Saint Peter Street Breakdown
by Kevin See
As I turned down Bourbon Street for the first time, it was clear every idea I had about New Orleans was right. Trash and tourists tumbled aimlessly down a reeking street, weighed down by the hot, wet air that turned the whole city into a steam room. It was just like what I told my mom when she told us where we were headed on that year’s seldom-taken spring break trip. It was a city full of drunk college students, dripping in plastic beads and sweat and gaudy ghost stories.
It turns out I didn’t know something. Bourbon Street is a quarantine zone. All of its debauchery exists so the rest of the French Quarter doesn’t get thrown to the Tigers. Turn left onto Bienville Street, and the real French Quarter reveals itself: block after block of wrought iron terraces, quiet, slow-paced streets, and unbelievable food. My first bite of crawfish étouffée was enough to make me apologize for being so stuck up.
By the second day, we’d figured it out: steer clear of the bars advertising that they’d invented whatever drink and served 1 liter quantities, the True and Authentic Vampire and Voodoo New Orleans Ghost Tours (“led by a crypt keeper!”), and the delis offering 10-inch high muffaletta sandwiches, and we’d be okay. With my faith in the city and Mom’s planning restored, I found myself buzzing—just a little—at the promise of that night’s activity: a trip to Historic Preservation Hall to hear a real New Orleans Jazz Band.
According to my mom’s guidebook, Preservation Hall is the place to see authentic jazz. We’d had to get tickets months in advance. It was one of the few things I’d been excited about throughout the planning process. I knew I loved jazz. I’d played the saxophone since fourth grade; my playlists were full of Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and John Coltrane. Real, authentic, countercultural Jazz. Now that I’d seen the real New Orleans, I was sure I’d find real jazz in Prez Hall.
The night of the show, I was the first one out of the hotel room. By the time I turned onto Saint Peter Street I was half a step from sprinting, until I was promptly stopped by a crowd of people gathered around a sandwich board:
New Orleans Vampire and Ghost Tour
Huh. But I had seen these tours meet all over the city; their presence here didn’t actually mean a lot. I kept going towards the address on my phone, but the crowds got denser as I pushed further down the street. Neon bar signs popped up more and more often. Whatever. Jazz began as club music– it made sense there’d be a few bars around. I was finally close to the Hall. In fact, I was right next door.
Pat O’Brien’s Bar: Creators of the Hurricane
Only then did I see the massive line oozing out of a dingy building with a brand new sign hanging off the front.
Historic Preservation Hall!: Authentic New Orleans Jazz Since 1961!!
There was my jazz hall. Mine and at least 75 baseball-capped, giant-drink-toting, sweaty, raucous tourists. We were shuttled past a table of T-shirts, hats, and stickers emblazoned with the same logo as the sign out front and pushed into a room that was much more Box than Hall, only to discover there were, in fact, no seats in order to cram as many people in as possible.
This, I thought, is Jazz Disneyland.
I was about to share my new discovery with my mom when the band walked in. A lanky young man ducked his head under the door and shuffled his way to the piano like an accountant settling down to file tax returns. A guy who could’ve been standing in the audience got behind the drums. His stained graphic tee gathered around his beer belly as he sat down.
Here it comes, I thought as the people around me clapped like seals. Tired guys who couldn’t make it for real trotted out for us who don’t know any better.
Then, the weirdest trio ever walked in with their instruments. A trombonist as wide as his smile and as loud as his Hawaiian shirt entered and immediately began yelling at the crowd to clap louder. The only white guy on the bandstand sauntered in behind him, worn down button-up on, porkpie hat with a peacock feather in the brim perched on his head, tenor sax in hand. They sat on stools and looked on in reverence as the oldest man I’d ever seen took what must have been a full minute to hobble to a chair center stage. He and his chair creaked as he sat down, pulled out his own tenor saxophone, wheezed out a thank you to the audience, and slowly turned to his band.
“What do y’all wanna play?”
What? There’s no set list? No sheet music? Nothing? I’d gotten all excited to sit in on some freaks’ jam session? Halfway through my fit of rage, the band came to a consensus. Some song I’d never heard of that all of them seemed intimately familiar with. I was busy glaring at the trombone player for smiling at me when the old man center stage croaked out a count.
Two days later I’d touch back down in New York. As we taxied, John Coltrane wailed in my headphones, an accompanying quartet scrambling to follow his blistering solo. But in Preservation Hall, five John Coltranes took off each playing their own direction of the same song, like they were all remembering a different recording.
It should’ve been a trainwreck, but somehow in all the chaos everyone could see exactly where the other one was going without compromising their own idea. The trombone player swung his body around as he played, nearly hitting the first row with an extended slide. The piano player sat halfway off the bench while each hand moved at lightspeed, head bobbing like he was falling asleep. Both tenor sax players’ fingers flew, eyes closed as they leaned into their horns.
Then, spurred on by some mysterious cue, the old man stood up, took his saxophone out of his mouth, and started to sing. All at once, the band shifted from their internal competition and harmonized around the quiet, raspy voice now at the center of the tune. He sounded awful. His voice was breathy and thin, barely audible over the accompaniment around him. He was the center of the universe.
I barely noticed when the song ended. A Preservation Hall baseball cap found its way into my hands ($30, cash only). We poured back out into the street, where the noise of the bars and the crowd of the tours had only grown. But above it all, or maybe through it all, was a corner musician. A trumpet player. I couldn’t see him, but a few clean, clear notes accompanied the whole walk home.