had played with the Treme Brass Band the night of my farewell party.)
Stevie and I swung into action as the band got started, tossing our handkerchieves and lifting our umbrellas, and to our surprise and not a little embarrassment, we were the ONLY secondliners in the parade! Folks in Chattanooga had never heard of secondlining before and watched us in amazement (and possibly disbelief). Our photograph appeared on the front page of the Chattanooga Times, and we were interviewed on local TV. We couldn't have been more surprised -- wasn't secondlining a brass band the most natural thing in the world? (Interestingly, the second year of the National Folk Festival, we two secondliners were joined by a host of people who had picked it up from us the year before. Stevie and I are proud to take credit for teaching Chattanooga this great tradition.)
The second connection to Doc Paulin is through Big Man in our new life in New Orleans post-Katrina. The band Big Man plays with on Bourbon Street (the Blues Club, across from Galatoire's, in case you want to go) is called Category 5, and from the first night he played, Big Man was coming home and talking about this great trombone player in the band called "Doc." In fact, Big Man said, the band had at least two members who went by that appellation, and, this being New Orleans, I didn't think anything of it. Then I finally went down to the club myself and Big Man introduced me to the trombone player, saying, "This is Doc Paulin, who I've been telling you about." And I blurted out, "You're not Doc Paulin, he must be your daddy!"
That's when "young" Doc told me that his dad would celebrate his 100th birthday in a few weeks, and that since he was the oldest son, he was named after his dad, complete with nickname. We talked a bit, and I recalled the Chattanooga story, and wished old Doc a great birthday. A few days after the big celebration birthday, Doc told Big Man that the family didn't expect his dad to live much longer, and sure enough, he passed close to Thanksgiving.
The funeral was held at Holy Ghost Church on Louisiana Avenue. When I arrived, the historic glass horse-drawn funeral carriage was outside, and the visitation and recitation of the rosary was still going on inside. (I haven't been anywhere close to a rosary service in decades and I found the repetition of the prayers meditative and calming.) Crowds of musicians of all ages were coming in, many holding the traditional jazz caps emblazoned with "Doc Paulin Brass Band." There were many extended family members (Doc and his wife had 13 children, so do the math with the kids, grandkids, nieces, nephews and so on), and jazz afficionados. It was a lovely service. The St. Francis de Sales Golden Voices choir sang, there was lots of emotional music, and spoken tributes that made you laugh and tugged at your heart.
Hearing Doc's life story being shared in the eulogy, I realized that even at 100 he was too young to have ever known jazz progenitor Buddy Bolden, who was institutionalized in 1907, never to play again. But Doc did know the men who knew Bolden, who heard him play and who played with him, who were inspired directly by his loud and wild horn. So now with Doc's death, we lose the last of the generation of musicians who were once removed from King Bolden. The oldest among us now is too young to have known anyone who knew Bolden or who played with him. It was a melancholy thought.
Other sharing made us laugh. Doc was punctilious to a fault, and demanded discipline of all the younger musicians who played with him. Being neat, well-dressed, and on time was almost a religion for him. Going on a Doc Paulin gig meant showing up at his HOUSE, so he could look you over first and make changes and improvements when necessary. Doc also couldn't abide fooling around on a stage, wasting time. He was a consummate professional. His perennial expression was, "Let's get this gig going!"
At one point near the close of the service, all the musicians present were invited to join in a rendition of "I'll Fly Away." The music was heart-felt and powerful -- so powerful, in fact, that the 4th Station of the Cross was jarred loose from the wall and crashed to the floor, shattering it into pieces. Hardly anyone noticed, and the improvised band played on.
Toward the end of his life, suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's, being unable to play his beloved cornet for 4 years (his last gig was at age 96!), he began to wish for it to be all over. In those last weeks, he was heard to tell his daughter, "Let's get this body in the ground!" And on Saturday, that's what they did.
Back in 1993, when I was first called to the church in Chattanooga, my son and I were pretty homesick. We missed our family back home, but we also sorely missed our New Orleans food and holidays and traditions and especially our music. When we learned that the National Folk Festival was to be held in Chattanooga for the next two years, we were excited -- but we were even more elated to find out that the festival would be kicked off with a New Orleans-style parade led by the Doc Paulin Brass Band! On that evening, we gathered our secondline umbrellas, our handkerchieves, and our dancing shoes, and drove downtown to be a part of it. We met up with Doc Paulin and his sons and the other musicians in the band, told them we were from home, and let them know we were their secondline! (A couple of the musicians actually recognized me, and said, "Didn't we play your going-away party at a church?" Brass bands in New Orleans being what they are, some musicians from the Paulin band had played with the Treme Brass Band the night of my farewell party.)
