I'm often sitting bewildered before my tv screen, agog at the sheer inventiveness of modern cruelty, pathology and violence, and wondering just where my own world-view and vision of human nature fits in. The drowning of New Orleans, as a spectacle of the failure of American infrastructure (comparatively, see how Cuba coped), makes it seem as if 'conviviality' and 'carnival' mean nothing, if your local, state or federal bureaucracy doesn't maintain the levees, and thousands dead as a result. Oh, for decent ethical politicians (we could be forgiven for crying), never mind any other ethics!
Then I get e-mails like this from one of my regular US correspondents:
Unique among American cities, New Orleans was a city of players. The work ethic may have captured most American cities, but it never seemed to lay a glove on New Orleans. The Big Easy was a special place - a safety valve - for an America which doesn't have much time for play.
The shamefully slow and inadequate response by the federal
government to the victims of Hurricane Katrina was, in no small part, due to the fact that New Orleanians were not charter members of the Church of Work. They were players, and they were thus somehow less deserving of their government's help. [Though Dubya did his best - see graphic].
Most disturbing, of course, is the tragic loss of life in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. And the apparent indifference of the federal government to this loss of life is simply appalling. However, I also worry about a nation which has lost its safety valve. If there is nowhere for Americans to escape from the crushing dreariness of the work ethic, what will become of this country?
New Orleans was our glimmer of hope, and now it's gone.
Powerful stuff. I have some fragmentary confirmation of SG's points. A few months back, I came across a wonderful New Orleanian blog called Looka!, which had this post on Feb 12th, 2002:
If you're stuck in an office anyway, at least get some good music in your ears. Tune in to WWOZ, or Radio Free New Orleans' perfect, fabulous Mardi Gras Music Special, hosted by Ron Cuccia and introduced with a burst of mellifluous poetry. Here's a little bit more about what Ron has to say about the world's greatest holiday:
"One of our greatest differences from the rest of America is that in New Orleans, the Protestant work ethic has met its match in the Mardi Gras play ethic.
"The Protestant work ethic says that you earn fun. The Mardi Gras play ethic says that fun is free. The Protestant work ethic says that you have to work all week long before you can have fun on the weekend; fun is a reward for being good. The Mardi Gras play ethic says that fun is good, good being, a healthy way to be, a happy state of existence. It's feeling good, just because you feel good.
Yeah you rite, bra. [BTW, I can recommend that Mardi Gras Music Special link above heartily - fabulous free download.]
Now, Looka! has become a very plaintive and particular blog, mostly concerned with the survival of the city's musical and creative community. This quote from today's posting will give you the tone:
Here's the thing, y'all, and Peter Holsapple said it best. He lost everything, in a house in Arabi that's under 20 feet of water. Car, musical instruments, recording gear, and 30 years of song notebooks and master tapes. He said,
"My guitar tech said yesterday, and I keep repeating it like a mantra: love people, use things. I lost things, but I didn't lose the biggest things, like my wife and family and friends."
That's what's most important. And if we all do everything we can to help, we can make sure that New Orleans doesn't lose its music, either.
Amen to that, bra. And for a play-ethical take on it all from a British musician who knows all sides of the New Orleans matrix, here (and on extended post below) is Ray Davies.
Times, September 07, 2005
New Orleans - the ideal place to get shot
Ray Davies
Away from the partying it was obvious to a dedicated follower of the city that disaster was around the corner
I SPENT the early part of last year in New Orleans recovering from gunshot wounds received as I was being robbed. It happened in the early evening as I walked down a quiet street with my girlfriend. There was a football game in town and the streets near the French Quarter were empty. The police presence was elsewhere. The incident itself was over in a flash but it plays over and over in my head and perhaps one day it will make sense to me.
I found out later that there were fewer than 2,000 police in New Orleans at that time and it reached such a point that there was talk of the city was importing officers from Cleveland. Anyway, thanks to someone’s mobile phone, the police eventually got to the scene.
Later, as I was carried into the emergency room at Charity hospital, a doctor reassured me that “New Orleans really is the best place to get shot”. They had, he explained, had plenty of practice.
The same week I was shot, I read that three other tourists were killed near to where I was attacked. Tourists were urged not to fight back after being mugged (I was continually reminded of this by the district attorney’s officials, who were critical of the way I chased the man who robbed my girlfriend).
