Recorded in se7en days surrounding Mardi Gras 2011:
This is New Orleans, the Crescent City, Paris of America. It squats in the middle of the Mississippi mud, with the levees of the 19th century on one side, the dyes of modern industrialism on the other.
The old French Quarter, bright eyed and exciting, ornamenting the city’s beginning. Tourist still gasp at its enchanting courtyards and horse drawn carriages, like those Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte the pirate might have used for transportation.
…but once each year thousands of tourist pour in to New Orleans by whatever means available to them, to witness or take part in Mardi Gras. But if you check history deep enough, you’ll find it was born out of a religious cause. But all that has been forgotten now, because Mardi Gras is a time of reckless abandonment, of merriment.
Vieux Carre. The crescent city. Sleepy by day, psychedelic by night. Some call New Orleans the birthplace of the blues, being nurtured on a street they call Bourbon, like one of the many drinks that can be had there if your pocket is filled with the right kind of coin. But bourbon street never really comes alive until after dark.
Bourbon street is also known as the birthplace of the exotic, better known to the tourist trade as a stripper, where hundreds of these girls perform their trade to the delight of the paying customers in dozens of the city’s well known night clubs. But our story doesn’t begin on bourbon street. Instead, it begins in the swamps…