After the wax museum raid was largely unsuccessful, we all ended up at a place called Mulate's for more music. What the band plays there is pure Cajun. And I must say, even the bar food in New Orleans is wonderful! Ray and I found Mint Juleps on the menu. We had mentioned them before we left for New Orleans, and I was glad to have had one or two. If one does order a mint julep, I recommend before one takes a sip, one should stir it first, unless one would enjoy a snootful of Kentucky Bourbon.
When one walks in the French Quarter, one must be careful to look closely, not just at things, but behind them as well. While walking with Ray, he was able to point out many doorways that lead to wonderful places. Courtyards, stairwells, gardens—they were like hidden jewels, he said.
After our disappointing excursion to Mother's Restaurant, the rest of the day did go better. That evening we decided to relax and take a dinner cruise down the Mississippi River on the Steamboat Natchez! It is only one of five steamboats still in operation on the Mississippi, and the only one in New Orleans. I must say the trip was uneventfully wonderful. We were served more than enough to eat from the buffet. The ship departed at 7:00pm, and we watched the sun set during our trip downriver. Throughout the cruise, we were treated to an evening of dixieland jazz. The Natchez also sports its own steam calliope, gift shop, and offers engine room tours.
I discovered if one walked on the lower deck, close to the railing, heading from stern to stem, one could get the sensation of staying in place on the water, while the boat was speeding under one's feet. I soon had us all briskly walking fore and aft.
Around 9:00pm, the Natchez docked and we all disembarked. It was a lovely time. But it was far too early to retire, so we thought we'd crash the party we'd heard about earlier.
Before we had left for dinner, we learned the location of the Musée Conti Wax Museum. So we found ourselves walking through some of the darkest streets in New Orleans. When we found it, we were let in immediately. We filed past a wax figure of Louis Armstrong, and stole up the stairs. The room was was filled with unoccupied tables. The centerpieces comprised of a round mirror, a gargoyle, and a sprinkling of red rose petals. At the head of the room was a phony crypt. Some people came from the back and started packing up. A woman approached us and said, “I hope you had a good time!”
'Why, yes. Thank you!” we said.
Then we excused ourselves to the lavatory, then left.
And while I enjoyed the trip on the Natchez, I must wonder what weirdness and intrigue I missed at the wax museum.
Starting our second day in New Orleans, we all slept a little later than we thought after our previous day's adventures. At the elevators, we experienced an interesting interchange. We were discussing plans for the evening. A young woman not with our group said, “Tonight is the big party!”
“Really?” I asked. “What big party is that?”
“You know, the one at the wax museum.”
She looked at us and eyed us suspiciously. “Are you with the paper company?”
“Why, yes!” I lied.
She cast her eyes downward and waited for the next elevator in silence.
It rained most of the day, but we finally left the hotel to eat lunch. We went to a place somebody recommended, but I don't remember who. Now I know, “If one can't say anything NICE…”, but I characterize what I am about to say as a public service. We went to eat at a place called Mother's. I would also be interested if anybody can actually get the link to work. Mother's is famous for its baked ham sandwich. It says so on the awning. At any rate, the line was literally out the door (did I mention that it was raining), and when we followed the snaking line to its conclusion, we were met by stainless steel vats, cafeteria-style, with lunch ladies slopping out ladlefuls of New Orleans cuisine.
I would have liked to have tried a little bit of sandwich and a little bit of something else, but the lunchtime soup and sandwich combo at Mother's is around $17. Besides, I could eat a ham sandwich anywhere. Well, perhaps not in the Middle East. Anyway, I ordered the etouffeé. When it arrived it was in a small dish. A very small dish. And, to be kind, it was passable. So if you're looking for mediocre food at exorbitant prices, I recommend Mother's! (Is their link working yet?)
We traversed our way through the night-time streets, through the depravity and into the French Quarter. Quaint old buildings by day turn into dirty hovels at night. Booze for the drunks! Strip clubs for the licentious! The idea that streets are reserved for automobiles at that hour is unheard of. The boulevards and avenues after dark are filled with women and men and more women and women who are men and vice-versa. The list continues: curly-mustachioed gentlemen, whores with feathered boas, dandies, toy-like street mimes, murderous ghosts, transsexuals with feathered boas, dancers, artists, vampires, authors with vampires, and our quirky band which includes—but is not limited to—a hipster/shaman, an asian beauty, and someone with a bowler hat and the best shoes on the planet.
