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NYT on Commercialism and Conflict in the Carnival of Trinidad

NYT
March 9, 2011
Carnival’s Louder Commercial Beat Adds Dissonance
By JOHN ELIGON

PORT-OF-SPAIN, Trinidad and Tobago — To some people here, Dean Ackin, 38, with his boyish face, is an inspiration of entrepreneurship, a bearer of this country’s evolving culture. To others, he is a threat to this nation’s most beloved social and cultural treasure: Carnival.

Mr. Ackin runs one of the country’s most popular Carnival bands, the groups of people who don costumes and masquerade — or play Mas, as locals call it — in the raucous annual two-day street parade. The roughly 5,000 spots available in Mr. Ackin’s band, Tribe, sell out every year almost as fast as they go on sale. Demand has been so high since he started Tribe in 2005 that Mr. Ackin just started a second band.

But some say Mr. Ackin and others like him, who have in recent years spun profitable, year-round businesses out of organizing these bands, threaten the existence of Carnival as Trinidadians know it.

By shunning the conservative, traditional costumes for cheaper, skimpier outfits that are sometimes produced outside of Trinidad, these new bands, critics say, are distorting their forebears’ creation and sending work elsewhere at a time when the government and others are trying to turn Trinidadian-style Carnival into a more profitable and exportable industry.

“We call it two-piece and fries, the bikini and the bras,” said Stephen Derek, a traditional costume maker, referring to the skimpy costumes that have become a staple of the new bands. “The costume comes like a fast food. To them, the bottom line is profit. It has nothing to do about country or culture anymore.”

The entrepreneurial bandleaders counter that they are part of a natural evolution, merely offering what people want.

“If you really look at those people who play Mas with the younger bands, or if you talk to a visitor abroad and say: ‘Hey, have you ever heard of Trinidad Carnival? What band would you play with?’ they would call Tribe or they would call one of the younger bands,” Mr. Ackin said. “That says we are reaching out further than the traditional bands. We are reaching out to the international market.”

With few exceptions, the 1.3 million people living on these twin West Indian islands believe that they do Carnival better than anyone in the world. But the generational clash has raised questions over how today’s Carnival is shaping the country.

Is the reliance on mass-produced bikinis — a far cry from the elaborate, hand-crafted costumes Trinidadians had grown accustomed to — stifling the creative works that have been the hallmark of traditional Carnival, which the government of Prime Minister Kamla Persad-Bissessar has been pressing to revive since she took office last year?

Or does it reflect the country’s new energy, representative of a push beyond Trinidad’s reputation for complacency in developing revenue streams beyond oil production?

Read the full post, including photos and video, HERE.

Carnival 2011

The Atlantic has a wonderful set of carnival photos from around the world. See it HERE.

There's also one by MSNBC HERE.

Fire in Rio Damages Carnaval Preparations

NYT
February 7, 2011
Fire in Rio Damages Carnaval Preparations and Dims Hopes of Many Performers
By ALEXEI BARRIONUEVO

SÃO PAULO, Brazil — An early-morning fire in a warehouse district on Monday destroyed the costumes and dimmed the hopes of at least three prominent samba schools competing in Rio de Janeiro’s annual Carnaval parade. But city officials vowed that the event would go forward.

The fire in Samba City, an area near Rio’s port, destroyed floats and an estimated 8,400 costumes just a little less than a month before some 35 samba schools were to dance and parade with their elaborate floats in the world’s most famous Carnaval celebration, samba school officials said.

The unexplained fire was another psychological blow to a metropolitan area still recovering from landslides in nearby hillside communities last month that killed more than 840 people and left about 8,700 homeless. The natural disaster was Brazil’s worst.

The annual Carnaval parade is a sacred ritual to many Rio residents and an industry that generates thousands of jobs in the area. The schools invest millions of dollars in their parades, which involve up to 5,000 participants for each school, including dancers, drum queens and drummers.

Officials said the fire began around 7 a.m. and was contained after four hours. A thick plume of smoke that resembled a mushroom cloud reached high into the sky and was visible a few miles away. Many workers from the samba schools were sleeping inside the warehouses and were awoken by the smoke. Saimon García, 26, an artist for the school Acadêmicos do Grande Rio, jumped from the fourth floor, but was not badly injured.

The blaze damaged the hopes of the three samba schools whose warehouses were most affected by the fire: União da Ilha do Governador, Portela and Acadêmicos do Grande Rio. They are among 12 samba schools scheduled to parade in a special stadium known as the Sambódromo on March 6 and 7, the most prestigious slots of the four-day competition. The city of Rio constructed Samba City to house the elite schools.

“Our Carnaval was ready, beautiful; everything was perfect,” said Hélio de Oliveira, president of Acadêmicos do Grande Rio. But “everything was burned,” including eight floats and more than 3,000 costumes, Mr. de Oliveira said.

Rio officials said that they were investigating the blaze, but that their preliminary assessment had found no evidence that the fire had been started intentionally. Aylton Jorge Junior, who runs Samba City and is often called its “mayor,” said, “It seemed that the fire started in the warehouse of União da Ilha, but they deny that.”

The schools will now have to work round the clock to try to create costumes and floats that they normally spend a year making. Workers were downcast and tense on Monday afternoon near the site of the fire.

But officials from competing samba schools expressed solidarity, saying they would try to lend space, materials and professionals — whatever it took to see the rival schools through the competition. Samba school presidents met late in the day to discuss how they could help the schools affected by the fire.

Eduardo Paes, Rio’s mayor, said the city would provide assistance to the affected schools, which he vowed would all parade in the competition “one way or another.” He said the reconstruction of Samba City would begin “immediately.”

An emotional Mr. de Oliveira promised that Acadêmicos do Grande Rio would parade the 80-minute circuit down the Sambódromo. “The fire burned everything,” he said, “but it didn’t burn our Carnaval spirit.”

Roberta Nápolis contributed reporting from Rio de Janeiro.


Read the full story with photos and video link HERE.

NYT: Mardi Gras Indians Seek Copyright Protection for their Suits

NYT

March 23, 2010
Want to Use My Suit? Then Throw Me Something
By CAMPBELL ROBERTSON

NEW ORLEANS — Just after dusk on Friday night, Tyrone Yancy was strutting through one of the more uncertain parts of town in a $6,000 custom-made suit.

He was concerned about being robbed, but not by the neighborhood teenagers who trotted out in the street to join him. The real potential for theft, as Mr. Yancy sees it, came from the strangers darting around him and his well-appointed colleagues in a hectic orbit: photographers.

Mr. Yancy, 44, is a nursing assistant by profession. His calling, however, is as one of the Mardi Gras Indians — a member of the Yellow Pocahontas tribe, to be exact — the largely working-class black New Orleanians who create and wear ornate, enormous feathered costumes and come out three times a year to show them off.

He is also one of a number of Indians who have become fed up with seeing their photographs on calendars, posters and expensive prints, without getting anything in return.

Knowing that there are few legal protections for a person who is photographed in public — particularly one who stops and poses every few feet — some Mardi Gras Indians have begun filing for copyright protection for their suits, which account for thousands of dollars in glass beads, rhinestones, feathers and velvet, and hundreds of hours of late-night sewing.

Anyone could still take their pictures, but the Indians, many of whom live at the economic margins, would have some recourse if they saw the pictures being sold, or used in advertising. (News photographs, like the ones illustrating this article, are not at issue.)

[NOTE: The story did not have images; the above images are from other sources.]

“It’s not the old way of doing things, but the old way of doing things was conducive to exploitation,” said Ashlye M. Keaton, a lawyer who represents Indians in her private practice and also works with them through two pro bono legal programs, Sweet Home New Orleans legal services, and the Entertainment Law Legal Assistance Project.

The legal grounding of the strategy is debatable, the ability to enforce it even more so. But what may be most tricky of all is pushing the Indians themselves to start thinking about the legal and financial dimensions of something they have always done out of tradition.

Mardi Gras Indians have been around for more than a century — more than two, some say — and are generally thought to have originated as a way to pay homage to the American Indians who harbored runaway slaves and started families with them.

The Indians come out and parade in full dress on Mardi Gras; on St. Joseph’s Night, March 19; and on a Sunday close to St. Joseph’s — a tradition that arose out of the affinity between blacks and Sicilians in the city’s working-class precincts.

The 30 or so Indian tribes are representatives of their neighborhoods, and starting from home turf they venture out in their shimmering suits to meet other tribes on procession in the streets. Time was, these run-ins would often end with somebody in the hospital, or worse.

But over the past few decades, encouraged by the legendary Chief of Chiefs, Tootie Montana, the showdowns became primarily about the suits, and whose suit could out-prettify all the others.

Indian suits, which in the old days were occasionally burned at the end of a season, have become stunningly elaborate and stunningly expensive, costing upwards of $10,000. For many Indians, it is a matter of principle that they make a new suit from scratch each year.

The copyright idea has been floating around for a while — several of Mr. Montana’s suits were registered years ago — but Ms. Keaton began pursuing it more vigorously in 2006, when she was approached by John Ellison, a 52-year-old detailer in an auto body shop and a member of the Wild Tchoupitoulas.

Any photograph that focused on a suit protected by a copyright could arguably be considered a derivative work. The sale of such a picture (or its use in tourism ads, for example) would be on the merits of the suit rather than the photograph itself, and if the person selling it did not have permission, he could be sued.

But the idea is not so easy to put into practice.
.....

Read the full story HERE.

Carnival 2010 photos

Boston.com posts 39 dazzling photos from Carnival celebrations in Europe and the Americas (h/t The Daily Dish).

And MSNBC has another bunch of photos.

New Orleans Guitarist Snooks Eaglin (1936-2009)

OFFBEAT

I have been waiting for a good obit for Snooks. As always, Offbeat comes through:

Snooks Eaglin 1936-2009

By Jeff Hannusch

The generation that made the defining records in New Orleans’ rhythm and blues became a little smaller when Snooks Eaglin died February 18 from cardiac arrest. He was 73. Eaglin is remembered for his ability to mimic almost any song after a cursory listen and his unique guitar style. His fretting hand often completed chords with his thumb, or he used it to play bass runs that complimented his rhythm and lead playing. Instead of picks, he flailed at the guitar strings with his thumb and fingers. It often appeared that his fingers were bent backwards at a 90 degree angle.

