Mongrels and Misfits

by Beth Patterson

  Someone in the distance is having a crawfish boil...I can smell the highly concentrated spices and the salt used for purging the live crustaceans, and I can imagine how some nice, fat mudbugs would taste... small cobs of corn, potatoes, heads of garlic, and mushrooms boiled with them, absorbing all of those complex flavors and washed down with a cold Abita Amber beer. Farther off in the distance, a lone trumpet player is warming up outside another club. Long tones in some easy intervals, then an ambush of chromatic runs. Some jazz licks are flushed out of hiding...they run amok in whatever chord changes are playing within the unseen musician’s head.

  There’s a reason that New Orleans seems to attract the absurd. All sorts of misfits are more likely to be accepted here. Some people come here to be noticed, and some to hide. And it is indeed a supernatural town. The bright is just a little bit brighter, and the dark a whole lot darker. All of the frenetic tales, all of people’s secrets, hopes, and broken dreams get carried down the Mississippi river—all the way from the source. They end up here at the mouth, in highly concentrated energy that pools near the Gulf of Mexico and runs this area like an unpredictable power grid. People flock from near and far because of the hype about voodoo, the cemeteries, the ghost stories, and endless books about vampires that take place here in the Crescent City.

  There are vampires, all right, but not the kind people envision when they’re combing the bookstores or in line at the cinemas. True vampires step right into your personal space and feed without even touching you. They impose on you with their needy little dramas, or they want to absorb your own personal life, and they suck the energy right out of you. They often attempt to prey on service industry people, taxi drivers, and musicians—people who they perceive to be captive audiences. But anyone is fair game. For those of us who sing for our supper, I can honestly say that they also usually want to get a piece of whatever action they think we’ve got going on. In any case, they can turn even a quick two-hour gig into an utterly exhausting chore. Even if they sit in the back of a venue, they can weaken you just by staring you down. Some do it by accident, and some deliberately make a sport of this. A person really has to brace oneself before they approach, and even staying alert and on the lookout for these lonely, insecure, or narcissistic creatures is draining in and of itself. The whole belief that vampires can’t see their reflections in a mirror is symbolic. Whether they are the needy, desperately hungry types or the dark, narcissistic kind, their one-sided nature saddles them with an inability to see their own true proclivities. (It should be duly noted, however, that the folklore about garlic is true. If you wish to test this theory, consume as much garlic as you possibly can and see how many people invade your personal space. Ditto on the wooden stake through the heart bit...if anyone—vampire or otherwise—has ever survived that, I certainly have never heard of it.)

  There are zombies, too. But again, not what the books and films portray. They blend in with the living, but you can recognize them by the look of dull resignation in their eyes: a shade duller than despair. Zombies frighten me more than anything else, because anyone—regardless of income, ethnicity, or ideology—can potentially fall victim to a soul-sucking malaise. Some zombies take the form of panhandlers. Unlike the ones who actively try to hit you up for a quick buck, engage you in a no-win guessing game (“Bet I can tell you where you got dem shoes,”), or at least make eye contact, these burned-out animated corpses move, sometimes talk, but they’re just reciting a deeply-ingrained script. Many can be seen at the Wal-Mart on Tchoupitoulas. They can be kept on electronic life support for a little while, cell phones in front of their faces, but it’s not enough to make them fully lucid. When they go on the eternal hunt to slake their cravings for brains, it’s really the search for their own. Some zombies are even musicians. Alongside the charismatic, underpaid folks who are just trying to put food on the table by enduring these touristy gigs on Bourbon Street, there are always a few on stage just going through the motions. Their hands are working, but that spark of life is long gone, and they don’t even blink when they are asked to play “Mustang Sally.” (Ask anyone who plays for a living here in New Orleans. We all HATE that friggin’ song—or any other song that’s been played to death night after night—and most of us truly don’t understand why the crowds want to hear the same old crap, especially in a town that’s famous for its unique music.) If there ever really is some sort of “zombie apocalypse” in our future, I doubt it’s going to be due to any sort of space dust or virus. It’s going to happen if the majority of the population decides to give up-- to let go of its art, its individuality, its diversity, its kindness-- and succumb to greed, fear, and exhaustion.

