By William R. Phillips

We’re on tour in Louisiana, right. The night before in Houston we play a show at this venue called Superhappyfunland, which is a modest hovel covered in acid art. The P.A. was kicking. I couldn’t wait to get to New Orleans and load into the Dragon’s Den on the banks of the Mississippi down in the French Quarter. The gig was central to our southern tour and I had waited for a month with baited breath.

Outside Houston´s Superhappyfunland, with my feet propped on a table, smoking a Camel three hours before the show I heard the news.

“You mean, New Orleans doesn’t exist anymore?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

We were on the bill with A Particularly Vicious Rumor-a daring trio of gypsy-zydeco folk artists that had fled a few nights before and found themselves in Houston, as refugees. Kid Twist was their drummer.

“Yeah, we’re not even sure if we’re going to have a house when we
return. Our landlord stayed behind though.

“Really?”

“Yeah, he’s this 90 year old guy who lives in the top story of our flats. He said he’d rather die in the alley behind his pad than leave New Orleans. Said he’d already seen bodies floating behind the place
too.”

“What? Bodies?”

“Dude, I’m telling you. It’s the biggest disaster in American history.”

The enormity of it hadn't dawned on me. I still held out. It couldn’t be that bad. There would be some flooding of course and some refugees as with any southern hurricane. It happens every year. I walked into the den and turned on a small black and white television, trying to garner some info. Every station. Katrina. Katrina. Kantrina. The point most weather correspondents were trying to push home was that New Orleans is basically a large bowl waiting to be filled. The contingencies had been evaluated but never addressed. For years, the city sat on the banks of Lake Ponchartrain, sinking slowly into the mud and waiting for the perfect storm.

But I couldn’t be bothered. There was a show to do and we would play New Orleans rain or shine.

We rock the house and are invited to play another party the following evening. Kid Twist and the rest of A.P.V.R. are homeless. The Dragon’s Den is ten feet underwater along with the rest of the city. I flip on the television the following morning. Getting more fuct up by the minute. I mean, the whole city is underwater. It’s the same sensation I remembered the morning of 9/11. Part of you feels removed from disasters on television. You go about your business like any American. Eating your Freedom fries and trying to book a tour to promote a new album. But the word on the street was that people were drowning by the thousands. The Astrodome, former home to Houston’s
baseball team, was filling up with countless refugees. There were reports of violence against police and victims both. Conditions were close to abject squalor in some places and bodies WERE floating down Decatuer Street. There would be no show in New Orleans. Not even within ten miles of New Orleans because the highways were blocked off. So we played the party and drove through the night toward Lafayette, parking the van in a swamp full of mosquitoes for a couple hours of sleep.

We pulled up to my grandparent’s house around 3 pm. “Willy! What’s that on your face?”

“I think it’s a beard.” I told my grandpa, not sure what he was referring to.

“Well, keep trying boy. Keep trying.”

We laughed and hugged. I introduced everyone to Crockett and sat down to discuss the weather.

“You know, our church is taking in refugees already.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t know it was going to be this bad to tell you the truth.”

“Well, no show for you New Orleans then, I suppose.”

“Right.”

We turned on the news and watched. I couldn’t help but make some interesting conjectures about Katrina. First, this was the largest amount of black people I’d ever seen on television. Second, the human/economic toll was going to make ‘Al-Qaeda’ look like a little girl. Third, the federal response was non-existent at this juncture. The Mayor of the city was close to flipping a brick on live T.V.. Ray Nagin was accusing Bush of negligence and using brazen profanity to
illustrate his plight.

“This is the biggest ------- disaster in America history and what is the president doing?”

Indeed, what was Bush doing? The response to 9/11 had been so
calculated and swift. Within minutes we had Bin Laden’s face on TV and were poised to invade the wrong country in response, but this was far more severe perhaps. A subtle message was being spelled out for everyone
across the airwaves, but no one dared to touch it. It was an issue of race. It was hundreds of thousands of poor black people that were being evacuated that were filling up small towns across the state, who were apparently looting the city and popping sniper shots at police.

