Chris Bickford

It’s been a ridiculously long time since I have posted; apologies to all who may actually have been following what I’ve been doing.  April 20 changed everything in the Gulf of Mexico region, and since then I’ve been back and forth from the Outer Banks to New Orleans several times, trying to keep my business and home on the OBX running smoothly while taking whatever available time I have to cover the crisis in the Gulf for the New York Times.  It’s a huge, sad, sprawling, infuriating story, and the Times has been circulating reporters in and out of the region since the beginning, trying to keep us all from getting burnt out.  Were I living in New Orleans full-time, I’d probably be severely depressed by now.   That being said, while the city shares a deep concern for the crisis, it is not overtly suffering from it.   The real damage lies to the south, east, and west, where an entire way of life is under siege, and a vast ecosystem is suffering a deadly blow.

I’m going to save my opinions and rants for my friends and colleagues and random folks I might strike up conversations with in bars and while on assignment.   We’ve all seen the news and the video footage and heard the ever-fluctuating stream of statistics and spin.   We all know this is a huge disaster.  We all know there was criminal negligence and an inexcusable failure of government oversight.   We all know that BP is trying to cover its ass and is failing on all fronts–from capping the well, to containing the spill, to managing its own ridiculous PR campaign.   I can tell you a few stories about how I’ve been run off by this or that “official” once it was known that I was with “the media”…I could go on about how this entire decade has been a series of major revelations about government incompetence and corporate corruption–and yet what would it do?  Would it stop the oil from gushing?  Would it stop the turtles from washing ashore?   Would it stop the marshes from getting suffocated, or the birds from dying, or the toxic dispersant from getting spread all over the Gulf of Mexico?  Would it bring the shrimp and the oyster beds back?   Would it bring back the 11 men who died on the Deepwater Horizon?

Not that there is nothing to be done.   As a matter of fact, so much needs to be done, and were this country run differently, maybe there’s something you and I could do other than fume and cry and bitch and moan.  Unfortunately, most of the relief effort is tightly controlled by both the government and BP, so there’s not much for your average concerned citizen to do, other than hope and pray for the best.  And write your congressman, and stage a protest or two.

I am not a religious person, and not one given over to prayer.   And yet, it’s situations such as these when I realize why people pray.   When you feel helpless, there is little more that you can do.  And if you pray hard enough, it can sustain you, keep your soul alive, keep your hope alive.   So rather than going off on Obama or Tony Hayward or the MMS or any number of responsible parties, I’d just like to send out a humble prayer, to all the souls whose lives have been adversely affected by this catastrophe.  May you survive, may you thrive, may you remain strong through what seems like a hopeless situation.  And those of you who have lost your lives, may your souls find peace and rest.

Most of all, however, I would like to pray for Our Lady the Sea, the bountiful provider, from whose waters we have taken sustenance for millennia.   She will survive this catastrophe–it is not the worst she has faced–and she will still be around long after the nuisance of our existence is wiped off the face of this planet.   But we could at least show her a bit more gratitude than this.  Could we not?   If you live in a place where the water is clean, maybe you could make it a point to show your gratitude.   Maybe you could take time this summer to offer up thanks for the miracle of water.   Jump in a lake, play in the ocean waves, go sailing out on the bay, take your kid fishing.  And take a moment to sing a song, hum a tune, say a little prayer…whatever moves you.  It won’t bring back the oyster beds in the Gulf, but maybe it will remind you of our primordial connection with water, of which we are predominantly composed….maybe it will remind us all what’s important in this world, and what is worth saving.

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Last Saturday morning, upon the invitation of a friend, we attended the funeral for Bernard “Bunchy” Johnson at Trinity Episcopal Church on Jackson Avenue.  Bunchy was a native New Orleanian and well-known in R&B music circles for his accomplished drumming and his “light up the world” smile.   He performed with the likes of Aaron Neville, Dr. John, Allen Touissant, the Ellis Marsalis, The Drifters, The Platters, and many more.  He also appears in the upcoming pilot episode of the HBO miniseries Tremé, ironically as a member of the Tremé brass band playing a funeral.  Bunchy traveled the world, but stayed close to his home, family, and large circle of friends in New Orleans.

We were a little uneasy attending his funeral as bystanders, but the family were gracious and kind to us as we entered the church, welcoming us and asking us to sign the guest book.   After the viewing, the service kicked off with a spirited rendition of “I’ll Fly Away” by the Dixie Cups.  They had the whole room clapping and singing along, and soon I felt that old gospel feeling that puts my own church-going pedigree to shame for its ability to lift up the spirit and truly feel the power and sacredness of what is happening.

