A spotted snake of people

writhed down Bourbon Street.

The night was full of colour

and the patter of their feet.

It’s scales of hats and faces

of “shades” reflecting light.

It’s body pulsing wildly

to the music of the night.

 

We passed by sleazy curio shops.

Photographs of “girlie shows.”

We passed by courtyards, quaint cafes

and men dressed up in women’s cloths.

Then down St. Peters Street we turned,

to the place that we were seeking.

Pulled by the wailing trumpet sound

and a drums incessant beating.

 

Three bucks we paid to enter

“The preservation Hall.”

With the portraits of it’s heroes

hung on it’s grimy walls.

Old men sat there, just waiting,

their horns upon their knees.

Others flexed their fingers

on their strings or on the keys.

 

And then they started playing

on those battered instruments.

And music welled up, flowing from

deft fingers old and bent.

The lisping of the trombone.

The bleating clarinet.

The blaring of a trumpet.

A rumbling deep base note.

 

The strumming of a banjo.

The drummers measured beat.

The piano’s dancing “ivories”.

Their music was replete.

And as each one, in solo,

was applauded by us there.

Their music filled that tiny hall

with skillful loving flare.

 

But now, their notes still ringing,

in my old and failing ears.

I felt we were applauding

musicians through the years.

Those early players of this Jazz,

their pictures on the wall.

In that shrine to great musicians

known as Preservation Hall.

David Garlick, New Orleans, 1990