LASTS DAY IN NEW ORLEANS AND HEADING HOME
I woke up around 9 and after a bit of breakfast, I cycled over to the community print shop where Spencer was working. I collected my prints of the Jaleo Nola flamenco group (www.jaleonola.com) that had been drying for the last 3 days.
I also had a lovely chat with Spencer who said he would try to help me get a reference from the community print shop for my visa application which was very kind. His kindness put me in a good mood as I cycled home in the warm sunshine.
I stopped at the clothes store I had clocked before – it seemed to have lots of bling t-shirts in the window. I like strong funny designs. Most of the t-shirts were all about big money and hustle and scantily dressed native American women with big bows and arrows looking sexy and tough. There was only really one t-shirt I liked which I found on the sale rack – it had a picture of a pussy cat with loads of bling playing the electric keyboard. I overheard the two guys working in the shop talking in Arabic and I asked if they were Arabs. They answered a bit gingerly that they were – there is ignorant Islamophobia throughout the Western World so I know my question sounded suspicious. One guy said they were from Palestine. I told him I felt really sorry about the terrible things happening over there. He replied: “I’m just happy to be here – it is safer in New Orleans!”. New Orleans is the murder capital of USA so you don’t often hear people talk about feeling safe here. I pointed this out and he replied: “You hear bullets here but you don’t get bombs!”.
He seemed really touched that I had shown sympathy. I wished I had not given him the American fist pump as I left and instead had put my hand to my heart and bowed in the beautiful and more peaceful Arabic fashion. I struggle to think of any case where violence solves more problems than it causes. It can temporarily suppress problems but unless steps towards real peace and harmony are taken they only explode later.
I popped in at the supermarket. The funny round man at the checkout said to the woman in front of me (who had bought a bottle of kombucha): “Thankyou ma’am, I wish you a good beverage!” He told me he was into Renaissance fayres and sometimes found it hard to get out of character. He kept cracking jokes and I really liked his banter. I asked about glass and cans which wanted to recycle before I left town – I had 4 bags full in the garden and I suspect my house-mates would not bother. He directed me to a couple of places where he believed I could recycle glass and metal cans. There were only a handful in the whole city but luckily one was near my place – I popped in and found it was a computer game arcade with a bar attached. The skinny and not very bothered fella behind the bar told me their metal bin was full and that New Orleans is a terrible place to recycle glass or metal. I got the impression that he didn’t really care very much.
I went to the community speakeasy garden to leave my compost before I leave town and on the way back I popped in at the Halloween artisan market at the Music Box near the levy. I was hoping to see Karen ‘Unkle’ Kunkle. We had had a great dance at the Monday country night at St Roche Tavern and a couple of days later I popped into a coffee shop and recognized her working behind the counter. Meeting her by chance in the café filled me with so much joy. She has such amazing, magical bubbling good vibes. She told me that Cameron (a musician I know from years ago) was her sweet heart and I found him working her jewelry stall while she had gone somewhere briefly. I had nice a little chat with him.
On the way back home I passed Pierre Pressure painting a banner of a giant 27-dollar note. Like all his artwork, it featured large cartoon faces and trippy backgrounds. He seemed a bit high. He had black paint on his hands and clothes and I had to be careful not to get the paint on me when he hugged me. I was in a vest and without asking he raised his brush to paint on my bare-shoulder. I jumped away saying – “Please don’t paint on me!”. He uttered a gentle groan of sadness and said: “That only makes me want to paint on you more!” We hugged and said goodbye and cycling off I thought with a big smile how lucky I am to live among such creative people that I have to beg them not to paint on me! It makes my world a richer place for sure.
