Cops Hate Drum Circles
MONDAY: Lundi Gras activities began with a sobering visit to neighborhoods damaged by flooding after Hurricane Katrina. Five of us — me, Sarah, Wade, Victoria and Scrappy — piled into a Monte Carlo for the tour.
Our first stop was the area of the 17th Street canal floodwall collapse in the Lakeview neighborhood. It didn’t look much different from the last time I viewed the area last fall (except that the huge mountains of debris in the “neutral ground” of the road were gone). In the 3-block-or-so radius at the floodwall collapse site, houses all around sat with their walls collapsed and windows blown out as a few people snapped souvenir photos. One house, shoved off its foundation during Katrina by the fury of the water, remained in the middle of the road. In the midst of the ruins, we saw some glimmers of hope: A handful of homes have quickly been put back together again. It must be a very lonely place to live right now.
We next drove across town — a world away — to the devastated Lower Ninth Ward, site of the most catastrophic flooding. Where Lakeview was home to some of New Orleans’ wealthiest residents, the Lower Ninth housed its poorest.
I had never toured the damage in this area, but a friend had described it like this: Imagine taking two handfuls of popsicle sticks and throwing them on the floor. The scope of the disaster made us gasp. “It’s hard to believe this is in the United States,” Scrappy told me as we walked around debris scattered across blocks and blocks of the Lower Ninth.
Houses along Tennessee Street were pushed by the water in scattered formation a block away. All around, there were glimpses of the residents’ former lives: A baby’s shoe lying in the dirt. Rusted power tools. And there were things that really made you do a double-take: a couch atop a car atop a truck atop a fence, for example.
Where we stood in the Lower Ninth and as far as we could see, everything was destroyed. There was not one refurbished home, not one person living at “ground zero,” where time stopped six months ago.
…
The Texas trio bid us farewell and began their long cartrip back home. Yes, it is lame leaving before Fat Tuesday, they told us, but they have to get back to work. Looks like they had lots of fun, though.
…
After a staggeringly disappointing camera-scouting trip to the suburbs, I spent a good half an hour looking for a parking spot near the French Quarter. Finally, I commandeered a space in the Fauburgh Marigny. I decided on a light dinner at Hookah Cafe, one of my favorite nightspots. The booze is top-notch, the Indian-inspired food awakens the senses, and, of course, there are tobacco hookahs you can smoke from, if you’re so inclined.
So here comes the cool part. I’m sitting at the bar, sipping a beer, waiting for my food to arrive, and four men make room next to me. I turn around and Dan Akroyd is sitting two barstools away from me. Akroyd was in a parade on Sunday. “We’re going to need some champagne,” Akroyd told the bartender. He looked my way. “How’s it going?” he asked me in that rapid-fire way he has of speaking. “Pretty damned good,” I said. “Danny,” he said, introducing himself needlessly. I chuckled and told him I caught a strand of beads that he had tossed during the parade.
Other people began to notice Akroyd, and he was approached from time to time for a handshake. He and his crew ordered some nice champagne and Petrón. “I’m so comfortable right now in this spot. Let’s just eat here at the bar,” Akroyd said.
…
I walked down Frenchmen Street to the Blue Nile club, where trumpeteer Kermit Ruffins and his band were counting down to midnight, when Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) would begin. Kermit was playing at a bar the night Sarah and I met three years ago, and I hadn’t seen him perform since the storm. Kermit used to be in the Rebirth Brass Band about a decade ago, but he struck out on his own to much success. He’s been called today’s Louis Armstrong. He has the sort of wink-and-a-nod, let’s-go-get-high swagger on stage that people just eat up. His song “Swing That Bootie All Night Long” elicited mass ass-shaking from the audience. A cover of Ray Charles’ “She Gives Me Money” was my favorite tune of the night.
I left at midnight to catch some of Johnny Sketch & the Dirty Notes at DBA down the street. More ass-shaking on a grand scale.
