Man, what a scene this was. We had the street primed, parked outside of The House of Blues in the French Quarter, speakers pumping, lights twinkling off of the New Orleans decor that we’d decked The Van in, and a cluster of people crowding the street. They waited in anticipation of whatever type of magic this mysterious vehicle was going to spew out next. Because, of course at first you can’t be so sure as to what you’re going to get, but you figure it’s got to be magical, it just has to.
Then this larger than life character arrives draped in a baby blue and silver paisely jacket, proclaiming to the crowd that he was indeed there to make the magic happen. Then came the soul. It emenated from the tips of this man’s fingers and shot through his entire being, out his mouth, eyes, the keys of the piano, bouncing off the walls of the van, blowing through the Mardi Gras beads, ricocheting off the puppets and masks, until it found the cracks in the windows and sprayed out over that crowd, glazed over them all and sunk deep into their bellies and warmed them all over. That soul was full of love, and that love will get you every time. Every damn time.