My favorite comedian, Bill Hicks, once did a wonderful stand up during the L.A. riots. He had just got into Heathrow and looked at a copy of the Guardian “Los Angeles Burns to Ground.”

“Holy shit! Did I leave a cigarette burning back there?” He wondered.

An empathetic Brit told him: “Bill it’s horrible. If it’s any consolation Bill, crime is bad here too.”

“…Man, shut up! This is the land of elves and fairies and I’m Billbo Hobbiton Hicks ok? You do not have crime like we do in America.”

You have ‘hooligans and ruffians and scallywags” and maybe a few
gangs that like to rob people at knifepoint on trains outside of Krakow. The difference is, they’re not going to kill you. I thought it was a big joke on my way to Munich last year. A knife? Do you know what happens if you pull a knife on somebody in Brooklyn? In Santa Fe?

But wait, it was all a farce. I got online and checked my favorite website, www.whatreallyhappened.com for the scoop. The largely reported incidents of murder and rape committed by blacks couldn’t be corroborated by anyone. On the other hand, numerous incidents of police brutality could! Why was FOX News jumping at the bit to demonize victims of the biggest natural disaster in American history? Bill O’reilly was already making sure that Jesse Jackson and the mayor of the city got their full share of blame.

“Sorry Mayor, but you’re no Rudy Giuliani.”

Oh, I concur. And 9-11 NYC Mayor Giuliani didn’t have his entire -------
city destroyed by God you asshole. The polarizations were imminent. New
Orleans had requested federal help on the 28th of August, the day we left Santa Fe. F.E.M.A. was blaming victims and Condoleeza Rice was playing the religion card already, telling everyone that “God would take care of it”.

No, I’m not joking. In the meantime, Bush’s approval rating dropped
when it became apparent that all our resources were in Iraq and Afghanistan and we’d left the domestic front wide open. In fact, the new levies that would have prevented Lake Ponchartrain from spilling into New Orleans never got the go ahead because of budget cuts that diverted our taxes to blowing up Iraq.

The message was clear: “We can’t protect you from anyone or anything.
We’re a financial conduit at best folks. We built a few highways back in the 60s and gave you a couple schools, but if we don’t get Al-Qaeda…”

In Lafayette, we pulled up to the club and began unloading for our last
gig. We left the van doors open while pulling things from under seat and dropping them on stages. When I returned for the last load of speaker cables and cords, a young woman stood by the back doors shaking her head. A deep breath later:

“I was just about to close ya’ll’s doors for ya’. You know them refugees from New Orleans is in town right now and they been looting Lafayette.”

“But I heard on T.V. that this was just a rumor.”

Indeed, a black officer from the L.P.D. was summoned to appear on local
networks and quell rumors of a violent uprising within the Cajun Dome.

“All is safe and the rumors are false. There has been no violence and no
looting within or around the Cajun Dome.” He had said this.

“Oh, no.” She explained. “Some niggers raped a fifteen year old girl just a few hours ago.”

“Oh.” Shit. Here we go again. I knew I couldn’t visit the south without at least one random incident of blatant racism.

“So, ya’ll best be careful with ya’ll’s equipment. I’d hate for it to be stolen by them niggers.”

What does one say?

“Um. Thanks. I think we’ll be cool.”

We played the show. We networked. We sold demos and crummy street art.
But the shadow of Katrina seemed to eclipse everything and I felt guilty on the way home for leaving the scene of catastrophe.

“We should set up a benefit show for this when we get back.”

“Absolutely. As soon as possible.”

“------- Bush.”

“Goddamnit. What is his problem? Is he asking to be hated? For real?”

“Like boom. For real.”

The highway was endless and I found myself going through a pack of Camels by the time we returned. But the benefit show is slated and we’re doing what we can. If you’d like to help, please find a donation center within New Orleans or Lafayette or Houston. Don’t send any $ to the Red Cross. They’re notorious for mucking up the line of priority and withholding funds.

Peace everyone

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