“He can play a job with just a drummer and make it sound like a four-piece group,” said the late Earl King in 1987. “I’ve seen Snooks play for years, but I still shake my head every time he picks up the guitar.”

Fird Eaglin, Jr. was born January 21, 1936. He was rendered blind at the age of 19 months, after an emergency operation to remove a brain tumor. Being blind though didn’t keep Eaglin out of mischief as a child.

“That’s how I got the name Snooks,” said Eaglin, in 1987. “There was a radio program with a character named Baby Snooks. Baby Snooks was always getting into trouble. They started calling me Snooks, because I was always getting into something.”

Eaglin was five when his father brought home an inexpensive Harmony guitar. He learned to play and at age 11 won a talent contest at WNOE for his rendition of the, “Twelfth Street Rag.” At 15, he purchased his first electric guitar, a Twintone, and a small amplifier. He briefly attended the Louisiana School for the Blind in Scotlandville, but withdrew to play music professionally.

In the early 1950s, Eaglin hung out at Victor Augustine’s curio shop on Dryades Street, where many musicians rehearsed. Augustine, a part time songwriter with his own label, got Eaglin to record one of his songs, “Jesus Will Fix It.” Around this time, Eaglin was approached by Sugar Boy Crawford who was looking for a guitarist to replace Irving Bannister—who was drafted—in the Shaw-weez. This led to the historic 1953 Checker session where Eaglin provided the slashing rhythm guitar on the Carnival classic, “Jock-a-Mo.”

When Bannister returned and reclaimed his job, Eaglin joined the Flamingos, a group that patterned themselves after the popular Hawkettes. The band featured Allen Toussaint on piano.

“Snooks was phenomenal even then,” said Toussaint in 1987. “People in the audience would call out a popular song and Snooks would play them note-for-note. The rest of us just stumbled on behind.”

In 1958, folklorist Dr. Harry Oster and Richard Allen recorded 57 Eaglin performances that appeared on several labels. Allen and Oster had heard about Eaglin from his neighbors and recorded him playing traditional blues, pop songs, folk and rock ’n’ roll. The liner notes on the original albums portrayed Eaglin as a troubadour who busked for spare change in the French Quarter. That didn’t sit well with Eaglin.

“I never played in the streets once in my life,” said Eaglin. “I was making plenty money playing in nightclubs.”

Eaglin tried to persuade Oster to record the Flamingos, but he wasn’t interested, and the group disbanded when Shirley and Lee raided it for a tour. In 1960, Imperial’s Dave Bartholomew signed Eaglin and produced several uninspired singles under the name “Ford” Eaglin. “I thought those records could have come out better,” said Eaglin. “Dave had his way, and I had mine. But by him being the producer, he won most of the arguments.”

After Imperial folded, he cut one other single on the Fun label before moving to Donaldsonville, Louisiana in the mid-1960s to play clubs along Bayou Lafourche. In 1970, he moved to St. Rose and began playing regularly at the Playboy Club in the French Quarter. It was there that he encountered a young Quint Davis, who was in the early stages of organizing the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Davis paired Eaglin with the newly rediscovered Professor Longhair, a coupling which benefited both musicians and produced some mind-boggling recordings.

The following year, Eaglin made an LP for Sam Charters’ “Legacy of the Blues” series that appeared in Europe, and he recorded two legendary albums with the Wild Magnolias in 1974. But after that, it was more than a decade before he returned to the studio.

“The money wasn’t right,” said Eaglin, “I had several offers, but I want my money up front. I don’t like royalties.”

Eventually, Eaglin struck up a relationship with Hammond Scott, who won Eaglin’s trust. In 1986, they recorded Baby, You Can Get Your Gun for Scott’s Black Top label. Several more Eaglin/Black Top albums appeared, which exposed Eaglin to a wider audience. Tours of Europe and virtually every important American blues festival would follow.

In recent years, Eaglin’s appearances were confined to the Jazz Fest and the Mid-City Lanes’ Rock ’n’ Bowl, where he regularly packed the house. A well-attended visitation for Eaglin was held at the Howlin’ Wolf on February 27 which included musical tributes by Irma Thomas, Allen Toussaint and Deacon John. A traditional jazz funeral followed. Eaglin was laid to rest in Providence Park Cemetery in Jefferson Parish. His passing is the end of a chapter in New Orleans’ music history.

Published May 2009, OffBeat Louisiana Music & Culture Magazine, Volume 22, No. 5.

Offbeat interview with James "Sugar Boy" Crawford

The indispensable New Orleans Magazine OFFBEAT interviews James "Sugar Boy" Crawford, most famous for the song "Jock-a-mo," later to be known as "Iko Iko." I believe this is from 2002.

READ THE ORIGINAL HERE IN OFFBEAT.

BackTalk with James “Sugar Boy” Crawford

By Jeff Hannusch

Whether you call it “Jock-A-Mo” or Chock-A-Mo” or “Iko-Iko,” it’s one of the greatest of all New Orleans Carnival songs. James “Sugar Boy” Crawford, who recorded the original version in 1953, rarely performs these days, preferring to bask in the glow of his incandescent grandson Davell. “The only place I sing is in church now,” Sugar Boy confesses.


“Jock-A-Mo,” one of a select handful of truly memorable Carnival songs, has had multiple personalities over the decades. Originally recorded in 1953 by James “Sugar Boy” Crawford, it was turned into an international hit over a decade later by a trio of New Orleans teenagers, the Dixie Cups, as “Iko Iko.” Since then, the song has been covered by Willie DeVille, Dr. John, the Neville Brothers, the Bell Stars [their version was in the Academy Award-winning movie Rain Man] and Cyndi Lauper, although none have approached the magnificence of Sugar Boy’s original.

An early shaper of New Orleans rhythm and blues, Sugar Boy was a master of the B-flat ballad, as demonstrated on “I Don’t Know What I’ll Do,” “Early Sunday Morning,” and “No One To Love Me.” Sugar Boy maintained a tremendous regional following for over a decade, and his popularity extended well beyond “Jock-A-Mo.”

Born October 12, 1934, he attained the “Sugar Boy” moniker because he was a sweet kid. He learned to play piano at a neighbor’s house, and at Booker T. Washington High School, played the trombone and formed a band. The group caught a break in 1952, when Doctor Daddy-O invited them to perform on his Saturday morning radio show. The group didn’t have a name until Daddy-O dubbed them, “The Chapaka Shawee” (Creole for “We Aren’t Raccoons”), the title of an instrumental the group played. The popularity from their radio appearance led to a regular work at the Shadowland and the Pentagon clubs, as well as an Aladdin Records contract. Under the guise of “The Sha-Wez,” the Aladdin record was a flop, but the group’s itinerary steadily grew. The following year, Chess Records president Leonard Chess was in town promoting some new releases when he heard Sugar Boy and the group rehearse at WMRY. In exchange for five dollars, Chess taped an audition demo and left town. A month later, disc jockey Ernie the Whip called the group and said he had a surprise for them. When the band gathered at WMRY, Ernie presented them with a 78 r.p.m. recording of “I Don’t Know What I’ll Do,” credited to “Sugar Boy and his Cane Cutters.” [Chess couldn’t use the name Sha-Wez as the group was still under contract to Aladdin.] Chess released the primitive audition and it did well locally. Sugar Boy then signed a contract and Chess directed him to the J&M Studio for more recordings. With guitarist Snooks Eaglin in support, Crawford waxed “Jock-A-Mo,” the song he will forever be known for.

Sugar Boy had one other release on Checker—“I Bowed On My Knees”—before moving to Baton Rouge, where he and the Cane Cutters were installed as the house band at the Carousel Club. Sugar Boy returned to New Orleans in 1956, and signed with Imperial Records where he waxed several memorable releases including “Morning Star,” “You Gave Me Love,” and the brilliant “She’s Gotta Wobble (When She Walks).” After his Imperial tenure, Sugar Boy had singles on Montel and Ace before his career, and nearly his life, came to an abrupt halt.

Sugar Boy and his band were on their way to a job in North Louisiana in 1963, when state troopers pulled him over for the then-crime of being a black man in a flashy brand-new automobile. One of Louisiana’s “finest” took exception to Sugar Boy’s attitude and proceeded to pistol-whip him on the side of the road. Sugar Boy spent three weeks in the hospital and was incapacitated for two years. He attempted a comeback, but after 1969, he confined his singing to church. He then went to trade school and learned to become a building engineer. For several years, Sugar Boy maintained the Masonic building on St. Charles Avenue (where OffBeat’s previous office was located). Luckily for Sugar Boy, over the years the royalties generated from “Jock-A-Mo” continued to accumulate, as the song was covered by more and more artists. Today, Sugar Boy owns his own company—C&C Locksmiths—where he spends his time practicing his trade and following the career of his talented grandson, Davell. OffBeat recently chatted with Sugar Boy Crawford after he duplicated a few keys for us.

Why were so many of your early records in the key of B-flat?

That wasn’t a comfortable key for me to sing in, but it was a heavy key for ballads. Back then we were a bunch of kids and just learning to play. We weren’t very advanced musically, so we could only play certain arrangements in certain keys like B-flat. Later on, I recorded in E, G and E-flat—those were easier keys to sing in.

Who did you listen to back then?

I used to love Roscoe Gordon’s “Saddled the Cow and Milked the Horse.” That was my favorite record.

Where in New Orleans did you grow up?

I lived at 1309 La Salle Street. We called the neighborhood “The Bucket of Blood,” because there were a lot of barrooms around there. It seemed like every Saturday night there was a cutting or shooting there. It was also a neighborhood where there were a lot of Indian tribes.

Where was The Battlefield?

That was an area bordered by Claiborne, Galvez, Tulane and Perdido Streets. That’s where the Indians met on Mardi Gras day. I wasn’t too keen on going down there, because when they met, there would be a lot of cutting and shooting going on.

Did you ever mask as an Indian?

Oh no, I never did go out for that kind of thing. You might not believe it because of “Jock-A-Mo,” but I was afraid of the Indians.

How did you construct “Jock-A-Mo?”

