The Gift of Fire (18 page)
Johnny V taught me to allow inspiration to flow through me and out of my drumsticks. And when I just relaxed and let go, as he told me to do, the “magic” happened. Soon I was playing better than ever and getting gigs all over New Orleans, including at some of the oldest and most famous jazz clubs in the world.
With this new confidence surging through me, I decided to branch out musically with fellow Loyola student Brandon Tarricone, who was an excellent guitarist. Brandon and I began jamming together, and our sound was so good that we recruited a few other musicians to form a band. Calling ourselves the “Brotherhood of Groove,” we had a terrific, funky sound. Soon we had more bookings than we could handle, on campuses and in clubs around New Orleans. We were all still just students and were amazed by how quickly our band took off. In fact, our success was a bit of a “problem” when it came to school because our rigorous booking schedule conflicted with our classes and assignments. But we were loving it all so much that there was no way we were going to stop.
S
IX MONTHS AFTER THE BAND WAS FORMED
, we booked time at the best recording studio in New Orleans, hired some top-ranked session musicians to fill out our sound, and started working on our first CD. We spent a month laying down tracks and perfecting the mix for the final recording. It was a mind-blowing experience. Not only were we in a successful band, but we were in control of our musical careers as well.
I’d sure come a long way from that 12-year-old boy who struggled to figure out a way to hold on to a drumstick. Now in my early 20s, I was a professional musician earning a living from my music. In many ways, I’d made it—I was living the dream!
The first run for our CD was more than a thousand copies, and they sold like hotcakes. Since we didn’t have an agent, Brandon and I spent our “spare” time lining up even more gigs and marketing the sound of the Brotherhood of Groove. I handled the promotion while Brandon booked the gigs. We managed to do a pretty good job; in fact, the band grew so successful that we had to take the next big step.
For so many years as a student, my schoolwork had suffered because my heart was in my music, and that’s where I’d put my time and dedication. So it made sense to me at this point to make a choice and go all the way with it. After my second year at Loyola, I left school to play full-time.
Before I knew it, the Brotherhood of Groove was moving beyond the Big Easy and taking our show on the road. We toured all over the country, which was a fantastic experience. I got to visit cities I’d only seen in movies, and play in clubs I’d only read about in trade magazines and newspapers. But touring also taught me that living this kind of dream routinely meant going with little or no sleep, spending weeks in cramped vans with cranky musicians, eating fast food three times day, and being so homesick it hurt. Like anything, the dream had its ups and downs, but we all went with the flow.
During one tour, the band ended up in Philadelphia, where we were booked to perform in a small place called “Dr. Watson’s Pub” (also known as just “Doc Watson’s”), an old club with a 1950s feel and decor. The gig was a disaster because the owner had double-booked us with another band, and he tossed us out on our ears without paying us a penny.
Yet one great thing happened on this trip: we drove past the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Although my bandmates were exhausted, they knew what a huge fan I was of Rocky Balboa. They were good enough to pull over to the curb and told me to go for it.
The numerous steps leading up to the museum are, of course, the ones that Rocky struggles with at the beginning of his training for the big fight. Later on, lean and pumped up, he runs up those same steps and does a victory dance at the top, arms and fists held high. The guys were right—I had to do it! So while they waited in the car, I went out into the cold Philadelphia night. I ran all the way to the top of the steps, which seemed symbolic of the obstacles I’d overcome, and pumped my own arms in victory.
Then I headed down, back to the band waiting in the car … and toward what lay ahead.
I
N 2002, AFTER TWO YEARS AND 350 EXHAUSTING GIGS
in more cities than I can remember, I figured that the road had taught me everything it could. I’d had enough of the grueling tour schedule and told the band I was going to leave as soon as they could find another drummer. Once they did, I decided to take a few months off to refuel my spirit, catch my breath, and do some reading.
The break renewed my energy, even though I was a little nervous that I’d go broke and people would forget me if I hung low for a bit. But I wasn’t
that
worried. With my new in-touch-with-the-universe philosophy, I’d learned to trust that it would provide, and that my talents were going to lead me into my new life as a freelance musician.
My trust was well founded. My phone began ringing off the hook as soon as word circulated around New Orleans that I’d left the Brotherhood of Grove and was now a free agent. It wasn’t long before I was playing regular gigs with Michael Ray & the Cosmic Krewe. Michael is a legendary trumpet player who’s toured and performed with Kool & the Gang for nearly 20 years, among many other musical milestones. So whenever Michael was in New Orleans, I’d play with the Cosmic Krewe; whenever he was away with Kool & the Gang, I was free to play with other bands all over New Orleans. It was a perfect setup for me, professionally and creatively.
On any given night, I could be playing with a band I’d never played with before, mastering a repertoire I’d never attempted. Life as a freelancer was making me a better performer
and
a better musician, and for the next few years my career blossomed as it never had before. It was a challenge, but luckily, I was used to challenges.
But the biggest challenge I have ever faced—and probably the biggest challenge anyone living in New Orleans was
ever
to face—was taking shape somewhere over the Bahamas. It was late August 2005, and something devastating was about to sweep through all of our lives.
Her name was Katrina.
In the summer of 2005, I was at the top of my game professionally. I was performing regularly with a dozen different bands and filling in as a substitute drummer for several others. I had recorded with some of the best players in the industry and had established my reputation as a solid jazz musician in the birthplace of jazz itself. My music was maturing, and I felt that I was at my peak.
The rest of my life was falling nicely into place as well: I’d purchased my own home just outside of New Orleans in Metairie, I’d made some great friends, my family was healthy, and I’d even adopted a great little mutt of a dog named Dixie. Life was good.
