One stooge, two stooge, three stooge, four… They all rolled up to the Blue Nile one by one. I knew who they were, not just because I’d seen them play at Tipitina’s the night before, but because they each lugged with them the tools of their trade. Some brought theirs encased in black boxes, others arrived simply brandishing their pieces of brass. They congregated on the sidewalk and in the street. Some brought lunch, others towels to wipe the heat from their brows. They greeted George Porter Jr. when he rolled up, tossed about musical jargon for a hot minute while Porter’s crew unloaded their gear for the show that would take place inside the venue, later on.
In that present though, just a bunch a stooges standing around, shooting the proverbial, smiling, jawing, watching the comical things that go down on the type of street that Frenchmen is. The kind of street where seedy swims between art and passersby.
So they loaded into the beast. One stooge, two stooge, three stooge, four, and they blew, and they beat, and they spit out a couple of poems about this place that we’d come to, this New Orleans. Poems that played right before our eyes as the streets filled with drunkards and dancers, everyone’s shoulders loose with shake, legs jittery with a bug, it was a funky scene. A vagabond man poured himself a nip of our Jager and a nip of our rum, both into a flask bottle containing a nip of gin. This type a scene, it get’s you thinking. This the type of place where you take the pleasure with the pain. You mix it all up and you spit out poems. Wonderful, magical, brass-horn-blown poems.