The very few friends I had, would nickname Blackstar- because I rarely went out in public. I would always carry around with me a dark-case' containing a brass-horn-- blowing it every chance I could get. My favorite time to play the instrument was at dawn, inside Jackson Square. I would make rooster-sounds' with it-- which echoed all throughout the Vieux Carre'. The high-pitch notes' would startle the pigeons, and Willie, a local buggy-driver-- sleeping in his red-cart. He always wore a vintage-suit with a top-hat-- and would shout out, "this is what they're going to bury me in."
The square slowly comes into focus, as the spectrum of light' enhances the vibrant-colors' of the historic-backdrop. By 10:15 a.m., outlines begin to mesh: the red, white, and blue flag' stiffens- above the tarnish war-horse. The crosses on top of the cathedral' can barely be seen- due to haze.
The commuters are in full force, as they gondola-- across the Crescent-City connection. The vessels on the Mississippi River' turn their red-paddles-- bringing folk' back and forth to the boardwalks. The rotation of the planet blasts sunlight onto some areas, while casting shadows onto others. Canal Street can be seen all the way to Lake Pontchartrain. Cargo-ships stream along the waterways, cars along the highways. Wharf's and rail-stations process the goods, being funneled in-- through the waving-arteries. The contrast between state-of-the-art superstructures, and old-world settlement buildings-- gives off the impression' of an industrial-revolution. New Orleans has flourished and grown' along the river-bend-- in all directions, since it's discovery in 1718. The Superdome in the middle, surrounded by blocks and rows of high-rises and houses. Two creole-fishermen with a red-bucket, sit on the western-edge-- looking out' onto a rusty-barge, and the pristine-skyline.
Heading up Royal St., I decide to stop in at Brennan's Restaurant, to see what some former colleagues were up to-- but none remained. The service-industry' has a high-turnover ratio, and a lot of downtime-- hardly anyone makes a career of it. I remember, we use to pull out a red Scrabble-board, in between shifts, and start piecing together words like:
S-H-R-I-M-P... G-A-R-L-I-C... B-R-E-A-D...B-U-T-T-E-R--- because that's what was on our minds.
Preservation dominates the French Quarter-- the horse-n-buggy will always lead the pack. I do a little window shopping, but never go in-- the red-sale signs' block the view. So, I just mojo on back to the town-square-- where time sits still; the people out there are like statues-- never moving. I come upon another street, that had been combed-over' with rainbow-paint, bright-stucco' plastered over ole-brick-- making the place look like a theme-park. The gay 90's had turned much of the French Quarter-- into a swinging-orgy... But, weather the streetcars' are dull and green, or shinny and red--- there still powered by desire.
Getting anxious, I march-up to an unmanned civil-war cannon, overlooking Decatur St., and start firing off projectile-rounds--- with the horn. The tourist below, just laugh-- realizing there's a huge, red Jax-beer sign' hanging right above me.
The sky begins to darken and the nightclubs come to life. There are hostess' and strippers' on every corner-- trying to sit you at a table. The red-light district never ended-- it just became neon. The street-musicians-- play their hearts out, for a tip... Getting hungry, I decide to purchase a red-lucky dog, but wasn't feeling so lucky, when it came-up.... It really is a beautiful scene at night, the street-lanterns give off this mystic-glow-- as well as the venues.
High atop Canal Place, I return to my room' to relax a bit. Looking out the window, the aurora of city-lights' goes on into infinity-- heaven on earth.... Suddenly, there was a loud-knock on the door, it was the band-manager, "come on Blackstar, you got a gig to play at the Maison Bourbon, tonight." So, I grab my horn and head back out to the madness below.
Most of the time when I am forced to perform, I just wear my old waiters-uniform-- a black-vest with a red-tie. This particular jazz-club' was one of the originals, many of the late-greats have come threw here. It was pretty packed when we arrived... The band starts the first round of songs off, mixing it up a bit' with: dixieland, bluegrass, voodoo-bungalow... Most of the time, the audience reacts with a roaring-applause-- no matter how good it sounds. I usually sneak out the back-door' after a show; hanging out in a crowed-bar' is draining. Once, a patron came up to me' and asked, "what do you do for a living",--- right after I just got finish playing three-sets!... My usual response is, "I'm a professional bum".... There is always a blurred-line of people waiting to get in, afterwards--- so job well done.
The origin of Jazz' evolved from the streets; some of the most inspiring music' comes not from the big-stages' with fancy sound-systems-- but the sidewalks. Any real musician' better keep their humble-roots, or they'll become tomorrow's-garbage.
One can still get a sense of what New Orleans looked like before it was inhabited three-centuries ago... The marshy-vegetation' scattered throughout the infrastructures- has a eerie-vibe to it, like it's waiting-out' humanities ultimate fate--- self-destruction.
It's carnival time and every body's having fun. The herds of revelers' that show up for Mardi Gras- is incredible. Imagination gone wild, there's a party happening in every nook and cranny of the city. Smiles and frowns all around, the comedy and tragedy of the event' has manifested-itself into a modern-day circus, but without the big-top. It is the budding of socialism-- where currency is null and void. Parade-goers generally don't care who's next to them- as long as the gifts keep raining down. Year after year, though, the movement never amounts to anything more than a good time. The wave of revolution' comes crashing down on ash-Wednesday... "all is lost and nothing gained", says Indian-red. The pirates go back to the blacksmith shops, the artist back to the galleries... Just like any holiday when it's over, there's always a major effort to scrub-out' all that remains.
I still to this day go out and blow my horn, in the streets of the Quarter. When times get really tough, I head uptown... take some classes' at Tulane' in the fine-arts... plant red-Tulips' for the rich... become a deck-hand' on the Natchez... There is never a ending demand' for service and maintenance work- in this city. For those traveling in on their golden-horses-- customer-care is top-priority... They invest their time and energy in the global-market-- leaving a trail of ruin behind. Sometimes, I sit on the concrete-thrown' in Spanish Plaza-- and imagine myself king of the world.
During one gloomy summer, I drove down to a plantation-farm' in the deep south-- to get a taste of wealth. This place was spotless, and carefully crafted to display: prestige and honor. There were framed-portraits' on the walls, red-curtains' draped over the windows, crystal-chandeliers' hanging everywhere, polished antique-furniture, and so on... The front-lawn was like plush-carpet, with massive-oaks' lining the walkway...
It was nice watching the sun set over the swamp' at night, and boating to ship-islands' during the day.... But, it's a very controlling-environment-- being around greed' all the time. Besides, I missed New Orleans, so I headed back home.
*The garden of Orleans' bears many fruits-- the forbidden red- apple' seems to be the most desirable. +