Stevie and I swung into action as the band got started, tossing our handkerchieves and lifting our umbrellas, and to our surprise and not a little embarrassment, we were the ONLY secondliners in the parade! Folks in Chattanooga had never heard of secondlining before and watched us in amazement (and possibly disbelief). Our photograph appeared on the front page of the Chattanooga Times, and we were interviewed on local TV. We couldn't have been more surprised -- wasn't secondlining a brass band the most natural thing in the world? (Interestingly, the second year of the National Folk Festival, we two secondliners were joined by a host of people who had picked it up from us the year before. Stevie and I are proud to take credit for teaching Chattanooga this great tradition.)
The second connection to Doc Paulin is through Big Man in our new life in New Orleans post-Katrina. The band Big Man plays with on Bourbon Street (the Blues Club, across from Galatoire's, in case you want to go) is called Category 5, and from the first night he played, Big Man was coming home and talking about this great trombone player in the band called "Doc." In fact, Big Man said, the band had at least two members who went by that appellation, and, this being New Orleans, I didn't think anything of it. Then I finally went down to the club myself and Big Man introduced me to the trombone player, saying, "This is Doc Paulin, who I've been telling you about." And I blurted out, "You're not Doc Paulin, he must be your daddy!"
That's when "young" Doc told me that his dad would celebrate his 100th birthday in a few weeks, and that since he was the oldest son, he was named after his dad, complete with nickname. We talked a bit, and I recalled the Chattanooga story, and wished old Doc a great birthday. A few days after the big celebration birthday, Doc told Big Man that the family didn't expect his dad to live much longer, and sure enough, he passed close to Thanksgiving.
The funeral was held at Holy Ghost Church on Louisiana Avenue. When I arrived, the historic glass horse-drawn funeral carriage was outside, and the visitation and recitation of the rosary was still going on inside. (I haven't been anywhere close to a rosary service in decades and I found the repetition of the prayers meditative and calming.) Crowds of musicians of all ages were coming in, many holding the traditional jazz caps emblazoned with "Doc Paulin Brass Band." There were many extended family members (Doc and his wife had 13 children, so do the math with the kids, grandkids, nieces, nephews and so on), and jazz afficionados. It was a lovely service. The St. Francis de Sales Golden Voices choir sang, there was lots of emotional music, and spoken tributes that made you laugh and tugged at your heart.
Hearing Doc's life story being shared in the eulogy, I realized that even at 100 he was too young to have ever known jazz progenitor Buddy Bolden, who was institutionalized in 1907, never to play again. But Doc did know the men who knew Bolden, who heard him play and who played with him, who were inspired directly by his loud and wild horn. So now with Doc's death, we lose the last of the generation of musicians who were once removed from King Bolden. The oldest among us now is too young to have known anyone who knew Bolden or who played with him. It was a melancholy thought.
Other sharing made us laugh. Doc was punctilious to a fault, and demanded discipline of all the younger musicians who played with him. Being neat, well-dressed, and on time was almost a religion for him. Going on a Doc Paulin gig meant showing up at his HOUSE, so he could look you over first and make changes and improvements when necessary. Doc also couldn't abide fooling around on a stage, wasting time. He was a consummate professional. His perennial expression was, "Let's get this gig going!"
At one point near the close of the service, all the musicians present were invited to join in a rendition of "I'll Fly Away." The music was heart-felt and powerful -- so powerful, in fact, that the 4th Station of the Cross was jarred loose from the wall and crashed to the floor, shattering it into pieces. Hardly anyone noticed, and the improvised band played on.
Toward the end of his life, suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's, being unable to play his beloved cornet for 4 years (his last gig was at age 96!), he began to wish for it to be all over. In those last weeks, he was heard to tell his daughter, "Let's get this body in the ground!" And on Saturday, that's what they did.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Return of the St. Charles Streetcar!
All of us New Orleanians treasure and savor each new small sign of our recovery and our return, as my son's parain says, to abnormal. The College Inn is reopening (in a new building) Tuesdays through Saturdays -- yay! Two young guys are working on renovating Charlie's Steakhouse and will bring it back better than ever -- yeah you right! The City Park Carousel will reopen -- hurrah!
Every little bit of our culture and tradition coming back to us is like getting pieces of ourselves back. We trade news with each other, and give the thumbs up. The happiness is shared, and gives us hope and strength for what we know is a very long haul indeed.
On Saturday, November 10, Big Man and I hustled to get from the Marigny, where the New Orleans Book Fair was held, to be at the Grand Reopening of the St. Charles Streetcar at the corner of Napoleon and St. Charles Avenues. (By the way, the Book Fair was terrific, with perhaps seven-eighths of the city's char-ack-ter population in attendance. After about the 5th booth, Big Man says to me, "I've never been to a Book Fair anywhere in the country where there were so many books about the city where the fair was held." We are pretty self-referential, but we just think it's normal. We think, who wouldn't want to write a book about New Orleans?)