Members of Bunchy’s family got up and read some of his favorite quotes, and his father gave a heartwarming and uplifting speech, telling his son how proud he was of him and how much he would be missed.  By the end, with tears in his eyes, he was lifting up his voice like a gospel preacher, filled with joy despite his great loss.

It’s hard to explain the feeling I had, witnessing Bunchy’s family give testament to his life.  Gospel funerals are always described as being “celebrations of life” more than observations of death, and I guess the best I can do is to say that that pretty much nails it.   It felt like a celebration.   Family, friends, members of the extended New Orleans jazz community, and even strangers like us, were invited to take joy in the inspiration that Bunchy gave to others throughout his life, and to give thanks for the sweet gift of life.  There is no doubt that grief and suffering were all around, and my heart goes out to his family, his children and grandchildren.   He was only 58, which in this day and age seems too young to die.   But Bunchy packed a lot of life into those 58 years, and so there was cause for celebration despite the grief.

After the memorial service, Bunchy was given a proper second-line parade, down Jackson Street and back, with members of the Tremé Brass Band playing some of his favorite numbers.   A crew of photographers and videographers descended upon the street like paparazzi as the service let out, and I felt a little odd being one of them…I suppose the community is used to it, and the dancers had no qualms playing to the camera, but at the same time it made me wonder what we were all doing there.   It’s not just that it was a funeral; it would have seemed just as strange if it were a wedding, or any other celebration, were a flock of strangers to suddenly appear out of nowhere and start taking pictures of the natives and their curious customs.

As my time in New Orleans has lengthened and I have become drawn deeper and deeper into the history, culture, and soul of the city, it is the black traditions and culture that have really resonated with me, and it is those traditions–the second-lines, the Mardi Gras Indians, the brass bands and the jazz musicians, the juke joints, the street vendors, the Skull and Bones, the Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs–that keep me wanting to dig deeper and learn more.   Their histories are so complex and fraught with so much hardship, struggle, violence, and resistance–while at the same time suffused with so much joy, rhythm, and soul–that they make the more mainstream New Orleans celebrations seem frivolous in comparison.

And yet, as an outsider, and, well, as “the white man”, I am aware of the implications of cultural appropriation and possible disrespect that my interest in taking pictures of black New Orleans might convey to those for whom this is simply a way of life, a part of their history and community, and not something to be “taken”, as one “takes” a picture.   I have tried as often as possible to make personal contact with people that I photograph, and, wherever possible, send or give them copies of the photos I take, so that I am “giving” photos rather than “taking” them.   This, however, sometimes becomes a full-time job in itself, and I have not always been successful.  We left Bunchy’s funeral before we were able to get any contact information, so tracking down his family will take a little extra time.

In any event, I hope that some of these photos eventually make their way into the hands of Bunchy’s family, and that I get the opportunity to tell them how privileged I felt to be part of his life celebration.

Last Wednesday I was hanging out at Café Negril watching a pretty blonde lass with a wicked right hand playing bouzouki and singing some great celtic songs, taking the wind out of my previous rant about there being no Irish music in New Orleans.  I hung around for a few tunes, hoping to hit her up at the end of the set for some information about whether there are any sessions around town, as, judging by her tight syncopated rhythm chops, there must be some fiddlers or flute players or pipers around that she jams with….but I got a phone call from Fede that she was across the street at the Spotted Cat and there was some killer swing dancing going on there.   Figuring the Irish singer had at least another ten minutes left in her set, I hopped across the street to check it out…

Well, my ADD kicked in and I got caught up in the music and the dance that was going on at the Spotted Cat and I forgot all about the Irish singer.  The dance was being supplied by members of the NOLA Jitterbugs, a dance group that has been instrumental in the burgeoning swing dancing scene that has been going on in New Orleans over the past few years.   I’m a little short on info beyond that, but maybe I’ll update this post the next time I run into them.   Until then, if you haven’t read my Mad for the Dance post, you can at least read a little more about the dancing scene here in New Orleans.   And, of course, you can head on down to the Spotted Cat on Wednesdays and check ‘em out yourself, or check their schedule for other appearances.  Enjoy.

Spike Lee is back, with more tales from the ravaged Gulf Coast.