The one and only Pierrre Pressure in his home-drawn shirt
I got home and got stuck into my chores: I had a lot to do – every time I leave New Orleans it is like moving house – it takes a full couple of days. By around 5pm I was exhausted so I had a little siesta and my alarm clock woke me up at 6pm – I would have gladly slept another hour but I got cracking and cycled up to the 7th ward, not far from Jelly Roll Morten’s childhood home next to where I lived with Asa when we first rented a place together in New Orleans in 2011. Asa had invited me to see the Honey Dripper and his band performing in the parking lot behind the Superb Pearl bar. Honey Dripper is a blues and R&B singer from New Orleans in his 80s. He played with all sorts of well-known bands but now mostly hangs out on his stoop saying hello and chatting with folks. He has around 20 kids from 7 different women and he liked to sing about it. He has a lovely rusty voice with a beautiful honey tone. I loved his song Black Magic Woman: “She the root doctor… she put a spell on me… don’t ever try her cooking!” And a cute little song called “Tip Toeing” that sounded like a children’s play song but was actually about creeping into a woman’s’ bedroom while her husband is out. That is why he is called the Honey Dripper I guess. He was beautiful – he really looked into every member of the audience’s eyes as if he was singing just for you and crooned away and hooted out stuff in a broad New Orleans accent that I often asked Asa to clarify – which he struggled to do. “This ness song is abow somin I need…” – I was expecting something practical or spiritual - “… I need a steady loving woman!” Then he started singing such funky and bluesy old school New Orleans style. It was really from another place – a somehow less stressful world I felt. “Party aint ohver!” the Honey Dripper called out and I started dancing with a 4-year-old boy with a big afro who was peddling the air with his feet and bopping around like a butterfly in a net. He was doing a lot of second line moves to the blues music. It was hilarious to see and he was so fun. He was still young enough to be colour and age-blind in so far as accepting to dance with a white guy in his 40s. His mum was laughing at him and me dancing together! We had a great time although I could not replicate his energy!
I had a gig uptown I had to go to with Bobby Bonsey the dancer. He asked me to arrive at the party around 9pm so I had to split before the gig was over. I cycled through the quarter which was alive with Saturday night Halloween festivities, through the CBD with all those tall empty offices and came to the rich leafy Uptown where I had to talk my way in through the back door security at a big mansion. I was eating some chips (crisps in English) and feeling a bit silly dressed in my white shirt and black pants and shoes while everyone else (except the servants) were wearing Halloween costumes. Bobby rocked up around 9.30 wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots and tiny shorts and asked me to help him bring his props and little but heavy stage into the venue. He had none of the problems at the gate getting in like I had had - they just let him walk through. I guess if you are dressed correctly or outlandishly enough you can probably walk into a lot of events that other folks need to be screened and checked to get into. I practiced a bit of clarinet and then met the pianist who it turned out we would be playing with. Bobby had no idea how much we were going to be paid or what we were going to do or when we would start. The pianist and I wrote a little set list. He flown in from Los Angeles like a lot of the rich folks at the crowd. Some guy wanted to sing ‘Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans’ and the pianist went online on his i-pad and bought the sheet music and started pumping it out with lots of fills and trills but not really getting the feel of the song. It was super accomplished sight reading but very un-New Orleans style - it made me laugh.
The funky pianist and one of the Balkan singers
It was the Halloween party for a famous and popular Hollywood actress whose name I can't remember - don't know most famous people. She has a reputation for generously helping other artists and knew what it meant to be a struggling artist – or had known what it meant. Now she had a big three story uptown house in New Orleans with a huge garden and giant windows you could raise and walk out of onto terraces and balconies and indoors there were tall ceilings with chandeliers and neoclassical pillars and the walls were covered with portraits of rich folks from the late 18 and 19 century (all white): Men with whiskers and French looking women - all very elegant and beautiful in their way but also a bit stern. I did not recognize any names and don’t know anything about the pictures but if they were from the southern states I would be surprised if the men had not been slaves-owners – I did not know for sure. I wouldn’t want pictures of slave-owners on my walls. Especially since so many of the domestic staff for the party were black. There were a few black folks attending the party but it was over 90% white and the entertainers were 95% white (apart from Bobby’s burlesque girlfriend) and there were a couple of white domestic staff and of course we were all paid to be there and free to go home and do whatever we liked after. But in so far as who was getting paid most and doing the work and doing the partying, like a lot of things in New Orleans, it felt all too similar to how I imagine things were 200 years ago.
The party goers were friendly and kind and welcoming. I felt a bit like an outsider but I recognized Phoebe who was there singing with her Balkan choir. They were all dressed in lacy Halloween frocks. It was time for us to do our show and I started playing with the pianist but the crowd were very noisy and then I followed Bobby onto the dance floor and couldn’t hear the piano and could not make out Bobbys rhythm. It was all a mess. The DJ came back on and I shrugged my shoulders.
