David C.
Yelp
There are parts of New Orleans that never came back after the storms. Full neighborhoods-buildings and all-that no one ever returned to. The city abandoned them, too; entire swaths of residential district left as dark, foreboding streets. We crossed through, eyeing stray dogs and still forms, and eventually found ourselves at a place called Sweet Lorraine's. Externally austere, we walked through the front door to find a busy, full jazz club. Ethan and I were the only white folks in the room, and all three of us were woefully underdressed in hooded sweatshirts and cargo shorts. This was a well-heeled crowd -suits on the men and hats on the ladies - but we acted normal and everyone was watching the stage anyway. We sat near the back.
The girl could sing! She personified soul - confident, loud, sensual. She laughed after each song, and called out to the audience, "Am I right?" "Do you feel that?"
Her back-up singers swayed, demure, and filled out the harmonies. They were down from Atlanta, but every few songs she reminded us that her keyboardist was 'One of New Orleans' Own,' drawing cheers.
I ordered my Sazerac, and we watched, grooved. The last song was a two-step, and the place erupted - the crowd jumped to their feet and whipped out white kerchiefs, waving them and hollering along with her song. Kerchief-less and uneducated, we watched, I finished my drink, and we headed out for a few moments of sleep before my too early return to Florida.