Rebekah picked me up from the McDonald’s at about nine and drove me to her place. She’s the daughter of a Colorado friend, Leslie, and lives here in the New Marigny District.
Mardell is an airline attended and just flew in to New Orleans to shake down the city on her days off. We’ve been Facebook friends for a few years, meeting for the first time when I rode my bike through Phoenix. A friend of hers is also here in town. They’re staying together at a swank hotel in the French Quarter.
I hadn’t been looking at the clock, but when I did, it was almost two in the morning. We had all gone out together, meeting up at Mimi’s, a bar and lounge on Franklin and then walking a few blocks to another spot, the name of which has now slipped away from me, just like the night.
I woke up on Rebekah’s sofa, found a cup of coffee and sat in her shotgun dwelling at the kitchen table writing my last blog. Shoeless Jo has made friends with her pups, Baxter and Puck. Baxter was quick to lay down the law when we first arrived, grabbing Jo by his gruff with her teeth, letting him know that she’s the boss.
John Morris lives in Bend. He’s been coming to Jazz Fest for five years in a row and has family in nearby, Mobile Alabama. We met up at the festival and listened to The Word, a band featuring Robert Randolph.
A person uses their airplane to cast some love and happiness over the people in attendance.
After grabbing some cheesy crawfish bread, I wandered around before standing in front of a stage listening to Widespread Panic. And then later on it was Allison Krauss & Union Station that closed out the event and sent me off with a smile.
I excited the festival gates and drifted through the neighborhood. That’s where I came upon a block party that was shaping up to look like a Mardi Gras scene. There was a band set up on the sidewalk, two of the members were wailing on guitars and working the crowd. Everyone was dancing. One of the guitarists handed his axe to Walter “Wolfman” Washington who just happened to walk up. Wolfman is a legend in the local music scene, and can most often be found in a lounge dishing out blues, funk and R&B, backed by the his band, the Roadmasters.
The two mile walk back to the Marigny District was cut short when Shawna picked me up on her pedi-cab. She dropped me off out in front of Maison.
Inside there was a tall blond pitching a few jazz and funk songs. Michael Watson was sitting in with her on trombone, an instrument I played when I was younger. He was all smiles.
When they wrapped up their set, Pimps of Joytime took over, whaling on the back stage, commanding the attention of the entire bar. I stood in the balcony.
A block down the street I meandered through the Art District. The outdoor sidewalk gallery is even more lit up than the people walking the streets.
I find a poet for hire sitting on the sidewalk, composing stanzas before my very eyes.
The clock struck midnight as I put in my order for some red beans and rice and took a seat in a popular late night eatery. I was tempted by a group that I just met to join them for a band that didn’t go on until two in the morning.
I considered the idea for a moment but decided to flag a car instead, catching a ride back to Rebekah’s to recharge my batteries so that I can continue to follow The Rhythm of New Orleans.