I had a drink of peanut butter porter which I quite liked but I also felt like I was hanging around doing nothing until I started watching one of the Balkan choir members dancing – her name is Grace – she is so funny and theatrical. It made me grin and laugh so much. She was dancing with a cello player called Helen Gillet who I had heard of and seen years before. I think she tours around and does well for herself but can’t remember her music at all. We danced together a bit and had a fun connection. The pianist and I messed around later a bit and Bobby did his great roller-skate striptease boylesque act and a couple of the female dancers did great burlesque shows on the centre of the dance floor. Helen and I both joked around as we watched the sexy burlesque dancers and later Helen and I had a lovely chat as I helped her pack up her kit. I think the burlesque dancers (aided by alcohol and probably quite a lot of Columbian marching powder) really makes the whole audience feel more sexy and get more wild on the dance floor. I realized I can connect so easily with others when I am dancing. People who are taking alcohol and drugs and the hedonistic nature of the event are more open for connections but dancing is the way I open myself up. I also notice when I dance with someone I see beauty in them more easily than just chatting. When people express themselves creatively and peacefully it is easy to see their beautiful side. I guess words create so many ideas that go to our brain and I’m so used to inwardly judge or criticize someone’s ideas, but I find it much harder to really disagree with someone’s dancing while you are dancing – you accept and move on. I just love painting and dancing (especially free and expressive movement!). I feel like dancing reveals so much about your heart, soul and character! I would like to dance more! I had a couple of fun boogies with the other women in the Balkan choir. There was a great moment where the smoke machine turned on and Helen and I were dancing in the mist and suddenly a man in a black cloak wielding a giant sword appeared – cutting up the air. I love epic moments like that.
I helped Bobby pack up and then cycled home around 3am with three of the women from the Balkan choir. Canal street and the French quarter were still throbbing with party people in Halloween costumes and guys revving their sports cars and weaving in and out of traffic. The women started singing Balkan songs as I cycled along with them – I just happened to be in the middle of the trio and it felt amazing. Other folks get big cars with subwoofers – I prefer to cruise along on my bicycle surrounded by female cyclists in white dresses singing three-part harmony Balkan songs.
They all peeled off and went to their homes and I arrived at what had been my home for the last two months but would no longer be tomorrow. I finished packing my bags and set the alarm for two hours’ time and went to sleep. I woke up at 7am and finished packing – made breakfast for me and Johney which we ate in the garden. I thanked Johney. I feel everyone is thanking him and it does not mean much to him but what he does means a lot to me! I said goodbye to Hunter, the house and Rock (which I had brought back from Colorado).
A few weeks before, while I was feeling quite blue, I had met a beautiful tall Lithuanian woman called Evelina. I fancied her a lot and we were hanging out for several days before she told me she said she just wanted to be friends. That was a bit of a bummer but I was still happily surprised at how suddenly I had gone from feeling blue and sad to being all jolly about life again. Ups and downs - not very sustainable I know, but it was a lesson in hope – you never know what the future will bring!
Painting I did of Evelina on the Mississippi levy.
A few days before Evelina had offered me a ride to the train station but an hour before I was due to leave she texted me saying she had been up all night and was too tired. It was not a problem at all because the bus service is pretty dependable and fast and frequent and I had given myself lots of time - so I strolled over to the bus stop on St Claude Avenue. I had been waiting for the bus for 5 minutes when Evelina drove past looking a bit ragged and tired. She stopped surprised to see me and got out. She was in red high heels and had a see through fishnet top (under her jumper) – apparently she had come from some party where they dressed as French prostitutes. She offered me a ride and so I accepted.
Her son was in the back – she had just picked him up from the sleep over. I chatted with them both as we drove to the station – she needed to get some gas and I hung out outside the car as she filled up the tank. I was sitting on a bollard facing Evelina’s car when an old guy reversed into the same bollard behind me. Luckily my hand had been on the front side otherwise he would have crushed it. He said sorry and then asked me to help him fill up his tank and asked for some money. He was a bit disabled and could not walk well (and looked drunk as well). I called the attendant and gave the old guy a buck feeling sympathy for someone that was buying $2 worth of gas to get home and grateful that he did not smash my arm – then I jumped in the car and we left. There was a black dude dancing around at the intersection, collecting tips from drivers who stopped at the lights. Several skinny white boys without shirts were running down the street and he gave the first a fist pump and then held his fists out for the followers who approached him with fists ready and he went into a spin and walked away. It was silly. I laughed and Mateus, Evelina’s 10-year old son, said they would be mentally disturbed. I told him we are all mentally disturbed but New Orleans is a town where people try to make the best of a bad situation. It was one of those pearls of wisdom that just slip out when you have slept less than 12 hours in the last three days. In the last couple of days in town there was a lots of crap I had to deal with but I would prefer to record the fun stuff that will make me smile.