  The ghosts that are rumored to haunt the French Quarter aren’t even what the tour guides make them out to be. They are the residual energies of bygone buildings that have been destroyed by fires, floods, hurricanes, and neglect. Or else they are of surviving establishments simply never given a chance at catharsis of their old lives before becoming refurbished and reopened. (This is why ghosts are always tied to particular locations.) There are plenty of locations that have warm, friendly vibes, but thrill-seekers tend to gravitate toward the intensity of the negative. We all consciously channel our energies towards everyday objects that require our immediate attention, but tend to forget about the impressions we leave on the walls around us...until they answer back. Then we become frightened by ghosts because we aren’t expecting them, so caught up in our little microcosmic lives are we. Many of the historical structures around here are very much alive, and the energies of the places that have passed on only manifest themselves in a way that human beings can interpret—imprints and images of familiar forms--and so there are rumors that a murdered woman can be seen at the top of some stairwell, or a little girl in some window. Some people even find the lingering sadness to be infectious, without even knowing why. Others sense “cold spots” in specific crannies and nooks. These are all actually projections from the memories of the buildings themselves. Even in some architectural afterlife, there are issues to be resolved. Everything is vibration, and all vibrations echo in some way as long as there are ears to hear them or surfaces to sense them. All ghosts can be fled from...except for the ones we carry within ourselves.

  I suddenly snap out of my musings. Something doesn’t smell right. It’s not even the ubiquitous skunk-smell of pot that seems to loom over the music scene. That I don’t mind; it’s as ever-present as a backdrop these days—especially on reggae gigs like this one tonight—and although I don’t partake of it much myself, I’d rather deal with stoners than drunks. But it’s the three kids in the farthest corner who are trying to get their jollies who have caught my attention. And now it seems as though I have caught theirs. On my own turf, I am suddenly regarded as an intruder to their little party. I suddenly remember why drab colors are important for survival in the females of many species.

  They begin to approach me. I don’t even know what they want, but I do know that they’re not employees, nor are they here to contribute to the conservation of any endangered species.

  “Gimme a dollar ... you blew my high!”

  I have had a crappy day, I’m trying to focus on the gig tonight, and I absolutely do not need these punks messing with me now. I stand as still as a stone until they step a little too close for comfort. They make the mistake of making eye contact with me. It’s an act of aggression that tips me right over the edge.

  I can hear a sound like a feedback loop gnawing at my eardrums, and I’m dimly aware that I’m humming an angry little song. I think it’s an old Scottish call to battle that I learned as a kid, but I’m not really paying attention to anything other than how to make these kids to back off. NOW. I take a step forward.

  And as if summoned somehow, there are now two of us. Raúl is suddenly at my side, snarling what appears to be some choice words in Tsonga. He could be reciting the nutritional content off of a bag of Chee-Wees for all I know, but it sounds menacing
enough to make these punks step back very quickly, palms up in the universal “We don’t want no trouble” gesture. They wisely decide to move along.

  Trying to maintain some semblance of bravado, one spits on the pavement as a final gesture of defiance in the middle of his hasty retreat. Trying to mark his territory.

  Raúl resumes his relaxed smile, as though he’s just enjoyed this showdown like a funny film. “They don’t know much about who the real ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ are, do they? Mess with one musician, you mess with the whole lot. Now let’s go back inside, before you attract any more attention. Who would it possibly be coming after you next time, hmm? Some mobster? Maybe some James Bond villain...no, I’ve got it! Disgruntled rodeo clowns. Come on, baixinho ... if you weren’t like a little sister to me, I would marry you this instant. Since I have these scruples, I guess I can’t be a true Louisianian then, can I?”

  Sometimes, I don’t know what I would do without Raúl.

