THE AIR'S SO THICK AND SWEET

The song lyrics go;

I come back to New Orleans ‘cause it’s the only place I’ve been,

where the air’s so thick and sweet it feels like lovin’ arms around me.

Lazy trees and ocean breeze, rainy evenings listening,

to music oozing out of every door.

It’s like my heaven made to order, inside the border of the Quarter,

ain’t like no place I’ve ever been before.

The song was written by Owen Davis, a friend of mine who lived next door when we were kids. His devout Baptist upbringing led him to music and he followed its call to Nashville where he discovered Jack Daniels, loose women and life in the fast lane. He made a living there writing, performing and working a day job, as so many talented musicians must do. Most minor league baseball players understand they will never make it to the big leagues but forsake the security of a hum-drum, work-a-day life in middle America just to live on the margin, in the moment, just to be there and to have a toe in the water, even if they never get full wet. Some give up and go home after a few years but others hang on for as long as someone will give them a uniform and a turn at bat. Musicians are the same and Nashville is full of awesome artists who could prosper elsewhere but they hang on to their dream instead. Owen died three years ago. I was there, with his ex-wife, song-writing friends and his brother. His wife Deborah pulled strings and called in favors to spring him away from Hospice for a day. We ate ice cream, made music and relived old adventures and better days. John Mark Stone sang Border Of The Quarter and we all came in on the bridge; Owen sang along. That night we got him back to Hospice House just in time for him to slip away.

I was in the Quarter yesterday. It was hot, really hot, but that’s what you get in July. I walked Decatur Street, sat on a bench in the shade at Latrobe Park; Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville gift shop is closed now with a “space for rent” sign in the window. His restaurant was still going strong but I ate down the street at Misparrow’s. I went to all my favorite places and when it was too hot, ducked inside a gift shop for the air conditioning; bought trinkets in the French Market and took some photographs. The French Quarter isn’t really all that French. Napoleon couldn’t manage his wars in Europe and his business in French Louisiana at the same time so he agreed to let Spain administer New Orleans and its adjacent territory. Fires frequently destroyed large sections of the city and buildings that replaced the original structures were of Spanish architecture. The iron work and balconies are more, “Que pasa hombre?” than, “Cherchez la femme.” 

What I like most about the Quarter is its transparency. Tourists are what they are, spending money on everything from junk to diamonds, booze and spicy food. The locals are there to help them with a lot of charm but no mercy. Their purpose in life is to separate strangers from their money, but they like to leave you smiling. At Jackson Square, mimes pose motionless in the sweltering heat, in unnatural stances, making money the hard way. With their skin and costumes painted metallic gold or silver, they can’t sweat under the paint but they roast in the sun and notice every passerby. Occasionally a child will beg a mom or dad for money to put in the bucket. It’s all about putting money in the bucket. They block Royal Street off so musicians can sit there under big umbrellas and play Dixieland or Jazz in the middle of the street. Crowds stand in the shade, whichever side of the street the shade is on. But there is no pretense. “We are giving you what you came here to see, so put some money in the bucket.” I start with a handful of $1’s in my pocket so I can do that. Counter culture is entrenched here; so many provoking, bad tattoos, piercings and hair bombs you actually appreciate how your parents raised you but it’s their Quarter too. They come from all over the world just to put their toes in the water. 

By mid afternoon I’ve walked all I’m going to walk. This time I found some new Mardi Gras beads to hang on the hook in my living room and a couple of T-shirts. The slick, smooth, fresh dressed people from the morning have either melted into street urchins or taken refuge in air conditioned bars or hotels. I asked a lady, tour guide about her mule and buggy tied up at the water trough; “Hot enough?” She said, “This ain’t nothin’, wait ‘til August.” Well, I’n not going to wait ‘til August, but I will come back; ‘cause it’s the only place I’ve been, where the air’s so thick and sweet, it feels like lovin’ arms around me. Lazy trees and ocean breeze, rainy evenings listening, to music oozing out of every door.