We said goodbye at the station – I still kind of fancy her and there is an uncomfortable imbalance between us but I got on the train to New York and sat down and for the first time in a few days I finally had time to relax and think and not think and relax some more. I feel like I should do that for another couple of weeks at least. I sat in the viewing car and let it all go as the train started it 33-hour journey and I watched the little waves on Lake Ponchartrain splashing against the shore to my left and the swamp rolling past to my right. I ate and listened to the old black women sitting in front of me who were heading to Tuscaloosa and were watching Instagram videos and laughing so hard: “Ahhh, Mercy Jesus! Heeeeee he he he he! Oooh my goodness! Ha ha ha! Oh my gawd!” It was Hard to work out what they were saying otherwise, their accents were pretty strong.
I slept badly in the seat so I would hunt out spare double seats where I could lie down. The conductor was constantly asking me to move back to my assigned place and not to spend so long in the dining car, you can’t lie down here, you can’t practice clarinet here. Considering it is such a slow and cranky service with lots of delays they got lots of rules but the USA is a society where people get sued for small stuff and turf smurfs in uniform are paid minimum wage to tell you not to do stuff cos you might hurt yourself. They said I could not play by the carriage doors because one conductor was leaning on the door recently and the door fell off and she flew out and died! Whaaaat? I couldn’t help commenting on what kind of train this is that its doors fall off?
Going through the sound the train dawdles along at half the speed it would take driving – but as soon as the train gets into Virginia it speeds up and the last stretch from Washington to New York (where more professional customers demand a better service) takes around three hours. If the train travelled at that final speed the whole way from New Orleans the journey would take half the time.
At Washington station I went onto the platform to stretch my legs as the train waited for 20 minutes and the conductor for my carriage took me aside saying he wanted a word with me. He seemed really nice and he told me that I had given him a head ache sleeping all over the place. His boss has got annoyed seeing me where I shouldn’t be. I told him there were too many rules for such a low standard service – it was not like it was that cheap either - $120. He said yes he knew and explained about rules in the USA and getting sued. Then he asked about my life and told me he was studying real-estate and could find me a place in New Orleans. He was a lovely guy – real hustler with a bit of a kamp style but really fresh. I liked and respected him a lot. We arrived New York at 6pm and I made it to my gig at Seville Bar in Manhattan at 7pm and had to wait an hour before I played – plenty of time to eat well and get dressed and warm up. Jackson, who I had done a couple of gigs with in London around 16 years ago and not seen since, was leading the gig and it was great to see him. Such a lovely guy.
After the gig around 1am we went to the Ukrainian Cultural Centre near his house where I saw women crowding around Jackson like he was the only coffee stand on a cold morning outside a busy building site. It was hilarious. Jackson was so drunk he was stumbling around but that didn’t discourage any of the three women who were vying for his affection. He tried to fob off one of the admirers who wanted him to come home with her by offering me instead. I laughed but she didn’t. We went back to his beautiful Manhattan flat and made a bed for me and had a fun chat before bedtime. I understand why the woman go wild about him – a lovely guy, great musician and very generous and warm and seemingly uncomplicated.
Contestants at the Haloween pumpkin decorating competition
I had a great night in New York and took the train up the Hudson valley to Poughkeepsie where my old friend Roby picked me up and I stayed 3 nights at his place with his family. During that time I checked out the Halloween festivities and was really impressed by the costumes and the wonderful originality of the pumpkin decorating competition and I also hiked up to the Mohonk Mountain House – a huge castle-like hotel around a mountain lake with an incredible view across the Hudson Valley and to the north.
View from the Mohonk tower towards the lake and hotel (top right) and a close-up of the hotel below
The whole experience made me want to come back to New York and New York state and spend more time there. After 4 days up North I got on the flight to London and at 5am we landed in my grimy, damp and familiar home-country. I took the train into London and at 7.30am I rang the doorbell at my dad’s flat where my brother Tom was staying the night on the sofa bed. He got out of bed and I climbed in and slept for an hour then had a refreshing shower and then helped my dad deliver leaflets in local flats about his campaign to stop the construction of a skyscraper near his house. My dad is 73 but he was sorting out the leaflets and delivering them like a 14-year-old experienced mail-boy! I couldn’t keep up with him! I was impressed!
Then back to my mum’s place in Harwich, by the
coast in Essex – almost as far from the excitements and stimulation of New
Orleans and New York as you can be - where my wonderful mum cooked me a delicious dinner
and I slept the sleep of the contented weary.
