Last week, my wife and I spent a few days in New Orleans. We enjoy Jazz. We love the history of the city. I can touch up on zombie mythology and graveyard tours. And of course, the food, the food, the food.
This trip we especially enjoyed our time at Fritzel’s “the oldest operated Jazz club in New Orleans.” I’m not sure what that description means exactly, but I confess that we enjoyed Fritzel’s even more than another place that will remain unmentioned so I won’t be accused of jazz heresy. (We enjoyed that place too, just not as much as Fritzel’s.)
All to say: Richard Scott, Mike Fulton, the great band and super nice wait staff at Fritzel’s deserve an ode.
for Richard Scott and Mike Fulton
Who would expect the trumpet blast
of Christ to squeal like a shot
of green-black licorice on a Tuesday
night? Pianohands sing a decoration
of independency with ragtime rigged
on the wall, a thin sign of times
to come, when streets pave the way
to golden microphones. Gate us down
where the uvula shimmy is. Forget
the sweat smell of preservation
and the morning fresh gutters,
dusk soured. Pledge a pirate legion.
Stew up a Jackson army and spoon
feed the Brits this anachronism–
back past paddle wheel river boats
and economies of sugar. Tickled keys
granulate history and fill white sacks
until the world sings sweet molasses.
(And for folks who would like a taste of Fritzel’s, watch this clip of Richard Scott and Mike Fulton and try to use your imagination for all of what can’t be captured on Youtube.)