Sweet dreams come true in New Orleans

A parade went by our house

I know the blog has been a little video clip-intense recently.  I promise this will be last time, until I forget about my promise, of course.  

We are going to see a New Orleans movie this weekend.  No, not Green Lantern and, no, not Planet of the Apes.  We aren't going to see a movie shot at a New Orleans soundstage.  We are going to see a movie about New Orleans.  "The Whole Gritty City."



The film is playing at Indywood, a small theater located at the foot of Elysian Fields Avenue that's in an old laundromat.  It really is a kind of homemade art house affair, with only about 36 comfortably upholstered armchairs in front of the screen and a string of Christmas LEDs to mark out the aisles when the lights go down and the show has started.  The restroom is in the back, behind the curtain.  We don't go often, but we go often enough.  The popcorn is handmade and the person who mans the ticket booth/concession stand (such as it is) is always enthusiastic about having people come in to see a movie.  

Now, I'm going to divert into other, related terrain.  Whenever I'm in one of the neighborhood bars in the Marigny or in the Bywater or on North Carrollton Avenue (are there any bars on South Carrollton Avenue?), somebody inevitably plunks a buck in the jukebox and chooses to hear one song in particular.  What song is it?  Here's the video produced for the original version.  It's a good song, but it gets better when it's pressed through the New Orleans filter.



I don't know how old you are.  Let me tell you something, though, gentle reader.  If you were a high school student in suburban Connecticut lounging around the high school cafeteria with MTV playing in the background while you ate a hamburger made of horse meat and smothered with ketchup that was considered a vegetable under the Reagan administration, that was the video was da bomb.  All eyes were glued to the TV screen.  Yowza!  Welcome to the 80s!  It was followed by Abracadabra by the Steve Miller Band.  Click that on link at your peril.  It's pure, painful top 40 goodness.  It does feature Christie Brinkley, or at least a Christie Brinkley lookalike.  Who?  Who cares?  I don't care enough to look it up.  Neither should you.

Being a completist, I'm going to attach another real turd of a video by someone who will be performing in New Orleans later this month.  It will make your parents wonder where they went wrong.  Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Mr. Marilyn Manson.  You don't need to click play if you don't want to.  You won't be missing much.  Sweet dreams are not made of this version.  If I can be excused for sounding like a grumpy old man, it's like looking at, and listening to, a slophouse trough.
  


Now that I've established my street cred, I'd like to go on record as saying that that version is a symptom of the decline and fall of Western civilization.  To all of you disgruntled Marilyn Manson fans, keep those angry emails coming!  I read every one.  I don't care how much lipstick you put on that pig, I refuse to kiss it.

So, after sitting through that morass, let's take a listen to this song performed the New Orleans way.  Welcome to New Orleans and it's brass band tradition.  Everything old is new again.  This is the most boring video we offer today.  There's no movement.  It's the best version of this song, though.  Unlock your mind.  Dance like nobody is watching.  Cut loose.  


Turn up the volume and imagine you are in New Orleans.

You are here in spirit.  That's almost as good as being here in person.  Welcome aboard.  New Orleans loves you.

À votre santé,
La Belle Esplanade bed and breakfast.