Conquering The Addiction

I am sitting in Cathedral Park. I am bored out of my skull. I would be bored out of a much bigger skull, I am sure.
Is the non-stop excitement of New Orleans really that addictive?
The weekend of busking was kind of a farce.

On Friday, there was the Artwalk, which started early.

I found a spot to play, but was run off by The Man With The Hat. By the time I recovered myself and moved to the acoustically superior spot, I was in ill spirits and was singing really weird stuff. I got a few tips, along with "what the hell kind of music is that?" looks on the peoples faces.

I moved later on, but was hungry and had been drinking on that empty stomach and decided to go to the railroad tracks and eat. And eat I did; and then fell asleep.

I woke up to the early morning sounds of people taking some kind of walk in order to stop diabetes. I don't know if they succeeded in putting a halt to that affliction, but they stopped me from sleeping any more.

Saturday night, I had my first confrontation with The Law in a long time. (Just 4 days after the Leautenant who always had my back died...hmm)

I was playing at my usual spot, but had been joined by a lady who was probably a panhandler, because a cop stopped and walked over and told me (us) to "pack it up" and then added "Not on Dauphine Street!" and then mumbled something about being arrested for panhandling. Tip #20: Be very suspicious of anyone who asks if they can just sit by you (and your tip jar) and listen to your music. I have found that 85% of the time they assume the attitude that people are throwing money in your case for the both of you, because they are digging your music and your buddy sitting next to you, because it's all part of the same scene...

I consulted with another cop, a veteran, who recited the law as he understood it; in essence: don't play in front of an open business, and, if no one is complaining, then, you are alright.

I went back out to play, but not at the exact same spot, not wanting the cop to take it personally if he should pass by again, and I didn't make as much as I always have at my regular spot. Less than 20 bucks, it was.

Meanwhile, Lily, the banjo playing girl with the low cut shirts was up the street strumming away. It looked like she had more than 20 bucks in her case when I walked past her on one of my breaks.

She said that she hadn't been harassed at all by any cops, and said it with an attitude which led me to read between the lines "because no male cop EVER harasses me!"

I told her that I moved to another spot because of him and I wasn't making crap.

She shrugged her shoulders, as if to imply: Well, get yourself some bosoms, I don't know what else to tell you...
And so, that was the pathetic weekend.
The 100 Pound Marling That Got Away

Then, on Sunday, I was standing in front of The Soul Kitchen, talking to a girl who was waiting for the arrival of Laura Marling. She was going to be the first one in the door and would have a front row seat.

I had seen the poster announcing the arrival of Laura Marling, and it made me curious enough to go on Youtube and listen and watch Laura.

She reminded me of 85% of all female singer/songwriters that I have heard at open mic nights; whose songs all resonate the theme: "How can I tell if he really loves me or is just using me?" -sung in a voice that was like putting Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Jewel, Fiona Apple, Dido, Nancy Griffin and Enya in a blender and running it at high speed for 3 minutes and then pouring the resultant mixture down her throat.

Almost every song mentioned some un-named "he" some of them in the title (does he love me; what is he thinking; the sky was never blue until I met him) some songs referred to him as "that man."

I call that "Cosmopolitan" songwriting, because it calls to mind all of the front cover eye-catchers of that magazine started by Ms. Girley Brown, you know, such as "How To Tell If He Really Loves You...or is just using you," "27 Ways To Touch Him So He Will Never Forget You (and won't want to use anyone else") and etc.

These are the types of artists who only use music to enhance their appeal to try to attract "him" -much like the Miss Universe contest with its "talent portion" which goes along with the swimsuit and evening wear portions and serves to separate the contestants and allow some to distinguish themselves (...gee, they all looked pretty hot in their swimsuits, but when I heard Miss Ukraine play Vivaldi on the upright bass, well, I became convinced that she was the full package!)

Musically, well, Miss Marling mostly strummed the guitar with her thumb; enough said. But had a full complement of strings and horns and castanet players, upright bassists etc.

This was the impression of her that I carried when she walked up Dauphine Street, carrying one guitar case in each hand, and looking very much like the poster of her in the window, minus the cigarette. Yes, the poster said "18 and under admitted with a parent," probably so the parent could be there to advise the child that she didn't need to take up smoking in order to be just like Laura; (just to revolve herself around "him" and to set womanhood back about 40 years).

But, up she walked, preceded by about 5 seconds by her perfume.

She immediately went and tapped on the front door; as if trying to say "Let me in right now so I can run and hide in my dressing room; there are weirdos out here!"

I didn't know at the time that she has won the "best new female artist" award in Great Britain and was probably more accustomed to walking through tunnels which lead from the hotel basement, right to the dressing room and wasn't used to having to walk right past the poster which was a dead ringer for her and expose herself to the John Hinkleys of the world.

I told her that I had just heard her for the first time the day before on Youtube.

She turned around to face me (although she had already been watching my reflection in the glass door for sudden movements, I'm sure). 

She fixed me with a wide-eyed gaze, looking unflinchingly into my eyes and, to her credit, not seeming to even register anything about me other than what I was saying to her.

So, What Did You Think...Honestly?

This is unusual, as, most peoples eyes dart about, making assessments and pronouncing judgments based upon all kinds of externals, giving a person the "once-over" in order to categorized them and fit them into their model of the world.

But, Laura seemed really interested in hearing what my impression was of hearing her for the first time the day before; almost as if slightly insecure. It may be the "British" way of interacting.
I just couldn't bring myself to be totally candid and tell her in a polite way the impressions that I have outlined above.

I told her that I couldn't really discern her lyrics, through my ear bud headphone and "I'm sure that your lyrics are your bread and butter," or something to that effect...because strumming with your thumb makes you just another pretty face, dear...-hard to articulate Vivaldi that way...

But, she was made up to the tee, as if for a photo shoot and very pretty; and, sour grapes aside; I couldn't help wistfully wonder if I could ever be "him."

I Just Want Him To Be Candid And Honest; I Don't Care If He's Just A Street Musician...

Then, I found out this morning that she is a big fan of Neil Young (It was on the tip of my tongue to mention my encounter with him behind the Saenger Theater at one point) and that she had once performed on the street after being barred from a gig for being unde-raged; and that she has been compared to a young Bob Dylan So, maybe my reticence blew it for me and I've lost my singing partner for life, all because I was too star-struck to point out that the Emperor plays with his thumb.