It came from two Indian chants that I put music to. “Iko Iko” was like a victory chant that the Indians would shout. “Jock-A-Mo” was a chant that was called when the Indians went into battle. I just put them together and made a song out of them. Really it was just like “Lawdy Miss Clawdy.” That was a phrase everybody in New Orleans used. Lloyd Price just added music to it and it became a hit. I was just trying to write a catchy song. Leonard Chess [president of Chess & Checker Records, then Sugar Boy’s label] contacted me and arranged for me to go to Cosimo’s [J & M Studio] and record it. That was in [November] 1953.

Listeners wonder what “Jock-A-Mo” means. Some music scholars say it translates in Mardi Gras Indian lingo as “Kiss my ass,” and I’ve read where some think Jock-A-Mo was a court jester. What does it mean?

I really don’t know (laughs). It wasn’t my idea to call the song “Jock-A-Mo”—Leonard Chess did that. If you listen to the song, I’m singing C-H-O-C-K, as in Chockamo. Not J-O-C-K, as in Jock-A-Mo. When Leonard listened to the session in Chicago, he thought I said “Jock-A-Mo.” When I saw the record for the first time I said, “That’s not the title, it’s ‘Chock-A-Mo’.”

How did Snooks wind up playing on it?

I think it was as a favor to [disc jockey] Dr. Daddy-O. Daddy-O knew a lot musicians and he knew Leonard Chess. Snooks never was in my band. The day I recorded “Jock-A-Mo,” there were about four or five other guys recording too including Snooks and Slim Sanders [their sides weren’t issued until 1976]. We didn’t have much time to record, but we got “Jock-A-Mo” on the third take.

How did the record do when it was released?

It did pretty good around Mardi Gras [in 1954] but after that, people forgot about it. I did go to New York though because I remember when I got on stage there they had to stop serving alcohol because I was underage. Nobody paid attention to the song though for over ten years.

Were there any other popular Carnival songs before “Jock-A-Mo?”

Professor Longhair’s “Go To the Mardi Gras,” but it wasn’t the version you hear now [the 1959 Ron recording]. He’d recorded it [on Atlantic and Star Talent] long before I started playing music. After “Jock-A-Mo” came “Mardi Gras Mambo,” “Carnival Time,” “Big Chief” and “Second Line,” so I guess I had one of the first Carnival records.

Did “Jock-A-Mo” get you more bookings?

At the time my band was already working every night of the week so we couldn’t handle any more work.

Along with Fats Domino, weren’t you one of the first New Orleans R&B artists to develop a white audience.

At one point, 99 percent of our work was at white clubs. That started from playing for the fraternities at LSU. Somebody from the Carousel Club heard us and wanted to hire us. That was a white club across the river from Baton Rouge. We stayed there two years. The Carousel attracted a sophisticated crowd. At the beginning of the night we played “I’ll Walk Alone,” “Unchained Melody” and “Danny Boy,” but once the crowd got a little rowdy as the night went on, we could loosen up and play the harder stuff.

After the Carousel you came back to New Orleans and recorded for Imperial?

Dave Bartholomew heard us and said he’d record me once my Chess contract was up. The only thing was that Imperial was a company that only released your records in the area where you lived to see how they’d do. If they didn’t do very well, they wouldn’t release your records nationally. My [Imperial] records stayed local, so I only did a few for them.

Then you did “Danny Boy” for Montel?

Sam Montalbano [Montel’s owner] heard me do the song at the Carousel and asked me to record it. He recorded the background music in Baton Rouge—he had some guys from LSU play on it [likely John Fred & the Playboys]. He sent the tape to Cosimo’s and I overdubbed the vocals. Then I went with Johnny Vincent [Ace Records]. Mac Rebennack had something to do with that. He wrote “Have A Little Mercy” which I did.

Who were the Sugar Lumps?

They were Linda and Dianne DeGrue, Irene Johnson, and Mary Kelly. They were singing with Wardell Quezergue as the Little Raelettes when I hired them [in 1960]. The first place we worked was the Safari on Chef Highway. When we got on the bandstand, “Batman” [saxophonist LeRoy Rankin] announced us as “Sugar Boy & the Sugar Lumps.” They made a record for Don Robey [Peacock] while I was in the hospital.

Considering the circumstances of your injury I’ve always been amazed that you’ve never shown any bitterness about what happened.

I’ll tell you what, you’re going to be at a disadvantage if you spend your life dwelling on something like that. I’ve just tried to forget it and write it off as one of the mysteries of life.

You did make a brief comeback though.

Yeah, but I never felt like I had recuperated to the point where I was before I was injured, so I looked for other things to do with my life.

Do you still get requests to perform?

I do but that’s pretty much out of the question. The only place I sing is in church now.

I have seen you perform with Davell at the Jazz Festival though and you were great.

Well Davell talked me into that. I did it because he’s my grandson.

Are you close to Davell and give him advice?

Oh we talk all the time. But I can’t give him any advice other than “Stay out of trouble.” I never played as well as he can, so what can’t I tell him about music? He could play better than I ever could at the age of 12.

Were you surprised when you heard the Dixie Cups cover “Jock-A-Mo” [as “Iko Iko”]?

Not so much that they covered it, but I was by how well it did. It went all over the world and was Number One in a lot of places [“Iko Iko” reached Number 20 on the Billboard pop chart in 1965]. At the time, Joe Jones [the Dixie Cups’ producer] said he was going to cover one of my songs and I’d get royalties, but that never happened.

You get writer’s royalties though don’t you?

Eventually—after many years and court battles. Chess [who placed “Jock-A-Mo” with BMI] sold his publishing to the Goodman brothers. The Goodmans sued for publishing royalties and they’re responsible for me finally getting my just dues. But truthfully, I don’t even know if I really am getting my just dues. I just figure 50 percent of something is better than 100 of nothing.

Do you run into many people from your days as an entertainer?

All the time. The other day I was going to the drug store and ran into Aaron Neville. He was taking his dog to the vet and we talked a long time.

When you’re doing a service call, do people ever associate you with your music?

Sometimes. The other day I was changing a lock at a lady’s house and she found out who I was. She wanted me to sing while I was trying to work. That made me laugh.

NOLA: Zulu Krewe to present Barack Obama with specially-commissioned coconut

New Orleans Times-Picayune

Zulu to present Barack Obama with specially-commissioned coconut
Susan Poag / The Times-Picayune

The Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club hopes to deliver this specially-commissioned coconut to President-elect Barack Obama in honor of his inauguration.

When Charles Hamilton Jr. embarks by train this morning, on his way to witness the inauguration of the nation's first African-American president, he will be bearing a precious and very personal gift.

Packed among his softest articles of clothing is a Zulu coconut, hand-painted with exquisite care and packaged inside a Faberge egg box, which Hamilton hopes to deliver to President-elect Barack Obama during his trip to Washington, D.C.

Hamilton, who is Zulu's president, saw the coconut for the first time Thursday at the studio of Keith Eccles, the Gretna artist who was commissioned to paint it. When Hamilton saw the finished product, his eyes widened with excitement.

"This is awesome, ' he said. "It combines New Orleans and D.C. Red, white and blue, and black and gold."

While many inaugural visitors will likely bring gifts for the new president, Hamilton is confident that this special offering will make it into Obama's hands.

Upon arriving in Washington, he plans to contact Desiree Glapion Rogers, the New Orleans native and former Zulu queen who was named the White House social secretary. Rogers' father, the late New Orleans City Councilman Roy E. Glapion Jr., served as Zulu president for years and her brother is a current member, Hamilton said.

Hamilton figured that a Zulu coconut would be a suitable gift, as they are widely regarded by Carnival parade-goers as the most coveted throw. He also thought it was appropriate, given that Obama's inauguration coincides with the 100th anniversary of Zulu's founding.

"I wanted to bring a piece of New Orleans history and Zulu history, " he said.

For Eccles, an art teacher at Higgins High School in Marrero, the experience was his first use of a coconut as a medium. But the unusual nature of the project hardly fazed him.

"For me to have the opportunity to do something this historically significant -- I'm just honored, " he said.

To prepare the presidential coconut, Zulu member Don E. Washington cut a hole at the base, drained the liquid, scraped out the meat with a drill bit and sealed the hole with wood putty. He then used a wire brush and a belt to sand away the roughness.

When Eccles got his hands on the smooth coconut, he started sketching out his ideas in pencil, directly on it.

"Just like you put a puzzle together, you start to see how the images fit, " he said.

The finished product features a mural-like design, including the face of a Zulu member on one side and a flag rippling over the White House, flanked by Zulu spears, on the other.

Eccles painted a second coconut, which will be included as part of the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club's exhibit currently on display at the Louisiana State Museum in the French Quarter.

Coconuts appeared at Zulu parades as early as 1910, and they were pitched off the floats in their natural, hairy states, according to Zulu historians. It wasn't until later that members began scraping, painting and decorating them.

All told, Eccles spent about 27 hours on the coconuts, staying up through the night to finish them in time. He is thrilled to be a part of history, and hopes his art will impart an important message to Obama and the rest of Washington.

"Don't forget about the recovery here. Things are better, but we're not fixed yet, " Eccles said. "Hopefully, when he sees it, he'll be reminded of the people here."

NOLA: Krewe of Zulu turns 100

Congrats to Zulu.


Courtesy of Louisiana State Museum Jazz Collection
Zulu King Louis Armstrong riding on his float, flanked by his court with coconuts in hand, 1949.

Times-Picayune
Presbytere exhibit kicks off Krewe of Zulu's 100th year celebration
Posted by mcmontoy January 07, 2009 14:30PM
Courtesy of Louisiana State Museum

Did you know that in 1949 Louis Armstrong reigned as the first celebrity monarch over the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club parade? Or that the club, now widely popular and a favorite among most Mardi Gras parade-goers, at one time had only 15 members?

Thanks to a partnership between Zulu and the Louisiana State Museum that has produced a 3,000-square-foot exhibit, "From Tramps to Kings: 100 Years of Zulu, " Carnival enthusiasts can learn all they ever wanted to know about Zulu's origins and rich history.

The exhibit opens Friday with a grand patron party and gala celebrating the more than 100 artifacts -- many of which have never been presented to the public -- that piece together the club from its beginnings in 1909.

"When it comes to Zulu, there are many myths and misconceptions that have been passed off as history, " said museum historian Charles Chamberlain, who worked closely with Zulu's historian, Clarence A. Becknell, to create the exhibit.

