NEW ORLEANS: A TRAVEL JOURNAL
part three
by Tina L. Jens
Note: This is the first in a 7-part series excerpted from the travel journals of Tina Jens, from her most recent visit to New Orleans. Tina is the author of more than 20 published short stories in the fantasy, horror and thriller genres. Her most recent work can be found in: MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY and PHANTOMS OF THE NIGHT, both from DAW Books.
THE REVEREND ZOMBIE’S VOODOO SHOP
The Reverend Zombie’s Voodoo Shop is nestled in the middle of the block, at 723 St. Peter’s Street, just a couple of blocks off Bourbon. It has a black sign in the window that says, “Come in for a spell.” The shop is raised off the street by two steps, then you enter through a wooden doorway.
Apparently it, or I, was very picturesque, as I found out later that my photo was snapped as I entered the shop, by a middle-aged married man who was our table-neighbor later that afternoon at O’Briens. His wife was with him when he snapped the photo -- in fact was the one who struck up the conversation -- so I don’t think I’ve caused any marital problems, for them, anyway. We sat in the open courtyard and sipped Hurricanes and watched the fountain with it’s light show and fire torch in the center of the water spray, until we realized that the sprinkles of water that were hitting us and watering down our drinks were coming from the sky, rather than the fountain. But that’s another story...
The first thing that strikes you as you enter the voodoo shop are all the wooden African masks that cover the upper walls and ceiling. The masks come in a wide assortment of sizes, intricacy and grotesqueness. Some had great pointed horns two feet tall. Others had hideous red leers and jagged teeth painted in wild colors. Others were black wood with dark beady eyes. The masks began just above arm’s reach.
Below that, the walls were covered with pigeon hole shelves holding candles and incense, each carefully marked for it’s special properties. Competing for space with the shelves were large cardboard display posters, with packets of powders and herbs stapled to them. The packets were the size of the single servings of Tylenol or Aspirin you can buy in truck-stops, and most cost only a quarter or fifty cents each, for luck in love, the lottery, health, gambling, sleeping, to get rid of nightmares. And my favorite; Dragon Powder, which had a large WARNING notice on it. Unfortunately, the warning itself, and the rest of the packet was written in another language. (Spanish, I think.)
I asked one of the clerks what it was for. She consulted her books, and told me it was a power booster. It could be added to any other spell or mixture to increase the strength of the magic. This can be a dangerous thing, though. And I’ve got a ton of story ideas about it. Look for Dragon Powder in fiction coming soon from Tina Jens...
I had visited the shop the previous day and did a bit of shopping for some girlfriends. For Billie Sue, a white candle for protection (after her recent house fire and car accident). For Nancy K. a red candle for success in love (considering her three boyfriends problem. Oh to have such trouble!) For Karen T. a black candle to remove curses and lift jinxes. (She’s been under a dark cloud since she was born.) And for my friend Thea, two kinds of incense, for success in money and peaceful meditation. (She and her new husband are moving across country, and have yet to find jobs in the new city, so she’s been a frazzled tangle of nerves.)
But, on this day, I wasn’t there to buy potions. I browsed around the display cases a while, looking at the miniature skulls, the little wood and bone carved spirit heads, the snake incense burners, the African, Asian, Egyptian and Native American jewelry and protection charms; all the while building up my courage for my real purpose. The day before I’d seen a sign hanging over the door of the alcove in the back of the shop. They had a psychic who did Tarot, Palm and Past Life readings.
I listened from a discrete distance while Hope White, the shop’s psychic, reassured a young black teenager, accompanied by her friend. It seems the girl was having dreams about flying, and sometimes she felt like she was leaving her body in her dreams and flying over places she’d never been. The dreams themselves, were not disturbing, but the fact that she was having them scared her.
Hope laughed in a gentle manner and said, “Child, you remind me of a story about a young girl who had an orgasm every time she sneezed. So she went to the doctor and said, ‘Doctor, I’m really worried. What should I do?’
”And the doctor said, ‘Just relax and enjoy it.’
”There are many people who work and work to have the type of dreams you do. You have a natural gift. Just relax and enjoy it.”
Well, how could I be nervous after hearing that? Hope radiates a warmth and sincerity. She reminds you of a southern grandmother, or maternal aunt, wise and sophisticated in a country sort of way. She had long black hair liberally mixed with a natural silver. She wore it loose and flowing over her shoulders. She was a round woman, not tall, but with a stature. She wore a long skirt and a grey wool shawl.
