Reflections on N'Warlins

An American work colleague told me she loves the way English people say New Orleans. I’ve adopted – if not an Englishman's - a European’s spelling N’Warlins by Zawinul from a Syndicate cut. The folks  there wish you Happy Festival like we greet each other at Christmas here. The weather reports refer specifically to the Festival.

The first morning we got there early just in case there was any trouble securing passes. All sorted we found a café with four ladies sat outside and occupied the table next to them. Gradually more people arrived and a makeshift bar appeared next to the portaloo we hadn’t previously noticed. Herbie Hancock’s Headhunters album was playing from the café. As the crowds grew a police car arrived and the officer closed the road. An elderly chap arrived with his walker and a bag of weed he’d liberated from his daughter in exchange for three bottles of beer.   

The first day we were there from start to finish but gradually went in a little later each day. Storms on day 2 were all over the news and I thought they may have made the UK news but didn’t. E-Mails home were backed up for a day and the festival opening was delayed by two hours, but the heat remained.

 

Day 3 we went to Congo Square and on day 4 made our first venture into the French Quarter. Bus journeys were like a sitcom and if I didn’t sit with Mrs T some other chap generally would, high fives when he realised we are an item. The bus took us to a streetcar (we desired) which took us to Canal Street where we alighted at Bourbon Street in all its gory.

 

We were warned not to venture there in the early hours but that was never an option - maybe thirty years ago. We criss-crossed it daily, observed the clean-up operation and had a not very good meal there. Music played constantly and most venues had bands changing over regularly throughout the day and night, mostly high quality covers bands with slightly more adventurous repertoires but seldom jazz.

 

We were also warned that Frenchman Street could be sleazy too and more secluded and only wandered up during the day, but at the airport home, heard stories of live sex shows. Maybe thirty years ago.

 

No jazzer is going to miss the Jazz Museum, though probably over-priced at $8. A section on the development of the drum, a section on Kid Ory and lots of pictures of the Festival through the years. I could have spent a fortune in the shop, on CDs, books, T shirts and pictures, eventually coming out with a book on New Orleans Soul – not one of the very biggest cities for soul music but a significant contributor none the less.

 

A cruise up Ole Miss on an old riverboat is essential to any trip to N’Warlins, complete with white Dixie trio complete with all the clichés but man they could play. This was also the scene of my first alcoholic drink since the free bar on the plane out.

 

Much is made of food and drink, especially at the festival, but it seemed more trouble than it's worth, and the vendors seemed to think it was worth a lot. Mrs T is no great foodie and the one occasion we got a meal each, I ended up eating both. I’m assured the ladies' facilities were lovely but the gents were revolting – don’t look down.

 

On the final night we decided to splash out on the most expensive meal we’ve ever had. We found a Cheers type bar in the centre and our very own version of Carla - and a resident jazz group. We had been told it was sax, piano, bass and drums but I'm always pleased to hear a guitarist instead of a piano. Some straight jazz and some mid-seventies Crusaders and instrumental George Benson – they must have known we were coming. Steve T   

ALBUM