"One of the things you often hear about Zulu is there was no set parade route, when in fact we have three detailed maps -- from 1927, 1939 and 1949 showing the routes of the club, " Chamberlain said. "Also, it's been said that Zulu was founded to be a parody of Rex, when in fact that's not true; Zulu was created in the mold of countless African-American benevolent associations that provided essential social services to members and the community."

The parade rolls on Mardi Gras, which falls on Feb. 24.

Party-goers who attend Friday night's events will be the first to view artifacts such as Louis Armstrong's scrapbook from his reign and hear audio recorded during his ride. They'll also learn how the organization's seven main characters (the Witch Doctor, Big Shot, Mr. Big Stuff, the Mayor, Ambassador, Governor and Grand Marshall) came to be highlights of the parade.

"The exhibition is divided into two sections -- the history and origin, and the modern development of the organization, " Chamberlain said.

Friday's celebration will happen in the Jackson Square mall in and around the Presbytere. The opening will feature the Zulu king's float and larger-than-life Zulu sculptures from Blaine Kern's Mardi Gras World. Patron party guests will feast on food from Nola and gala guests will be served offerings from several noted New Orleans restaurants, including K-Paul's, Drago's and Irene's Cuisine, as well as a special curried chicken dish created by Dooky Chase chef Leah Chase. Entertainment will include music by Deacon John and Jean Knight ("Mr. Big Stuff, " "My Toot Toot").

"It's a great way to get in the Carnival spirit while supporting such a fantastic exhibit, " said Susan Maclay, executive director of the Louisiana Museum Foundation, which directly supports all museum endeavors. "What a deal! For $50, all you can drink and eat and fabulous entertainment; really you couldn't spend a night on the town for that kind of money, I promise you."

Folks who can't attend the kick-off party Friday evening are invited to go out Saturday at noon a.m. to see Zulu members parade from Harrah's Casino to The Presbytere. On Saturday at 1:45 p.m. , a ribbon-cutting ceremony will feature Lt. Gov. Mitch Landrieu, Zulu dignitaries and guests.

To celebrate the opening, museum admission will be waived for all visitors on Saturday.

If you can't make it this weekend, take heart: Several events are planned over the course of the year to celebrate the exhibit. Check Lagniappe's weekly special events calendar for upcoming events.

FROM TRAMPS TO KINGS: 100 YEARS OF ZULU

What: The Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club and the Louisiana State Museum have partnered to create a 3,000-square-foot exhibit on Zulu from its beginnings in 1909 to today. The patron party features food from Nola. The gala includes all you can eat and drink with entertainment by Deacon John and Jean Knight.
Chris Granger / The Times-Picayune

Film on Mobile's Segregated Mardi Gras: The Order of Myths

CNN has a two-minute video story on the film here.

An the website for The Order of Myths film is here.

Recife's 'frevo' rhythms fuel its intimate carnival

Miami Herald

Posted on Mon, Feb. 04, 2008
Recife's 'frevo' rhythms fuel its intimate carnival
BY MICHAEL ASTOR
Jelly-limbed dancers with tiny multicolored umbrellas, frolicking to frenetic frevo rhythms, make carnival in this Brazilian coastal city unique and for residents second to none.

Recife's frevo music -- which is accompanied by a frantic tip-toe dance in which participants leap into midair splits and fold themselves like contortionists as they land -- forms a carnival tradition distinct from the better-known samba.

While Rio de Janeiro's famed Samba parade, which takes place Sunday and Monday nights, is broadcast to millions of adoring fans, Recife's bash is perhaps Brazil's best kept secret. Late Sunday, the two traditions met in Rio de Janeiro's Sambadrome stadium where Mangueira, one of Brazil's best loved samba groups, sang Recife's praises.

''By paying for Mangueira's parade we are bringing national and international media attention for our carnival, which is the most democratic in Brazil and free to all,'' said Recife Mayor Joao Paulo Lima Silva, explaining the $1.7 million expense to the city's coffers.

In recent years, revelers turned off by Rio's commercialism and tired of being confined to the stands have begun looking elsewhere to cities like Salvador da Bahia -- where supermodel Naomi Campbell and music producer Quincy Jones are celebrating this year.

Those in search of a more intimate carnival have been heading to Recife and the neighboring colonial hilltop town of Olinda. Here, the vibrantly colored costumes and huge puppets may be dwarfed by the Rio's gargantuan floats and armies of uniformed dancers, but the lack of pomp is compensated for by the proximity.

Recife also offers up a potpourri of rhythms with names that seem to flow from poetry, like maracatu, caboclo, coco and ciranda.

''Mangueira has knelt before a carnival that is totally original and chocked full of culture. In Rio's there's just one, Samba,'' explains Alceu Valenca, a popular Brazilian musician.

That may be so, but in Recife one carnival rhythm stands above all the others and that is frevo.

Frevo is celebrating its centenary this year and Mangueira's theme samba this year is fittingly titled, 100 Years of Frevo, It's Enough to Lose Your Shoe.

''Frevo is the maximum expression of carnival, there's nothing like frevo and if we can put a minuet into our samba, we can certainly incorporate frevo,'' said Mangueira's carnival designer, Max Lopes.

Mardi Gras Indians Story in The Nation online

THE NATION
On the Porch in the Seventh Ward

by BILLY SOTHERN

[posted online on May 22, 2007]

Late in the afternoon on the final day of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, the six-day music event that everyone here calls Jazz Fest, red-, fuchsia- and purple-necked revelers in straw hats and baseball caps wandered between Steely Dan on the Acura Stage, the Greater Antioch Full Gospel Choir in the AIG Gospel tent and the Natchitoches meat pie stand. In the middle of this cultural smorgasbord, they were treated to a genuine embodiment of New Orleans vernacular street culture in the form of a parade by a Mardi Gras Indian Gang, the Black Feathers.

The parade started right on schedule, at 3 pm, next to the outdoor showroom tent in which shiny new Acuras were parked to attract passersby, beneath the big blue open sky above the New Orleans Fairgrounds, and framed against the city skyline in the distance, which, viewed closer, still bore the scars of Hurricane Katrina in the form of stories upon stories of broken windows in downtown office buildings and hotels. The gang strutted their stuff in elaborately sewn suits made of brightly colored beads and feathers covering them from head to toe. The first was all in green, with a large, sequinned fishtail sewn to his back. Then another, all in white, with careful embroideries of heroic deeds of Native Americans on his stomach and chest. Then the "Big Queen" in pink, came chanting and dancing down a paved path, lined on either side by people awed by this vision, to the rhythm of tambourines and drums.

Wanting a bit of this beauty, people asked the Indians if they would pose for pictures, and took home photos of themselves in shorts and T-shirts with a black man covered in a thousand beads sewn over the course of a year in a tradition that he likely learned from his father or uncle, or with the "flag boy," with sweat pouring down a proud face framed in orange, with the gang's beaded mantle, spelling out "7th Ward Gang Flag."

Indeed, while many people paid $45 a day to come to Jazz Fest this year to see ZZ Top, the Allman Brothers, New Edition (less Bobby Brown, sadly) or Rod Stewart, the soul of Jazz Fest, the thing that you can't find just anywhere, is the distinct music and culture of this city, which is why the logo of the whole damn thing is four dancers with umbrellas and handkerchiefs doing a Second Line, the distinctive dance of the New Orleans streets. Though I think that Jazz Fest is swell--I go to as much as I can every year--and gives visitors access to living forms of American folk culture, it feels far from the Seventh Ward, the shotgun homes and Creole cottages of the Indians and St. Augustine Catholic Church, in the heart of the Treme neighborhood, where Big Chief Tootie Montana, the "Chief of the Chiefs," was laid to rest two months before Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, wearing a suit and tie but framed between two of his elaborate Indian suits.

Like many things in New Orleans, the origins of the Mardi Gras Indians aren't crystal clear. Some say that the tradition of the Mardi Gras Indians began 120 years ago, with black New Orleanians creating full Indian regalia based on pictures and Wild West shows that they had seen. Their rituals honor the role Native Americans played in helping slaves escape and elude bounty hunters, celebrating a historic sense of common cause between black New Orleanians and Native Americans. That tradition has remained alive in some of New Orleans's poorest neighborhoods at parades on the high holidays of Mardi Gras Indian culture. They include St. Joseph's Day, which comes every year on March 19; Mardi Gras, the day before the commencement of Lent on Ash Wednesday; and "Super Sunday," a sort of Mardi Gras Indian Christmas, which occurs in late spring and is observed on different days by Mardi Gras Indians depending on whether they live in Uptown or Downtown neighborhoods. According to James Trask, a "spyboy" in the Red Hawk Hunters, whom I talked to in the hot sun of the Seventh Ward Festival, an arts and cultural event that occurred on a late spring weekend in a mostly black, poor, but proud old Creole enclave, the tradition is passed on within families and neighborhoods. "I learned to sew from my dad, the Big Chief of the Ninth Ward Flaming Arrows. It goes generation to generation; we pass it on," he explained to me, before showing off his elaborate blue suit, which had taken him months to make, spending five hours a day after getting off work at Catholic Charities.

He told me, with evident satisfaction, that his 4-year-old son was also an Indian, to whom he was passing down the beading and sewing art and with whom he would take to the streets on the downtown Super Sunday the following weekend. Ronald Baham, known as Big Chief Buck, the Chief of the Seventh Ward Warriors, had invited the Red Hawk Hunters to this "first annual" festival put on by the Seventh Ward Porch. The Porch is an organization committed to fostering the cultural life unique to this neighborhood. It seeks to do this by advocating for the community from which culture arises and by creating a space where people can come together and where children can learn about their neighborhood and the world beyond it.

When I spoke with him there, Big Chief Buck seemed disappointed that his gang couldn't perform for his neighbors, since many in the Seventh Ward Warriors hadn't yet managed to return to the neighborhood and some, him included, had come home after Katrina to decades of suits--twenty-two in his case--in a musty clump of waterlogged beads and feathers. He promised they would be singing and dancing on these streets by Mardi Gras.