His documentary “When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts“ aired in 2006 on HBO and remains to this day one of the most thorough, personal, and powerful records of how Hurricane Katrina directly impacted the lives of the people of New Orleans.   A 4-hour tour-de-force composed of interviews, disaster footage, and reportage of families who were dealing with loss, displacement, government ineptitude and apathy, and just plain shock, “Levees” unveiled stories and information that not even the US government was aware of.  But most importantly, as Spike says when talking about the movie, it allowed the people of New Orleans to tell their stories to the world.

Spike vowed to do a follow-up to the story five years after the disaster, and true to his word, he and his crew have spent the last couple of months filming around the Gulf Coast, interviewing displaced New Orleanians as well as those who have returned home, following the Saints’ victory march to the Super Bowl and the resultant high that the city is still coasting on…He has also probed into the rise of the charter school movement in New Orleans and the state of the reconstruction efforts in the Lower Ninth Ward and elsewhere.  The news is not all good, and I’m sure we can expect that Spike won’t pull any punches in his new film, but there is hope in the air here, and it’s impossible not to smell it.  The new documentary, entitled If God is Willing and da Creek Don’t Rise, will no doubt be equal parts hope, despair, frustration, and surprise.

As luck would have it, Fede and I were in the Lower Ninth having a peaceful-but-somber afternoon photographing abandoned houses on the day that Spike and Company were shooting their final wrap scene for the film.  I have to give credit to Fede for sniffing out the lead, as I was content to be shooting far from the maddening crowd of Sunday tour buses coming to gawk at Brad Pitt’s space-age Make it Right houses and get the “Katrina Disaster Tour”…But she wanted to shoot the new houses as part of her own personal project, and as a shiny red Ferrari rolled past, she followed it to the heart of the action, up by the levee, where a film crew, members of the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club, the Baby Dolls, local volunteers, and neighborhood residents, were all gathered for a parting shot from New Orleans.   The Baby Boyz brass band was standing by the levee blasting out the Saints’ fight song, and a few of the Common Ground volunteers were sitting on top of the levee, along with two volunteers waving New Orleans flags. Folks were gathered in front of them, on the grassy slope that leads up to the levee, in preparation for a shot that would have them all dancing and waving their hands in the air and singing the “Who Dat” chant along with the Baby Boyz’ music.

We whipped out the press pass and started wandering around asking questions, photographing the action, and just generally being a part of it all.  There were a lot of spectators and it was difficult on some level to tell who was who, as it was a very mixed crowd, with lots of Saints’ Jerseys, parasols, big cameras, and badges and credentials, as well as a lot of folks with pocket cameras trying to grab pics of Spike, or pics of the spectacularly sexy Baby Dolls decked out in their full glory.   At some point, after getting the shot he had planned, Spike turned to the crowd of gawkers and said “Okay, everybody, get on in!  Now’s your chance, come on and get in the picture!”

So, joining the somewhat confused but elated group of bystanders, we slipped right into the middle of the crowd and, on cue with the “dat, dat da-dat” of the Baby Boys, started waving our hands in the air, shouting, “Who Dat!  Who Dat! Who Dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints!”  I slid around the crowd snapping photos as I chanted along, and ended up at the opposite end from where I started, waving my left hand in the air holding my flash.   If any of that footage ends up in the final cut, you may see my flash going off here and there.  Sorry about that, Spike.  Couldn’t help myself.   Dem Baby Dolls was just too damn fine…

If God is Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise will air on HBO on August 28, 2010 (or thereabouts), on the 5th anniversary of Katrina.  Mark your calendar.  You’ll probably be surprised and somewhat shocked at how little progress has been made in terms of reconstruction and preparation for future disasters, and yet on the other hand, if Spike does it right, you’ll get a sense of the budding hope, optimism, and new ideas that have arisen from the disaster which will, with any luck–keep your fingers crossed–re-invigorate this most treasured and troubled city in America.

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St. Patrick’s Day, New Orleans

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I tell ye, the Irish never get their due.  Here in New Orleans, it’s all about the French, the Spanish, the Creoles, the Haitians, the Senegambians and Congolese, and the “Americans”–by which they mean the Protestant folk who come down from Virginia and Carolina and “Kaintuck” after the Louisiana Purchase and eventually became the bastions of old-line “uptown” society.  Ye’d hardly know, if ye didn’t know, that the Irish have had more than a wee presence in New Orleans since the 1700’s, and that during the famine years of the early-to-mid 1800’s, the Paddys arrived here by the boatload and carved out their own section of the city, still known as the Irish Channel.  They worked on the waterfront and in the shipyards, and built some of the first canals and waterworks systems in the city.  They’re responsible for that particular accent you hear in N’walins that sounds more like something out of Brooklyn or Hoboken than anything remotely resembling a “southern” accent.

