I am certainly anything but regal, but this seems to be the impression I give to locals with my British accent. Whilst chatting to my slightly high Southerner friends on a scribbled iron-fenced balcony, one laughingly says “whenever you talk I feel like you’re saying something really important.” After relentless giggling from both sides, I decided not to be responsible for dispelling that belief. I don’t think of myself as an alien in this city but maybe my voice gives me away, for example when I try and order a “get-toe punch” from the nearby Wing Shack.
Every time I come here I feel instantly welcomed, more integrated and even more ready for the pot-holes. I can’t help myself for chewing the ear off my friends, constantly telling them how cool this city, it’s people and the music are back in London. This year, after a lot of hyping up the town, I brought my boyfriend over for his first-ever Jazz Fest.
My other half is a British illustrator and son of two West-African parents who moved to the UK when they were young to pursue what they considered a better life. Thankfully in my boyfriend’s lifetime, London has always had a high level of cultural diversity and racial integration. Having only travelled to his parents’ home of Ghana a couple of times as an infant he doesn’t have a particularly strong relationship with any West African traditions.
Cyril Neville. Photo by Willow Haley.
The second he was off the sixteen hour plane journey on the first Jazz Fest weekend, I persuaded him to drop his suitcase immediately at the hostel and head straight out to a gig. We opened the holiday dancing along to drumming legend Bernard Purdie and local soul king Cyril Neville. I was worried that we’d both fall asleep after being shipped over like cooped up chickens across the Atlantic for many hours, but we couldn’t stop moving. I’m sure there must be a pharmaceutical company somewhere trying to bottle up this soul ‘n’ funk essence for weary lovers. New Orleans was already working its juju on us. We bopped around making new friends, beaming smugly at each other whilst shaking our hips in time to the beat. If this was a gig in London, we’d be paying one hundred bucks and using our elbows to make room amongst hundreds of spectators. When we finally went to bed the next morning I wondered how it would be possible to top that first evening of pocketed groove and raw sentiment.
I couldn’t even begin to describe the magic and power of all the live music we’ve seen, the number of gigs we attended, both formal and informal, exceeded thirty in one week. A tornado of energy was racing through the town and we were out of control, swept along by the fast stream of funk. One day when we were at Jazz Fest watching the Caesar Brothers, sitting satisfyingly exhausted and glowing on the trodden grass, the band started familiarly chanting “feet don’t fail me now, feet don’t fail me now.” That was the kick I needed to get my second, third and fourth wind. I don’t take this experience for granted and I certainly wasn’t going to take it lying down.
As a drummer myself, my personal highlights were finally getting to see “Whirlin” Herlin Riley chopping up the boom-booms and tambourine like no other and the notorious Johnny V battling Stanton Moore in a drum-off. The master showing us how to truly let go and flow with one’s spirit. As he stood away from the drum kit and took centre stage yelling in performance “Dr. Watson, I need my prescription,” I thought to myself, this is the only drug I ever need!
Johnny Vidacovich. Photo by Willow Haley.
Despite my boyfriend loving the abundance of jaw-dropping gigs, I think he had a very different take-away at the end of the week, as both a New Orleans virgin and a person of African descent. One day when we were sitting on a wall in the Treme, a second line brass band struck up their first song, “Fly Away.” This particular celebration of life was a tribute to Deborah “Big Red” Cotton, who recently passed away. I had already told him about these traditions, but I watched his eyes widen as he started to see the passion, energy and raw emotion swelling in front of him. No one can say exactly how the jazz funerals and second-line rituals have come to be, but we can be sure it evolved from West African traditions brought over during slavery. After following the band to the sound of a heart-beating tuba, blaring horns and shuffling snare through the candy-coloured streets, we sat and compared this to our lives back home. In London, a city full of immigrants and associated descendants, how have we let such traditions become diluted? Is it possible to integrate many cultures together while keeping the strength of each one alive? This is where we have to bow down to the residents of New Orleans. Their strength and determination to maintain their heritage has won through and become the fabric of the city. We have a lot to learn from that and we resolved to go back home and ask his mother a whole bundle of questions. We can’t change a whole town but we can change one household. We will protect and preserve what we have together for our own family line.
Both the city and the music festival celebrate not just the African-American culture running fast and deep through the city’s streets, but the lineage and roots of all residents. You can marvel at intricate Native American beading, taste the strong Cajun seasoning and salsa the night away due to the large influence of Latin American culture injected after Katrina.
As an artist, my boyfriend has always been obsessed with customising things, but nothing prepared him for the breadth of improvisation of New Orleanians! In the UK neighbours typically strive for all the houses on one street to look the same. This is considered neater and is seen as promoting a general image of wealthiness. Boring. I don’t think I’ve seen two bikes, house or items of clothes that look the same since I’ve been here. Anything goes.
You can’t always allow for everyone’s taste though, according to one local Uber driver. She points out one house painted floor to roof in bright red. There is no trimming of the windows or doors with another shade, the whole building is simply burning crimson. She laughed as she told us how she had put a picture online to share the hideousness with her friends. She couldn’t understand why someone would do that and she declared, “and to think they have the cheek to put a for sale sign on the outside too.”
Neither myself, nor my boyfriend, have ever spent too long thinking about our family line and heritage. Despite both being first and second descendants of immigrants, this is most likely due to the privilege we didn’t realise we had. This is where New Orleans stamps your heart with a unique branding. It teaches you not to take anything for granted and begs you to consider the responsibility you have towards your neighbours and community. As we walked around the Lower Ninth and the Living Museum, we saw and read things that make your heart ache for others we will never know but now feel connected to.
There are so many streams of energy flying through the air during Jazz Fest, aside from the cloud draped messages spelt out in the sky as if from heaven. The impact it has had on a pair of so-called regal aliens is hard to digest immediately. What ultimately brings everyone together, and what brought me here initially, is the music. A universal language that transcends race, class and origins. I never get bored of seeing the old cats perform their heralded music or watching the younger generation take to the streets and hone their skills organically. Watching Henry Butler showcase his virtuoso skills in a tiny bakery in the Bywater gave me goosebumps, a genius mind in action. Similarly, cycling along a bumpy residential road and watching a young boy practicing his loud snare drum on the patio gave me a sense of pride. I saw a glimpse of the rising talent of a new era of musicians. New Orleans somehow manages to keep a tight hold of heritage, yet it also improvises and evolves into newer depths. I hope this city always stays true to the sound of its streets and continues to celebrate through its festivals, because from the small parts of the world I’ve seen, this combination is something truly unique.
Our French intern, Marine Laval, also shared her thoughts on Jazz Fest in a piece that was published on Tuesday.