By the time we arrived, a fair-sized mixed crowd had gathered at the starting point of the streetcar's reduced line. (The rest of the line, from Napoleon uptown to Riverbend and Carrollton, will open, they say, in 2008, after more work is done on the tracks and the electric wires.) The folks formed around the temporary speaker's platform were a microcosm of the city at her best -- white well-dressed Uptowners (with champagne glasses!), young white people with piercings and wildly colored or dreadlocked hair, some Latino families and singles, some black families and singles, a few Asian-Americans, children, youth, young adults, aging Baby Boomers, wise elders. The parents held their little kids up so they could see better. Many people held handkerchieves which they touched to their eyes; many eyes shone with happy tears, including mine.
There were speakers -- officials from the mayor's office, from RTA, from FEMA, from the City Coucil, even Bill Jefferson -- and the crowd was mostly polite (there was one heckler, over by Fat Harry's, but he was not very audible and was easily ignored). But we really didn't care about the speeches. All we wanted was our streetcars.
In front of the first streetcar -- there were 4 lined up altogether -- stood the Warren Easton High School Marching Band, complete with flag girls. Their uniforms were brilliant in the sun, obviously band-box new. ("Tipitina's Foundation," guessed Big Man.) When the time came to rewire and electrifiy the streetcars, the drum line did a roll, and a cymbal crash, and then we all applauded. The dignitiaries and officials got onto the first streetcar, as the band struck up a marching tune.
The rest of us regular folks pressed up against the next streetcar, including Big Man and I, since I wanted so much to be in the second streetcar in the little "parade." A young mom near me comforted her little girl, "Don't worry, honey, we'll be in this one." We climbed in and the love and nostalgia washed over us all. I was not the only one with tears in my eyes. The old familiar smell of a streetcar -- who knows what it's composed of? who cares? -- filled our nostrils.
Big Man and I got a seat, and he opened the window for me, clack-clack-clack-clack, all the way up. It was a glorious day, all blue sky and sunshine and warm. We could just barely hear the band in front of the streetcar in the lead in front of us and suddenly, we were off! but at a stately, parade pace. The St. Charles streetcar had returned, and we were on it! All of us screamed and cheered and clapped. Cars going by us blew their horns and the drivers and passengers grinned and waved, and we waved back. Our streetcar driver hit the bell, ding! ding! ding! Oh, that beloved sound!
We rattled down St. Charles, bodies moving in the old sweet rhythm, rocking back and forth. We were all so happy. At nearly every block along the way, there were little crowds of people waiting for the streetcar. They didn't want to ride, they just wanted to see and celebrate. At one swank St. Charles mansion, men in pressed khakis and women in dresses came onto the veranda and toasted the streetcar; we cheered. At another stop, a crowd of people held up home-made signs: "Boo Buses! Yay Streetcar!" "Katrina 0 -- Streetcars 1" and even "We Love RTA." We roared our approval and agreement. At another, the gathered group pelted the streetcar with beads. We cheered them too.
A woman stood up in the front of our streetcar and said, "Let's celebrate the return of the streetcar in real New Orleans style!" and she began to sing "The Saints." Everyone aboard joined in with gusto and cheered after. Cars on St. Charles paced us, the drivers waving. A woman came out onto her porch, holding an infant, who she held up to "see" us go by. An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs in their front yard to watch us. People came running out of banks and bars on St. Charles to cheer as the streetcars went by. Buildings like The Columns Hotel and the Tourist Commission were draped with banners, welcoming the return of the streetcar. Folks on the sidewalk held up their cell phones to take pictures, and all the TV stations -- NBC, CBS, ABC, WYES, FOX, and even Telemundo -- shot streetcar footage as we went by. It was a tremendous feeling.
As we passed Felicity Street, Big Man and I got up from our seat and walked to the front, having first made sure to pull the line to alert the driver that ours was the next stop. (I think we may have been the only people to disembark that day, but we had planned on purpose to do this, having preparked our car at my sister's, where I would pick it up that night after a party.) As we walked past a RTA official, I smiled and said, "Just using it for transportation, y'know" and she smiled back. We alit at Euterpe and walked the 6 blocks home from there, still on a high from the ride and the day. A day to remember and treasure.
The St. Charles streetcar is back!
Every little bit of our culture and tradition coming back to us is like getting pieces of ourselves back. We trade news with each other, and give the thumbs up. The happiness is shared, and gives us hope and strength for what we know is a very long haul indeed.