In addition to the time it takes to make these suits, Big Chief Buck estimated that each one cost more than $5,000 to make, explaining, "How pretty you wanna be? That's how much you will spend." And this money comes out of his own pocket because, though the city's airport, hotels, convention center and restaurants are adorned with photos of Mardi Gras Indians and the $5 billion annual tourist industry uses these cultural icons to keep people coming here, the individuals buying the beads and pricking their thumbs with needles receive very little support from the city or the tourist industry. As Big Chief Buck explained, "Everybody makes money off the Mardi Gras Indians but the Indians."

A similar dynamic appears at all corners in the world of New Orleans street culture--from musicians who play New Orleans jazz music, to Second Line groups, to Mardi Gras Indians--where there is a sense that the city and its tourism business have exploited neighborhood culture while offering little to keep it alive. Even the most high-profile effort to date to provide housing for New Orleans musicians, the Habitat for Humanity New Orleans Musicians Village, for which Branford Marsalis and Harry Connick Jr. have raised millions, and at which every passing politico--from George Bush to Barack Obama--have hammered nails, has been roundly criticized by many of the intended beneficiaries.

It turns out that many of the musicians and cultural ambassadors of our city have lousy credit (because, of course, they are neither compensated nor valued for the enormous economic contribution that they make to the city) and don't qualify for Habitat for Humanity loans. To this Marsalis and Connick responded defensively with the patronizing old saws of charity work, employing the condescending "give a man a fish...teach a man to fish" platitude.

Because New Orleans culture has survived for so long without anyone's free fish, however, it seems likely that even the bruising New Orleans post-Katrina housing crunch will not do it in. The genuine antagonism for Second Line groups and Mardi Gras Indians shown by police is a much more discouraging and troubling sign of the lack of appreciation for street culture. In fact, the passing of Tootie Montana was no doubt hastened by the conflict that the 82-year-old chief of chiefs had with police on St. Joseph's night, a night marked by well-documented instances of police brutality against Indians and about which the chief addressed the city council before expiring at the podium.

More recently, New Orleans social aid and pleasure clubs, the groups that throw Second Lines, sued the Police Department for assigning arbitrary and prohibitively expensive fees to escort these parades. Fortunately, with the threat of litigation supported by the American Civil Liberties Union, New Orleans civil rights attorneys Carol Kolinchak and Katie Schwartzmann were able to get the city to relent and provide more reasonable fees for the street parades that it profits from in mock-form in the touristy areas of the French Quarter and at big business conventions.

Helen Regis, a cultural anthropologist at Louisiana State University, an expert in New Orleans Second Line culture, and one of the organizers of the Seventh Ward Festival, explained the possible pernicious effects of suppressing New Orleans's street culture in a 1999 essay published in the journal Cultural Anthropology.

This minstrel-like appropriation of black cultural tradition by the city's elites and tourist industry goes without any acknowledgment of the black popular tradition on which it is based.... What is erased by these representations is the experiential meaning...for the performers themselves--their agency, their deployment of received cultural forms in new and innovative ways, which revise and recast tradition to speak to the concerns and experiences of participants and their communities. As with turn of the century minstrel shows, predominantly white audiences do not know precisely what it is that the staged shows are reproducing and thus cannot be aware of the significant differences between them and the community based parades.

This is all to say that New Orleans culture is specific to its place in the world, just as creating human castles is wedded to the towns of Catalonia and as sand paintings are to the Hopi and Navajo. And while we can enjoy and appreciate it when it is presented to us, we need to be mindful of the fact that it is the expression of a neighborhood or a community, not merely a performance that we can pay to see.

Willie Birch, a prominent black New Orleans artist who grew up in the Magnolia Housing Project, whose work now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and who was one of the driving forces behind creating the Porch, believes passionately in this culture, explaining, "Art is a means of transforming communities."

He emphasizes the reciprocal process in which artists "are fed by the communities that they live in." For this reason, he questions the very basis of an idea like the Musician's Village as a means of supporting New Orleans culture as it removes artists from neighborhoods, rendering both poorer and less vital. He is put off by those who attempt to exploit this culture but is bullish on its future, explaining, "Jazz Fest could not exist without this, but we could exist without Jazz Fest." He continued, "It's our goal to keep this culture alive, and it is living, it's not a museum." As proof, he pointed to a throng of young neighborhood children surrounding Big Chief Victor Harris of the Spirit of the Fi Yi Yi Mardi Gras Indians, covered in African-style beadwork including a massive headdress that covered his face. (Both the African pattern and the closed headdress mark innovations in the evolution of Mardi Gras Indian culture.) Little girls hugged the legs of this masked giant as though he were Mickey or Pluto at Disney World and begged him to let them try on his heavy, and somewhat frightening, mask. Birch observed that this culture cannot be supported without supporting the community from which it comes, telling me that Victor lived right around the corner, "See, this is about the community, not the individual. And this can create cultural leaders out of these kids."

Cultural leadership was far from the mind of the small black girl who finally prevailed and got to wear the mask of Fi Yi Yi but its realization seemed almost inevitable. Because if you could, if you knew it was available to you, if you came from this struggling but dynamic neighborhood, if it was yours, who could turn this down? Who wouldn't want to be an Indian Chief or Queen, or play snare in the hottest band in New Orleans, to the joy of people from all over the world, but more important, to your friends and neighbors?

Interview w/Mardi Gras Indian Monk Boudreaux

Offbeat
BackTalk with Monk Boudreaux

By Geraldine Wyckoff

Joseph “Big Chief Monk” Boudreaux of the Golden Eagles has been masking Indian since he was a teenager. His father, Raymond, was a member of the Creoles and the Wild Squatoolas Black Indian gangs, so even before Monk built his first suit, he was deeply entrenched in the culture. “I wouldn’t know what to do on Mardi Gras Day if I didn’t run with the Indians,” says the chief.

Boudreaux’s deep roots in the tradition have allowed him to step out into the entertainment world as a noted vocalist. The chief and the Golden Eagles released their first album, Lightning and Thunder in 1988, and he has gone on to record as a leader and with a wide variety of other artists and has performed around the world.

Widely respected among the Indian nation, the social aid and pleasure club community and the music world, Big Chief Monk stands as a link between people of many walks of life. Last year it was Boudreaux, along with Festival Production’s Quint Davis, who spearheaded the initiative to provide Mardi Gras Indians with much-needed materials to make new suits. With money from the Norman Dixon, Sr. Fund, he is at it again this year, making calls and organizing orders of feathers and plumes so that the Indians, who lost so much to Hurricane Katrina, can carry on the tradition.

So are you sewing?

Right now I’m doing some stuff for the second line on Sunday (January 7). I’m designing streamers and fans for the Perfect Gentlemen (Social Aid and Pleasure Club)—they come out this Sunday.


Do you often work for other clubs?

Oh, yeah, for various groups. I did the Young Men Olympian—the first division with the brown and orange. And I did two guys in the Young Men Olympian by themselves; they had light blue and beige.


I know other Mardi Gras Indians are involved with designing for the social aid and pleasure cubs. Big Chief Tootie Montana worked with the Sudan and the Black Men of Labor clubs. Have you done this throughout the years?

I’ve been doing this for 40 years. I used to parade with the Young Men Olympian about 30 years ago. I think I paraded with them for five years, and then I came back and paraded with them again about seven years ago.


So do you just design, or do you actually make the accessories?

They come to me and give me an idea and I sketch it up and they say, “Yeah, that’s what we want.” Some come to me and they don’t have an idea what they want. Sometimes they bring me the materials and I make the pieces, too.


Do you approach this any differently than when you’re creating an Indian suit?

It’s the same, they just don’t use the rhinestones and the beads, but they use the same material. You could take the bottom part of the streamers and use it as an apron. [Streamers are the sashes that drape across the front of the body—think Miss America sashes. At the bottom, they often widen and include the name of the club. An apron is the front flap of a Mardi Gras Indian suit.]


Do you make the baskets too?

Yeah, I’m making baskets for the Young Men Olympian for this year coming up. They don’t require baskets too much. It’s kind of expensive. Every time I came out, I came out with a basket and a fan.


What brass bands were parading when you were with the Young Men Olympian?

I remember Doc Paulin and the Olympia Brass Band.


How do you see the connection between the Mardi Gras Indians and the second line clubs? I think of it sort of as a shared street culture.

A lot of guys that parade mask Indian also, and a lot of them who parade have masked Indians. It’s the same people, you know, most of them. It’s the same followers. The people that follow Indians follow the second lines, too. They’ve both been out here about the same amount of time. My grandfather used to parade every third Sunday, but they didn’t have a band. They just marched down the street. This was probably in the late 1940s. I was a little kid. They used to march through the city. They had some ladies that dressed out in white and they, too, paraded without a band.


So let’s talk about the Mardi Gras Indians. Are you sewing on your suit?

Yeah, I’m beading on a patch. I’m adding to my suit from last year. I work on it during breaks at work—I parade with the second line band at Harrah’s.


You said something at last year’s Indian Sunday parade that stuck in my head. I mentioned to you that you always look comfortable in your suits and you said, “That’s because I tailor them.”

Yeah, I do. I measure myself across. And I always cut the material too big so I can take some off. If I want a jacket, I just cut it up and then pin it up and I try it on. I keep pinning it and trying it on until it fits and then I sew it up.


Do you think the apparent comfort level has something to do with your personal style of suits—the shorts and jacket? You always look great, but you also look like you can move.

That’s just my style; that’s the way I see it. You’re supposed to be able to move. Why make something you can’t walk in? You make an Indian suit to wear, right? If you can’t wear it, why make it?


You don’t go in for huge crowns either.

No, but I used to like on the Wild Magnolia album cover. You don’t need all of that. I don’t.


I know last year you were very involved with getting feathers to the Indians and that you’re doing it again this year. How is that going, and are there more Indians?

We’ve got our order in. We’re just waiting on them to come in.


There’s a lot more Indians, a lot more. We now have 159 Indians (that have signed up for feathers) and we would have had more except a lot of them didn’t know about it. Some of them are in Texas and I didn’t have any way to contact them. They’ve been calling and they’re still calling. Last year we had maybe close to 100.


I have to call the Indians up and find out their color. All of the plumes come from Africa but we really get them from New York—they have dye houses in New York—and then they’re shipped to Jefferson Variety, where we pick them up.


How many will be in your gang, the Golden Eagles?

