There & Back Again

We’re down here in South Louisiana in the dripping heat of New Orleans. Over the past few weeks we’ve worked our way south via several states, over mountain and through cotton field to this melting pot of cultures, ethnicities, cuisine, music and history.

I don’t like arriving in new cities at night, it makes me slightly uneasy – I like to try to get my bearings as soon as I approach, which is difficult to do in the dark. By the time we’d got to our hostel, India House (which is one of the coolest, craziest hostels I’ve ever stayed in), checked in and freshened up it was rolling on 11pm. Friday night in New Orleans – the party started hours ago but shows now signs of dying just yet. We bumped into the young couple we’d coincidentally met on the Greyhound bus the day before and convinced them to accompany us into town. We hit the tourist entrapment of Bourbon Street in search of Ash’s schoolmate Iain, who happened to be here at the same time.

Bourbon Street is the heart of the tacky party culture of the city; a balance of entertainment, bewilderment and soullessness. For block up on block, bars compete with each other blasting out an array of RnB, classic rock and blues, neon lights scream for your attention boasting ‘Huge Ass Beers’ and devastating radioactive-coloured cocktails and cheap mixers. For those not in the mood for crappy music why not enjoy a lap dance or striptease at one of the many gentlemen’s clubs, advertised candidly by the half naked girls bending over in the doorways. Pissed up tourists stumble up and down the street, dodging the shit from the police horses and the litter lining the gutters; daft Mardi Gras beads are tossed around by crowds lining the balconies, smoking, swearing and flashing. It’s rather a sorry state of affairs – one that certainly must be entertained for it is one hell of an atmosphere on a weekend, but I’ll happily never do it again.

We ended up eventually meeting up with the crazy character that is Mr. Iain McClean and his posse of local female students and enjoyed a night of bar-hopping and meandering around, huge ass beers in hand, absorbing the atmosphere, and the alcohol. The hangover on Saturday said it all.

Saturday was a lazy day by the pool. We made new acquaintances – a group of lovely girls from all over the place who were taking a short trip to New Orleans together – Grace, Gro, Adrianna and co. That night we all ended up going out to Decatur Street and on to Frenchman and finally found a little corner of New Orleans that helped reassure my fears after my first nights experience on Bourbon Street that not all was forsaken in this town.  The music was good, a rather eclectic mix that kept us drinking and dancing (and flirting) till the bars started packing up, which led us back to the hostel to wrap up the night with more booze, head massages (don’t ask) and a few other shenanigans…

Ash was lay up in bed all Sunday with a migraine, which was a damn shame. Meanwhile Grace, Gro and I had a good drive out to see the city, especially the Lower 9th ward, one of the key districts that has hardly changed since Hurricane Katrina hit the city 5 years ago. to see the devastation that had occurred was enough, but the realisation that the government is seemingly doing nothing to restore these areas is quite disgusting. There appears to be no sign of restoration. Entire streets blown or washed away, only concrete slabs remain amongst the tall grass;  shattered skeletons of what were once peoples homes on the brink of collapse, interiors bare; crosses spray painted on the doors of homes where dead were found. It’s haunting, but there are people still living there amongst the constant reminders of death and the incompetency of the great American nation to help.

After the eye-opening tour round we passed the evening by with a couple of drinks at a bar in a rather bohemian, trendy part of town on Magazine Street. I retired to the hostel common room to chill out whilst Ash lay in bed with a pounding head and the girls went out to enjoy their last night in the city.

Now where do I have to go to find the jazz? Nashville was so quintessentially country, and Memphis, for all that Beale Street was worth, was most certainly a blues city. I’d always regarded New Orleans as the home of jazz, expecting every bar to swing and dive and bellow out the screech of the sax, the pipe of trumpets and the thud thud thud of that walking bass. Although a cool city, my expectations have only led me to slight disappointment. Bourbon is a disarray of carefree young party players and out-of-date has-beens lost, trapped in a world of poor, cheap entertainment and a din of competing noise and vulgar neon-lit lifestyles that ideally shouldn’t exist in a lot of places, but especially not New Orleans, not my New Orleans from teenage fantasies of marching swing bands and smoky balconies overlooking authentic, pure jazz joints and a streetlife bustling with genuine enthusiasm. Has this city changed or was my preconceived idea of it all one big illusion?

So far the Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street is the only place I’ve found that’s come close to the musical style and scene I was expecting of this city. 20s, 30s old-school brass band jazz – flat caps, tubas wrapped around the body, the thumping double bass and brushes caressing the kit to the toe-tapping swing rhythm. Here the trumpets parp, the trombone slides, the old sax players fiddle up and down on worn brass keys, the old crooners voices croak down the mic as if you’re listening to an old vinyl record and the eloquent dancers tear up the floor, throwing out shaky feet and swinging moves and all. Berets, flat caps, high socks and cool old cats… this is my New Orleans.

After a day strolling around the French Quarter yesterday, Ash’s headache now subsided, we ended up on Frenchman again in the evening, as we surely will again tonight. Once we stepped into the Spotted Cat around midnight we knew instantly that we wouldn’t be leaving again for anywhere else.

Over a smoke in the break we chatted with the band, a truly fascinating experience. The trumpet player, Frank, going on 70, a true New Orleans veteran and a legend in his own right enlightened us to the changing musical and cultural scene of the city, in turn backing up my assumption that this town is no longer what it once was. Back in the day he was pally with Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday!

We’re in such a different world now, and the world I had imagined in my childhood and teenage visions is one that is unfortunately disappearing, and fast. I fear that you’ll struggle to hear that classic old New Orleans sound here in 10 years time. It’s a scary thought. Our world is transforming so fast, even the youth like me struggle to keep up – how do these old crooners and jazz cats stand a chance?

Last night struck home a realisation that everything doesn’t last forever. I loathe the idea that my children (heaven forbid) miss the opportunity to experience worlds like this, worlds that are becoming extinct. But you can’t see and do everything, just make the most of the time you’ve got, I suppose!

Ah well, enough philosophy for now – it’s time for another sweet, cheap, bourbon and coke.