When I went outside, a drum circle was captivating the assembled crowd. Lots of dyed hair and questionable wardrobe choices, but this scene was just the kind of thing I love. It was art. Anyone could make music. Someone was banging two bottles together. Another person had shakers. A man played a trumpet to my left. A saxophone to my right. A huge shopping cart had been turned into a do-it-yourself music machine. There were many drums. I simply clapped my hands. People were smiling and having a great time. Then the cops came.
A man wearing clown makeup and playing the trumpet was asked by a police officer to come with him. Someone who started recording the clown’s harassment was subsequently arrested. “What the fuck?” people in the crowd began shouting. “Let him go! Let him go!” Someone kicked the police car.
That’s when the cavalry was called in. Seven police cars stormed their way down Frenchmen, sirens blazing. Two police officers on horses cleared a path. More than a dozen officers stood together, looking around as the crowd began clapping in unison and shouting, “BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT!” This really was bullshit. There’s loud music all around the area from all the clubs on the street, so the noise couldn’t have been a problem. And I never saw any drug use. At any rate, it’s MARDI GRAS for crying out loud. The police had brought this on themselves.
The officers made the drumming stop and threatened to arrest people who stood too close to them in the street. One officer held in his hand a bunch of the plastic cuffs used to make mass arrests. Finally, the cops took down one of the ringleaders of the drum circle, shouting “Do not resist!” as the man squirmed on his belly in the street and was handcuffed. There were at least three arrests.
The cops then got back into their cars and left.
Ten minutes later, the drumming started again. The spirit was not broken, and the crowd of onlookers began to swell again. “All night long, baby,” one of the drummers said.
Got It All on Film; But Then…
SUNDAY: We ate lunch at the venerable Sake Cafe in the Garden District, home of the best sushi this side of the Mississippi River. Seriously, this restaurant offers the best, freshest sushi I’ve ever had, including in New York City. Easily one of my favorite eateries, and we couldn’t possibly visit New Orleans without stopping by the place. We got some edamame, salmon, tuna and yellowtail sushi, and a Tiger Roll. Beautiful stuff.
We rolled on over to the French Quarter after that and found a sweet parking spot on Rampart Street. A short walk led us to Canal and Royal streets, where we rendevouzed with Wade and Victoria again. There was a break between parades. About a four hour break, in fact. It was a ridiculous wait for all parties involved, but the assembled crowd found ways to stay entertained.
One such shining beacon of entertainment was throwing a Nerf football back and forth across the street. This kept everyone amused for at least an hour, no kidding. Men, women, children alike were enthralled beyond belief by this yellow oval ball gliding through the air. Wade amazed us with his one-handed catches. Then we came up with a game plan: Wade hiked the ball to me. I ran up behind him, then in front, tossed it back to him; then he threw it deep across the street. Ladies and gentlemen, that was the “flea flicker” play we grew to love in Nintendo’s Super Techmo Bowl. Out of nowhere, a young boy approached seconds later and blew a red whistle, calling a “flag” on the play. Fifteen-yard penalty. You cannot make this stuff up.
After the parades, we went to DejaVu, where Sarah got us up to the balcony free of charge. They typically charge $100 a person for this privilege during Carnival. We tossed beads down to the masses gathered on Bourbon Street, paying particular attention, of course, to the ladies willing to bare their chests for the plastic trinkets. “Show your tits,” the cute girls next to me on the balcony yelled down to some girls below. My kind of balcony. “This might be one of my low points,” I jokingly told one of the girls.
The low point in the evening came when I realized I lost my camera on the balcony. Nice $600 digital camera. Gone. Yes, I checked lost-and-found, and no such luck. It’s gone. Along with four days’ worth of photos. It was a buzzkill.
Sundi Gras?