On Saturday, November 10, Big Man and I hustled to get from the Marigny, where the New Orleans Book Fair was held, to be at the Grand Reopening of the St. Charles Streetcar at the corner of Napoleon and St. Charles Avenues. (By the way, the Book Fair was terrific, with perhaps seven-eighths of the city's char-ack-ter population in attendance. After about the 5th booth, Big Man says to me, "I've never been to a Book Fair anywhere in the country where there were so many books about the city where the fair was held." We are pretty self-referential, but we just think it's normal. We think, who wouldn't want to write a book about New Orleans?)
By the time we arrived, a fair-sized mixed crowd had gathered at the starting point of the streetcar's reduced line. (The rest of the line, from Napoleon uptown to Riverbend and Carrollton, will open, they say, in 2008, after more work is done on the tracks and the electric wires.) The folks formed around the temporary speaker's platform were a microcosm of the city at her best -- white well-dressed Uptowners (with champagne glasses!), young white people with piercings and wildly colored or dreadlocked hair, some Latino families and singles, some black families and singles, a few Asian-Americans, children, youth, young adults, aging Baby Boomers, wise elders. The parents held their little kids up so they could see better. Many people held handkerchieves which they touched to their eyes; many eyes shone with happy tears, including mine.
There were speakers -- officials from the mayor's office, from RTA, from FEMA, from the City Coucil, even Bill Jefferson -- and the crowd was mostly polite (there was one heckler, over by Fat Harry's, but he was not very audible and was easily ignored). But we really didn't care about the speeches. All we wanted was our streetcars.
In front of the first streetcar -- there were 4 lined up altogether -- stood the Warren Easton High School Marching Band, complete with flag girls. Their uniforms were brilliant in the sun, obviously band-box new. ("Tipitina's Foundation," guessed Big Man.) When the time came to rewire and electrifiy the streetcars, the drum line did a roll, and a cymbal crash, and then we all applauded. The dignitiaries and officials got onto the first streetcar, as the band struck up a marching tune.
The rest of us regular folks pressed up against the next streetcar, including Big Man and I, since I wanted so much to be in the second streetcar in the little "parade." A young mom near me comforted her little girl, "Don't worry, honey, we'll be in this one." We climbed in and the love and nostalgia washed over us all. I was not the only one with tears in my eyes. The old familiar smell of a streetcar -- who knows what it's composed of? who cares? -- filled our nostrils.
Big Man and I got a seat, and he opened the window for me, clack-clack-clack-clack, all the way up. It was a glorious day, all blue sky and sunshine and warm. We could just barely hear the band in front of the streetcar in the lead in front of us and suddenly, we were off! but at a stately, parade pace. The St. Charles streetcar had returned, and we were on it! All of us screamed and cheered and clapped. Cars going by us blew their horns and the drivers and passengers grinned and waved, and we waved back. Our streetcar driver hit the bell, ding! ding! ding! Oh, that beloved sound!
We rattled down St. Charles, bodies moving in the old sweet rhythm, rocking back and forth. We were all so happy. At nearly every block along the way, there were little crowds of people waiting for the streetcar. They didn't want to ride, they just wanted to see and celebrate. At one swank St. Charles mansion, men in pressed khakis and women in dresses came onto the veranda and toasted the streetcar; we cheered. At another stop, a crowd of people held up home-made signs: "Boo Buses! Yay Streetcar!" "Katrina 0 -- Streetcars 1" and even "We Love RTA." We roared our approval and agreement. At another, the gathered group pelted the streetcar with beads. We cheered them too.
A woman stood up in the front of our streetcar and said, "Let's celebrate the return of the streetcar in real New Orleans style!" and she began to sing "The Saints." Everyone aboard joined in with gusto and cheered after. Cars on St. Charles paced us, the drivers waving. A woman came out onto her porch, holding an infant, who she held up to "see" us go by. An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs in their front yard to watch us. People came running out of banks and bars on St. Charles to cheer as the streetcars went by. Buildings like The Columns Hotel and the Tourist Commission were draped with banners, welcoming the return of the streetcar. Folks on the sidewalk held up their cell phones to take pictures, and all the TV stations -- NBC, CBS, ABC, WYES, FOX, and even Telemundo -- shot streetcar footage as we went by. It was a tremendous feeling.
As we passed Felicity Street, Big Man and I got up from our seat and walked to the front, having first made sure to pull the line to alert the driver that ours was the next stop. (I think we may have been the only people to disembark that day, but we had planned on purpose to do this, having preparked our car at my sister's, where I would pick it up that night after a party.) As we walked past a RTA official, I smiled and said, "Just using it for transportation, y'know" and she smiled back. We alit at Euterpe and walked the 6 blocks home from there, still on a high from the ride and the day. A day to remember and treasure.
The St. Charles streetcar is back!
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