And then Hurricane Katrina hit and blew my world— and the city I loved—into a million shattered pieces.
L
IKE MOST OF US WHO CALLED
southeastern Louisiana our home, I had no idea what was coming at us from across the Gulf of Mexico. I’d seen plenty of big storms before, and of course the Big Easy had weathered more than its share of hurricanes. Yet no one was expecting the megakiller that smacked into Louisiana on Monday, August 29, leaving more than 1,800 people dead and destroying much of the Gulf Coast, from Florida right across to Texas.
At first, Katrina seemed as if it was going to be like any other bad tropical storm. Then when it was upgraded to a hurricane, it was only a category 1, which is the lowest level of hurricane classification. This is really nothing to be afraid of, even when you live in a city that’s below sea level (like New Orleans). Nevertheless, something about Katrina bothered me from the start.
Well before officials told people to evacuate, I decided to get out of town until the storm blew over. On Saturday, August 27, I called up my old high-school buddy Matt Rycyk, who’d moved to Atlanta a couple of years previously. Matt and I had remained close, and I had even been asked to stand up for him at his wedding. When he got on the phone now, it was obvious that he’d heard about the hurricane. Before I had a chance to say anything other than hello, he and his wife invited me to come to Georgia and stay with them for as long as I wanted.
Since there was no great urgency to leave, I took my time wandering around my house. As I tried to figure out what to take with me, I realized that I’d become detached from everything I owned. They were just belongings, not what made
me
belong. I ultimately grabbed a change of clothes, put some bottled water and a couple of cans of food in a bag, and jumped into the car with Dixie to begin the 500-mile drive to Atlanta. That evening, I was sitting with Matt and his wife in their living room talking about old times. None of us had any idea that while we were reminiscing, Katrina was morphing into a superstorm over the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
When I woke up the next morning—still 24 hours before it smashed into New Orleans—I found out that Katrina had been labeled a category 5 hurricane, which is as bad as it gets. It was a monster, and it was moving toward my hometown at 175 miles per hour. I got a sick feeling deep in my gut that New Orleans was doomed. Luckily, I’d spoken to my parents before I left for Georgia, and I knew they were going to stay at my brother Johnny’s house in New Iberia, a safe 150 miles west of New Orleans. I was glued to Matt’s television, waiting to see what would happen.
When it hit New Orleans on the morning of August 29, Katrina devastated the city. I watched the TV news in horror as the tragedy unfolded—the swamped neighborhoods, the unimaginable human pain and suffering … so many terrible images. And things just got worse. It was impossible to reach anyone in New Orleans by phone, but luckily I could communicate with my family by text messaging. I thanked God that they were all safe.
I had to stay in Atlanta for two weeks before I could finally get back to Louisiana and reunite with my family. We stayed together at Johnny’s place in New Iberia for two months, waiting and watching as the floodwater slowly receded.
Eventually, folks were allowed to visit their abandoned homes. I was lucky in that my house in Metairie was far enough west of New Orleans not to have been flooded. However, there weren’t any basic services available, such as power or fresh water. The entire region was in chaos, a total mess.
New Orleans would eventually dry out, but it was left in ruins. The entertainment business, for instance, had been completely wiped out; for the first time in centuries, the music of the Big Easy was silenced. Since the heart and soul of the city were gone, I decided to leave as well. What else could I do? I earned my living playing music, and virtually every musician I knew was either homeless or unemployed (or both)! My musical career in New Orleans was over for the foreseeable future, and I had to go somewhere else. But where? Where could I go and earn a living with a pair of drumsticks?
I looked north and set my sights on New York City.
After all,
I thought,
I know a few people there, and the city
does
have some of the world’s most renowned jazz clubs.
My parents didn’t want me to move—especially my dad, who thought that the competition among drummers in New York would be brutal and the music scene impossible to break into. While I appreciated his concern, I wasn’t going to change my mind. I needed a change, and New York was it.
I
RENTED A
U-H
AUL AND LOADED UP MY DRUMS
and a few furnishings. So many family friends had been displaced by Katrina that I didn’t even think about renting my house out. I just let whoever needed a place go ahead and use it.
Dixie and I hit the road, leisurely zigzagging our way through the scenic countryside to our new life. I found an apartment that allowed dogs (but not drums, so I had to be sneaky) in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, not far from the foot of the amazingly long and beautiful Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.
New York was a whole new world and a completely different lifestyle, a huge metropolis where very few people gawked at me … or even noticed my appearance, for that matter. One of the great things about New Yorkers is that they’re not shocked by anything “different”; rather, the city embraces differences. Walking through my new neighborhood was like walking through the United Nations—it was filled with Russians, Indians, Muslims, and Polish people. I was the minority, and not because I looked physically different. It was refreshing and liberating to go to the store and never be pointed at or laughed at, no matter how crowded the streets were.
At night I’d take the subway across the East River into Manhattan. When I could afford it, I’d hang out at some of the city’s most famous jazz clubs, like the Village Vanguard, Birdland, Iridium, and the Blue Note. I became a frequent patron of several other clubs, and I began sitting in with different bands and even scoring a few of my own gigs. It was an incredibly exciting time. Even though it would be tough, I knew I’d be able to carve out a living in New York if I wanted.
What’s interesting is that I wasn’t as obsessed with professional success as I had been earlier in my life. First of all, I didn’t have a need to prove myself on that level anymore—I knew what I was capable of and wasn’t looking for validation. But more important, Katrina had changed me. I was increasingly asking myself what my purpose was in this short time on Earth we’re all allotted. I’d worked so hard to reach the pinnacle of musical success in New Orleans, and then overnight a wind had come dancing across the water and taken it all away from me. In the end, what did my success matter? What difference did it make to anyone in this world other than me?