THURSDAY: We drive up to our friends’ house in New Orleans at about 2:30 a.m., say hi and fall into bed. It took 24 hours (split into two days) to make the drive from Brooklyn. We’ll be staying with our pals Thelma and Darren for a week. Their house is Uptown, just off Louisiana Avenue and Magazine Street, not flooded during the storm and conveniently short walk to the parades on St. Charles Avenue.
Later Thursday, Sarah headed into work on Bourbon Street, while I checked out my first parades of Carnival 2006. I set up on my favorite spot at Philip Street and St. Charles. I was giving an on-the-ground Mardi Gras report via cell phone to my friend Levi when along comes Guitar Slim Jr., legendary blues musician and alcoholic. I hand Slim the phone and he talks to Levi (they’ve played together in times past). “New York???!” Slim shouts incredulously. “You’re in New York? Why aren’t you here? You’re missin’ all the fun.”
Turns out Slim is off the wagon again (or is it on the wagon?) and isn’t drinking at the moment. “I really want to go to Bourbon,” he confides to me, “but if I start drinking, I’ll go on a binge for two months. I just can’t stop.” I have seen Slim on a few of these binges, and trust me, it ain’t pretty.
It’s a shame. So much talent. One of his albums was nominated for a Grammy in 1988. He’s told me all about going out to Los Angeles and coming home empty-handed. But those were heady days for Slim: Limo rides through the projects of New Orleans, pockets filled with cash, interviews in national magazines. His fall has been a long and tangled one, with a few weird twists along the way.
Anyway, on Thursday night, I told Slim I have written a song I’d love for him to record. “Let’s do it,” he said, and I was convinced he’d forget this agreement as soon as he said it.
Later, I ducked into Igor’s, where my favorite fiery liberal bartender Karin hooked me up with a free double-Jack-and-Coke. I downed it and treated myself to another. The pinball machine, one designed after the TV show “The Sopranos,” sat unplugged in the corner. The jukebox blasted “Chocolate City” by Parliament, the tongue-in-cheek anthem of post-Katrina New Orleans.
FRIDAY: My brother, Wade, and his gal Victoria arrive into town at 7 a.m. from deep Texas. They have to wait until 1 in the afternoon to check into the Monteleone Hotel, so naturally they bide time by consuming copious amounts of alcohol on Bourbon Street. One of them calls me at 10 a.m., but I ignore the phone and go back to sleep. That afternoon, I call Wade during his own nap and wake him up, lending me some satisfaction.
As Wade and Victoria and their friend Scrappy Doo sleep off the morning alcohol, Sarah and I go to Jefferson to pick up my 1965 Thunderbird, which has been in the shop for mechanic work. This rusting beauty now has new tires, a brand new web of exhaust pipes and mufflers (2), working brakes (!!!), and some mild carburetor work.
We bring the car, which I have now named Stella, back to the house. I take St. Charles Avenue, which is still open to traffic but pocked with people waiting for the day’s parades to begin. I begin to hear what I fear is a new sound in the old car’s arsenal of strange sounds. I smile when I realize it’s not a mechanical problem, but beads thumping against the car. People are throwing beads of approval at Stella. It’s official: They love her. The muffler hiccups as I turn onto Louisiana Avenue.
Later Friday, I catch up with Wade, Victoria and Scrappy near their hotel on Canal Street. We vie for beads and other trinkets thrown from the floats. I see perhaps the weirdest thing I’ve seen in months: Mexicans carrying flambeaux, the gas torches that were traditionally carried by black men to light the floats at night pre-electricity. We’ve outsourced another tradition, I guess. It is a telling sign of post-Katrina New Orleans, where many black people have yet to return because their homes were destroyed in the flooding.
After the parades, the four of us trek down Bourbon Street. This, I hope, will be my one and only Bourbon jaunt this trip. I try to do it once per Carnival because, well, it’s just what you do. But I limit it at that. It just gets too crowded with drunken idiots. I prefer something a little more, uh, refined.
