Preservation Hall, before the performers walked in
It is scorchingly hot. I feel like my skin melting off, just an everyday shedding season here in the heart of New Orleans. We walk to the place, having no sight of what’s inside thus far, and stand in line for about 30 minutes. It is getting a bit difficult to remain sane in the humidity.
The organizer tells us she will begin calling us in 5 minutes. HURRAY, I thought. We start walking in and I am perplexed. I don’t know what I thought Preservation Hall would look like but it was certainly not that. A garage-size space with no AC, and only about 4 ceiling fans, 2 of which were off. Being hot is all in my mind, trying to reassure myself. Think … cool thoughts. I look around the walls, trying to distract myself. The place is old. But there is a certain charm about it. The walls are rusty but in an inviting way. I started noticing the posters on the walls. Depictions of intriguing, almost animated, figures holding instruments. They looked like caricatures and I was fascinated. One of the band members entered, his energy higher than what I had experienced in the city. I can already imagine the energy he will exude when he plays the trombone. In the next 5 minutes, the rest of the band members come trickling in. I can feel the energy in the room gradually increase with the entrance of each member. There is a moment of silence. The trumpet player gives a quick introduction to the band members, and before I know it, I am transported to another world. A world of harmonious chaos. Jazz was an oxymoron. It didn’t make sense. One second I felt an overwhelming sense of calm and the next I felt uneasy from the loss of structure. Jazz is a representation of life. It is the unexpected. It is the joy. It is the intrigue. It is the suffering. I was so engulfed in this experience, I completely forgot I could not handle the heat a few minutes ago. After all, the struggle was all in my mind.
“Attracted to opposites again, to the crazy music he chose to die listening to, bitching at new experiments, the chaos...”
Posters of some of the jazz performers on the wall just outside Preservation Hall
The enclosed feeling I know too well comes over me. I feel like a caged bird yearning to break free. Yearning to get on stage. Yearning to perform. My humming intensifies but I can’t quite reach that point of satisfaction I have been craving for years. I am afraid. I feel myself shoving this passionate bird back into the cage every time I see a performance. One day, I tell myself. The feeling goes away quickly, as it usually does.
As the performance comes to an end, I am incredibly elated. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for life. I rush toward the stage, eager to greet the performers. I take a selfie with my new friend, the energetic character I will never forget. From that day on, it was him I channeled in the city, that inviting sense of acting on your most authentic self, a staple in jazz. I walked out of Preservation Hall, eager to get a souvenir to treasure this incredibly fulfilling experience. As I look through the hats and try one on, I make eye contact with the drummer, a young man, who is sitting in the merch area. I don’t know why, my hand shoots up and I start waving. He smiles and waves back. I exclaim: “Good job!” … Uhm …why did I wave to him as if he was a close friend? I didn’t know what came over me but the moment did not feel awkward at all. While I would usually feel embarrassed by a moment like this, I felt happy instead. I felt like I had known him for years. Maybe it’s jazz. It facilitates understanding. It communicates things words cannot.
One of the locals explaining how Tom’s “club” works and who partakes in it
From that day on, I knew I had to take advantage of any music experience I could in the city. So, when Andrew asked if we wanted to see a bluegrass and cajun performance at a fiddle shop, there was no question in my mind. I could not wait to see it. Andrew had found Tom’s Fiddle and Bow Shop off of Facebook and it was in some obscure part of Louisiana about 2.5 hours away called Arnaudville. When I asked Andrew if Arnaudville was a common tourist attraction, he said something along the lines of “I don’t think any tourist has been to this city.” I was more excited by this response. It took me some point but I realized what I loved about Louisiana was the mundane. The people. The nature. A bunch of locals, mostly elderly, getting together to jam to bluegrass music. This was the South. The welcoming, warm camaraderie inside the home and outside.
Arriving in Arnaudville, I didn’t know what to expect but I was beyond excited. As soon as I walk in, I hear the sweet sounds of guitar and violin in an unstable harmony. Violins ranging in all sizes hanging around. About 5 kind-looking elderly men smiling at us. I felt at home. They started playing again. I am so happy, I catch myself nodding along, feet moving to the rhythm, with the biggest smile on my face. Another song finished. Two seconds into the next one, I hear the voice of one of the elderly. THEY STARTED SINGING! Oh, I could not contain my excitement. Everything was majestic. The little harmonies with each lead singer. The polite “stepping back,” lowering of the volume of the instruments to allow each performer to shine. The merry smiles of affection toward the audience after every applause. The mundane was beautiful.
The performers at Tom’s Fiddle and Bow shop
There it is again. The caged bird yearning to escape. Yearning to join the world of this harmonious elegance. Yearning to perform. I had to do it. It was the perfect opportunity. I patiently wait until it was the right time and asked if I could request a song. Getting a positive response, I ask for “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. After a few short remarks about the right chords, pensive looks, and nods of “we got it,” they turn to me: “You know the words?” My heart started pounding. I secretly want to go up there and sing but I am afraid. I have never done anything like this. I tend to work behind the stage, never on the stage. I answer, “I probably remember a good amount.” One of the locals looks at me, “Come sit here.” Not only is my heart pounding, I am shaking. Nervous excitement. I look around. A bunch of kind elderly men looking at me, smiling. I felt safe. I didn’t feel judged. So, I did. I sang Jolene. Was I good? Not really, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all. The bird was free at last. The bird was free.
“The right ending is an open door you can’t see too far out of. It can mean exactly the opposite of what you are thinking.”