Well, that’s something you never can tell. All the kids are going to be there. They’re my grandchildren, there’s six… seven of them. Their mama sews the suits.


I’m coming in gray and leaving from my house on Valence and Magnolia—you never know about the time. About 9 a.m. By the time I get down to Second and Dryades, Zulu will have passed already.


What is your biggest concern about the future of the Mardi Gras Indian tradition particularly with so many people now scattered across the country?

It don’t worry me because I know they’re going to be here. They’re going to come regardless of where they are. They’re going to be here for that day and they’re going to come with their Indians suits, too.


How about in the long run? It’s always been such a neighborhood activity and family activity.

It’s been going on for over 100 years, so they’re not going to stop no matter where they are. They’re going to go back to their neighborhoods regardless whether they’re living there or not. That’s where they’ll be leaving from. Somebody’s going to be in the neighborhood.


How long can they keep it going? I’m concerned about the future with kids growing up elsewhere and not having the tradition as a part of their daily lives.

That time has to come or might not come. We’ll have to wait and see. Everybody I talk to out of town is sewing. They can get the same materials out of town as we get here—and maybe cheaper.


Considering the financial burden it takes to make a suit, I thought that maybe some Indians might opt for smaller, less elaborate suits but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

See, the thing is you don’t do it all the time. You have a whole year to prepare. You just put a little bit on the side—and you pay your bills. Now, when it gets close to Mardi Gras you may not pay your light bill. A long time ago, Indians’ lights used to get cut off and we used to go help them get their lights back on. It’s a thing that has to be done. It’s not like you’re coming out of your pocket with $4,000 or $5,000 right off the bat. That’s why you start right after Mardi Gras. You spend as much money as you can afford. We don’t sit down and figure out how much we spent because that’s gone. No sense worrying about it because it’s gone. I don’t keep receipts.


I haven’t seen you listed much performing in the clubs with your group.

It’s been kind of slow. I have a gig next Saturday and I was out for New Year’s with Papa Mali and Galactic at Tip’s. I have a CD that’s supposed to be coming out that I recorded last year in California—I think it will be released at Jazz Fest. It’s with John Lisi and Delta Funk. I wrote almost all of the material for that. I’m creative—when I get into the studio, it just comes naturally for me.


A lot of Indians are singing about the storm in their chants.

They tell the stories of what they see and that’s what Indians songs are about—what goes on. So Hurricane Katrina came along and there they go; they’ve got a song. They pick up whatever and they go with it.


Music is music. I do Indian songs and other songs and it’s all how I feel. It’s still just a feeling.



What keeps the Indians going so strong despite all the hardships they are facing right now?

They were born with it—most of them. Like my dad did it before me and I followed his footsteps. My dad stopped masking after about 20 years and a man stayed across the street and I used to go watch him. It was already in me. His name was William Bell and he was with the White Eagles. The White Eagles was a big gang. I started out with the White Eagles with Big Chief Fletcher when I was a little boy.


You are always so optimistic. How do you account for that especially these days?

I guess I was just born that way. I don’t let nothing worry me. Because if people worry, they’re always going to take it out on somebody else. Worrying ain’t good for you.


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New Orleans Bands Struggle to Regain Footing

New York Times
February 20, 2007
In New Orleans, Bands Struggle to Regain Footing
By JON PARELES

NEW ORLEANS, Feb. 19 — When the first Mardi Gras after Hurricane Katrina took place last year, New Orleanians felt something vital was missing: the strutting steps and triumphal horns of the city’s proud, immensely competitive high school bands marching between the floats.

The reason was obvious: Nearly all the city’s schools were still shut, and most of the students had been evacuated. This year fewer than a third of the public schools in New Orleans have reopened — many more are due this fall — and much of the city’s old population remains dispersed. But some of the top high school bands are back: a rare, heartening sign not only for the parades but also for the long-term vitality of New Orleans culture.

“Music is New Orleans, and marching bands are part of every phase of our city’s life,” said Allen T. Woods, the principal of Frederick A. Douglass High School in the hard-hit Ninth Ward. His school’s band was booked for two parades in this Mardi Gras season, which began on Feb. 10. The members are wearing matching warm-up suits, since band uniforms are still on order. But they are marching.

New Orleans has always been a city of parades, from Mardi Gras to jazz funerals. When jazz began, it commandeered the trumpets and drums of military bands, and the swagger and swing of brass bands have been among the city’s great musical resources ever since.

The high school bands have long been the incubator for New Orleans music, and the training ground for generations of musicians. In this city’s wonderfully insular culture, band instruments like trombone and sousaphone are as ubiquitous as guitars and synthesizers elsewhere. Before Katrina, it wasn’t unusual to hear young brass players jamming on New Orleans street corners, and those musicians’ first instruments might well have come from high school stockpiles. Through the years, school music programs have put horns, clarinets and drums into the hands of students who would never have played them otherwise, and high school connections have jumpstarted important New Orleans groups like the Rebirth Brass Band.

Brass bands repay the help. Dinerral Shavers, the snare drummer of the Hot 8 Brass Band, was hired to organize a marching band at L. E. Rabouin High School, and his fellow Hot 8 members dropped in to help teach. But Mr. Shavers was shot dead on Dec. 28 in one of a series of murders that led to a large anticrime rally at City Hall on Jan. 11. The Rabouin High School Band marched in this year’s Mardi Gras parades.

“These bands play as important a role in the perpetuation of New Orleans music culture as anything,” said Bill Taylor, executive director of the Tipitina’s Foundation, which has turned the long-running uptown club Tipitina’s into a nonprofit organization that provides instruments and other help for musicians. Since New Orleans schools had long since cut back on music education, the foundation started donating instruments to them in 2002. In 2006 it gave away $500,000 worth of instruments. “This is about keeping New Orleans New Orleans,” Mr. Taylor said.

And in New Orleans, unlike many other places, band membership means prestige in high school. “High school bands in New Orleans are as important as football is in Texas,” said Virgil Tiller, the band director at St. Augustine High School, whose Purple Knights, better known as the Marching 100, have been the city’s most celebrated high school band.

St. Augustine is a historically black school, and its band integrated 20th-century Mardi Gras parades when they were invited in 1967 to appear with the Rex Organization, the top Mardi Gras krewe. Spectators spat on them and threw bricks and urine-filled condoms, Edward Hampton, the band’s founding director, recalled, but the students refused to brawl and just kept marching. Since then, bands from black high schools have become mainstays of Mardi Gras. Band programs are paid about $1,500 a parade.

Montreal A. Givens, 17, a trombonist who is a drum major in the Marching 100, lives alone in a trailer provided by the Federal Emergency Management Agency so that he can finish out his senior year with the band. He’s also an honors student. His father, Lumar LeBlanc, leads a brass band, the Soul Rebels, that was formed by New Orleans high school bandmates; Mr. LeBlanc still resides in Houston.

“I came back here for the music,” Mr. Givens said in the school’s band room as the Marching 100 assembled for a parade. “I took a hard hit, but I couldn’t stop my life because of the hurricane.”

Before Katrina, the Marching 100 actually had 150 to 170 members, including baton twirlers and a color guard. Now it has about 90. The flood completely destroyed what had been a newly built band room and all the school’s instruments and uniforms. At last year’s Mardi Gras parade, some members of St. Augustine’s Marching 100 were part of a small but determined high school band, the MAX band, that merged the returned students from three private schools: St. Augustine, St. Mary’s Academy and Xavier University Preparatory School.

“We proved we could do something positive in such devastated surroundings,” said Lester Wilson of Xavier, who led the MAX band.

This year, as St. Augustine marched in the Krewe d’Etat parade, there were shouts and applause as its purple and gold uniforms came into view. “This band is the city’s band,” Mr. Tiller said. “When we march, it’s amazing to me how many people say: ‘Thank you for coming back. If St. Aug’s is back, the city is coming back.’ ”

Educators say that band membership, like other extracurricular activities, helps to keep students from dropping out. Practicing an instrument, particularly for the chance at the status of leading a section in a beloved high school band, builds discipline. So do regular rehearsals — the St. Augustine band works five days a week, summers included — and memorizing the formations and instrument-swinging choreography used by New Orleans high school bands.

But music has not been a priority for New Orleans schools struggling to reconstruct buildings and entire academic programs. Paul Batiste, the band director of the Sophie B. Wright Charter School, had his band practicing on what he could afford from his own pocket — just the mouthpieces for trumpets and clarinets — until instruments were provided by private groups, including the Tipitina’s Foundation and Mr. Holland’s Opus. FEMA has also supplied instruments to some schools, among them Douglass High School in the Ninth Ward.

Like other New Orleans institutions resurrected since Katrina, the high school bands are stretched thin. They have fewer members than they did before the storm, often operating at half their old numbers. They also use more fledgling instrumentalists to fill the ranks.

“It doesn’t sound like it did before,” said Shantell Franklin, 17, who plays baritone horn in the band from Sarah T. Reed High School in New Orleans East. Instruments to replace those ruined by rust and mold arrived at her school only a month ago. “We’ve got a lot of beginners in the band,” Ms. Franklin said. “They’re dedicated and they want to play, but they just can’t get the notes out right.”

Yet even at less than full strength, New Orleans high school bands are still producing musicians to continue the city’s musical legacy. Joshua Phipps, who plays F horn in the marching band of McDonogh 35 High School and saxophone in the concert band, was a beginner two years ago. His English teacher suggested he join the band at Walter L. Cohen High School, now closed; after Katrina, he enrolled in McDonogh 35, whose band has a citywide reputation.

Mr. Phipps had been thinking about basketball, but the band changed his life, he said. “At my first band practice, I just fell in love with the sound,” he said. “I practiced a whole lot, every day, and it was like a hidden talent I didn’t know I had.”

Like many a high school band member before him, he also has gigs of his own. Mr. Phipps is in a brass band called the Truth, which plays for parties and processions, along with a weekly downtown club date. He plans to study music in college.

“I want to be a band teacher,” he said. Then he picked up his horn and joined McDonogh 35’s ranks for a Mardi Gras parade.

Brazil samba school leader slain in Rio

Brazil samba school leader slain in Rio

By MICHAEL ASTOR, Associated Press Writer 31 minutes ago

A leader of one of Rio's premiere samba parade groups was shot to death early Wednesday, just days before the city's famed Carnival celebrations.

