Meet Me In New Orleans (Without Leaving London)

I attend a New Orleans-themed party in Hackney, east London and hear a song with origins closer to home than you might think.

A warm night, palm trees, people happily chatting to strangers. It could almost have been the Marigny and not Hackney. The dive bar in a dilapidated building certainly had a New Orleans “we just threw this together ourselves” kinda vibe. But then these types of venues are oh-so-Hackney too, which also has a love/hate relationship with a shipwrecked-at-the-end-of-the-world reputation.

Other clues we were in London not Louisiana: the palm trees were plastic, and the temperature outside dropped rapidly once the new June sun went down. But, on the other hand, people were talking happily to people they did not know.

Normal London rules for dealing with strangers, in case you are not familiar with them: eye contact = weirdo; smile = get off at the next stop; unsolicited conversation = run! In New Orleans, on the other hand, strangers will stop in the street to talk, and introduce each other to their dogs.

I was at an event called Meet Me In New Orleans, which took place last Saturday, organised by an excellent organisation called New Orleans in London that aims to bring the music and culture of the Crescent City to the UK’s capital.

I would say their mission is a valid one; all things NOLA are relatively unfamiliar to Londoners. Llike most Brits, they tend to think that the US starts with New York and finishes with California, with not much in between.

But the New Orleans magic was certainly evident here. As well as actually engaging in friendly chit-chat, people were dressed up, with many girls in frocks (a rarity in London). That made this habitual overdresser happy – I had made what I thought was a daring last-minute decision to don my party skirt and purple beads.

The venue had made an effort to show some Louisiana hospitality too, serving gumbo and pralines alongside the standard east London tipples on offer: gin and tonics, Japanese beer. The gesture reflected the slightly mystical affinity in New Orleans between music and food. Somehow they are always connected there, and once you have one, you never have to go far to find the other.

Louis Armstrong always used to sign his letters “Red Beans And Ricely Yours” after the classic New Orleans Monday night supper. In the modern era, Kermit Ruffins, one of the city’s biggest jazz stars, can often be found cooking barbecue outside Bywater bar Vaughans on a Thursday night in between sets with his band, the aptly-named Barbecue Swingers.

Which leads me nicely on to Saturday’s music. It was provided by trad jazzers Dixie Ticklers, the rocking Fallen Heroes and DJ Lil’ Koko. Early on, there was some swing dancing going on. But, as I cannot manage any kind of dancing that requires me to remember the difference between left and right or turn at a set time, I was much happier when proceedings descended into a free-for-all Mardi Gras mosh pit.

We heard classics like Tipitina’s, When The Saints Go Marching In, and even some Mardi Gras Indian-style call and response. But what stayed in my mind most was chief Dixie Tickler Dom James’s rendition of the eerie St. James Infirmary Blues. As I listened, I remembered being in Blue Nile on Frenchmen Street a couple of summers ago where I heard New Orleans trumpeter Irvin Mayfield play it. Afterwards, he said it was strange that, even though the song was so linked to the city, he had never been able to find any trace of the hospital to which it referred.

That is because the St. James Infirmary was in London, a medieval leper refuge that is now St James’s Palace. Though, according to most accounts, this place is not even the true birthplace of the song. It is supposed to have originated in an Irish ballad cycle entitled The Unfortunate Rake. 

My mother’s family come from Ireland, and I can confirm that you can rely on strangers talking to you there, maybe even stopping you in the street. However, the nights, even in summer, are likely to be chilly. So on balance it is probably a good thing that none of us, myself included, are obliged to stop in the place where we started.