I asked her how she did the past life readings. She said she couldn’t really tell me. She hadn’t been formally trained in the art. It was just an ability that came to her one day.
We went into the alcove and sat down at the card table which was covered with a black velvet cloth, lightly painted with stars and moons and other signs vaguely astrological. But it wasn’t as garish and hokey as it might sound. There was a large crystal ball on the table, as well as a coffee mug tip jar.
And while I sat in my folding chair, being vaguely distracted by the jazz music playing in the front room, and wishing she’d remembered to take the door cloth down off the hook so we’d have more privacy, she leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and folded her hands across her middle.
In three or four minutes she had sorted through the first three lives she wanted to tell me about.
NEXT: PAST LIVES REVEALED ======================
PAST LIVES REVEALED
Now, perhaps you believe as Barry does, that Hope White was sitting there making things up.
”She gets paid $20 for 20 minutes of storytelling. You get paid a couple hundred dollars for a story that takes you two weeks to write. Maybe you’re in the wrong fiction line,” Barry said.
Or, perhaps you believe she was reading my aura, which is said to contain all that is us, all the details of our past lives, all the knowledge we possess in this life, all the personality traits that make us who we are, as well as reflecting our mood and physical state moment by moment. I believe that either is equally possible -- nor did the truth matter. It was good material for fiction, either way.
The first life she told me about was probably the most recent previous incarnation. I was in Washington D.C. Probably in the 20’s, married to a powerful political figure. He was a wife- beater. It was a life full of pain.
”Your head space -- complete bewilderment that the public and private persona could be so different. You spent much time in a state of madness, because you couldn’t reconcile the two worlds. But finally you moved through the madness and began to form a network of wives; wives of politicians and industrialists. Your group worked to get policies enacted to protect women and children. You were not successful with the women, nothing was passed to protect wives. But you did get several policies passed to protect children. It was a very political life, but there was lots of pain and a period of almost complete madness. Your husband was powerful and productive, you had such a glittery lifestyle and so many friends, and yet, he beat you.”
In the second life she described, I was a man, living in the early 1800’s, in Vancouver or perhaps, Seattle, nearby was the sea, with many inlets. I lived as a hermit in the woods. I was running from a painful childhood.
”You lived in complete isolation. A thinker. Making artistic, very pretty pots. You had a strong connection with nature. You started out running from pain, but by the end of your life you had achieved balance and peace, in a very broad, meditative sense.
”In both these lives you had a great deal of pain. In the first, you handled the pain though action. In the second, you handled it through meditation.”
The third life she described took place before 1000 AD. I lived in Ireland by the sea.
”You had a house on the Irish moor. You were married with children. Your husband died when you were young. I see you fishing, swimming and playing with the seals in the water. You make your own clothes from the wool from the sheep you raise. You also grow vegetables to feed your family. But you made your living as a singer of Irish legends. I see you going away, leaving the kids in the care of other people for a month at a time. “You sang the Legend of the Selkies. Either you made this story up, or you met the seal people when you were swimming with the seals. I don’t know if you made it up or you really met them.
”You wore beautiful clothes that you made yourself, dyed with natural elements in beautiful browns, beiges and mossy greens.
After we discussed the three lives, she leaned back in the chair again and closed her eyes. When she resurfaced from her studies, she had two more lives to tell me about.
The fourth was lived upon the Yorkshire moors, in-land, in a hollow or a dell on the high moors in the 1500’s.
”You are surrounded by ghost bushes and sheep. You are married with children. But again, it was a very lonely life. That this was all there was. The closest neighbors were hours away. It was a hard life, farming. You raised cattle, hens, sheep, and kept a small farm with vegetables and potatoes. Very isolated, but you rely on the presence and communion with nature again. I’s like shining fires of warmth in a bleak landscape.
”The fifth was earlier -- again, water-side. Perhaps the Dead Sea? It is a community of women. Fishing. Is the Dead Sea too salty for fish? It is goddess orientated. I see you making jewelry - beautiful, delicate work. Also, other crafts.”
Faith had remarked that an unusual number of my lives seemed to be filled with pain. It was almost like she was apologizing for giving me such bad news.
