It’s an early start as we make our way out of Austin, TX. The preceding week has seen the chaos and brilliance of South By Southwest run us rampant – gigs, planning, parties, free beer, run-ins with celebrities and a whole host of random activities – and now it’s time to head on the road. There’re just under two weeks of music-inspired tomfoolery to come, and what better time to start it than 5:45am.
First stop is New Orleans, Louisiana. Mode of transport; Greyhound. We watch the rolling landscape fly by in between fits of slumber. Houston, Texas to change buses, alas with not enough time to check out one of America’s largest cities. As we near the border to Louisiana there is a definite change in the scenery. Bland green pastures and Interstate roads give way to the bayous, the swamps that are the very essence of this part of the world. Mangroves creep toward the roadside, held back by the flying trucks on just another daily mission from one side of the country to the other.
We reach N’Orleans after dark, and after checking-in at our hostel, we hear word of a house party not far from where we are. Two Washington (state, not D.C.) are in town, and it’s an eclectic collection of party guests that are here to greet them.
Broken Waters channel the reverb-heavy, wall-of-sound inspired by My Bloody Valentine and with dual male/female vocals, turn a crowded room into a sweaty, heaving mass of people. Lit by candlelight it is a truly inspirational set by three creative individuals.
Unfortunately for Seattle band Lozen, there have already been complaints made to the police – a presence always felt in this town – and the “minimalist metal” 2-piece are only allowed a few songs before the cops show up and kill the vibe. It’s a long walk home through an oppressive neighbourhood, but we thankfully pass through with our lives and wallets, ready to live another day.
Bourbon St, with all its history, is not what I expected. I had anticipated a dank, cobblestoned street lined with dive bars blasting jazz and blues music into the moist night. What we find however is a flashing, glary street full of strip clubs, frozen dacquiri bars and stag/hen nights. Negative comparisons have to be made to Amsterdam’s Red Light district, the district immortalized no longer for its bohemian beginnings and since transformed to a drug-fuelled excuse to pillage the wallets from unsuspecting tourists.
Frenchmen St, on the far side of town, is much more impressive. Despite its small stature, there are the gypsy bands on the corners, there are the dive bars, there are big bands blasting their horns from every direction, and the Big Easy seems a lot more authentic in these parts. We stand in the corner, soaking in the music. Locals bob their heads, tap their feet, and relax in the knowledge that this is their town – home of the jazz. It’s a sassy way to spend the night.
