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Farewell to
Bas'm Street
row vi
On my last trip to New Orleans, a sergeant got on the train at Anniston and squeezed his bulk into the seat beside me. He was a friendly sort. I learned much of his business, his chance to go to officers' training camp, his' football career at Xavier University, his various jobs before Pearl Harbor. He ran over with praise of his native Xew Orleans. My tourist's curiosity about the Creole cuisine fired his language ; he described the culinary marvels of all the various gumbos, of Jambalaya (Creole cousin of Hopping-John), of Gombo Zhebes (a mixture of all the greens on God's earth), and of the sea foods, until the woman in front threw amused glances at us. He was hastening home on furlough ; one of the jobs he anticipated was cooking up some of those fine Creole dishes. I begged off from his hymns of adoration. I had not eaten since above Spartansburg, and we were nearly in Birmingham.
I asked him about Xew Orleans jazz. This was another street that he walked familiarly. His brother, a clarinet player, was a friend of Barney Bigard, and had been in France with Noble Sissle when Barney was there with Duke Ellington. Yes, he knew Sidney Bechet, King Oliver, Kid Ory, Satchmo', all of them. He looked with greater favor on me ; I was a bit more than a traveling schoolteacher now in his eyes. When I spoke of
Kid Rena, he corrected my pronunciation but beamed. Maybe 1 could find Kid Raynyay. I should go to the Fern Dance Hall, on Iberville between Rampart and Burgundy, anytime late at night. Sure I could get in. Just go on in. I'd find plenty my color there, if not my race. If I didn't find him there, and Rena was known to be irregular, I might have to seek Big Eye Louie, the historic clarinetist. On Derbigny between Columbus and Kelerec, everybody would tell you where Big Eye was ; not a soul in that neighborhood but would look out for Big Eye. The sergeant also named his nephew, a hot jazz cat, who could help me find Rena and Louie if these leads failed.
I could not find Kid Rena and Big Eye Louie; I did not exhaust all the sergeant's leads, though I tried some new ones. Standing across from the high school on Rampart Street, I was accosted mysteriously by a young fellow who told me, "Yes, it is true. He's dead now" ; and I remembered meeting him at Paul Robeson's concert and that he was a music teacher. He had then promised that he'd help me find those remaining New Orleans jazzmen. I did not know, the school bell summoning the teacher away, whether it was Kid Rena's trumpet or Big Eye Louie's clarinet that death had finally quieted ; from other people I
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