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Rob Walker

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Posted Tuesday, Jan. 4, 2000, at 7:13 PM ET

Before we moved here, I figure I had spent a total of 20 days in New Orleans, over a period of 12 years; I guess E had spent about 15 days here over two years or so. So it's a silly to claim we have "favorite" local spots, but there's a bar called Donna's where we've spent a couple of great evenings, and we are going again tonight. Donna's is known for traditional brass-band music, and one of the cool things is the number of young musicians we have seen there.

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It's interesting to think about traditional music. We took a trip to Ireland over the summer, and one of the best experiences we had there was seeing a little "traditional" band play a set-dancing gig in a big barn in Kilfenora. I grew up in a small town--not as small as Kilfenora--in Texas. And it occurred to me that many of the people I sort of looked down on there--the kickers (as we called them) who wore Wranglers and chewed tobacco and listened to KIKK, the big country music station out of Houston--those people were traditional. (Of course, many of them didn't think very highly of me, either, but that's another story.) The point is that I now have a little more respect for young people who cleave to the local traditions, whatever they might be, because in a lot of ways it's a lot easier to just rebel and copy whatever they're doing on MTV instead.

On the other hand, the music on KIKK was really awful.

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Anyway, the music at Donna's doesn't start until 10. So that leaves the day open for Tasks. As a result I spent a lot of time driving around. The good news is that I am enjoying driving, which I obviously didn't do much of while living in Manhattan. The bad news is I'm driving a rental and I'm kind of in denial about the fact that it's due back Friday and I have to buy a car. I haven't owned one since 1992, when I sold mine to a used car dealer in Dallas named Ronnie Diamond. For the past eight years the car experience for me has just meant: You get to the airport in wherever, you go to the Avis counter, they give you the keys to some late-model sedan with about 800 miles on it, you zip around without ever wondering about whether it needs oil, and then you give it back.

I'm going to miss that.

So: tasks. You don't want to hear about the tasks. We had to buy some stuff. It was a big hassle. There was traffic. E's comment: "You mean you're not going to write about us fighting about the furniture?"

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10:10 p.m.: Donna's is at the edge of the Quarter, right across Rampart from the gaudily lit entrance to Louis Armstrong Park. Five-dollar cover. The place has a lived-in feel: It's not a theme park; it's divey in a good way. Disconcertingly, there's carpet over much of the floor. Also, there is a parked motorcycle in here that I don't remember. The bathroom is behind the performance area, so you have to walk through the band to get there. Donna herself is behind the bar tonight. There's a good crowd, probably helped by the fact that the Sugar Bowl--you know, the Nokia Sugar Bowl?--is tomorrow.

10:30 p.m.: The band starts--trumpet, trombone, piano, bass, guitar, drums. A mostly traditional set list; funny, gravely voiced leader who knows how to work a crowd.

11:15 p.m.: At about this time of the night, I start thinking about traditional-ness again. Is it the sincerity that's attractive? That seems like such a cliché.

11:35 p.m.: Red beans, rice, and barbecued chicken are made available, for free. I get a plate. Tasty.

12:45 a.m.: We're into the second set by now. Donna is dancing away behind the bar, doing that shimmy-bob stomp that works with the New Orleans rhythm. I decide it's not sincerity, it's unselfconsciousness. That's what I like about Donna's, and about the way certain musicians play traditional, and about this city: I like the unself-consciousness.

1:15 a.m.: A woman at the bar next to E gives her a tiny bag with a string attached, like a necklace. She puts this around E's neck and says: Close your eyes and make a wish, then look inside for your fortune. She does the same with me. I wish for an idea about how to end the diary I have to write when I get home. I open up the bag and there's a tiny painting, and some lines from Lao-Tzu, including: "Care about other people's approval and you will be their prisoner."

As we leave, the band is still playing.