The "K" word, or NOLA in the House

A series of strange events led to our hosting two displaced artists (call them what you will - evacuees, refugees, adventurees) who had lost everything and more due to the big “K” word.

He called to introduce himself.

“This is Adam, the guitar player from New Orleans,” he said.

“Where are you now?” I asked. He and his new bride had made their way up the Mississippi, stopping at St. Louis. We’d never met, but he had found some messages that we had posted on Craigslist.

“Union Square,” he replied.

So many people land at Union Square. It’s still a particular gathering point, despite the City’s attempt to turn it into the kind of gentrified park with dogs and strollers that one sees on the Upper West Side. For all the revetement, Union Square remains raw.

He told me that they were crashing on someone’s couch that night.(I try to picture losing everything but can’t. I cannot imagine ending up on a stranger’s couch hundreds of miles away from what was once the place I called home.)

He sounded decidedly upbeat.

“Everyone has been so great,” he said. “And Diane is working tonight – she got a waiting gig.”

“K” has brought out the empathy in all of us.

Adam hooked up with us at Fada later that night. I needed a glass of Cote de Rhone and my musician-husband knew the band scheduled to play that night – a quartet playing urbanized Dixieland, complete with a washboard and trombone.

Adam was hungry but he didn’t want to say anything. He’d been playing his guitar at the Bedford Avenue L stop, making just about minimum wage.

“I’m buying,” I said.

He ordered a tall glass of Brooklyn lager, and turned to watch the band. A smile spread across his face.

Musicians get into a zone of their own when they are playing, and when they are enjoying someone else’s tunes.

I ordered a cheese and fruit plate, which comes with a basket of country bread and a ramekin filled with a yummy black olive paste. A nearby mother-daughter team flirted with the handsome bartender while an elegant couple kissed as they fed each other tiny spoonfuls of crème brulee. My husband waved to the bass player, who smiled and nodded her head.

“So you know the band?” Adam asked my husband.

“Some of them,” he replied. “I’ve played with the trombone player. She’s really good.”

“This is awesome,” Adam said. “What a great venue.”

I knew that the two of them were on the verge on talking money – musicians have a way of reaching that topic without poking around too much in the numbers.

“It’s pass the hat here,” my husband said.

Adam spotted the tip jar, which was sitting on a bar stool in front of the guitar player, as if it, too, were part of the band.

“I see,” he said.

The cheese plate arrived and another beer and another glass of cote de rhone – and more music and more clapping, and then suddenly my husband said, “If you don’t have a place for the weekend, give us a call. You can stay with us.”

“We might have to take you up o that offer,” Adam said.

We listened to the music and watched the slow dance of servers and busboys as they moved through the dining room, happy when a second basket of bread arrived.

I was on the verge of asking Adam if he wanted something else to eat when he pulled some hard-earned singles out of his pocket and crossed the dining room floor, dropping them into the tip jar.

One by one, everyone at the bar followed suit.

It’s time we all supported those musicians dedicated to playing live music in venues that make New York what it is. Otherwise, everything around us will turn into nothing more than another shopping mall with focus-group inspired music, movies, clothing and food.

I'm glad NOLA is in the house.

Tags:   cheese, cote de rhone, handsome bartender, music, nola, trombone

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Posted on 10/5/2005 ( Permanent Link )
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