The

Big Easy:
 
We Came to

Karaoke

He looked down at us from the dingy stage in between songs and said “women, I found a cure for the blues,” it works every time.”  Four deep into whiskey sours, I was brimming with anticipation. Leaning on a wooden bar near the open doorway of the Old Opera House, I could see a sliver of the street just outside. This band was awesome. They were banging out AC/DC and Aerosmith like there was no tomorrow. But the lead singer, a tall, scruffy, child of the bayou, loved to tell little tales in between songs and he had the crowd in the palm of his hands.  He grabbed his guitar and strummed it lightly as the band grinded out a blues riff in the background. “I’m just an ol’e country boy,” he said. “I don’t know much about nothing…” His shirt hung down over his jeans as he shook his head and closed his eyes. “But I know one thing,” he declared with a climaxing voice. “it works one-hundred-percent of the time ladies. . . and I g-u-a-r-a-n-t-e-e it will cure the blues!” he bellowed with his raspy bayou twang  as he held his guitar up like a tall drink of water and proceeded to strum the strings with his tongue; crafting a restless and sexy tune. The crowd went wild. It was a spiritual event for the guys and gals alike. The women went wild with adulation and the guys had found a new hero. Ahhhh,  this was just another day on Bourbon Street.

Arriving in the French Quarter was an assault on all the senses. The Spanish colonial architecture of the streetscape often  interrupted by vacant, dilapidated buildings, dominated the scenery. The drudgery of the afternoon heat prickled your skin until it hurt, and the soupiness of the air made breathing a conscious effort. The smell along the streets of the Quarter percolated on the waves of heat delivering a mix of dumpster garbage, urine, horse dung, beer, and vomit. This blend of urban grit and sweet, southern colonial style would color everything we saw and did during our quest for karaoke in the Big Easy.

On the first day, we walked the few blocks from our hotel to the Mighty Mississippi, but only after we had stumbled upon the oddest smoothie shop. Well we thought it was a smoothie shop, but it was a frozen daiquiri shop; my favorite! As I sat at the counter sipping on my Strawberry Kiwi, and after I downed my free peppermint shot, I turned to my boyfriend and fellow karaokeTraveler, Jack, and smiled. The heat seemed to melt away and off in the distance I could hear the Mississippi calling. I let my head fall back a few inches and closed my eyes.  I didn’t know it then, but the week ahead would be all about the drink.

Monday: Daiquiris Galore!

There are daiquiri bars in New Orleans on every block. Sometimes right next to each other. They are as common as hot dog stands in New York city, and are a quite excellent solution to the two main problems that plague this city’s inhabitants; the sweltering heat and prolonged periods of sobriety. Many of these places have interesting decors and are a great retreat from the summer heat that often hammers down hard on the Cajun concrete, and most importantly, they give you a free shot with a daiquiri purchase; now that’s value. We started our search for karaoke on this day but we were sidetracked instead since it took at a good 24 hours to stop going into every daiquiri bar we passed and sampling the flavors; white cherry, pink ice, pomegranate bombshell, coconut lime, tutti frutti, mango berry, cotton candy, you name it they had it. A quite delicious diversion if I ever had one.

Tuesday: Pop the Cork

The quest for karaoke took yet another distilled detour as we discovered a world class casino. We played BlackJack at Harrah’s, won so much money that we celebrated at a world class steakhouse. “Hats off to the Big Easy” we toasted with two bottles of expensive red wine from the restaurants’ premium cellar.  Bourbon Street was full of such great music that night that karaoke was lost in this feast of good luck, good food, great wine, and the incredible sites. From the ultra sexy woman riding the electric bull in a country themed tavern at one end of Bourbon to the impromptu barfight we snapped pics of on the other end, it was one awesome night. We promised to find karaoke tomorrow.

Wednesday: Sex on the Beach at Razoo

That will be $16.00” the bartender at the Razoo yelled. “For a beer and a sex on the beach?” I said. The bartender nodded, “yep.” ‘Okay so we were definitely not going to get intoxicated here’ we thought as we took in the scene. Razoo is larger than most of the bars on Bourbon Street with a towering stage presiding over a dance floor. There was a live band instead of karaoke that night, but the crowd was pumped and the band was banging out hard rock tunes. Razoo has a decent outside courtyard in the rear which was good for people who wanted to hear themselves talk or have a peaceful smoke. The band kept the crowd on the dance floor working, making them sing the chorus to all the standards like "Living on A Prayer" and "You Shook Me All Night Long." Karaoke at this venue would definitely not be for beginners, given the prominent stage, but it sure would be fun with such an energetic crowd.

Thursday: Hand Grenades and Whiskey Sours

If you are going to karaoke on Bourbon Street this is the place to do it.  Shaped like an L with a bar on both ends and a stage in the middle, Cat’s Meow is all karaoke all the time. Each night a KJ host directs the karaoke traffic on stage, does back up dancing, and provides a professional emcee presence. The song list is not extensive, but you will find something on it. The list is clearly designed to keep the pace up and have performers sing songs that most are familiar with. Jack, an avid Neil Diamond fan, broke his mold at the Cats and performed a rockin version of “White Wedding.” As for me, the walk down to the SOUTHERN end of Bourbon Street where the Cat’s Meow is located proved to be just too much for a Yankee like me. There were just too many darn Daiquiri bars along the way, not to mention the bars that sell “hand grenades,” and did I mention that the whisky sours aren’t too bad at the Cat’s Meow? So I decided that instead of crawling onto the stage and singing, I would preserve my dignity and try the Cat’s Meow on Friday.

Friday: It’s the Wine Stupid

We spilled the wine. It was a fine Coppola Cabernet “Director’s Cut”, and two half full glasses had tumbled all over the pristine white linen tablecloths of Giovanni’s, a fine Italian Restaurant on a quaint side street in the Big Easy. It was our last night in the Big Easy and we had just finished a delightful meal at this restaurant where opera singers serenaded you over Antipasti. This was the night we would go for broke. We, the original KaraokeTravelers, would paint Bourbon street red and sing until the dawn broke. But before all that, we had to debate each other on whether or not to tell someone that we spilled wine all over the table and floor, since we were the last customers in the restaurant and no staff was around in the dining room. Jack, my partner in crime insisted we bail, but he was the one who had most of the wine, so I caught the attention of the bartender in the next room and told her about the spill as we walked out.

The night was exceptionally sultry, the heat poured over us like a thick soup, and on the moonlit walk back to our hotel in the French Quarter, Jack peered over at me as he gingerly stepped off the curb and that’s when I knew. He had that look that one gets when your alcohol level is so high, mosquitoes don’t bite you for fear of alcohol poisoning. His face was flush, his eyes were glassy, and I knew what was next because I had been there for 3 of the 5 nights we had on Bourbon Street.

As I tried moving his limp body on one side of the bed, I couldn’t help but think of the whirlwind week we did have in the Big Easy, despite this rather solemn ending. The lure of New Orleans was irresistible for karaoke lovers like ourselves. We both wanted to sing at the world famous Cat’s Meow and experience the party that never ends on Bourbon Street, and we had planned our last night there to be a big karaoke send off. But Alas, we had sealed our fate much earlier that day. You see, the true moral to this story is that the party starts early in New Orleans, seven days a week 22 hours a day, and if you are not careful, you will miss the rich culture, diverse food, incredible music and top notch entertainment this city has to offer. So, that shall be the number one lesson in the KaraokeTraveler’s handbook; when in the Big Easy, Pace yourselves, Pace yourselves for goodness sake.