Mardi Gras Morning
Fat Tuesday morning I awoke to a perfect day, warm and sunny with a breeze blowing in off the river. I felt almost like I used to feel on Christmas morning when I was a kid (except for the hangover). I showered and dressed quickly and made my way down to the Quarter.
All the activity I had seen in the last two days was nothing compared to what was going on today. Before noon, I saw three parades, one of which contained a number of naked people. This was the only day in the only place in the world where I could stand on the corner dressed in my normal attire – plumed leather top hat, black frock coat, green paisley vest, Italian boots, pocket watch – and nobody gave me a second look. The whole city was using all of its collective energy to have as good of a time as possible. I floated down Decatur Street to my gig in ecstasy. L.A. did not exist – I couldn't even imagine it. It was one of the finest moments of my life.
This day I would be alternating sets with two bands: the Steamboat Willy Dixieland band during the day; and Lee Bates at night. I started my first set at noon with the old 'Fess classic "Goin' To The Mardi Gras" and didn't stop working until midnight. The Gazebo was packed to the rafters from the beginning, and by the end of the night the energy hadn't let up a bit. I hadn't done a gig this long since the days when I used to play two or three four-setters a day down on Pier Avenue in Hermosa Beach. The highlight of the evening was when, in the middle of his set, Lee Bates yelled out, "Hey! Let that white motherfucker sing! He's good!" Up until this point, I'd been pretty sure that Lee would have just as soon killed me as listened to me sing. I got up and sang as if my life depended on it.
At the end of the gig, the waitress and I went back over to her place to meet her boyfriend for one final blowout before the pious calm of Ash Wednesday blanketed the city. We headed to the Hi-Ho bar, around the corner from their place, where all the local slackers and punks hung out. I found myself surrounded by a room full of children wearing the official uniform of the white-bored-and-disenfranchised: studiously ill-fitting clothes accessorized with unattractive body piercings and buzzcuts that looked as if they were done at the local penitentiary. For variety, many wore matching leather jackets with the motto PUNKS NOT DEAD poorly stenciled on the back. All I could think was: punk may not be dead, but punctuation certainly is.
All of these people were making a Herculean effort not to have a good time. In their circles, it was uncool to like Mardi Gras, and they were doing their sullen best to ignore it. Your standard-issue, two-out-of-tune-guitars-bass-and-drums garage band with a Courtney Love wannabe lead singer was pensively checking their instruments in the corner, while the crowd sat around listening to Kurt Cobain whine about some chick named Mary on the jukebox. The whole thing was ruining my day. I didn't want to complain to Jennifer and her dude since they were putting me up and all, but then the band started playing, and after about ten seconds I abandoned all pretenses toward politeness and demanded that we leave. I know this makes me sound like an old man. And I'm proud.
We headed back to the Quarter. By this time, things were winding down. Most people had already gone home to start fasting or repenting or saying hail-marys or whatever nice churchgoing folk do when they have just partied their brains out for a week and want to get right with God and Sonny Jesus after the party is over.
We ended up in an Irish bar where we drank Guinness, listened to a band playing Irish folk music, and watched an elaborately-tattooed Goth-chick who looked like she just got back from a Cure concert do complex, traditional Celtic dancing in front of the bandstand. Surreal.
Around four in the morning, we made the long walk home. As we trudged through the streets, I gaped in awe at the unfortunate people who, under police supervision, were now carrying out the awful task of cleaning up the aftermath of Mardi Gras because they had been arrested at some point during the festivities. I tried to imagine what extreme one would have to go to to actually get arrested during Mardi Gras, and I just couldn't come up with anything.