I spent most of my time between ordering Hand Grenades speaking broken Spanish to anyone who would listen. “Tortugas grandes,” I shouted to one group of young Bourbonites, which means roughly, “Huge tortoises!” Other times, a simple “Que tal” was good enough for me. Que tal, of course, means “How’s it goin’?” A flock of Indian ladies were visibly shaken by my Spanish advances, proclaiming in disgust that they are not Spanish. “I don’t discriminate,” I tried to explain. “I’m speaking Spanish to everyone.”
I took down the name of one particular bartender, Rob, at a daiquiri shop who offended me by making me buy something before I could use the restroom. “That’s got to be illegal,” I said. A police officer later confirmed that it was perfectly legal for the bar to make such a requirement, but I think the cop didn’t know what she was talking about. As I recall, you cannot charge someone to use the bathroom in a bar. But all over Bourbon Street, this was the case. No wonder so many people piss openly in the streets. We went to the Erin Rose to relieve ourselves, a hip oasis amid a desert of shit near Bourbon Street. They do not charge for the facilities at the Erin Rose. In turn, we bought drinks there. So, good arrangement for all parties concerned.
I caught a cab home and stumbled into bed. I woke up with Sarah next to me, not remembering when she got home. Apparently she asked how my night was, and I responded, “Thuuurrrrrbechhh funnnneccchhhhh.” She looked at the photos on my digital camera and got a pretty good idea of how the night went.
SATURDAY: I tried to shake off my hangover, and the girl and I take Stella for a ride along Bayou St. John. The car cranked right up, which was quite a treat, and she handled the ride like a champ. All was right in the world.
That evening, I drove over to Franky & Johnny’s, where a group of six of us devoured 12 pounds of boiled crawfish, along with several platters of Very Fried Food (V.F.F.). The meal was delicious, although the hour-and-a-half wait for a table was atrocious. The night took a turn for the worse when I went to leave, when I tried to start Stella and she thwarted my advances. I turn the key, and nothin’. Nothin’. Battery’s dead? I don’t know. I leave it parked on the street until I can jump-start it the next day, and we go to the Maple Leaf.
Ah, the Maple Leaf: good music, good libations, groovy courtyard with a distinct aroma of marijuana wafting through the air all around us.
NOLA-bound
We’re driving to New Orleans starting today. We hope to get there late Wednesday night. Can’t wait for the Muses parade Thursday night.
For those of you familiar with the “AmpliCone,” rest assured that Ol’ Yeller is making the trip with us as well! I’ll try to post blog entries as much as I can over the next couple of weeks as we spend some time in New Orleans, then head over to Belize. We’re going to spend a week in a Mayan village. Maybe pay some villagers to re-enact an episode of “Seinfeld” to keep us entertained. (“Family Guy” reference for ya.) OK, enough, must get some sleep before the road trip begins.
Fine-Tuning the Ol’ Travel Plans
Ah-hah! The oft-mentioned travel plans are being finalized. Well, plans for the next couple of months, anyway. So here’s the agenda for the rest of February, March and April:
FEB. 23-MARCH 2: We’ll be in New Orleans for Carnival festivities.
MARCH 2-MARCH 17: Flying from New Orleans to Belize for a two-week sojourn.
MARCH 18: Back to New Orleans for a wedding for our pals Ryan & Kristy.
MARCH 20-MARCH 31: Dunno. Slowly driving back to NYC. We’ll probably stop off to visit my parents in South Carolina, my college pal Stacy and her family, and assorted other folks and hijinks along the way. In addition, we may hang around New Orleans for the World Championship Oyster-Eating Contest. Yes, I am serious. We have a cadre of friends who take this thing very seriously.
APRIL 1: Yet another wedding in Philadelphia. Why is everyone getting married this year?!
Late April: Europe.
Some of you are wondering (and have asked), “Dave, who is keeping your pets?” Well, the answer to that conundrum is that we’ve found a wonderful house-sitter who will take care of things while we’re away. She gets to stay rent-free for two months, and we get a care-provider for our home and pets. Pretty cool deal.
