R.I.P. Ricky Paulin

Perhaps I haven't been holding up my end of the bargain...do you think?

The reason I got this free for life apartment, was because someone argued for me and made the case that this particular homeless street musician was contributing towards the rebirth of the post Katrina hurricane New Orleans. A storm which caused about half the population of the city to leave.

The population went from about a million to about 450 thousand. A lot of them went to Houston, Texas I heard.

And there was a push to attract street musicians who would populate the corners of Royal Street and alternatively Frenchmen Street with the highest caliber of musicians available.

And since I had established myself as an every night type of busker, to be seen somewhere for at least 3 hours any given night; and since I was deemed to be worthy, by the other street musicians, some of which had clout, such as Doreen's Jazz Band, whose horn player once said of me: "Oh, you do have something to say on that thing," after I had chanced upon the guitarist from that outfit who was on Decatur Street playing along with none other than the famous clarinetist whose name I can't even think of now. But that is more an observation of my memory than a critique of the clarinetist as being perhaps not so "great" as I have stated, since I can't even remember his name...

He was the guy I encountered less than 3 weeks upon my arrival, by boxcar, into New Orleans.

I was playing directly across from the entrance to the Hotel Monteleone (sp?) because it met all my requirements as far as acoustics. As I arrived here with a guitar and a harmonica and not much else, I made a rounds of the Quarter and found 2 places in particular which were like huge speaker cabinets; like those stores where you walk down like a tunnel with glass on both sides, behind which might be manikins adorned in the attire products available inside. But the effect upon a musician playing right in front of such a man made cave is to make the guy sound really good, for some reason.
Anyways, there I was in front of this glass tunnel playing across from the swank hotel and up walks the clarinet player, wearing almost a tuxedo type of outfit. He began to argue to me that he was something like a fixture at that spot, and that people who came annually to New Orleans and stayed at the Hotel Monteleone (sp?) as kind of a tradition, were certainly going to want to keep that tradition intact by throwing the clarinet guy, Ricky (I just remembered) a $100 bill. Because, every year you go to New Orleans and there is this amazing clarinet player across the street from the hotel, and you always throw him a $100 bill; that's how good he is. You would never hear such a clarinetist in Cary, North Caroline, type of thing.

And, Ricky had never seen me before, so he knew I was fresh in town, and there was probably a fiber in him telling him not to run off a newly arrived street musician who might contribute to the environment and enhance the experience of tourists; provided that they have something to say on that thing.
So, to make a long story shorter, Ricky actually gave me what turned out to be sound advice in telling me about the places that I would later find out, through trial and erro, were really the best places where I guy who looks homeless could make a decent living playing an acoustic guitar and harmonica.

Despite the great acoustics, an un-amplified guitar is not loud enough.A clarinet, being blasted by Ricky is at a perfect volume to fill the jewelry draped ears of those stepping out of their $279 per night rooms, for a night on the town.

I knew this, but I stood my ground and invoked the unwritten rule of street musicianship, the "I was already here" rule.
Ricky, to his credit, walked of with his clarinet, but probably not far because he knew what I knew; that, as soon as I had made a 5 dollar tip, I was going to go to the second best acoustical spot that I had found in my wanderings. Because I played a few songs, during which I could tell that I wasn't quite connecting with the people standing on the carpeted sidewalk in front of the hotel. And, after I got a 5 dollar bill from someone, I decided to leave in search of greener pastures.

The music Ricky plays, there's a good chance that a person stepping out of the hotel grew up listening to. On a radio.
Because it seems that the people who can afford that hotel are up in age, a bit. Like an average of 72 years. That means that Ricky ripping up a World War II era song there could likely produce a hundred dollar tip any moment.
Even Billy Joel was probably almost 70 years old when he stayed there about 6 years ago now, and famously played the piano in the Carousel Room.