  * * *

  As we walk back inside, I see that another buddy of mine is here tonight, which cheers me. Local self-proclaimed guitar god Maestro Dude Holstein is checking sound now. Besides his pretty hair and faster-than-the-speed-of-musically-pleasing guitar licks, his only saving grace is his bass player, my friend Teddy Lee. Teddy is going to go places, but right now he doesn’t seem to be in a rush. Like Raúl, he’s one of the few people on the scene that I feel I can trust, and he’s not only become a good friend to me, he’s also one of the best musicians I know, but most people can’t seem to get past his high falsetto singing voice and abnormally large chin. When Teddy’s not onstage, he’s outright hilarious (typical of his boisterous, quintessentially Irish Channel “Yat” upbringing)...cheerful and cuddly-looking, like his name. I don’t know why he’s wasting his talent in a backing band for Maestro Dude Holstein. He seems content to just make his musical statement and then disappear into the shadows again. Not all of us are career-driven, I suppose.

  Comradeship in the music scene is invaluable. I’ve borne witness to so much backstabbing and outright swindling over the years amongst club owners, equipment dealers, producers, and fellow musicians, so it seldom goes unnoticed by me how refreshingly real Teddy is. We seldom see each other when we’re both working, but we often swap gear for various gigs, coordinate equipment on double billings like this one, trade lore on instruments we’ll probably never be able to afford, and give each other the lowdown on anyone on the scene who’s potentially bad news. When you’re a bass player, you don’t often hang with your fellow low-end jockeys (the annual Mardi Gras “Bass Parade” notwithstanding), and I’m grateful that Teddy and I have each other’s backs.

  The bandleader, however, is a notorious asshole, and right now he happens to be mouthing off to my beloved Rowan. I try to mind my own business and appear casual, but the hair on the back of my neck and arms is beginning to rise. Maestro swears at Rowan over the mic, insulting his aptitude, his musicianship, and his manhood. Rowan calmly diffuses the situation by suggesting a different setting on Maestro’s rig. Maestro tweaks a few knobs, fails to see any more problems, then storms off the stage into the green room.

  Teddy makes a beeline for me as the next band sets up. “Can you BELIEVE that dipshit? I can’t take dealing with these asshats any more.” He grins as Raúl, who has also worked with Teddy, comes trotting over to commiserate. “I’ve been dying to take that guy down a notch or two, and tonight’s the night.” I must appear concerned, because he chuckles reassuringly, “Don’t worry. It’s not going to make the night go askew. But this douchebag might think twice before fucking with his fellow musicians. You guys in?”

  No need to ask us twice. With soundcheck officially over, and the canned music flooding the PA once more, we have a few minutes to spare before the showcase begins. Maestro has stormed off somewhere—he doesn’t seem to be close, as the smell of his rancid cologne (which I think is probably Chanel Number Two) is very faint. In a millisecond, Teddy has swiped the set list and procured a Sharpie.

  “Um, isn’t he going to notice...?” I venture cautiously.

  Teddy grins like a mischievous wild animal. “Who do you think had to write up his set list at the last minute while he was fixing his hair?” He flips the paper over, and we set ourselves to the task.

  Now there are three of us, huddled into a tight knot, howling with laughter. We substitute quite a few nouns in the song titles with “penis.” We compete for the most heinous plays on words, trying to keep our voices down.

  “Okay...now we have ‘Rising Farts’...and ‘Gland in Hand,’ and I think we’re good to go! Holstein is gonna have a cow!” Teddy triumphantly snatches the newly altered set list and is back at the edge of the stage so fast, he defies physics, while Raúl and I try to alleviate the pain in our faces from laughing by mashing our cheeks in our hands.

  I’m still wiping the tears from my eyes when I spot Rowan across the room, casually leaning against the railing intended to protect the sound board and crew from drunken idiots. He seems unfazed by the exchange with Maestro, but his mouth holds the barest hint of a smile, as if he’s actually heard our wicked plans. It’s hard to imagine him as potentially dangerous, as all I can see in him are sweetness and beauty. I am a little ashamed at how quickly my pulse begins to race again.

  * * *

  It all seemed far less daunting a few days ago.