So on to Fritzel's. We took the long bench by the doorway. The entrance had no door, but was covered with strips of clear plastic sheeting, like an old car wash. The building itself has a long history.
In the winter, I prefer clean clear drinks—like gin and tonic. But in the summer, and especially during a hot night like in New Orleans, I prefer sweet syrupy rum. So it was rum and coke for me. Sitting amongst all the German paraphernalia hanging from the walls we had another drink to Dutch. Studying the decor, another of our band—Gray, the quiet folk musician—had recently seen the Hitler miniseries on the television. He noted the music of Wagner (say VOG-ner), and Hitler's deep love of the composer's work (say VORK). Because Hitler loved the music of Wagner, Gray believes that there must be something inherently evil about the music. I mentioned the Hitler also loved children. Is there something inherently evil in children? If anyone would like to weigh in on this topic, you are more than welcome (Another fellow on the Mintchaos blogblock, n0sh already posted a similar discussion a while back).
At any rate, while we were discussing this, we heard the shattering of a glass. We looked up and saw a man (whom we took to be the new bar owner who took over after Dutch ) “bulldozing” another man—that is to say MOVING him past the bar and toward the exit. Backwards. BACKWARDS. He managed to keep the patron upright and off-balance at the same time.
Out he was spit, through the doorway and into the street. Young men around the bar looked at each other and raced out into the street single-file, followed closely by a woman and her purse. We looked at each other. Should we join in? We stuck to our drinks.
The patron was sent packing, and the new owner—after his long day—returned through the door. He had a blood-red gash on his swelling nose. He stopped at our table.
“I'm very sorry about this,” he said, picking up that we weren't regulars. “This kind of thing never happens.”
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, this is nothin',” he said, not having seen his nose yet.
“What happened?”
“This guy had been mean to my girls (he meant waitresses) all night. They kept comin' back and tellin' me. I thought about it and finally said 'This is enough'. So then I asked him to leave. He wouldn't go so I hadta move him out.”
“So,” we said, “Uh, what did he do to your nose?”
“Oh, he didn't do nothin'. His wife hit me with her purse”.
After drinking to Dutch, we were told that the funeral procession would likely end up at the last place that Dutch owned. It was called Fritzel's, and happened to be located nearby, just down Bourbon Street. We stopped by, but the bar was open to family only. The band that had been playing in the procession was now playing in the bar. A number of local business owners were on the sidewalk with beer in glass mugs in hand, milling among the discarded laurel branches and drinking to the memory of Dutch. We decided to return later that evening.
After the jazz funeral, we found an old convenience store where we could get something to drink. Asking about the strange procession we had just seen, it just so happened that the young woman behind the counter used to work for the deceased. His name was Dutch Seutter. We were told he had owned four jazz clubs in his lifetime. He loved jazz. While other clubs in the Quarter were switching to rock music to attract the younger clientele, Dutch remained steadfast in his support for the great music. He had retired only a few months earlier.
The owner of the convenience store was setting up a card table out front. He poured us each a shot. It was a shot that Duch himself had invented. I don't recall the ingredients, but I believe it tasted like pear. If anyone can identify the bottles in the photo, perhaps we could figure out the recipe.
It is tradition, we were told, to raise a glass and toast the departed. And so we did.
Thanks for the spectacle, the music, and the hospitality during our first few hours in the Big Easy. To Dutch!
After lunch, we were all walking around the French Quarter getting a bit comfortable with our surroundings. Then we heard music. Dixieland music as a matter of fact. We turned to look, and saw two black horses coming up the street. They were pulling a black coach. The walls of the coach were made of glass. Inside was hanging drapery, bouquets of flowers, and a small wooden box. It was soon obvious we were in the middle of some kind of funeral.
The coach stopped at the crossroads of the intersection. Close behind was whom I assume to have been the widow. She was dressed in black, and was carrying a black and white photo of the deceased. Behind her was the family and friends. After them was a group of revelers, collected from the streets of the French Quarter as the procession passed by. They were dancing to the music being played by the dixieland band marching in the rear.
