Playing the Weather
We play for tips, says the sign painted on a weather-beaten piece of wood, propped up behind an old milk container. The four musicians sit in front of plastic sheeting, separating them and the diners from the Louisiana weather and its cycle of heat, humidity and rain. The old bass player sits on a high stool, his baseball cap pulled down low. Switching styles with each song, the keyboard player also sings. The saxophonist, his instrument slung around his neck, carries the bucket around the audience, holding it out so they can add their dollar bills without having to leave their seats. The drummer melts the sounds together with lazy brushes on drums and cymbals. A little boy in a red T-shirt dances out of time in the space in front of the band. We wait for our order, enjoying the rhythms of New Orleans.
The restaurant is open to the weather on two sides allowing a view from the artists market to the tourist shops. A solid ceiling protects the main dining area and a green and cream canopy extends the restaurant along the roadside. Round white tables are packed into the busy space. I watch enviously as the waitress squeezes past our table, balancing plates of red beans and rice and crawfish po-boys. The spicy aromas leave an almost visible trail behind her.
The midday sun has gone and the sky has darkened. A party of tourists pass the restaurant, shrouded in matching blue plastic ponchos. Bright flashes of light illuminate the space. After a beat, thunder tries to drown out the music. A sheet of crashing water surprises diners who leap up from their seats. The musicians stop mid-song and quickly pack up the electrical items, covering the amps with white plastic and sweeping the rain water away from the small stage. The weather has won, for now.
Diners move like a tidal wave away from the edges of the restaurant and cram themselves into the small area covered by the solid roof. Even there the rain reaches them. Those who were caught unawares are soaked, shaking their arms and head to try and dry off. The thunder starts again. Cars are now gridlocked on both sides of the restaurant. Tourists run, in shorts, T-shirts and baseball caps into the French market.
The waitress brings us our bill, even though we have only just started our meals, with a polite but insincere “so sorry”. The restaurant is filled now with loud, disorderly talking instead of the careful rhythms of the music. The boy in the red T-shirt has rejoined his mother at her table and is pulling at her sleeve. She ignores him.
Water is still pouring from the roof. Most of the diners have already retreated inside. My plate of red beans and rice is finished, eaten quickly as the air cooled. On the table next to us a young couple, he in hipster glasses and she with a red flower in her hair, have just received their order and they shiver in the cool breeze. A lady with bouffant hair, somehow untouched by the humidity or rain, takes a seat. A server in a long apron uses an old fashioned broom, gathered into a fan shape, to tip the water out of the sagging canopy. It falls like Niagara.
The rain eases. “Let’s go,” says the saxophonist. “Standing around won’t pay the bills.” As it’s connected, the amp makes a loud pop and buzz. The drummer strokes the drums with his brushes and the keyboard player starts the melody. The little boy in the red T-shirt resumes his out of time dance. The remaining audience claps, whoops and whistles, celebrating the departure of the rain and welcoming back the music.
We play for tips, says the sign painted on a weather-beaten piece of wood, propped up behind an old milk container. The four musicians sit in front of plastic sheeting, separating them and the diners from the Louisiana weather and its cycle of heat, humidity and rain. The old bass player sits on a high stool, his baseball cap pulled down low. Switching styles with each song, the keyboard player also sings. The saxophonist, his instrument slung around his neck, carries the bucket around the audience, holding it out so they can add their dollar bills without having to leave their seats. The drummer melts the sounds together with lazy brushes on drums and cymbals. A little boy in a red T-shirt dances out of time in the space in front of the band. We wait for our order, enjoying the rhythms of New Orleans.
The restaurant is open to the weather on two sides allowing a view from the artists market to the tourist shops. A solid ceiling protects the main dining area and a green and cream canopy extends the restaurant along the roadside. Round white tables are packed into the busy space. I watch enviously as the waitress squeezes past our table, balancing plates of red beans and rice and crawfish po-boys. The spicy aromas leave an almost visible trail behind her.
The midday sun has gone and the sky has darkened. A party of tourists pass the restaurant, shrouded in matching blue plastic ponchos. Bright flashes of light illuminate the space. After a beat, thunder tries to drown out the music. A sheet of crashing water surprises diners who leap up from their seats. The musicians stop mid-song and quickly pack up the electrical items, covering the amps with white plastic and sweeping the rain water away from the small stage. The weather has won, for now.
Diners move like a tidal wave away from the edges of the restaurant and cram themselves into the small area covered by the solid roof. Even there the rain reaches them. Those who were caught unawares are soaked, shaking their arms and head to try and dry off. The thunder starts again. Cars are now gridlocked on both sides of the restaurant. Tourists run, in shorts, T-shirts and baseball caps into the French market.
The waitress brings us our bill, even though we have only just started our meals, with a polite but insincere “so sorry”. The restaurant is filled now with loud, disorderly talking instead of the careful rhythms of the music. The boy in the red T-shirt has rejoined his mother at her table and is pulling at her sleeve. She ignores him.
Water is still pouring from the roof. Most of the diners have already retreated inside. My plate of red beans and rice is finished, eaten quickly as the air cooled. On the table next to us a young couple, he in hipster glasses and she with a red flower in her hair, have just received their order and they shiver in the cool breeze. A lady with bouffant hair, somehow untouched by the humidity or rain, takes a seat. A server in a long apron uses an old fashioned broom, gathered into a fan shape, to tip the water out of the sagging canopy. It falls like Niagara.
The rain eases. “Let’s go,” says the saxophonist. “Standing around won’t pay the bills.” As it’s connected, the amp makes a loud pop and buzz. The drummer strokes the drums with his brushes and the keyboard player starts the melody. The little boy in the red T-shirt resumes his out of time dance. The remaining audience claps, whoops and whistles, celebrating the departure of the rain and welcoming back the music.