BOURBON ST. BLUES

#39 - Bourbon Cowboy

BOURBON ST. BLUES

My band played a show in New Orleans, where I was born. Though I had visited a few times since moving away, I was pleased to return with my band. A homecoming, in a way. 

We were on tour. We had just played in Houston and were going to Pensacola after New Orleans.  

We played the Punk and Metal circuits wherever we could find a gig. Punks called us Heavy Metal and the Metal guys called us Punks. We thought of ourselves as Rockers just doing our own material. 

I don’t remember the name of venue we played, nor who put on the show. I think it was on Rampart St. It was in the French Quarter a couple of streets off Bourbon St. I do remember that it was a Saturday night. We were the last band of three that evening. We were to play at ten o’clock.  

We arrived midafternoon and were able to set up our equipment right away and do a sound check. All went smoothly and we had a few hours afterwards to eat, rest up, and sightsee.  

I went just a few blocks away to Jackson Square and the banks of the Mississippi to hang out, then to the Café Du Monde for dinner. I had a couple orders of beignets and coffee. It was delicious. I planned to come back in the morning for more. 

All sugared and caffeined up, I started back for the gig. I crossed Bourbon St. which was already blocked off for the evening’s foot traffic. It was bustling with activity. 

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When I was a kid, Bourbon St. wasn’t blocked off. My Dad would drive the family down to the Quarter just to see the activity. I remember the pretty girl on a swing in a window on the 2^nd floor of a bar. I remember she looked at me and smiled as we drove by.  

We lived on Tchoupitoulas St. near Audubon Park. It lay next to and paralleled the river levee well into the business district. Hobos and tramps were a common sight in our neighborhood. 

The Mardi Gras Parade went right past our house. Arms outstretched, I would be covered with beads, fingertip to fingertip, that were tossed from the Krewe’s floats. Once, I climbed up on the undercarriage of one float and rode it a couple of blocks.  

Especially at Mardi Gras time, I wanted to be Catholic because most of my friends were Catholic and they seemed to have every other day off from school for a Holy Day or a Saint’s birthday.  

I loved New Orleans and wasn’t happy when we moved. 

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Almost to the next street, I heard a guitar hitting some very cool blues licks. Really slow blues. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, but it wasn’t from inside a club. 

I tracked it down to a fellow who had set up his amp in the entryway of a bank. It had an echo effect as the sound bounced off buildings and down alleyways. I hung out on the corner half a block away from him just listening for a while. It was a beautiful sound, and he could play.  

The lights of the city came on as twilight settled in. I had to move on. I walked in his direction and dropped a few dollars into his open guitar case. He looked up, nodded thanks, and smiled. 

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It was showtime. It was one of our better shows and the place was packed. We were told that California bands always drew a big crowd.  

We finished playing shortly after midnight, got paid by the promoters, and were loaded up ready to go by 1:00. We then headed for Bourbon St. 

New Orleans, in the Quarter, on a hot sultry night, is an exotic, yet eerie place. The close brick buildings and their overhanging galleries, the shadows in darkened alleys, the gated garden patios and old gaslight-style streetlights all lend themselves to the mystique. 

We walked the street, beer in hand, getting a kick out of the fact that we were walking down the street openly drinking beer and it was legal to do so. We over-indulged as we lived up to our “More Beer” tour name. 

In and out of clubs we went, listening to the bands. Blues, Rock, Cajun and Zydeco, Jazz. They all were good to my ears.  

I don’t remember the club names. In a Cajun Zydeco club, some of the best dancers (I can’t dance) I’ve ever seen were two-stepping and gliding all over the dance floor. They were amazing. It is fun music! 

Closing in on 3 am, the street activity was dying down. We looked into a bar where Blues were still playing. We sat down at a table that looked out on the street. We stayed until the club closed after 5. 

For over two hours and a few shots of bourbon, musicians came in and took turns getting up on stage and playing. We were told these guys, and one gal bass player, and two gal singers, had finished up their regular gigs and had dropped by here after hours to jam. They were some of the best the city had to offer. 

Oldster, youngster, black, white, guitar, bass, drummer, sax, trumpet, keyboard, vocal. They would rotate in with those on stage. No words were said, just a couple of songs, or three, or a long jam, and as one or two would leave, others would step up and play.  

It was a constant change of players, beats, tempos, and melody. Unrehearsed but flawless. A masterclass of musicians making it look so easy. It was both inspiring and intimidating. 

Then it was time to go. We piled into the van and headed to the Café Du Monde for coffee and donuts and sober-up time.  

The sun was up by the time I turned on to Interstate 10. All sugared and caffeined up, we headed East. 

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