There are many different beliefs about past lives. One is, that you face the same problems or themes over and over, until you solve them. Another is, that problems or issues that are left unresolved in a previous life resurface again, sometimes very subtly, in another life. Some people believe that phobias or recurring but unexplained, pains can be traced to events in previous lives.
Someone who is deathly afraid of the water for no apparent reason, may have been drowned in a previous life. Someone who suffers pain in their elbow which they have never injured, may have lost that arm at the elbow in a car accident in a previous life.
With this in mind, I asked Hope to look in my past for causes for my current arthritis and back pain. She sifted back through the lives, and came up with one, that seemed to mark the transition between the pleasant lives and the ones filled with pain.
The transitional life was during the 1700’s, in a New England company town.
”It’s a community of Quakers, producing something like Hershey’s chocolate. As a child you visited West Africa where the cocoa was grown. You saw things. The Quakers were growing wealthy off the backs of the almost-slaves who were going hungry because they were growing cocoa instead of food. You had a spiritual awakening -- an attempt to reconcile the two conditions. It was like you took a yoke of pain upon you, you had taken on a weight, you were trying to carry the pain of the world, trying to atone. But it was other people’s guilt you were atoning for. You’ve carried it ever since.
”This was before the Hermit and before the Senator’s Wife. Before this life (as a Quaker), your lives were full of hard work, but they were pleasant ones.”
That was the end of our session. I’m thinking about doing a story that links each of these lives together, where the person from the previous life appears in a vision or a dream to the person in the current life to help them solve a problem. A guide at the crossroads kind of thing, and linking them all in a chain of vignettes, to follow this one soul along it’s path.
NEXT: THE BOURBON STREET MUSIC SCENE ====================
THE BOURBON STREET MUSIC SCENE
Wednesday night, our music tour started at the Old Opera House, the band was playing Funk, with a sax, a guy who played trumpet and keyboards simultaneously, an electric bass, drums, rhythm and lead guitars and a singer. The front man was a young black guy, dressed in a spiffy red outfit with the most amazing red and white wing-tip shoes you’ve ever seen. And the sax man was the same guy we’d seen backing up the Dutch Rooster over at the R&B club the day before. The band called themselves the Toast of New Orleans.
The Old Opera House sits on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse, one of the busiest intersections in the Quarter. It has a raised wooden dance floor, with exposed brick walls and huge wooden beams. The look is common among all the clubs. But the high ceilings, more than a dozen spinning ceiling fans and five sets of double French doors give the place an open airy feel.
By New Orleans standards it was two white guys on guitar - even though one of them was Asian. They kept tossing the lead and rhythm lines back and forth between them. They played pretty well, but they were doing geek dancing. They were the two youngest members of the group by far, and the five older black guys were having fun grinning at, and about, them.
The Asian kid boosted his geek factor up by several notches just by wearing a white GAP ball cap, brim backward, along with a blue and white country-checked shirt. I suppose that look might have worked, except he was also wearing brown leather cowboy boots. The Dutch Rooster needs to take this child out and show him how a jazz musician dresses. At least buy that boy some boots of snake skin!
It was interesting to see that all the black musicians were singing backup or lead, but they weren’t letting the white guys anywhere near the mics, though the kids mouthed along with all the words.
Sax-In-A-Vest, as I’d been calling him all week, cause he was slick, and dressed like the old time Jazz men: dress pants, a white button-down shirt, and a sharp vest, satin-backed, stopped to talk to us on break.
”I’m goin on tour at 7 am tomorrow with Dutch to Washington D.C. I gotta look at his ugly mug at 7 am! I was born in Charity hospital, grew up in Uptown, been in New Orleans all my life. ‘Til a few years ago, I thought =every= town had a Bourbon Street.”
We were about to polish off our drinks and cruise on down the road when they called up a female vocalist - Venus Green. We ordered another drink, I rolled up my sleeves and prepared to stay awhile, cause she opened with some Aretha, then followed it up with a jazzy version of Patsy Cline.
The contrast between band members was amazing. Sax-In-A-Vest had one hand on a jaunty hip, head bobbing saucily, while he flirted with the singer. The Asian guitarist was making goofy orgasm faces and doing a lizard head-bob in time to the music. Now, I can feel for the kid -- I’ve been accused by my own husband of being the whitest woman in America. And I love to sing ‘Retha. But man, I’ve =worked= on my moves. If this kid wants to make a living on Bourbon Street, he needs to practice in front of a mirror.