There were additional complications to my injuries and my gunshot wounds were not as clean as first thought. Before I was taken in for my first operation, a priest came and gave me a little spiritual assistance. Later I was even serenaded by a nurse who whispered slow, mournful gospel songs in the style of Mahalia Jackson.
During my initial week-long stay in hospital and lengthy recuperation, I observed first-hand the bankruptcy of the New Orleans health system. Several doctors who treated me actually apologised for the low standard of healthcare in Louisiana. Even so, they gave me the best of what they did have, for which I am grateful.
I have just looked through some notes in the diary I made after I was operated on and one seems chillingly relevant. “How can the USA be expected to look after the whole world when it cannot even look after its own?” So it doesn’t surprise me to see the world reacting with shock to the “Third World” conditions in New Orleans “in this, the richest and most powerful country in the world”. I could have told them that.
But I have been astonished by the reactions and apparent shame of some of the US television reporters who seemed overwhelmed to discover that there actually is poverty in America. They made me want to grab my television and shout “Hello, dear reporter, yes, America actually does have poor and underprivileged people as well. Hello, yes, the President might well be slow to react but at times like this, that’s all that an over-burdened, out-of-touch president can be.”
After watching the scenes on television in the past few days, it occurred to me that if any place in the world could survive this catastrophe, it would be New Orleans. Significantly, in the most deprived parts of the city, there are churches and Gospel halls. Faith has to be strong because often it is all most of the people have.
When I was last in New Orleans, I was driven around the city by a friend who pointed out the pump houses that seemed antiquated to me even then. The levees seemed insufficient for the amount of water surrounding the city. The roads were uneven and the tap water pressure in most houses was weak. The whole system appeared improvised, but according to my friend it all “seemed to have worked well enough so far given that there is not enough funding to improve it ”. Locals would joke: “Yep, it is like the Third World but, hey, this is N’Awlins. Nothin’s perfect. That’s what’s so great about it.”
I agreed but deep down I felt the whole infrastructure was very fragile. New Orleans is a party town, after all, and when tourists walk down Bourbon Street drinking frozen Daiquiri during Jazz Fest, crime, unemployment and environmental issues are far from their minds.
It was clear to me, however, that away from all the festivities something disastrous was on the cards. Too many things pointed in that direction. Why didn’t the people who are supposed to be experts on this stuff react sooner? The problem we all know by now is money. Budgets. America’s preoccupation with wars overseas. Nobody cares about the poor. Etc, etc.
At the time of my shooting I was trying to develop a musical event for a local school in New Orleans to raise funds for instruments and new uniforms for them to wear at Mardi Gras. Music, particularly in the school marching bands, gives many of the kids down there an opportunity to participate in the local community. This in turn raises their expectations and it is to be hoped, stops them descending into the local drug and gang culture waiting around the corner. I was due back later in the year to put on a show for Thanksgiving to raise a few extra bucks for the community. This all seems so trivial now.
But the reality is that without its music New Orleans would have been a forgotten city long ago. The music of the American South inspired me and helped to shape me as a musician. They say that jazz started on Perdido Street in New Orleans and even Louis Armstrong honed his trade in the honky-tonks on Bourbon Street.
I owe as much to music of the Southern states as I do to the British music that inspired me. If New Orleans is allowed to die, a crucial part of the world’s musical heritage will disappear.
Right now, the flooded streets of New Orleans might seem just an American responsibility but sometimes even the most powerful people need help. Whatever we think of George W. Bush we cannot take it out on the poor and needy in Louisiana and Mississippi. (He won’t be there in four years — they will.) Numerous people befriended me while I was there. Gradually, word is getting back to me that they are safe. One friend made it to Dallas with her family. Others are now scattered across the South: Jackson, Mississippi, Memphis. One musician friend is still missing.
I think about what has happened to some of the faceless, scary “neighbours” who kept me awake at night while they partied and chanted songs on the corner of St Claude and Governor Nichols when I last stayed there. I hope they made it.
And lastly, I think about the bicycle I left behind. New Orleans is almost entirely flat — as the world knows all too well now — and I found that a bike ride was a great way to get around while strengthening my injured leg.
When I left last year I forgot to put the padlock on my bike. Whoever took it, I pray that they get to ride it around the French Quarter again soon.