Next, a tray was produced from somewhere. Disposable shot glasses were quickly arranged on the tray, and the widow poured the liquor. People from the sidewalks gathered around and took a shot, toasting toward the carriage. The tray was put away, and the whole strange procession travelled down the street.
What we saw is commonly known as a Jazz Funeral, or as a local called it, a “Second Line”. I believe it takes its name from the group of tag-alongs that march behind the family. The family is considered the first line. I was told funerals like this happen all the time in the black neighborhoods, but rarely anymore in the Quarter.
While in New Orleans, the first order of business was to visit the French Quarter. I had heard many vague tales of its seedy reputation and inhospitality to tourists. So cautiously we walked through Jackson Square, past the pushcart aisle of the tarot readers and entered the Quarter. We were prepared to be adventurous. Besides, it was broad daylight—and lunchtime—and we were hungry.
We stumbled into a little place called the Napoleon House (one may be able to discern the sign in the distinctive shape of a particular French General's hat in the photo). The food was quite good. If I find myself in New Orleans again, I would certainly seek it out (but next time I promise to sample a Pimm's Cup). I ordered the jambalaya. The hipster/shaman Ray ordered a muffaletta sandwich with its distinctive crushed olive spread. Chia-Hui ordered the seafood gumbo, which is distinctive due in no small part to the crab legs emerging from the bowl, as if attempting to escape.
Speaking of escape, it just so happens that the Napoleon House is not named as such without good reason. The building was being prepared for the emperor in the event of his escaping the isle of St. Helena during his exile. Of course, he never did. But his name made it to 500 Rue Chartres without him and is still there today.
As a side note—what if Napoleon had escaped? We were discussing this idea while lunching in the Napoleon House courtyard. As it turns out, there is a delightful film starring the incomparable Sir Ian Holm called The Emperor's New Clothes that is a must-see.
And the next time we speak, I'll tell you of the warm welcome we received on the streets of the French Quarter from a dead man.
Night time on The City of New Orleans,
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Half way home, we’ll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rolling down to the sea.
And all the towns and people seem
To fade into a bad dream
And the steel rails still ain’t heard the news.
The conductor sings his song again,
The passengers will please refrain
This train’s got the disappearing railroad blues.
Good night, America, how are you?
Don’t you know me I’m your native son,
I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
—Steve Goodman
While I was out jaunting, I stopped by the the Crescent City. What a marvelous place. After visiting, I must wonder to myself if the Fates are not priming me for an eventual relocation? Perhaps, but we’ll have to wait and see. But let us get back to my trip. It is a tale of architecture, restaurants, emperors, bar fights, artwork, a funeral, and a beautiful lady. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you a little more.
Last night I went to the Chicago Opera Theater. It was their final performance of the children's opera Brundibár. As you may have learned from my previous post, the sets and costumes were designed by author and illustrator Maurice Sendak. The opera was written by Hans Krasa shortly before he was taken to Terezin, a place where the Jews were collected until the completion of Auschwitz. During that dark time, it was performed by the children who had been relocated there.
The story of the opera goes like this: Pepicek and his sister Aninku go out to get milk for their sick mother, for as the doctor said, the milk will make her well. The children go into the city and discover that they can't get milk—or any bread, or any of the wonderful things they see in the city—without money. They see the organ grinder Brundibár playing his awful mechanical music for the people of the town, who put money in his bucket because there are no other musicians left. The children start to sing for the townspeople, but they are chased off by the policeman at the behest of Brundibár.
At night the children are visited by the guardians of the town—a sparrow, a cat, and a dog. When the sun rises, all the town's children come to their aid, and the bullying organ grinder is deposed. The children sing, and Pepicek and Aninku get enough money to buy milk for their mother, who then recovers.
Unfortunately, due to budget and space constraints, the sets could not be as lavish as they were in Sendak's designs for Hansel and Gretel. Reportedly he had over 15 sets designed, but had to whittle them down to five. Still, as Sendak gets older, his brushstrokes are wider and bolder. The sets had a simplicity and an innocence about them, which matched the tone of the opera. This veil of innocence is probably why the Nazis allowed it to be performed 55 times.
