March 14th, 2008.

This is a Christian owned auto repair shop. It rains in Texas like God hates the Earth. Flames light the trees like Hell outside New Orleans. Later it’s the moon, cool and naked as we fight our way to Texas. Traffic is slowing us but we’ve got Jesus and whiskey on the radio to tell us what we’ve done wrong and what we can do to fix it.

These are my thoughts as we depart New Orleans. A weird conglomeration of them perhaps.

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As we race along I-10, headed for Houston, facing down a 6 hour drive post-gig and pre-dawn, we narrowly avoid the rain that has been threatening all night. We’d played outside at the Pacific Asian Cafe, playing for tips and sushi to an intent audience, nervously  watching the skies.

Some of our favourite New Orleanians have come out in the last two nights. Wednesday, after a brutal 9 hour drive from Nashville, we rolled into the Neutral Ground Coffeehouse to find it practically abandoned. No-one but us, the bartender, one guy at the bar and Bob, the coffeehouse cat. We order coffee and settle in for the long haul, Bob  comes to investigate us. He bears out our affections for a little while and then wanders off. He eventually falls in the icebox, much to the disgust of all. Luckily there are few witnesses and a lot of extra ice. The bartender learns WHY the icebox closes, curses the cat and we all move on with the night.

We haven’t been to Neutral Ground in perhaps three years – not since we passed through New Orleans the first time, on the way to Kerrville, I think. This is the oldest coffeehouse in the city, operating continuously since the early 70’s and built from some of the oldest materials in the city – barges that actually brought people into New Orleans at its inception. The walls are painted and decorated with paintings and those paintings have been painted. There are beads hanging and draperies hanging and books and quotes and papers pinned to the wall – a co-op in the New Deal Cafe’s tradition, but one that’s never had to move or deal with dissenting politics or the pseudo-politeness of Greenbelt. It’s the layered weight of decades that gives its place it’s flavour and I really, really Love it. I’d feared for it after Katrina and I’m glad we’ve found one another again.

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There are four acts scheduled 6 nights a week with the seventh day reserved for their open mic – so Neutral Ground is one of the most open gigs in town. At this time of year they are awash in travelers on the circuit to Austin for SXSW – Monday night Stephanie’s Id passed through – and tonight the first slot of the night is occupied by Audrey Ryan and her traveling companion from Boston who are, sure enough, on their way to Austin. Unfortunately, by the time they start their set of exquisite harmonies, guitar riffs and accordian the audience hasn’t grown by a soul except for a group of kids playing Magic: the Gathering. I want to join so bad… I’ve got no cards…. it’s sad.

I have three dollars left in my wallet and one of them goes into the tip basket for our fellow road warriors. It means they make more than I’ve got left… but only by that dollar.

The second act, I’m not going to discuss. My mother always said….

And so the third act, a bluegrassy quartet from Tulane University suddenly takes the place by storm with an immense influx of fans – from maybe 6 people, the audience suddenly swells to 30 or 40 excited college students. They sing along and stomp along

and we KNOW that we might be able to keep some of them, but only if we’re swift as HELL getting up on stage. The bluegrass act is over and before they’re even off we’re plugging in, setting up the mics, leveling off and as they vanish out the door (taking the majority of their fans with them) we’re firing up. Anyone still in the room we keep, transfix and own.

It was a good night – our old friend from the very first time we’d ever been in New Orleans Stan pops in. His grin is still infectious and I’d forgotten how much I liked this guy. He says “one of my favourite authors was diagnosed with Alzhei-” “TERRY  PRATCHETT” is our knowing interruption and I realize why we’d hit it off in the first place. We just happen to have identical tastes… and it’s so so so hard to tear ourselves away that night… from him and the other friends we’ve made tonight. Our setlist from the evening joins the stratum of the walls at the owner’s request.

Today we spent wandering the French Quarter. It’s Heather’s city and she walks it with all her Love. To me, New Orleans is such a difficult mix of exquisite beauty overrun with the crass fratboy college drunkeness of Girls Gone Wild videos. It’s noisy and commercial and the gutter kids want your money and the musicians want your money and the people on the street corners want your money and the shopkeepers want your  money… and we give to some and evade the others, pay for parking and pay for lunch and pay for our future. We eat alligator and wonderful things. I want the world blackened, just like Metallica – spicy and cajun. Lovely. Yesterday in Alabama we’d had gator and shrimp and grits. It was good but it just doesn’t even come close to what they make on Jackson Square.

The evening found us at the Asian Pacific Cafe joined again by Marrus and a quickly-gathered posse of her friends. I admire her a lot – her artwork as well as the force of her personality and I’m flattered to have her in the audience and play harder for it. We have a couple of people we’d met the night before and a couple more people that come in off the street to see what the fuss was all about. The fuss was us. It’s about the rockin.

We play and play as the weather glowers and wrap just before the first raindrops hit. After many goodbyes, Al and Amy finally see us off (it’s always awkward, Amy would feed us all night if given half a chance – most of the fatigue I’m feeling is from a belly full of sushi) and we drive off into the night and fire.

I-10 is populated with trucks and trucks and more trucks and the clouds are low and flickering red as we exit the city. It’s like Hell is on the horizon and our perception doesn’t change too much as we crest the hill and see the oil refineries spreading out in front of us throwing red light through the swamp making scratchwork silhouettes of the bare, stripped trees. They look like desparate fingers stretching from the black waters at  the best of times and now, with the glowering towers of flame behind them it’s like an army of undead ents marching straight from Hell.

Hell, Hell, Hell.

I half think with the way the landscape here is punished by storm – lightning stabbing the Earth and rains falling like a second Biblical flood… Katrina would’ve inspired religions a thousand years ago and even now people have tried to point to it as a punishment for worldly sin. A modern Sodom razed to the ground… but rebuilding, growing, stronger for its brush with urban mortality.

Continuing on our drive, we crest a bridge over unidentified waters and the city of Lake Charles spreads out before us like Christmas (which yes, I Love). Heather the Jew says “It’s like a Christmas tree!” and the flaming towers of their refineries are made far less intimidating by the city surrounding them. It looks like this Hell is safely confined by civilization. I guess it’s where we’ve all got to get back to – containing our anger and getting back to believing in something together.

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