We’d been to Pres Hall the night before, and the huddled humanity inside that space practically fogged the windows with their water-logged breath. I was, myself, reluctant to breathe and contribute to the problem, but did so anyway out of force of habit.
We’d spent much of that day sheltered in place in our hotel, sometimes in our room, sometimes down at the bar, and briefly down at the nearlybutnotquiteashotastheair swimming pool.
Dusk came slowly in from the east, and we were out in time for long shadows to slide past us. We figured our best shot until the darkness was full would be the green space of Jackson Square, so we headed straight down Orleans from our hotel. We’d enjoy the fresh air and a little time out of the cave, then maybe some time at Molly’s or Tujague’s.
We hit the flagstones in front of the Cabildo with still a fair amount of light. The buskers were starting to pack up – time to move on to dinner or down the street, or maybe even a paying gig.
One man, though, lingered, and showed no signs of surrendering to the night.
His case said Blues by the Green or something like that, so I supposed he was a regular in front of Jackson Square. He finished up St. James Infirmary on his trumpet, and the notes had come out like a smoky molasses, deep and rich, with their own weight of seasonings and seasons. We got to rocking slowly in time. By the time the song was done with him and his horn, a number of my stresses had been shaken down to my feet, just sitting there on the stones to be dropped entirely.
He hit the end and couldn’t seem to decide whether to pack his horn away or do one more. He looked off to the west, down the street, where the sun was already hiding between Chartres and Royal.
He mopped his face and brought his horn back up to his lips. One more song, at least, though the dark was filling in all the empty spaces in the square already.
Summertime. I’d hear all the best arrangements and who knows how many covers. I expected we’d be bored and give a half-hearted round of applause and then to get on with our lives.
It started slowly. I was starting to think he’d forgotten where his entrance was, then the trumpet came to life. The mute came off the bell of the horn and he leaned back to let out all the notes and emotion he’d been saving up. He took us around one more time with the horn unleashed, then began to sing:
Summertime … and the livin' is easy …
Fish are jumpin' … and the cotton is high
Yo' daddy's rich … and yo' mama's good lookin' …
So hush little baby … don't you cry …
The words poured out slow and sweet, no hurries here, and anything that might have been in a hurry down inside of me, slowed. That’s one of the perpetual charisms of New Orleans, slowing those things down inside that might be in too much of a hurry.
He made it into the next verse as a horse carriage pulled up right at the corner of the Cabildo.
I suppose it was their routine – they probably did it every day rain or shine when they were both working – maybe they still do. I’d never seen it before, though, and haven’t seen it since.
When the busker finished the second verse of the song, trailing “With yo mama and daddy standin' bye …” into the dusk, the carriage driver took up the refrain himself.
Summertime … and the livin' is easy …
Fish are jumpin' … and the cotton is high
Yo' daddy's rich … and yo' mama's good lookin' …
So hush little baby … don't you cry …
And then they just passed the song back and forth, their own call and response. It felt like an hour – in the good way – but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.
When they finished their last round of verse, with the words tapering into the night, the busker went back to his horn and the driver gave his reins a shake, and the carriage turned toward the departing sun. By the time he was out of sight, the busker was packing his horn. We barely had time to tip him – generously – before he vanished as well.
That was years ago, and even now, when I’m in need of quiet and calm, I go back to that moment. It was just like in the movies, but it was better because it was real.
As I recall, we went on to Molly’s, but the rest of the evening is a blur because we were already intoxicated by Summertime.
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