the Bucket-of-Blood, the Upholstered Sewer, that's where you heard jazz

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Some guy came in for some innocent diversion, only he had about a grand on him. We had about six gals there, all sizes and all types. They worked on a percentage, so many drinks - phonies - drunk a night, so much earned. Well, this unlucky guy comes in. I strike up a tune and the big parade starts. First one gal sidles up to this fall guy; he doesn't give her a tumble. Then another, and still another. By this time he's downed several and is more amiable. Soon he latches on to one he likes. You know these girls could promise strange worlds with their eyes - it didn't pay to gaze too deeply. Well, he invites one of the gals to drink with him, and soon she's warming him up, and he buys me one - and then she invites one of her "girl friends" to join her - and pretty soon it's one big happy family, with our friend for the afternoon buying drinks for the house, about ten of us, and the drinks comin' so fast that nobody got a chance to really drink except, of course, our indiscreet friend. And somehow he passed out and had to be assisted upstairs. Just before my shift was up, he awoke - refreshed, but very short of dough. Very short. He was very outspoken about it, but no one knew where it had strayed, except - "Remember, you were buyin' everybody drinks - remember?" And so he started drinking again, and fell off one of the stools. This time the dishwasher helped him up, but somehow his hand got caught in this man's pocket. But the man with the grand (minus) wasn't that drunk. He put up a squawk. So there was nothing for Old Man McGovern to do but fire the dishwasher. So he got his hat and coat on and with his head hanging low, walked out - out, past the front window to the side door that also led back of the bar (partitioned off) to the kitchen, where I later saw him back at work, washing dishes.

“If you ain’t gonna shake it, why did you bring it?”

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Two or three pickup trucks parked at the street junction already have barbecue cooking up in the back, with smells of charcoal, hot sausage, and pork chops to drive you crazy. On a couple of vacant lots, there are little white tents also selling barbecue. And you can get beer, cold from the bin full of ice, to wash it down. The band plays “Hi Heel Sneakers,” “When My Dreamboat Comes Home,” “Blackbird Special,” “Iko Iko,” “Second Line,” “Food Stamp Blues,” and “Gimme My Money Back” — it has all the wildness and excitement I remember from the Olympia in the late eighties. The vibe from the crowd is sheer joy, the energy is as tangible as the electrical charge before a thunderstorm, and the mood is forward — to try and drop back down the line would be to defy the impetus. The barbecue vendors have kept pace with the parade, and so, incredibly, have the cold beer salesmen. Over on the neutral ground (what those outside New Orleans would call the “median”), a couple of operators are splitting cigars and adding herb to make “blunts.” Soon, the sweet smell of skunk weed, protected by the sheer density of the crowd, winds up the euphoria another couple of notches.

The musicians know no fatigue; still the dance rages on

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The family and friends of the old man have gone about four blocks away from the band when it abruptly swings around and heads back toward town and the bar where they had met earlier. Then it happens! The bass drum resounds like a small cannon with Boom, Boom, Ba, Boom, Boom, Boom! The whole mood has changed as Onward screams happily into "Bourbon Street Parade." The second liners go wild! They laugh, dance with broad gyrating hip-swing movements; dipping and whirling their umbrellas, they sway, strut, and jive. The crowd has grown to over a thousand now as Onward goes blasting down the street. Almost everyone in their path gets caught up in the absolute, released joy and frenzy. As they move along, they go almost immediately from one happy "finger-poppin' " tune to another. Because the departed brother was a "ramblin' man," a "swingin' cat," they do "Didn't He Ramble?" Then it's 'The Saints Go Marchin' In" and "The Saint Louis Blues." With all this, the band seems to have come completely back into key as the "happy jazz" bounces and shouts down the street.

The tricks ain't walking and the Johns are squawking

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On Monday nights all the District underworld whores and pimps would come out to the park.Bolden would be invited over to their tables and he'd leave the bandstand to go and ball it up with the pretty downtown Creole whores.Bunkie would then take over when Bolden was gone.Yes,L'il Bunkie would blow and blow,just like the King.That's when he'd play his favorite tune which made the crowd scream and holler for him to play it over.He'd tell Lorenzo when to announce the tune,and Lorenzo would stand up, the drummer would roll the snare and everyone would quiet down and listen to Lorenzo as he hollered "Now,ladies and gentlemens and rats and cats and all the other wild animals gathered here on this great occasion! The great little Bunkie Johnson will now render his classical sonata The Whore's Gone Crazy 

Everyone would get hysterical and raise up some hell:clapping,whistling and screaming.Lorenzo would motion them to calm down and the Bunkie would start blowing that tune.It was a real lowdown,funky blues,very slow, and everyone danced.This lasted for about twenty minutes.Yes,they just shook and rubbed bellies,not moving four feet apiece while Bunkie played the whole tune.That was something to see,that big crowd,their shoulders and heads barely moving but the lower portions of their bodies shaking and wriggling like a barrel of rattle snakes.

"If the truth were known about the origin of jazz,it would never be mentioned in polite society."-Clay Smith