It's Gotta Be Magic
New Orleans Journal of Tina Jens: "It's Gotta Be Magic"
New Orleans Journal of Tina Jens
Tuesday, Nov. 18th, 2008
New Orleans, LA
Day 1 of Visit 16
Why do I still have sequins and Mardi Gras beads in my eyes, after this, my 16th trip to N’awlins?
It’s all about the music.
(And the food.)
(And the artistic; can-do; ”Hey kids, let’s put on a show!”; pre-Palin mavericky; “I love everybody” spirit of the people here.)
(And okay, it’s also about the alligators, ’cause man, gators are just cool.)
But mostly it’s about the music.
I got up at 5:30 AM (an hour I normally only see from the other end). My plane touched down at the Louis Armstrong International Airport at 10 AM. By 9 PM that night, I’d criss-crossed the French Quarter half a dozen times, flitting from business meetings, through two restaurant tours and group negotiations, into a heart-to-heart talk with the top local voodoo priestess, and back again.
By the time I limped through the line and across the threshold of the Preservation Jazz Hall, I was worn out and filled up with pain; my back, my feet, my hips, everything. I’d have crawled back to my hotel, but four more blocks seemed like an impossible journey.
I can’t explain why, in 16 trips I’ve never made it in to the Preservation Hall Jazz club. Well, I sorta can - I love blues more than jazz; there’s always a huge line wound around the block; it’s one of the only clubs in the city - other than the strip clubs - that charge an admission fee; it’s SRO (standing room only) once you get inside; and they serve neither food nor drink. The band is legendary, but you just don’t have to work that hard to hear good music on Bourbon Street.
But, I’m in the city to scout the tours, locations and events we’ll be doing as part of the cultural immersion writing course I’ll be teaching on location in January, and I’m not comfortable taking the class to anything sight unseen.
A tired, pain-filled, grouchy, martyr is not the ideal audience member.
But it’s all about the music.
The lights dim, the crowds hush, the music starts, and the magic takes over.
The Preservation Hall-Stars hadn’t played more than two bars of their opening ragtime before I felt the damnedest thing: my mouth ran away with my face. It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t intentional. I wasn’t ready to smile.
It was like a machine had taken over all the muscles above the neck, like there were two teams of Lilipudian workmen pulling on ropes to haul the cheeks up a steep and rocky incline. I felt my mouth split into a foolish grin so big, I swear my front teeth must have twinkled in the spotlight, despite my standing in the deepest shadows of the room.
At the end of the song, it was only when my body _stopped_ moving that I realized I’d been dancing. Dancing is usually a conscious choice for me.
An hour later, standing in a cold, drafty room; having danced in new shoes; on a hard, buckled wood floor, there wasn’t the faintest twinge of pain to be found. As the band took a break, I looked at my watch and realized I’d been in the Big Easy for 12 hours already, so it might be time to go down the block, say Hello to my friend Dwight - in the Late As Usual band at the Tropical Isle - and have my first beer.
Next: Everybody’s a Star in N’awlins
© Tina Jens, 2008. All rights reserved.New Orleans Journal of Tina Jens