Years ago, the French Quarter streets were amazingly quiet. Especially in the mornings, before the few tourists were out and about, this historic sectionlocated near the river, yet built on high ground for good reasonretained its residential feel. New Orleans' slow-going, personal style, out of the national mainstream, had much to do with how it cradled classic jazz for most of a century.
But other than a couple of sleazy joints on Bourbon Street, it was hard for a musician to feed his family, or for a visitor to hear the real deal. Still, the city's close-knit neighborhoods proclaimed their musical birthright at pop-up parties, funky dance halls, street events, church memorials. "Let the good times roll," translated from the French, was always there, highlighted by everyone's anticipation of the Mardi Gras Carnival, which they prepared for all year long.
The past has always loomed large in this survival culture where one never knew what tragedies the future might hold. Generations of musicians have long been linked by family ties, spiritual traditions, personal musical tutelage, and people caring for neighbors. By the 1970s I had met and played with musicians in several cities of the world, but only in New Orleans did you learn so quickly where they livedon which block of which street, in which ward, near which landmark. And no other city has ever spawned so many tunes named for beloved streets, from Basin to Canal to Bourbon to Burgundy to...
Within weeks of arriving, I knew I had arrived when I was invited to jam on the sidewalk to celebrate the birthday of an old lady named Miss Carrie. Then, on ten minutes notice, I donned a parade hat to go play a gig at Antoine's fancy restaurant. Then I joined a procession of Japanese visitors marching to the graveside of clarinet great George Lewis