But I had held my ground and I think Ricky kind of respected me for that, or at least thought: This guy's gonna need that kind of backbone to survive here, or maybe: He reminds me of how cocky I was when I first came here.
So, Ricky walked off without showing any anger, knowing that I was going to find out that I should have gone directly to the block he told me about on Decatur, along with his affirmation of "You'll make some money there.." and soon after I left, after playing for about 20 minutes, I wasn't 3 blocks away before I heard Ricky's clarinet jazzing up "If I Only Had A Brain," the song from The Wizard of Oz, and also kind of Ricky's way of telling me, as I walked off, that if I had a brain, I would have not chosen to try to busk across from the hotel if I didn't have an amplifier..

But, don;t take my word for it; this clip shows Ricky playing in 2010, the very year I would have encountered him; and the same season if the attire of the tourists walking by whose reflections off the glass are any indication. And, without this being a performance of "If I Only Had A Brain," this is pretty much what Ricky was wanting me to step out of the way of, so he could put the glass tunnel to better use... 

Oh, and other findings on the web revealed that Ricky Paulin (as that was his name) is no longer with us. He died.

3 Years Later

And so, on this particular day, I had crawled out from where I slept, under the wharf where the Steamboat Natchez docks, acquitting my plush 3 inch thick cardboard, and bidding my pet rats adieu, leaving them to be dazzled by the light show displayed all over the surroundings from the morning sun reflecting off the Ol' Man. The way the light shimmered off of water that was either slightly disturbed by its current, or in waves from a ship that just passed; made it dance and flicker wildly, as it threw intricate, ever changing patterns on the wall behind me. But, I couldn't stay there all morning; I had to go into the Quarter with my guitar on my back to try to pay the bills.

After the Natchez departed on its 10 a.m. run, I emerged from under the wharf, making a show of zipping up my fly for anyone who might have seen me, and wondered what I was doing under there. I got to Decatur Street and encountered Paul, the guitarist from Doreen's Jazz Band, who was accompanying Ricky, and his clarinet. Paul is a friend of mine who, after hearing me play, back in 2010, had encouraged me to stay in New Orleans, saying: "I think you should keep doing your Elvis Costello type stuff, and throw in your originals, here and there."
He and Ricky were at one of the corners that Ricky had suggested to me as an alternative to across the street from the Monteleone.

Somewhere in the middle of me conversing with them, I took out my guitar and played a bit. Ricky told Paul that he thought I had improved in the 3 years since he first encountered me across from the hotel (the spot seen in the video above). He asked me how well I did, money-wise. After I gave him an honest account of what I had made the previous night, Paul spoke up and said something to the effect of: A lot of street musicians will tell you they made 40 or 50 bucks when they actually made 21, but I think Daniel does the opposite. I guess I had told them about making 21 bucks the night before.

But, I guess the point of this post and in wrapping it up, is that I feel guilty sometimes when I don't go out and busk; because I wound up getting my apartment in large part, through word of mouth, and with me being put forth as someone who is enhancing the French Quarter experience for tourists. I was asked, at one point, by Dorise Blackmon, who was in the real estate game, when not accompanying Tanya Huang the violinist (at about 50 bucks per hour) if I could consistently come up with 35 bucks a week on what I made busking. She had some dwelling she could rent me at that price. I had to tell her something to the effect of not wanting to have any pressure put on me to make x amount busking. "That's exactly when my luck would run dry and I'd start having 19 dollar nights, and be forced to have to give something up , like alcohol, weed or tobacco..."
But, about 5 years after arriving in the city and having eventually settled into a steady sleeping spot under the dock; and a steady playing spot after having made the acquaintances of a lot of the people who live on Lilly's block. And then after Lilly had visited each one of them to ask them if they would be OK with her petitioning the "Quality of Life" commission, as she mentioned to the police, as she was informing them that the law against buskers playing in residential neighborhoods had been waived in my case, and would they please not harass me; I was given a reason to feel remiss when I don't busk any given night.

Add to that the apartment I live in. 

I'll never know whose "good word" was put in what ear to have had the keys handed to me.
Ricky played jazz in Preservation Hall, which is about as high as you can go as a musician here, and if anyone would know which strings to pull to get a musician off the streets, it would have been him. 

So, with that I will wrap it up and pack my stuff and go out and play on this Wednesday night, as it is about 10:30 p.m. now.