Guaracy Paes Falcao, 42, vice president of the samba school Salgueiro, was killed in his car by unidentified gunmen before dawn while leaving the group's headquarters with a woman, who was also shot to death, police spokesman Renato Barone said.

Barone would not say whether authorities had suspects.

The killings came a day after police entered a Rio slum and clashed with drug gangs in shootouts that killed six people, including at least four suspected gang members.

Also Wednesday, more than 600 people attended a Mass for a 6-year-old boy who was dragged to death by thieves trying to steal his mother's car. Police have arrested five suspects, one of whom is 16.

After the Mass, the demonstrators took to the streets shouting "Peace" and "Justice."

Rio de Janeiro Gov. Sergio Cabral said he will soon deliver a letter to President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, signed by the boy's parents and other crime victims, demanding that Brazilian states be given more power to harshly punish juvenile offenders. "Enough war, we want peace," the letter says.

Rio has suffered deadly clashes recently between police, drug gangs and so-called militias made up of off-duty officers who have expelled gangs from about 90 of the city's 600 slums. The militias have managed to reduce drug-related violence but are charging residents and business owners for protection.

Virtually all the recent violence has been confined to "favelas," vast shantytowns and slums where millions of poor people live. Little if any has spilled over into well-heeled beach areas where more than 600,000 Brazilian and foreign tourists are expected to start gathering in coming days to celebrate Carnival.

Wednesday's shooting happened in Tijuca, a middle-class neighborhood surrounded by slums on the city's north side.

The city's samba schools kick off the traditional Carnival parade in this city's "Sambadromo" stadium Sunday. Other celebrations begin as early as Thursday.

Another Salgueiro leader who was one of Falcao's cousins, Waldemir Garcia, was killed three years ago in Rio. Garcia had been an alleged kingpin of an illegal numbers game.

Police did not suggest a motive yet for Falcao's death, but local media reported there had been a long history of bad blood between Garcia and Falcao, and it's long been an open secret that Rio's annual samba parade — the centerpiece of Carnival celebrations — is funded by the numbers game bosses.

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Associated Press Writer Tales Azzoni in Sao Paulo, Brazil, contributed to this report.

Mardi Gras Costumes Wickedly Satirical

Mardi Gras Costumes Wickedly Satirical

By MARY FOSTER, Associated Press Writer 40 minutes ago



The crowds were small and the costumes wickedly satirical as Mardi Gras reached its boozy climax Tuesday in this hurricane-buckled city that could use a few laughs.

The culmination of the eight-day pre-Lenten bash fell nearly six months to the day after the Aug. 29 storm that smashed thousands of homes and killed more than 1,300 people, the vast majority of them in New Orleans.

"I lost everything," Andrew Hunter, 42, said as he sat on the steps of his ruined home on Jackson Avenue. "But what the heck. This helps us keep our spirits up, and we need all the help we can get with that."

Even amid the typical debauchery — including early morning drinking, flashes of bare breasts and skimpy costumes in the French Quarter — there was no escaping reminders of the storm.

Zulu, the 97-year-old Mardi Gras club, or krewe, that lost 10 members to Katrina, paraded amid homes that still bear dirty brown water marks from the floodwaters that covered 80 percent of the city. Another krewe, Rex, King of Carnival, paraded past a boarded-up store bearing a spray-painted warning that looters would be shot.

Kevin and Marie Barre, a husband and wife from New Orleans, wore white plastic coveralls bearing the all-too-familiar spray-painted "X" that denotes a home that has been checked for bodies. "It's a reminder. A lot of people who are coming down here don't understand what we've been through," Kevin Barre said.

Members of another club called the Krewe of MRE covered themselves with brown labels from the Meals Ready to Eat that were served to thousands who huddled in the Superdome after the storm. Others dressed as giant maggots, recalling the days when city streets were lined with abandoned refrigerators full of rotting food.

Mayor Ray Nagin, wearing a black beret and camouflage uniform, portrayed cigar-chomping Gen. Russell Honore, the military man who led the first big relief convoy into the city.

"It's been absolutely — I don't know how to describe it — great," Nagin said of the party. "Katrina did a lot of bad things. But it has done something to give New Orleanians a fresh love for their city."

Several people draped themselves in blue tarps like those used to cover damaged roofs, fashioning them into ballgowns and nun's habits. A man with a model of a military helicopter suspended over his head wrapped himself in a white blanket with "2000 lbs" stenciled on it — he was a giant sandbag, like the ones dropped into one of the breached levees.

Another group of French Quarter revelers dressed as blind people with canes and dark glasses. They wore hard hats and T-shirts emblazoned "LEVEE INSPECTOR."

Along an Uptown parade route, a family who lost their Lakeview home to flooding poked fun at former FEMA director Michael Brown. Jenny Louis, her husband, Ross, and their three children strolled around in all-brown costumes, similar to the uniforms worn by UPS drivers. Printed on their backs: "What Did Brown Do For You Today?"

After the parades, Bourbon Street was crowded with hard-drinking revelers. Police on horseback generally clear the street at midnight, although the party often continues in French Quarter bars into the early hours of Ash Wednesday.

Despite partly sunny weather and temperatures in the 70s, the crowds were smaller than usual in a city that still has less than half its pre-storm population of almost a half-million. Finding a prime parade-watching spot was not hard.

"We came out about 5 this morning and had no trouble getting a good spot," said Tammi Harlan, 56, of Metairie. "We've been coming to this spot for about 20 years, but normally the guys come the night before to make sure we get it."

Traditions held. About 160 members of clarinetist Pete Fountain's Half Fast Marching club had breakfast at the shuttered Commander's Palace restaurant before heading down the parade route — but without Fountain, who is ill and missed what would have been his 46th trip with the group. The celebrated musician is 75.

Visitors included New Orleans native Donald Rooney, now of Denver, who wore a purple, green and gold fright wig.

Mardi Gras is about "helping the city rebuild," he said. "It's my hometown. There's still a great soul that lives in the city that 10 feet, 12 feet of water can't kill, and it's coming back."

Lissette Sutton, owner of a French Quarter souvenir store, said she hoped the celebration would show that the city can handle tourists again.

"I had a lady come in over the weekend who said she actually brought a can of Lysol because she was convinced there would be mold in her hotel room. She was delighted to see how clean it is," Sutton said.

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Associated Press writers Hank Ackerman, Cain Burdeau and Janet McConnaughey contributed to this report.

Mardi Gras traditions

New York Times
February 28, 2006
Mardi Gras Dawns With Some Traditions in Jeopardy
By JON PARELES





NEW ORLEANS, Feb. 27 — Surrounded by bags of feathers and beads in the bedroom of a temporary apartment, Monk Boudreaux had plans for the long Carnival weekend before Mardi Gras. Amid the parades, costume balls and general excess here, the 64-year-old Mr. Boudreaux would be doing what he has done for decades: sewing his suit for Mardi Gras on Tuesday.

That suit, created anew each year, is a larger-than-life assemblage of glitter, sequins, extremely fine hand beadwork on leather patches and giant ostrich plumes, each feather securely sewn in to withstand a lot of dancing. He was also finishing five other suits for his grandchildren. Mr. Boudreaux is the chief of the Golden Eagles tribe of Mardi Gras Indians, a New Orleans African-American parade tradition that dates back more than a century.

For longtime New Orleanians, Mardi Gras isn't a frivolous diversion from deep problems; it's a symbol of continuity and identity. "It's not that we're going to celebrate and party and forget our rough times," said Irvin Mayfield, a jazz trumpeter whose father drowned during the flooding after Hurricane Katrina. "We're going to celebrate and party and make that about our rough times."

Through the weekend of Carnival, parade floats for organizations like the Krewe d'Etat and costumes at parties like the annual Mom's Ball made pointed references to the storm and its aftermath. Krewe d'Etat's theme was a post-Katrina Olympics, with events like Breach Volleyball and Looter Shooting. At Mom's Ball, along with the glitter, revelers made costumes from hard hats, hazmat coveralls and the blue tarpaulins used for temporary roof repairs.

After Katrina, the lingering question is whether the New Orleans cultural traditions that had sprung up spontaneously in African-American neighborhoods would survive.

The people in neighborhoods like the Lower Ninth Ward, some of whom had lived there for generations, have been scattered by the evacuation. But New Orleans musicians, almost unanimously, insist that their traditions will prevail.

"You only come to New Orleans for the culture; there's no reason to come down to these swamps otherwise," said Bruce (Sunpie) Barnes, a zydeco musician who is also part of a Mardi Gras tradition called Skull and Bones: skeleton-costumed dancers who pop out at Mardi Gras parades as a reminder of mortality. They plan to appear this year.

Bands whose members have been scattered to various states have driven and flown in to play New Orleans dates. Mardi Gras Indian practice sessions have been held as far away as Texas. Coolbone, a brass band that played a jazz-funeral tribute to Clarence (Gatemouth) Brown on Saturday afternoon, now has members in Texas and Alabama; a saxophonist for the Rebirth Brass Band now lives in New York City. But the groups are staying together.

Musicians who are synonymous with New Orleans, like the trumpeter Kermit Ruffins, have moved back and reclaimed their regular local dates. "I couldn't wait to get back," said Mr. Ruffins, who established himself so quickly in Houston after the storm that he's lending his name to a barbecue restaurant there. "All my life I grew up in the little nightclubs, and I couldn't wait to go back to just the old hole-in-the-walls."

For musicians, as for hundreds of thousands of other displaced New Orleanians, housing is the main problem. Real estate prices have skyrocketed because so much of the city is uninhabitable. Mr. Ruffins said that musicians who could make comfortable livings as New Orleans expatriates would still be eager to return. "If they had thousands of homes for people to stay in, I know that every musician who left would be right back," he said.

No upheaval would make Mr. Boudreaux change his Mardi Gras ritual. "You gotta do this," he said. "If that spirit is in you, it has to come out."

The Mardi Gras Indians represent one of New Orleans's endangered neighborhood traditions. So do the brass bands that play for jazz funerals and other neighborhood parades. Parades in New Orleans aren't complete without a "second line" of strutting, dancing, clapping spectators turned paraders — a street-level, neighborhood celebration. Now, in places like the Lower Ninth Ward, there are no neighbors.

