This is an excerpt from my first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. The first section is available for free. If you haven’t read a sample from my book yet, I’d recommend starting with chapter one. The book is also available on Amazon.

 

Chapter 6. American Spirit

 

A dozen horse carriages formed a queue in front of Jackson Square, one of the most famous landmarks in New Orleans.

I walked past a bald and disheveled coachman (horse-carriage driver). He had as much zeal for his profession as your average sewer cleaner or vice principal. I assumed he was, at minimum, a registered sex offender in the second degree. Right or wrong, I decided at that moment that if I had children, I would not take them on any carriage rides, ever.

The iconic statue of Andrew Jackson riding his bronze horse, sculpted by Clark Mills in 1856, adorns the center of Jackson Square. It’s surrounded by immaculately maintained greenery, a walking path, and quaint park benches.

Past Jackson Square, in front of the imposing St. Louis Cathedral, artists and sculptors peddled their works with varying degrees of enthusiasm while a raunchy comedy troupe simultaneously performed an improvised show before a growing audience. The troupe looked like a younger version of the Hamilton cast, wearing urban attire in lieu of wigs and waistcoats.

One of their jokes featured this punchline: “I’m not gay . . . anymore.”

I continued my trek, neither amused nor offended, and meandered onward toward Bourbon Street.

Although it’s a bustling business district, the French Quarter has the feel of a residential neighborhood. More specifically, it feels like a residential neighborhood in an especially enlightened socialist country, where everyone’s either a drunkard or artist or both and nobody needs to work. Even the French- and Spanish-inspired colonial buildings have a communal vibe, with no clear exterior boundaries between many of the businesses. Each bar seemingly bleeds into the next one.

On my solo Bourbon Street shuffle that night, musicians and street performers vied for my attention. First, two sketchy buskers in ragged clothes smoked cigarettes and sang familiar tunes as tourists, including me, passed their corner quickly and avoided eye contact with them. Beneath a crowded balcony, mime-like characters posed as street workers and showcased their robotic dance formations, moving to the beat of the community’s youthful percussion section, who played intricate drum parts with their hands on upside-down buckets. A human Drew Brees statue also made an appearance, and then a little later, I watched a gangly young clown perform a card trick. People traveled freely between watering holes and restaurants, sipping on their beers and cocktails.

Music poured onto the street and reverberated through the Quarter. Coldly, I evaluated a young female singer with a pleasant but flimsy voice performing a syrupy Adele song (as they all are). I thought, from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon, I could hear something like this anywhere in America on any given night. I kept walking.

The next act who auditioned for my patronage, a middle-aged quartet, nailed their rendition of “Little Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin, precisely executing each of the song’s forlorn verses and rollicking choruses. But cover bands lack courage. I wanted to hear something unique, inspired, and bold.

At The House of The Rising Sun, a bar I’d already passed once, a three-piece band played a funky and jazzy song I’d never heard before. That was a point in their favor. The singer-guitarist lacked technical prowess with both his voice and instrument, but he had character and spirit, the only two non-negotiable job requirements for frontmen (and frontwomen).

I’ve always been a sucker for songs that swing, and I appreciated the way their hipster drummer extended his downbeats. When the black trumpeter emerged from his post behind the drum kit and launched into a solo, I promptly entered the bar and ordered a drink.

Inside, near the stage, a voluptuous middle-aged woman with short black hair “twerked” on her male companion. She wore an extra-tight cabaret outfit. The woman’s enormous breasts and backside enveloped her partner’s pint-sized body like a total eclipse. I couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Good for them, I thought. And by the way, twerking was invented in New Orleans. I’ll present more insightful historical and cultural commentary in my next travel section, none of which will involve twerking.

I enjoyed the band’s set, despite not knowing any of their songs. Just after I put three bucks in their tip bucket, the trumpeter stepped out for another extended solo; this time he walked through the room seeking donations. He hadn’t seen me make my contribution, so I pretended to use my phone for something urgent when he passed my bar stool—not once, but twice.

The band announced they’d be taking a break after the trumpeter finished his solo. I polished off my second beer and plotted out my next solitary adventure.

As I exited the House of the Rising Sun, I saw the band again outside. The singer opened a fresh pack of Blue American Spirit cigarettes, my old brand, and handed out smokes to his comrades.

At that moment I was transported to another place and time. I recalled my ill-fated stint in Nashville when I, like the three men in front of me, was a young musician and smoker, attempting to succeed against impossible odds. My not-so-wild nights on the Nashville bar scene, solo with social anxiety, usually ended at the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge, which connects downtown with the football stadium across the river.

It was the winter of 2006. I wore a ridiculous ensemble more often than not: a black cowboy hat, navy sport jacket, and khakis. Back then I only chain-smoked when I was near water—not after sex because there wasn’t much sex or after any other occasion.

To cap my nights, I’d savor two cigarettes while gazing back and forth between the Cumberland River beneath me and Nashville’s illuminated skyline. I was certain I’d conquer Music City someday and had nothing but time, with no concerns about male pattern baldness, retirement, or lung cancer.

In front of the House of the Rising Sun, it occurred to me that I hadn’t lived all that much in the thirteen years since I’d left Nashville. So I still had nothing but time; and that was a comforting thought. I had my whole life and many happy hours ahead of me.

Speaking of happy hours, if I wanted more discounted booze and a five-dollar bowl of gumbo, I had to act fast.

 

 

Next → Chapter 7: I Need a Wife or a Chef