Last night was great. After Aaron made a spicy red sauce with andouille sausage, we decided to do a ramble around the Quarter. I’d never seen Bourbon Street, and though it isn’t my style, it’s one of those things you have to see. In my opinion, if you need to hire a person to convince people to walk into your establishment, that’s strike number one. But hey, on a street choked with tacky, loud joints screaming with bad rock music, neon signs, and overpriced drinks, there’s a lot of need for a cattle-herder.

Once we had walked up the street a bit, we decided to walk back. Aaron, being a man of sublime musical taste, took us over to Preservation Hall. There was only 20 minutes left in the band’s set, but we paid $5 to go check it out. (I had to see this, one of the most historic, legacy venues in the country.)

Not only was the room full of the feeling of history, with crumbling walls and water damage and oil paintings of jazz elders, there was no amplification, a packed room and, well, Andrew Bird. I had seen him on my flight and wanted to say hi, but I’m terrible at those things. He was sitting in, one of maybe three white guys in the whole band, and I must say he looked quite bird-like, sitting all folded in on himself, strumming chords on his fiddle as the horn players blew.

After a few minutes, the leader nodded in Bird’s direction and pursed his lips, cueing Bird to do one of his signature moves—whistling. I’ve never seen a brass band quiet down, but stay funky, all so some white guy can whistle. But it was perfect. Bouncy, bluesy, humorous, and good enough to dance to. And the crowd loved it.

To Be Continued….