  Sylvia had told me that she would come to the gig. If I know Sylvia, I know she’ll show up unapologetically dressed, flaunting her usual attention-getting garb. At least a simple cross around her neck wouldn’t look out of place for a music venue in New Orleans. But no one has ever succeeded in telling Sylvia what to do.

  In my desperation, I turned to her only last week, because I knew she’d never judge me. Granted, she’s not supposed to be judgmental in her current line of work, but ever since we were kids, she’s always been level-headed and intuitive.

  It had been too long since I’d gone to see her, and I felt more than a little guilty about that. I don’t have many reasons to drive out to the river parishes, but I certainly did then. They say you’re supposed to talk to someone you can trust when you’re confused. I had to confide in Sylvia about my werewolf.

  She was exactly where I expected her to be: in the sanctuary, practicing that fearsome pipe organ. The music could have passed for Bach, and I couldn’t suppress a grin in spite of myself; I certainly wasn’t going to tell the priest that it was really the progressive rock creation of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer.

  I’ll be there! I’ll be there! I will be there ...

  She turned around so suddenly, I jumped. She couldn’t have heard me walk in. Did I stink that badly? I sniffed my armpits self-consciously.

  She raised one copper-colored eyebrow and flashed me a toothy grin. “I figured you’d be coming around about now.”

  I trotted across the marble floor, aware of how loud my feet sounded in the bright room, even in my soft Chuck Taylors, and we embraced fiercely.

  “Sylvia ...” I began.

  She shushed me. “It’s Sister Jean-Baptiste as long as we’re in here, okay?” I gave her a tight nod.

  “Come on.” She indicated the side door, leading to the yard and the huge old live oak tree, so very much like the ones on whose roots we used to play as kids. “We’ll have some privacy there.”

  * * *

  A shriek of a guitar solo, like a rabbit in its final death throes, and I shake my head, forcing myself out of this reflection. Sylvia promised that she’d be here, and until then, there’s been nothing to do but sip moodily at my water and listen to the other acts.

  It’s fitting that this benefit show is to save an endangered lupine species. Someone once told me that when wolves howl, they deliberately avoid hitting the same note. They do this to create the illusion of having a greater number of pack members. I can see this being effective. I’m hearing quite a lot of myriad notes out of S
ofa King Bad, the third act playing right now. However, the harmonies I’m hearing ought to cast the illusion of some hellish 75-piece orchestra onstage. I’m quite certain that they’re not doing this on purpose. For that matter, I’m not convinced that all of the band members are even playing the same song, for that matter, or that they even notice. A tear begins to form in the corner of my eye, and it’s not due to being emotionally moved.

  I had, of course, paid rapt attention to Maestro Dude Holstein, trying to keep a straight face each time he announced the first few songs with their brand new titles, with Raúl sitting near me at the bar—although Raúl was slightly distracted by two lovely young German ladies. Women are crazy about him, with his distinct African features, exotic accent, and charming manners. Pure animal magnetism.

  At first, trying to chill and wasn’t easy. I was sitting as still as possible, silently willing the patrons to leave me the hell alone, and trying to show my support. That’s when one particular pack of rogue frat boys had raised my hackles when the members began their vociferous posturing and drunken attention-getting theatrics. They didn’t seem to notice the Dude’s frustration, or any musical snafus, but that didn’t stop them from analyzing the shallow end of the show. As soon as one of them made the grave mistake of trying to initiate conversation with me by saying, “Man, that bass player’s backing vocals sounds like a damn chipmunk...and what’s the deal with his CHIN? Was his daddy a pelican?” I whirled around at him so fast, teeth bared in my most effective “crazy bitch” stance, he backed away so fast, you’d think he’d been shoved. I tried once again to listen. I have to say, it was quite entertaining to see the megalomaniac Maestro Dude Holstein verbally shoot himself in the foot a few times, then scowl at his band and carry on the rest of the set with the proper titles, but his face darkening with each song. I’d have sworn that that Teddy could see me, even through the blindingly bright stage lights that always make a dark club seem pitch black from the stage. He grinned, I bore it, and he threw some utterly sublime bass riffs my way. Between his amazing playing and what it meant to him that I was there, it was worth it.