Mardi Gras

The music came to a violent end right outside the Royal House Oyster Bar during the Mardi Gras. The parade had come and gone, but the punters were still in party mode. Drunk dudes hung precariously off the balconies, whoopin’ n hollerin’ and still throwing beads. The streets were packed, and booze and vomit ran in the gutters.

The sidewalk entertainment kept the party alive after the floats had gone, squeezed into every nook and cranny along the footpaths. The Bourbon Street Six had scored a prime spot, right outside the most popular downtown eating establishment. In their top hats, with dreads sprouting like hair skirts around their ears, glitter jackets, and striped pants, the Six were a veritable gumbo of Big Easy glitz for the tourists

But there’s always been that age-old conflict between percussion and brass. You get it in any music group, but it flashed and crackled like fireworks in the Six every time they worked the Quarter. And during this particular Mardi Gras it came to a head.  

Snake was snare drum with the cymbal screwed on one side, and a set of tom-toms on the other. A silver chain from some ancestor, he reckoned, who’d once waited the tables of rich plantation owners, supported the whole shebang around his neck. Sadly he suffered like most drummers everywhere, always shunted to the back, obscured, and seething in his anonymity. His dreams of fabulous drum solos, where the adoring public would stamp and cheer, would never be a likely possibility. 

Tyron, out front, was trumpet and lead. Not your ordinary trumpet, but one of those ones with the bell pointing up towards the sky instead of straight ahead like usual. The others joked about his horn having an erection, but Tyron ignored the taunts, claiming that it sent his notes straight to heaven

No-body dared dispute Tyron’s position. “Dudes, I plays lead, and you’sed all be nuthin’ without me.” He particularly mocked Snake. “All you c’n do, Dude, is bash n’ crash anyways.” Yes, Tyron, called the tune and the shots, and was the undisputed boss. He was, however, one of those leaders who always over-estimated his following.

They’d all been buddies who dropped out of high school together to try their luck on the streets, having learnt their stuff in the school marching band, and all living in the same street of regulation, shotgun houses. Some of these still had the high water marks, and the tagged fire and rescue codes marked on the front.

Stretch was slap bass, Jake banjo, Marvin on sax and Hank on clarinet. They made just enough to keep themselves in cheap booze and dope from the gullible, wide-eyed tourists who were loaded with alcohol and good humour, and mostly tone deaf. 

The strings and reeds guys lived in a musical no-man’s land. Backing, rhythm and harmony, would always be their lot. Inconsequential, secondary, and minor, they conceded that, but they accepted their place without argument. They hunkered in the middle ground, plucking and blowing, and ignoring the barrage sparking back and forth over their heads.

So while the Six spent their days playing, eating, drinking, drugging, sleeping, and not necessarily in that order, brass versus percussion was constant friction

Katrina had left her legacy, and the city of New Orleans was still recovering even after all these years. The place was always stifling hot, with the air hanging and desperate for winds that rarely came. Whenever it did rain, it hit the ground hard and fast, like they were tears of pity for the wounded city.

The famous streets were always choked with music hustlers, but especially during the Mardi Gras. Today they ranged from a guy in a gorilla suit with a guitar growling out country songs, through to the fifty strong Tenth Precinct Gospel Girls, and everything in between - rock n’ roll,, hip-hop, pop and rap. Even Irish folk music and opera. The traditional jazz groups like Six had to fight for every inch of pavement on Bourbon Street.

Tyron had sometimes wondered, unfortunately only to himself, whether they should quit the touristy streets, and work the cruise ship wharf, where there was virtually no competition. Such a move could’ve been the best thing to happen too, as they would likely have cornered themselves a niche market. But that’s the trouble with being dumb as, you’ll never know when you’ve come up with a good idea.    

It was on the day of the big party parade that it turned ugly. Snake had had a hard night, and was smoking far more weed than usual to make things softer. His rhythm and timing was way off. Tyron was incensed and reckoned Snake was like a mental on speed, and that’s why the Six were getting hassled by the punters who were riled up by booze and a full moon.

“What the fuck, Dude? You fucked in the head or sumthin’?” Tyrone fumed.

Snake was buoyed by his hooch, and dared to retaliate. “Its you bro. You outta time on your horn, man. This bro jus’ tryin’ to keep up. This bro havin’ to improvise.” 

There was a moment of disbelief before Tyron snarled. “I plays lead, Dude. Brass always does lead, like Satchmo and every horn man that walked the talk. You gotta foller me or I take them tom-toms and jam them up your arse. We c’n get any ol’ homeboy off’n the street to bang those sticks in time. You playin’ like you high’s a skunk.”

“Fuck you Bro! These sticks only thing keep us bros from wanderin’ off in some honky-time beat. You bin playin outta toon too anyways, so go fuck yerself!” The words were squeezed out past the soggy roach clamped in Snake’s tombstone teeth.

This was too much for Tyron. His music reputation was sacred, and within seconds they were at each other.

There was blood, dinted brass, and shattered drum skin. Slack-jawed spectators filled the hat with dollars of approval like never before, their shouts of encouragement hurling through the air like shrapnel. There were frat boy weekenders, hen party good-time gals, a tour party from China, and even a bunch in town for a convention. The Moose Lodge delegates, however, would be the only ones who would feel ashamed in the cold light of morning. The Beijing tourists thought it was just American street theatre.

The Bourbon Street Six would never again be a local institution. Snake couldn’t afford to replace his busted drums, and ended up in re-hab. Tyron managed to repair his horn, but dental damage meant he would never blow another golden note, and he’s now sweeping floors at the casino.

The remnants can now be heard on the cruise ship terminal. Cool, and tight, and doing nicely, getting first dibs at the naïve passengers as they file down the gangways onto the plaza for their first experience of Big Easy jazz.

Sans brass and percussion, now the Bourbon Street Four, all equals as they play under the lights on the New Orleans Pier.