We took a stroll after that set, only to find Krazy Korner had already closed, (at 12:30!). There was nothing happening at the Tropical Island -- hadn’t been anything that appealing there all week, though it was one of our favorite clubs our first visit, with a funny acoustic folk singer. The Funky Pirate was dead.
So we strolled river-ways on Toulouse and peeked into The Dungeon - a late night bar we’d been curious about. It had a cool, dark, gargoyle and shadow lined walkway, with an extended entrance that oozed atmosphere, but once we got there, it was just an industrial rock biker bar. There were young yuppie scum larvae going in, but they wouldn’t let Barry through the door ‘cause he was still carrying his Go Cup.
He didn’t want to slam a whiskey just to take a stroll around the perimeter, decide we didn’t like the music and leave. So, we wandered back through the ambient entrance and discovered a new club next door -- Tropical Paradise, an off-shoot of the Tropical Island. It’s got the same funky, beach bum on acid decor, and featured the same kind of white guy, folk music we remembered from the original club.
We walked in to some James Taylor, which was quickly followed by some Clapton, from his mellow MONEY FOR CIGARETTES period. The music was cool and they had a tropical aquarium I’m still lusting after. I broke down and bought an over-stuffed green alligator that glowed in the black light, for five bucks to remember the place by.
And then Barry started quibbling, as he read my journal notes over my shoulder, because the “Clapton” song was KNOCKIN’ ON HEAVEN’S DOOR which =everyone= should know was written by Dylan. I argued that Clapton did the definitive version, but he wasn’t buying it. He said more people are familiar with the Guns ‘N Roses rendition, but that doesn’t make it their song.
Continuing a losing argument, I said Clapton did it for the LETHAL WEAPON 2 soundtrack - a very moving musical movie moment, and that ought to count for something.
So, on break, Barry asks the singer if he knows any Dylan.
”Well, I know BLOWING IN THE WIND and a really obscure tune that nobody ever asks for.”
”What’s that?”
”A song called IF NOT FOR YOU.
Now if you knew Barry, you’d know that’s one of his favorite Dylan songs. So we stayed for another whole set. The musician did BLOWING IN THE WIND cause it was more “accessible” to the younger kids in the bar, but he followed it up with the Hootie and Blowfish Dylan tribute song, so he got more Barry points for that.
On Thursday night, we started the club rounds about 11 pm. The first stop was the Krazy Korner. It was a hot house band, the same group we saw from the “Zebra Crossing” night, fronted by Vida Love, a young, talented Blues singer. The place was jumpin! Folks were dancing on every available square of red and white formica tile. All Bourbon Street was hoppin, in contrast to the quiet of the night before.
We caught an electric trio at the R&B, E.J.&The Electric Blues. It was an electric guitar, bass and drums setup, which is more to Barry’s liking. But what I think really snared him was the dreadlocks and Jimi Hendrix shirt on the lead guitar and vocalist. E.J.’s got a front tooth capped in gold that flashes when he smiles. And he was smokin on that guitar!
At one point, Barry said, “It’d be interesting to see if he plays a song =not= recorded in 1967.”
But, in the final analysis, it didn’t really matter. He played the “Cream” version of CROSSROADS, along with a lot of Stevie Ray Vaughnn, and just enough Dylan to keep Barry happy.
I guess I should mention that there are other clubs along Bourbon Street, like the Cat’s Meow, a college kid dance club whose gimmick is to get a bunch of kids up on stage to mangle the vocals of such classics as SUMMER LOVIN’ and DOCK OF THE BAY. There’s Famous Door, which lists about 150 dead people (or should be) who have passed through the Famous Doorway. They have a bandstand and dance floor set up and play a lot of loud funk.
Then there’s a disco club, the Voodoo Groove, which features a disc jockey! (A disc jockey on Bourbon Street - whodda thunk they could stay in business with that?) There’s the Maison Bourbon, an old time Dixieland band joint, right across the street from the Krazy Korner.
Blocks off Bourbon, you’ve got Maxwell’s, A Harry Conick Sr. kind of classic jazz place, and Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, across from the French Market.