On Mardi Gras morning the Indians appear: shaking tambourines, dancing down the streets and singing bellicose chants like "Iko Iko" (the basis of the old Dixie Cups hit) and "Meet the Boys on the Battlefront." The syncopated beat of those chants, a beat shared with old brass-band struts, pervades New Orleans music from traditional jazz to funk; it's also called the second line. Once the Indians were like gangs battling for turf with shotguns as well as songs. Nowadays, they are more cooperative, and the competition is for who can be the flashiest and the "prettiest."

The Indians traditionally have done everything on their own — most of them never tote up how much they spend on materials for their suits — but this year, some of them had help. A foundation associated with the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (which starts April 28) bought and distributed 900 strings of marabou feathers and 175 pounds of custom-dyed large African ostrich plumes — two pounds per Indian, with 75 to 100 feathers per pound. The festival has also been paying the cost of police permits for second-line neighborhood parades — which was raised, in January, to $3,605 — and fees for the brass bands. "This is all that is left of this jazz culture in the world," said Quint Davis, the director of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival.

Tipitina's, a club devoted to New Orleans music, is now a nonprofit foundation. It has been distributing instruments, including a shiny new brass sousaphone for the leader of the Rebirth Brass Band, which had New Orleans gigs all through the weekend. It also turned its upstairs offices into a community center for musicians, where they can use computers, get free legal help and meet one another: a kind of substitute for neighborhood hangouts that are now gone. And in November 2005, it began holding Mardi Gras Indian practices, which used to take place in neighborhood bars. The practice sessions doubled in size each time until they outgrew the club.

Long-term questions remain about what will happen to New Orleans traditions. High school bands in African-American neighborhoods were a vital training ground and source of instruments for young New Orleans musicians; with far fewer students in the city, many schools are closed down or consolidated, and music instruction is unlikely to be the most pressing priority for those that reopen. But on Carnival weekend, the clubs were full of familiar New Orleans names and sounds: brass bands like the Hot 8 and the Soul Rebels, funk bands like Galactic and the Radiators, the bluesman Walter Wolfman Washington and jazz musicians like the New Orleans Vipers and Trombone Shorty.

In the aftermath of the storm, there has been a huge surge of interest in New Orleans music. "Since Katrina, the culture in this city is being recognized more," said Bo Dollis, chief of the Wild Magnolias, another parading tribe. "And without the music, I don't know how this city will survive."

Then, flanked by tribe members in feathers and beads, he took to the stage of the Rock 'n' Bowl in the Mid-City neighborhood — much of it still dark and deserted — to sing the old Indian songs once again.


photo: Big Chief Donald Harrison with his 2006 costume

Notable Mardi Gras Absences Reflect Loss of Black Middle Class

Washington Post
Notable Mardi Gras Absences Reflect Loss of Black Middle Class
By Julia Cass
Special to The Washington Post
Saturday, February 25, 2006; A01

The Bunch Club, a group of African African professionals that has sponsored a Mardi Gras dance since 1917, in the last group photo taken at a black-tie dinner 71/2 months before Hurricane Katrina hit. (By Lloyd Dennis -- Courtesy Of Bunch Club)
Photo Credit: By Lloyd Dennis -- Courtesy Of Bunch Club




NEW ORLEANS -- Since 1917, the Bunch, an African American social club made up of 50 doctors, lawyers, dentists, bankers, businessmen and other professional men, has sponsored a dance on the Friday before Mardi Gras -- a coveted invitation during the weeks of parties that precede Fat Tuesday.

But last night there was no Bunch Club dance. The Black Pirates, Plantation Revelers, Bon Temps, Vikings, Beau Brummels, Original Illinois Club and Young Men's Illinois Club have also canceled their carnival balls.

The lack of revelry reflects the lack of people -- New Orleans's black middle class is gone.

Many African Americans prosperous enough to pay dues to a social club and buy tuxedos and gowns for debutante balls lived in the predominantly black subdivisions of New Orleans East, a former marshland drained by canals that severely flooded after Hurricane Katrina. Mile after mile of suburban homes along its cul-de-sacs and man-made lakes as well as a similar neighborhood, Gentilly, are virtually empty.

"The impression is that just poor people were displaced, but Katrina has had a devastating effect on the black middle class, too," said Willard Dumas, a dentist who serves as the Bunch Club's recording secretary and now lives in Baton Rouge. "You spend 45 years building a life and then it's gone. Your home was flooded; your business was flooded. And this happened not only to you but to practically everyone you know, so your patients or clients are gone, your friends are scattered, and your relatives are somewhere else."

White groups are holding their events this month, and debutante pictures are filling the society pages. The difference for the black groups can be explained by geography: Wealthy white neighborhoods were mostly on high ground, but black neighborhoods both poor and rich were on lowland that flooded.

Those black professionals are scattered across the South, finding new jobs, establishing new medical and legal practices and businesses. The longer they are gone, the greater the worry that they will not come back -- leaving New Orleans, a majority-black city before Katrina, without a core of African American leadership.

"We are a productive group of people," said lawyer Bernard Charbonnet Jr., 54, whose home was flooded. "We are the teachers, lawyers, firemen, doctors; the people who get up every morning and go to work; the people who have missions, goals and purposes; the people who serve on boards of civic organizations."

The Bunch Club personified that leadership as well as the longevity of blacks here. Some of its members have ancestral ties to the nearly 11,000 free blacks in New Orleans during the Civil War. The club began as a "bunch" of friends who gathered to play cards and decided to hold an annual carnival dance to meet women.

During the many years that hotels would not host African American events, the dance was held in the gym of Xavier University, the nation's only historically black Catholic university. More recently, the club has rented hotel ballrooms for the dance, which features a live orchestra and a march at midnight for the members and their guests.

In addition, the club's monthly meetings -- held at the now-closed Dooky Chase, a 65-year-old black-owned restaurant famous for its Creole food -- provided a chance to network. These days the group includes some of the city's most accomplished and influential African Americans, including Alden McDonald Jr., founder of Liberty Bank and Trust, the city's largest black-owned bank, and Xavier President Norman Francis, who is now chairman of the Louisiana Recovery Authority.

Charbonnet and Francis are still in New Orleans, but most of the rest of the Bunch are gone. Of the 44 members living in New Orleans before Katrina, only eight lived in houses that were not flooded and are inhabitable.

"The professionals who served the black population probably were the most impacted because they lost not just their homes but their clientele," said Francis, noting that 5,000 schoolteachers and 3,000 city employees, many of them black, have been laid off. "They are no different in a way from those families lower on the economic scale. They, too, don't have a home or a job."

Just two of the Bunch's doctors -- who were attached to hospitals on high ground -- practice in New Orleans today. White doctors, lawyers and other professionals also are experiencing difficulties, but proportionately more of their clients have returned.

Louis Bevrotte, the Bunch president, exemplifies the doctors' situation. Before the storm, he and his wife lived in the Lake Forest Estates subdivision in New Orleans East in a 4,700-square-foot home with a deck overlooking a man-made lake. McDonald, the bank president, lived across the street.

The East's 33 square miles of mostly single-family homes, developed in the 1970s and 1980s, became the "Freedomland," as one Bunch member put it, for African Americans of means. Bevrotte's office was a five-minute drive away, and he practiced at Methodist Hospital, one of two hospitals in the East, both now closed. He was so rooted in New Orleans that he did not have long-distance telephone service: his friends, his three children and other family members all lived in the city.

Now, Bevrotte, a pediatrician, practices in Kinder, La., population 2,000, about 220 miles west of New Orleans. In New Orleans, Bevrotte said, 95 percent of his patients were black; now, 95 percent are white. His wife, Yolanda, a nurse, works with him.

"We went through some rough times. We weren't used to having our lives out of our control," said Bevrotte, 60.

The worst part, he and his wife said, is being separated from their children and grandchildren, who live in Houston, Dallas and St. Francisville, La. "We cried when we separated six weeks after the storm and knew we would not see them the next day," Yolanda said.

The Bunch's dentists are experiencing the same dislocation. One is working in a prison near Jacksonville, Fla.; another moved to Louisville. The part-owner of a flooded professional building of black dentists and doctors, Dumas, 63, now works three days a week in a practice in a Baton Rouge suburb owned by a young dentist who had once worked for him.

Farrell Christophe, a former president of the Bunch, owns a five-bedroom house in Pontchartrain Park, the first black suburban-style subdivision in New Orleans, built 50 years ago. The home was flooded, and Christophe, 61, is living in Cane River, La.

He and his wife own three Steak Escape fast-food franchises in New Orleans. Two remain closed. Christophe fears he will have to walk away from them, because he thinks they are no longer viable businesses for him or a potential buyer.

"We aren't destitute, but our whole livelihood has changed," he said. "We don't know what we'll be doing six months from now. You might think: 'What's the matter with you?' You're both businesspeople, fairly intelligent. You should have plans.' But right now we don't know."

Those few Bunch members still in New Orleans with work and intact homes have lost their social network.

Keith Weldon Medley, 56, a writer who specializes in black New Orleans history, is the club's historian. He lives in the Marigny neighborhood, a part of the original crescent built in part by African American brick masons, carpenters and plasterers. Although he considers himself fortunate, he is not happy. Few of his family or friends are in the city anymore, and the tours he gives of New Orleans distress him because so many historic places, representing 300 years of black achievement, are damaged and closed, as are the schools he attended and the black-owned restaurants he liked.

"Life in New Orleans right now can be inexpressibly sad," he said.

Bunch members still return to New Orleans to meet insurance adjusters and gut homes. Many have complained that Mayor C. Ray Nagin's rebuilding commission turned its back on blacks when it called for a smaller city and turning neighborhoods like New Orleans East into green space. That plan is uncertain, but so are the new elevations the Federal Emergency Management Agency will require for rebuilding in flooded areas and where the financially strapped city will be able to provide police, fire and other services.

How many Bunch members and other black professionals will return is another unknown. Most said they want to come back.

Charles Bowers, 32, a doctor finishing his residency this spring in a hospital just outside New Orleans, said that his father and grandfather practiced medicine in the city and "I want to do the same. That was the plan. Now I'm weighing my options. I don't know."
© 2006 The Washington Post Company