Just New Orleans

   I go to New Orleans a lot. It’s what my Mom calls “My Happy Place”. Subsequently, I write about New Orleans a lot. Go with what you know, right? So I figured, having just gotten back from another lovely trip, I’d better do my travelogue, but I don’t want to get all ‘rhapsodizing’ this time. More ‘Just the facts’.

   Our place is uptown, a block from St. Charles Avenue, with its picturesque Oaks and the iconic Street Cars rumbling along, just across from the Garden District. The trees and power lines are still festooned with Mardi Gras Beads from March…

   Sorry. ‘Festooned’ is definitely a rhapsodizing word.

   Anyway, Thursday morning we made our way down to Magazine Street, and found coffee and free wi-fi at Community Coffee. This became a ritual right away, and a good ‘jumping off point’ for our daily adventures.

   Another thing that marked this trip was free eats. We enjoyed gifted meals at the Palace Café, thanks to the Sevilla’s. The Palace has an Old school N’awlin’s feel, and to have lunch there is to be surrounded with the cities working business men and women. The service is elegant, the surroundings refined, and the food is wonderful. I described my Pecan Pie as having the ability to “drive lesser men to suicide, because life would hold nothing but disappointment from now on.”

   That was not rhapsodizing. I was just quoting an earlier rhapsodic description.

   We also had a fabulous meal at Emiril’s Delmonico, courtesy of Tim and Patty Onorato . Swanky joint, but the staff had a refreshingly casual feel to the service. The food was good, and the evening felt leisurely and fun. I got the feeling that when you put Emiril’s name on a joint, you attract a certain clientele, and raise expectations fairly high. One man across the room got mad and said “I’ve gotten better service at Olive Garden!” I don’t know what he was so mad about, but the slower, lingering over your meal service pace may have thrown off someone who’s more accustomed to…well, Olive Garden.

   Also, beignets were eaten (and powdered sugar spilled), the Blackened Gator Bites at Ralph & Kackoo’s are still outstanding, as is the crawfish etouffee. Y’know; the staples.

   Musically, it was a special trip. Thursday night, Eric Lindell was playing a free concert in Lafayette Square. I haven’t seen Eric for a while. He just came through the Bay Area a couple of weeks ago, but I was in Vancouver, and the number I had for him wasn’t any good. Eric’s really, really good. Great singer, great songwriter, and everything’s is so smooth and funky. He sounded great, and I got a chance to say ‘howdy’ and reconnect a little.

   Friday night my “Internet Bassist Forum” buddy Peter Fuller had a blues gig at a little neighborhood bar out on the Jefferson Highway, and invited me to come sit in. The band threw solos at me on the first three songs. I’m pretty sure I used up all the notes there were to play. “Doctor Bob”, notable Fender bass collector was there, with a fabulous 7 pound ’59 P-Bass. Drooled on that a little.

   Saturday night, I had a gig with Sweet Jones at Checkpoint Charlie’s on Esplanade! Some of you may remember them from the story about Jon, my friend in Holland, emailing me that a guy from New Orleans on his Tele Forum needed a rhythm section in San Jose. Matt and Melissa are the sweetest people you could meet, and they gave me the gig right away when I said I was coming to town. So I had my rig thanks to Peter lending me all kinds of stuff, and I had a great time! Matt is a hell of a guitarist.

   So in the last couple of months I’ve had the pleasure of going to Nashville to play country, and going to New Orleans to play blues. The fact that I represented myself very well in both settings is kind of an ego boost.

   Sunday was all about Mark Johnson, my guitar slinging buddy who quit California temperate climes to become the best guitarist in Hammond. The adjustment has had its rocky patches, but I tried to encourage Mark to see the big picture; you’re playing guitar five nights a week, and you’re considered something of a celebrity. Beats working construction! We had a great time running around the Quarter with Mark and his friend Katie, who was pretty funny too, so she fit right in.

   Bourbon Street; ever been? If you have you’ll understand what I’m about to say; Bourbon Street is where music goes to die. That may seem strange in a Mecca like New Orleans, but when the sun goes down, all the bad, soul-sucking ‘classic rock’ bands take over and the street is awash in “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Play That Funky Music Whiteboy”. Sure, it’s also got strippers. A lot of strippers, in fact. But if you want to hear music, head out of the Quarter, across Esplanade into the Marigny Triangle, and go down Frenchmen Street. Tons of clubs playing the music you came to New Orleans for.

   Coming home is always hard. Closing up the condo, and taking the shuttle to the airport, just to make your way through security just seems so depressing. So imagine my surprise when, as we stood in line to board our flight, the gate agent came over and asked if I could do him a favor by jumping to the front of the line, and boarding first “so you can get your guitar situated”. He moved Cindy and I to the front of the line BECAUSE I had a bass guitar! I don’t know if it was a Southwest thing, that certain gate agent, or maybe just a New Orleans thing. Probably a combination of all three, because I don’t see it happening anywhere else. Just New Orleans.