Mardi Gras: the Soul of the Blues

As we drove all night, across the great Florida panhandle and deepest of southern states, our pilgrimage from DeLand Florida to the heart of the blues was almost complete. It was February 1993, and we were about to arrive at Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, as our French Acadian (that's A'Cajun) brothers would say. Making the big slow slide off Interstate 10 onto the great causeway that would eventually dump us into the heaving city of New Orleans, even at 5:30 in the morning, the local radio was chattering up a blues storm.

Our adventure had started one week earlier, when we arrived on a flight from Canada with our goal of having ten days of fun filled adventure of beach and the blues. At the Tampa airport, my travelling companion, the bluesman known as CC, found out his driver's license was expired, and so we were without rental car. Seeing as we needed to get to the Daytona area, and we had no other means, we headed out of the airport, stuck out our nervous thumbs and started hitching on the long path across central Florida. Our first ride was a Dead-head in a Saab who was nice enough to carry our freight a mile or two closer to the Interstate. A Happy-Hippie, we really wished he could join us on our adventure, but unfortunately our karma was not in alignment.

On the on-ramp to Interstate 4, we nervously waited for another kind soul. Time passed, and no-one stopped. As this was my first time hitching a ride, I was starting to lose faith in this mode of transport. CC was a pro, and had hitched all over Canada, encouraging me to hang-in a bit longer. Within minutes of his wrangling, the Blues gods intervened in the form of a beat-up 1950 pickup truck, with a patch wearing biker at the wheel. Before my rational right brain could convince the intrigued left, CC had opened the door and was chatting with the biker, motioning me to get in. My immediate reaction was to hop in the back of the truck and distance myself from the biker, while keeping two hands on our bags. The biker was not impressed and growled at me to get in the cab. Screw-it, the blues gods will protect my soul, and besides it's not wise to argue with a biker.

As the 50's vintage Ford growled away, CC, sitting closest to the biker, struck up a conversation, taking about music, partying and other things he thought would pass time and calm our churning stomachs. Things seemed to be going smoothly, and the biker seemed a cool enough dude, until at one point, without notice he pounded his fist on the Ford's dash, sending dust flying, and our collective hearts into panic mode. Had the biker decided our time was up? Did he not like CC's comment that Stevie Ray Vaughn was the best axe man coming out of Austin? It all seemed very random. The bikers rage was made doubly scarier when I noticed a folded blade sitting on the dash. We were going to tragically end our road trip two hours in with the saga documented forever in the Tampa Tribune, under the headline "Dumb Canadian Tourists Meet Their Doom".

Luck would have it the biker's rage was not a signal of impending death and murder, just that he had pointed his old Ford down the wrong off-ramp, and we missed a turn. After a bit of course correction, our hearts were almost normal again, but CC's lip did quiver a little bit for the rest of the ride. Sparking up a couple of Du Maurier's helped calm our nerves. The biker drove us clear across the heartland of Florida, past Disney and the other tourist sites, dropping us off on Orange Blossom Trail, on what turned out to be a part of Orlando that is not usually pictured in the visitor guide. The biker knew this neighbourhood well and told us we would be able to make a connection for the rest of our journey. We thanked our happy-but-nervous biker for the lift, but stopped short of inviting him up to visit us in Canada anytime soon. He was a cool dude, but hard on the nerves.

Within two minutes of being on Orange Blossom Trail, we realized the journey had taken another weird left turn when one of Orlando's finest pulled up in a squad car focusing their floodlight on us. Realizing we were some misplaced, but harmless hipsters, he told us over the megaphone to move along and get out of his beat. We were glad to oblige, and made our way to a hotel that rented rooms in an untraditional way, and had thick bulletproof glass across the front desk. We needed to find a way north to DeLand, just outside Daytona. The kind lady behind the glass suggested we take a bus, and pointed us over to the station, which was about two miles away. It was early evening and the weather was warm, so we decided to make our way to the station on foot, and enjoy the sites of Orlando. When we got to the station, just up the John Young Parkway, we got two tickets to DeLand, and looked for a bench to call home for a few hours. CC was sweet-talking some cute girls when our bus arrived. They stayed, and we left on the next part of our journey.

Arriving in DeLand late in the evening, we got a lift to CC's parent's winter home, and slept for what seemed to be days. When I woke up the next day, I found CC sitting in the kitchen with a butt in his mouth and a cheap beer in his hand. We were here, and it was time to go, so what were we waiting for.

February in Daytona is also Spring break time for Canadian University students, so we hopped in CC's parent's car and made the half hour drive to get to the famous beaches of Daytona, and find if there was a party to be had. We had friends who were staying down on the strip near Penrod's Beach Club, and we wanted to see if the party was on. After grabbing a couple suit cases of beer at the local liquor store, and a 6 pack of Harley Davidson Beer in honour of our biker Sherpa, we slipped past hotel security and made it to our friends' room. Norm and the gang had travelled by bus from Canada, and were ready to rage. The suite overlooking the beach became our HQ for the next couple of days, and we soaked it all in. The friends had even organized some of our favourite Canadian bands to play a show on the beach, so we rocked and partied alongside Canadian music legends Kim Mitchell and his band, along with others to make for a fun few days. While the beach party was a great adventure and fulfilled many of our university dreams, we felt restless within a few days. Mardi Gras was in full swing, but it was over 600 miles away, and we needed to get back on the road to make it in time to get there in time. The blues was calling us, and we needed to find the scene.

