A Lesson Before Dying

Summer is a time when things grind to a halt in New Orleans, as many flee the rising mercury that is synonymous with living in the Deep South. The heat is blamed for many things: high crime, low tourism and empty cash registers, and general malaise. This week alone racial tensions neared a boiling point and the inner sanctum of a former mayor became ensnared and indicted in a web of corruption. Yet as the pulse of the city slows to the sweltering heat and deals with its ubiquitous problems, there is still a vibrant, beating heart. In the midst of this turmoil, it is an excellent time to find the answer to local trumpeter and recognized barbecuer Kermit Ruffins' song, "What is New Orleans?"



The question has many answers, but I believe that I found one on a Friday night in June. Passion; that is one reply to Ruffins' query. This night, passion was embodied in the spirit of an octogenarian bluesman named Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown, who, although diagnosed with cancer, does what he was put on the Earth to do: play down-home Blues. Instead of sitting in a hospital seeking treatment for his ailment, Brown has decided to play as long as his body can withstand, until his time comes. This includes playing with an oxygen tank sitting by his side. All of this seems fitting, as the Blues has always had a preoccupation with death since the mythical days of Robert Johnson allegedly selling his soul to the devil to obtain earthly immortality. As to the reason for eschewing medical care, one patron sputtered it best between sips of his double vodka: "The man's eighty-something. He's already a legend. What's he got to prove? Nothing. What's the point of treatment at his age? He's going out on his terms, doing what he does."



Frail and rail thin, Brown sat idly in the open door of a van waiting for Joe Krown to warm up the crowd, as several attendants made sure the man had everything he needed--including his pipe. Dressed to the nines with a blue and black country shirt, and topped with a cowboy hat, it seemed like this--the Maple Leaf on a Friday Night--was the only place he should be; it was seen on the fine polish of his black snakeskin boots. While Brown sat and casually smoked, inside the Maple Leaf Krown and the band laid down the thickest, heaviest, muggiest New Orleans' Funk. A lyric from a Funkadelic song proclaims, "Soul is the ring around your bath tub." New Orleans' Funk is that dirty. Low down and mean, the vibrations from Krown's Hammond B-3 floated out onto Oak Street, as he laid hand over hand in rapid succession on the keyboard.



Finally, Gate signaled to his entourage that he was ready. Like royalty, they moved to prepare his guitar and fiddle on stage and let Joe know that it was time. Into the dingy, dusty Maple Leaf walked an icon. "Ladies and Gentleman, Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown," announced Joe Krown. Gate settled on a stool, took off his hat exposing a thinning gray bramble of hair, and let his assistant put on an oxygen line under his nose. With a heavy blow that looked like a feeble attempt to marshall some strength, six decades of guitar work began easing from the speakers, as he quickly found his space within the band's number. Gate's melodic strumming began to build in stature, leaving a bluesy progression in its wake. The old man that had sat in the car on Oak Street had melted away. In his place was a spry country boy finger-picking through chord changes and feeding off the audience's open delight. His eyes would occasionally lift from his guitar and pierce the crowd, letting everyone know that this might be the last time; the gaze left a haunting impression, but it simultaneously took on the aura of a living wake, a celebration of a lifetime. Pain and pleasure emulsified; it was the Blues.



Still the consummate musician, Gate let the rest of the band have moments to solo. Each one looking to him for approval as if they were beginner students. His head bobbing and toe tapping conveyed his enjoyment. Suddenly, his long, thin finger would raise, signaling that it was time to move to the next musician. He was liking what he was hearing. After four or five numbers, Krown asked him how he felt, adding, "We can go as long you want?" Gate's vitality had visibly drained out through his boots, leaving him ready for a set break. Off came the cowboy hat and the old man returned to the room, the one who needed help getting off the stage amid the jumble of wires and speakers; the one who looked like he needed to be in an old age home. "We're gonna take a short break," Joe announced, sensing that the time was right.



Gate returned to his post out on the street, as he shook hands with fans thanking him for years of enjoyment. "Mr. Brown, I just wanted to say that I loved your music for years. Thanks so much," was how one such encounter went. Gate would graciously smile and nod his head, it was a testament to the impact that his music had had.

After a short break, Krown's band came back on stage, leaving the smell of funk on the street. They played two or three numbers before word reached Krown that Gate had left; it seemed he was just too tired tonight. Maybe he'd be up to it a little longer tomorrow night. Such is current state of affairs in the life of a legendary musician making his last rounds; it does not matter, he left the vibe behind him, as seen in the faces of fans and through the music that continued. Such are the immutable laws of life. "Hey, we're still here," Krown said sarcastically after he told the audience that Gate had gone home.

On the way home, I reflected on what I witnessed: A man dogged by disease that still possessed the gift of doing what he was destined to do and making sure that he did as much as could in his waning moments. This thought lingered in my head and buoyed my spirits. I felt rejuvenated. Like my United Cab driver told me on the way home from the Maple Leaf, "Man, this town sure looks pretty after a storm?" He was right. It is a baptismal experience every time it rains, cleansing and cooling the dingy old town for a fleeting moment before the temperature, as is always does, rises. But before it rose, the problems of the old town were in remission.

Maiden Voyage

To begin a voyage there must be a destination; the ideal and end-result should be bold, drastic, and sweeping; it will create something great. John Winthrop, one of America's founders who had such an idyllic vision in mind, wrote, "For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill.
The eyes of all people upon us, so that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world."

Of course, that "New Jerusalem" just happened to be occupied by some folks already, who under the weight of small pox and the barrel of a gun ceded the land to make Winthrop's utopia possible. But I digress.

From the high falutinness of Winthrop's dream, I, Michael Luke as Editor-in-Chief, set out to inform the masses. Therefore, I shall not shirk my duty.

Will anyone read this? Probably not. But I, as your faithful writer, will press on and continue to shout from the mountain tops so that all may hear one day. Along the way, I hope to amuse, inform, and expose anybody who contradicts Winthrop's vision.

Who are those backsliders? Almost every soul in New Orleans. That's what makes living in America's Sodom and Gomorrah so magnificent.

Shine on, John Wintrop.