Further down Bourbon Street, you’ve got the strip clubs: Men, Women and Transvestite. One of which features, “Wash the Woman of Your Choice,” and another that features an “Orgy!” We haven’t quite gotten around to checking those places out yet, so I can’t give you a first hand report. I do giggle about the bare ceramic legs that swing out of the window of one club, “Hooker on a Swing” I guess, and grin that one of the strip joints is immediately across the street from a very upscale art gallery.
Oh yes, then there’s a very fashionable “gentleman’s club” that charges a cover and has far better looking, umm, models, than the free admission clubs, to judge by the 8 x 10 glossy photos all the clubs display. And the gentleman’s club entrance has a huge tropical aquarium in the arched doorway. The other clubs have a heavy black burlap curtain.
Down in the same neck of the woods as the strip clubs is Arnauds and Galatoires, two of the best respected, most expensive restaurants in the Quarter. Hey, It’s the Big Easy, Baby.
The Bourbon Street musician scene seems like paradise to me. It may be tough to break in to, but once you’re in, you move up and down the street playing this club one afternoon, the neighboring club that night. The musicians tend to hang out at the club next door to wherever they’re playing, on breaks, chatting up friends and checking out the competition.
And if you haven’t broken into Bourbon Street, there’s always the Street musician route.
Friday morning we had front row seats for the trumpet player at the Cafe Du Monde. Hack Bartholemew. We’d seen him earlier in the week playing the same gig. He told us there was a regular rotation of musicians in front of the Cafe Du Monde, a prime spot. Hack has Monday through Friday, Noon - 4, with weekends off.
”We used to duke it out, now we work it out. Got it on a schedule,” he said.
He pulls up a chair and sits down just outside the cafe railing and displays his home-recorded tapes on the back of his case, sitting on a chair beside him.
Between numbers he talks to the crowd and chats with the waitresses. And he plays I LOVE YOU... the Barney theme song, every time a toddler goes by. All the Street Musicians know that one. It generally pays the best tips.
Of course, the Bourbon Street Musician gig may not be as easy as it sounds. Friday afternoon, before we had to take off, we stopped in the R&B. E.J. and the Electric Blues band were just setting up for the afternoon matinee.
So, we started talking to the bartender. Winds up, E.J. is the same guitarist we’d seen do the Hendrix tribute, when the place had been a sleazy dive, three years ago.
Barry was embarrassed he hadn’t realized that, but he said, “He was so good, I remember him playing =left= handed.” Just like Hendrix.
But today, the band wasn’t starting off too hot, and the bartender was fussing.
”The musicians hate this shift. It starts at 1 pm, and I spend my first couple of hours trying to wake them up. Bout 4 o’clock, they finally get cooking. It’s like, ‘great guys, you only got three hours to go, now.”
They were sleepy and zoned out, as they played. There was much fiddling with reeds and finding the most comfortable position for the cymbal stand or mike. I don’t know how you can drift off while playing a drum solo, but I swear the drummer almost did it.
Still, it was solid, if uninspired playing, a tribute to the training and discipline these guys develop from such long shifts and continuous work. Even with 5-7 hour shifts, these guys frequently play two gigs a day.
They stopped for about ten minutes to duct tape the little keyboard to the big keyboard, cause it kept jiggling off. The sax player was moonlighting as a repairman.
There was a power drill going in back, as renovations on the club continued, but it didn’t seem to phase the band, they just cranked the volume up.
Knowing the shifts these guys play, I was doubly impressed with Dutch Rooster and E.J.’s devotion. A lot of musicians just play their gig and figure it’s the music or the doorman’s job to draw the audience in. Dutch is in the street escorting folks in on his arm as he plays. And E.J. stopped at every table on his breaks to talk to folks. And he was diligent about keeping the breaks short. In reward, unlike the other clubs, these two men tended to keep their audience between sets.
We took a stroll and had some lunch. Then stopped back in the R&B. The same guys were playing, but they sounded like a different band. They were awake now, and vamping and jamming.
Barry said about the rhythm guitar player, “He looks like a product of a union between Robbie Robertson and Lou Reed -- and aren’t we glad the Laws of Nature prohibit that!”
We stopped in at the Maison Bourbon for a half hour of Dixieland Jazz, before we climbed back on the plane. A little Dixieland combo with a tuba, trombone, trumpet, banjo and drums. It seemed like an appropriate way to end the trip.
