In the way I imagined it, music would be a huge part of the road trip to New Orleans – and not just at the destination. I can’t say I was disappointed. We started on the first night, in Vegas, by going to see the Blue Man Group in our own hotel. A quite pleasant and easy-going show that was a nice opener to the week.
In Santa Fe, we randomly walked by the Skylight and saw the signs for Tinariwen, which was a delightful surprise. I had previsouly seen them in France playing in front of a large festival crowd but they’ve also played at Coachella. In other words, I wasn’t expecting to find them playing in a small venue in New Mexico. The band is from Mali and play Tuareg music. Pretty much all seven dreadlock-wearing people in town were in the audience that night. It was also the first time I ever saw someone meditate in the lotus position at a concert (true story).
Come Austin and our waitress recommends the White Horse, in which we find a band playing actual, real country music. People make room on the dance floor, each song starts slow and builds up to being more dancey. The fellows are handsome (in some slightly hipster-y way but nothing as insufferable as in the Bay Area), the ladies are pretty, partners switch partners song after song. This place is a huge reason why I want to come back to Austin.
Two days before the beginning of the trip, I had the chance to see Yelle in San Francisco. Before leaving I knew their tour would be taking them roughly on the same path as us but always a day early or late. As we’re making way to Houston, I realize the extra stop might just be our luck. And it was. The venue was the kind I love: small, packed, hot, sticky. Yelle delivered once again and knowing the lyrics and the tunes made for a much better show on my end.
Finally, New Orleans, where the music simply vibrates throughout the city. At every corner of every street, bands play in bars with their windows and doors fully open to the world. Kids with makeshift tap shoes beg for a quarter, young amateur orchestras of 15 play for 6 or 7 hours in a row. Early on Saturday evening, I find myself having a chilled beer sitting at the Bamboula’s on Frenchmen St. The sun is setting and a young quartet is playing jazz. Perfect doesn’t even start to describe it.