The Irish channel was a bustling place, but notoriously dangerous.  If you weren’t from there, you wouldn’t dare go there, unless you were a riverboat gambler or had other commerce to do with the fiercely clannish Irish, or if you were just looking for a fight.   What it is that turns the native Irish from poets and music-makers with legendary hospitality to hard-working, belligerent tough-guys when they migrate to America, I don’t know.   But that’s what the Irish in the channel became.  Jobs were generally plentiful, money was usually good, but the Irish were known to be drinkers and fighters who spent their money as fast as they made it on alcohol and gambling.  Race relations between the Irish and the blacks were notoriously bad, perhaps because they competed for the same work, and the Irish were resentful for being treated the way that they were generally treated in America at the time–that is, not much better than the blacks.   But the point is, New Orleans has a huge Irish legacy.

And yet, for all that, you don’t hear much about the Irish in New Orleans.

Except during the week leading up to Saint Patrick’s day, when just about everyone in the city seems to be, or claim to, be Irish.   Even the black girls come out to the parades dressed in green, joking about being “black Irish”…And in a town that loves a parade, there are more Saint Patrick’s parades than anybody has time for.  There’s one on Friday night in the Quarter, that ends up at Molly’s with a big blowout.   There’s the Irish Channel Parade on Saturday– the big one–that rolls down Magazine Street, the heart of the Irish Channel.  Then there’s Metairie on Sunday for the kids and families, and on the actual Day Itself there’s yet another parade in the Marigny for the bohemian crowd.  And that’s not even all of them…

And we’re not talking your vanilla 5th Avenue parades with a lot of spectators on bleachers and marching school groups dressed up in curlicues and hardshoes, trying to keep their bare legs warm in the freezing cold….No my friend, we’re talking New Orleans style parades, where it’s hard to tell who’s parading and who’s just hanging outside the pub in a sexy green skirt and a painted face, waiting for a plastic flower and a kiss from an old man in a kilt.   We’re talking interactive parades, where beads and cabbages and flowers and kisses become erotic articles of exchange in a big green swaggering sexy throng of revelers enjoying the miraculous change in weather that hits right around this time in New Orleans.

It’s all innocent, it’s all in good fun, you could even say it’s a family event, but LORD you’ve never seen so many fine lookin’ Colleens and Erins and Mollys in your life…and with weather like we had this weekend, quite a few of them took the opportunity to shed a layer of winter and give us a peek of what they got going on underneath.  And we were all happy to see it, let me just say.   Now I get why all those guys join these marching clubs, so they can walk down the street with staffs full of flowers and bags full of garters for the ladies.   It’s all clear to me now.

I suspect that part of the reason there are so many Paddy’s day parades is that, after enduring all those freezing cold Mardi Gras parades, folks just want to be outside in the sunshine and enjoy the rebirth of spring.  It gives them one more opportunity to try on a new costume, dance and drink in the streets, and just generally celebrate being New Orleanians.   And if the theme for the party is green, well, so much the better.  We can do green.  Saints be praised, can we do green.

My only complaint–and it’s with all due respect here–is where is all the Irish music?  I mean the floats were playing Fat Ammons and “Who Let the Dogs Out” for crying out loud…Sure, here and there some sound system was playing some old Clancy Brothers record from the sixties, but seriously now….  What happened to Irish music in this town, when around the world it is a thriving contemporary phenomenon with legions of devoted aficionados?   Could it just not compete with jazz?

Those of you who know me well enough know that I’m a bit of an addict when it comes to the “trad”, the old “diddley-di” as they say in Ireland…but despite my prejudices, I still can’t believe that with all this Irish heritage and pride I saw this weekend, there’s not one single traditional Irish music session here in New Orleans.    Not even on Saint Patrick’s Day weekend.  Somebody needs to fly in Lunasa, or Dervish, or Solas, or some hot trad group in here to fire things up a bit.  Oh, but wait, they’re all booked up in NYC and Dublin, ’cause it’s Saint Patrick’s day.

Aye well, for f-cks sake, let ‘em have it.  I’ll take the girls dressed in green and go home and play them some Frankie Gavin and Tommy Peoples on my iTunes…

For those of you who weren’t able to be part of the festivities, you have my sympathies.   Let these photos warm your spirits a little, along with a wee dram of Jameson’s and a little Guinness to chase it down with.   Erin go Bragh!

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