Even though the opera has a happy ending, the rest of the tale does not. After the final performance of Brundibár, most of the children were shipped to Auschwitz. Somewhere around 15,000 children were murdered in the concentration camps. Less than 300 survived.
As he revealed in last week's lecture, because of the horrors of WWII, and due to the fact that he never had children, the illustrator is the very last Sendak. This weighs on him heavily. He said that in resurrecting Brundibár, he finally feels that he has done something for those children. The final curtain was a full illustration by Sendak, depicting a scene of mothers weeping and grieving, with ruins of buildings in the distance. Flying over their heads were a flock of shabby blackbirds (a recurring image in the libretto) carrying scores of children away on their backs. It is by far one of the most powerful pieces by Sendak I have ever seen.
Last week, when I attended Sendak's lecture, I met a woman who was handing out postcards for the performance. She told us she was one of the original performers who had survived. She had played the part of the cat.
Sendak, that is! Kudos to you if you guessed it! Some of you may recall the dream I had last September. One may remember Sendak's most famous work from one's childhood. It was a little book called Where the Wild Things Are. That book revolutionized children's literature, influenced the design of the characters in Sesame Street, and has even been turned into an opera. And a fun one at that. I've seen it! (On my arm for that particular show was a dark, curly-haired beauty. I don't recall her name, but she had unforgettable eyes.)
Sendak was a joy to listen to. A cross between Colonel Sanders and Edward G. Robinson, his tales were sometimes poignant, sometimes sad, but mostly hilarious.
In 1985 he retired mostly from children's books (Swine Lake and Down In The Dumps With Jack and Guy being exceptions) and began designing sets for operas. Another one I have had the pleasure to see is Hansel and Gretel. (I happened to have been accompanied by a drop-dead gorgeous polish-american girl. I'd show you her photograph, but her current boyfriend is a bit squeamish about the nudes.) Anyway, the effect of seeing Sendak's meticulous work realized in three dimensions is mesmerizing. In Hansel the forest the children become lost in is dense, gnarled, and frightening. He is currently in Chicago for the operas Brundibar and Comedy on the Bridge, both of which he designed sets for.
And those of you who would like to know more about his set designs, Sendak informed us at the lecture that a book detailing his work in opera over the last fifteen years will be forthcoming sometime in autumn, along with the picture book Brundibar which has been two years in the making.
It's true. I did have the blues, but only for an hour. The plan was to go to Chicago's Art Institute to hear one of my favorite author/illustrators at a speaking engagement (anyone hazard a guess?). I had forgotten there was a blues festival going on! I only had a short time to stay before the lecture, but I was able to listen to a set from Frank Morey, pictured above. I must tell you that it's perfect music to listen to while eating a cheezborger, cheezborger!
It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt, isn't it? I found this particularly nasty creature in the basement late last night. He had evidently gotten himself tangled up in some cable he was sabotaging and fell to his death in an avalanche of his own tools.
I should have known better. “A whole month devoted to faeries!” I said. “What a grand idea!” I said. Well, the damned things just about overran the Shop. What's worse is that somehow gremlins got in. Yes, you remember gremlins, from that eighties movie? Phoebe Cates and all?
For those of you who don't, gremlins first came to some noteriety during WWII, where they were blamed for all kinds of mechanical malfeasance. Guns jamming, tanks breaking down, planes falling out of the sky were attributed to these destructive pests.
The original plan, by the way, was to open a new room in the Shop at the end of May in a rather ingenious tie-in and grand finalé. Obviously that didn't happen, and it's a bigger mess now than when I started. I was lucky enough to send a message out a few days ago.
But now mostly everything is fixed and ready to go on as planned. That's the good news. The bad news is that I was hoping to wrap up the grand opening of the new room as I am scheduled to go jaunting about through the beginning of June. Well, it's good news for me, of course, but I'm afraid I won't be here for a week or so. But when I get back, I plan to tell you all about it. And hopefully some time in June I'll be able to open the new room I keep talking about.
Besides, I've recently acquired a set of hand tools that may help speed the process along nicely.
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