Mardi Gras greetings from an ex-resident of New Orleans

I'm sittin' here in chilly Nashville listening to American Routes, a mighty fine roots-music public-radio show produced in New Orleans & hosted by Tulane professor/folklorist Nick Spitzer. Here's a taste of what you're missing, if you aren't tuned in to that aural extravaganza.

The joyous, raucous sounds of the Wild Magnolias, a Mardi Gras Indians group that once played Carnegie Hall, enters my brainstem via earbuds connected to a Walkman, now a mere relic of the late 20th Century. Lord, how it makes me wish I had a gal to dance with at this male-infested Music City Hostel!

Then along comes Professor Longhair's protege Dr. John, playin' sly piano & singin' an old blues number called "Winin' Boy" in his inimitable drunk-sounding drawl, backed by tuba & trumpet & other assorted horns & reeds provided by the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Good God, that kinda soulful party music makes you feel so good it almost hurts. Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? I do.

So I cast my mind back 22 years, when I was living Uptown on Prytania Street in the Crescent City, renting some old servants' quarters behind Jackie Bullock's big house. Our neighbor - just 2 blocks down Soniat Street - was Bob Dylan, who bought a house in the City That Care Forgot so he could record "Oh Mercy" (with brilliant Louisiana-based producer Daniel Lanois) while soaking up an atmosphere unlike anywhere else on Earth. I got so drunk once at a Rockin' Dopsie zydeco show at the Maple Leaf Bar that I needed a hotel co-worker's help reaching my bed.

Basta with the nostalgia. New Orleans sure ain't dead yet & neither am I. Nor, presumably, you. So get off your bum, spin a platter & dance. Happy Mardi Gras!