The Big Easy

Blend the beat of drums with a splash of VooDoo rituals and European horns; then mix in some Church music and a sprinkle of Saloon sounds, and from that recipe, jazz is born—in the Big Easy—dating back to the late 1800s.

Prior to the Civil War in America, New Orleans was the only place where slaves could own their own drums. They thumped their instruments, sung with harmony, and danced to the rhythms that tasted of freedom. Once slavery had been abolished, jazz grew stronger, evolving into sounds that got people off their feet, to dance and to come alive.

Those who know me well know that I have a mild obsession with the era of Slavery in America. I love to read books and watch movies that take place during that period. It’s such a horrible time in our history, such an immense moment of shame; yet from the cruelties of slavery, so many heroes were born, so much culture was planted, and so many types of music were created—beats that, to this day, make our heads bounce, our feet tap, and our hearts find their tempo.

And so what better place to go to learn about jazz—how it’s made, how it’s played—than New Orleans?

I entered into this specific journey very poorly prepared. I only knew that I wanted to take a lesson. Why? I’m not very musically inclined, and so I wanted to work on that. I know when I like a song because it will stir my emotions or make me want to dance. Often, the writer in me sees stories playing out in my head when I listen to music. The sound, the story, and the flow that are brought to life by a song fill up empty spaces in my soul. Jazz in particular has the ability to vibrate deep into the depths of those listening to it.

The next obvious question would be what type of jazz? Dancing, singing, playing an instrument? I had no idea. I was interested in all of it. I looked things up on the internet and searched for instructors in the New Orleans area, but came up flat. I wasn’t sure any of the people I found would be keen on a one-time session. But, I had to do something. So, I decided to book a hotel. It was the least I could do before figuring out how to take a lesson.

I made my reservation the old fashioned way—I actually called the hotel. No online deals. I’m not even really sure why I chose to do it that way; but it turned out to answer my question.

The reservation specialist asked me if I was coming into town for the French Quarter Festival.

“Uh—no,” I said. “I don’t even know what that is.”

Silence on the other end. Then a chuckle and an obvious sigh of condescension. “It’s the jazz festival in the French Quarter. All sorts of jazz bands performing in the streets,” she explained. “I thought that was why you were coming that particular weekend.”

What?!?!?! The stars have aligned?!?!?! Again?!?!? I randomly picked a weekend to go to New Orleans to take a jazz lesson and it so happened to be French Quarter Festival? What better place to learn about jazz than on the streets where it all began?

“Well in that case,” I said. “Yes, I am coming into town for the French Quarter Festival.”

When I arrived in New Orleans, I could feel the buzz and verve in the air from the start. As the shuttle stopped in the streets, dropping each of us at our respective hotels, I marveled at the people pausing to snap pictures in the middle of the road—oblivious to the traffic they caused; the sound of trumpets and drums merging together with the hum of laughter, and drifting through the air like an invisible compass to the city; and the smell of jambalya and gumbo swimming past my nose. It almost felt like the city itself was a living, breathing being; and we were all tiny creatures, enjoying our symbiotic relationship, as we inched across it.

There were booths set up through the streets, barricades put up to stop cars from getting through, and jazz instruments lined up with performers behind them. Every few feet that I walked, I heard different music and sounds; although, all had the same familiar beat of jazz vibrating through them. In some places, people danced in the middle of the street beside the band; in other places, they simply crowded around and clapped at the end of each song. Magicians wowed with cards and tricks; painters showed off their canvases; and voodoo shamans hovered around their amulets and charms.

I walked for some time before I built up the courage to go talk to the different performers. I told them about this blog, asked them about their instruments, and listened to them share their stories. Each fascinated me with their tales.

I met a man who told me he had been playing in the streets of New Orleans for twenty years—day and night, he sat with his guitar and his trumpet and performed.

“I’ve seen so many faces come through here,” he said. “All them faces have the same thing in common: a smile with life behind it. I like to think it’s my songs doing that for them.”

There was a band of young men in their twenties. They had known one another since childhood, and had grown up playing music together.

“You gotta bop your head,” one of them said to me. I bopped with him, doing my best to follow his lead. “Yeah, you got it. Feel the music in your body, and it’ll flow out through your hands.” He wiggled his fingers across his drums. “And out through your voice.” He bellowed.

A married couple sat on “their corner” and performed songs about betrayal and magical spells. They told me that each of them had been pursuing the dream of becoming a jazz musician since grade school. It was jazz that brought the two of them together. And now, with fifty years of wedded bliss behind them, they had a strong following of fans, all stopping to buy their CD and drop cash donations into their guitar casing.

The one thing that ALL of the musicians had in common? Outside of the obvious (jazz)? None of them would let me hold their instruments. They taught me the types of beats, the various scales, and the part of jazz history that meant the most to them. But when it came to letting me hold their instruments, they all said no…..which, of course they would and I understood. After all, it’s as though I asked a complete stranger if I could hold his baby. He may want to tell me all of the cute things his baby does, when his baby took his first step, and how very much he loves his baby; but he would never put that child in a stranger’s hands.

I took pictures and filmed their performances. However, without the proper permission, I do not feel comfortable posting them on the blog. But I want to thank all of them for teaching me about jazz—in particular, New Orleans jazz. It was such an interesting experience. And now, when I hear the sound of bass drums and trumpets, I’m taken back to all of the friends I made in the Big Easy, and all of the lessons they taught me.

Thanks for stopping by. And as always, please be sure to follow.