Heading back to DeLand, we made a hipster plan on how to get there, scraped up some empties and spare cash to put enough gas in his parent's car, and we made a few calls to track down connections at the other end of the road. We had a friend-of-a-friend who was a Canadian going to Tulane University, studying law, with a place to stay right near the French Quarter - ah que c'est bon. After CC turned on his usual East-Coast charm, we had an invite and a place to stay for a night or two. We packed his parents car and were off on the road again. The next day was Fat Tuesday, and we had to be there in time.

The twelve hour journey blew buy - CC's parents car had a tape deck, and we had a collection of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Buddy Guy, and others to get us primed for what we were about to experience. The panhandle cities of Tallahassee and Pensacola drifted by like they were in a dream. Once we hit Biloxi Mississippi we knew we were getting close, and the blues was around us. In Biloxi we grabbed a blue plate special from a local diner, and enjoyed the southern hospitality. It felt cool, and like we were part of a long history of the region and the blues. No time to dwell in Mississippi, we got back on the road and headed through Alabama, and into the state of our dreams, Louisiana, settled long ago by our Canadian kin, Acadian's who were looking for freedom and a warmer climate. We wanted to sink into their culture of song, food and joyfulness.

With the big wheels of CC's parents' car a turnin', we headed straight into New Orleans, the city that is sinking, but is alive with the soul and spirit of life. Coming off the bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, it seemed like a scene from another world. The cemeteries along the road looked strange, filled with generations of blues men and women, and the people who built this city near the sea. The air felt heavy, and the smell was not like anything we had smelled before - it made us feel alive, and our veins pulsed with the excitement of this place and time in history.

Arriving in the city, with the sun barely up, we grabbed some breakfast at a local place on the edge of the French Quarter that was full of revellers still up from the night before. They were here for the booze, not the soul. We had a famous Calas for breakfast, a yummy fried fritter thing, with rice, flour, sugar, and spices. It was heavy as lead, but tasted great. We drove down to the waterfront to catch the full sunrise over the Mississippi river, and it was the start of our day in Blues heaven. With authentic New Orleans Blues pumping out our radio speakers, we felt electric, and ready to go.

We made it over to our Tulane buddy's place, and everywhere we looked there were partiers wandering around looking for a place to sleep, or get wound-up for the big day. We were in the latter group, and after stepping over a sleeping dude outside our new friend's place, we arrived at the end of the road, our destination for the greatest show on earth, Fat Tuesday on Bourbon Street in the heart of New Orleans. Yowza.

After dumping off our stuff and parking CC's car at our buddy's place we quickly headed out into the beginning of our Fat Tuesday. Heading into the Quarter was an incredible mix of sights, sounds, smells and people. As tourists started to fill the streets things heated up in the Big Easy, and we could not get enough. After a couple quick beers at a local watering hole, we wandered over to Jackson Square to chill in the shade and just be there. We sat beside an old bluesman playing a dime-store keyboard. The man had it. That sense of loss, loneliness and spirit that makes a true bluesman. He played chops honed by generations of bluesmen before him, now delivered electronically on a set of tiny plastic keys. CC and I had realized this was the whole reason we made it to New Orleans, to sit beside that cat, on a park bench surrounded by everything that makes Fat Tuesday so special and a part of American musical lore. It made us feel good to be alive.

After our blues enlightenment, we wandered around the Quarter like little kids, but now with eyes wide open. Hundreds of years of soul, religion and joy were all being celebrated here and now, unlike anywhere else on earth. The day included everything we felt would add to the experience, from Jambalaya and crawfish on the waterfront out of a big-ole boiling pot that was so spicy and good, to late night jam sessions of the hippest, most bouncing blues. Bourbon Street was jammed, and the beads were flying every which way. It was a hedonistic blur of the party side of Mardi Gras, cramming everything into the last day before the observance of lent. At midnight, after a day packed with adventures, Fat Tuesday was over with a parade of police, fire trucks, street cleaners, who pushed everyone off the street and onto the side walk. No fooling around, it was over.

To CC and I, even though the main party was over, the spirit of the Blues carried us into the night, and back to our friend's place at Tulane. Memories of the blues-cat on the bench made us remember the true reason we traveled across the continent to get here, and that we were going to make the big trip home fulfilled. After a few more days in the Big Easy we packed our bags and started the journey home.

Eighteen years later, after New Orleans has gone through so much pain and suffering, we are planning another trip back to find that spirit again. We know that the blues is still alive there, and the people will carry on the tradition of generations gone by. We hope our blues cat, although a few years older, is still laying down his sound in Jackson Square. If he is not there, our hearts will remember his contribution to the celebration of life and the blues that is Mardi Gras.