The Cylinder

By Alan Steadman

The Intro…

New Orleans, 1897, and Charles Buddy Bolden was King. At least in the low-life barrelhouses and honky-tonks like Pete Lala's Café and the Funky Butt Hall , he was King. Along with the five other members of his regular band he would play his mix of stomps, ragtime and blues tunes to a wild audience of roughnecks , pimps , whores and card -sharps. His tone was clear and he blew loud; when he dragged out a slow blues on his trumpet , he built up such intensity with his untutored brilliance that he had the rough-edged habitués yelling for more.

Percy Dejan's father had owned a number of slaves. One became his mistress and bore him a son. That meant that Percy was born a Creole. He was a handsome, light-skinned man who was always immaculately dressed. His suits were pressed, his collars starched and his shoes polished. He wore two diamonds , one on his tie and one for a tooth. Percy was a pimp and a gambler. He preferred to work in the luxurious sporting houses of Storyville, the new "tenderloin" district which Councillor Albert Story had recently set up in an attempt to control the city's prostitution problem. But sometimes he would go across the tracks to the dives where Buddy Bolden played. On these occasions he would carry not only his billy stick but also a mattress needle - about a foot of sharpened steel- ideal for taking care of any card -sharp who didn't play by his rules.

Being a Creole, Percy Dejan didn't think much of Buddy Bolden. Sure he could play loud, but his gully-low style was uncouth. Percy much preferred the ragtime pianists who worked in places like the Mahogany Hall. He knew Bolden was also a heavy drinker and it was rumoured that he was showing some signs of being mentally deranged. There was no doubt, however, that the ladies, even the "dicty" ones, were attracted to him. When on stage he would always ensure that his red drawers were showing , just a little, to remind them that he was available.

And Percy was intrigued by him as he watched him from the shadows inside the saloon on the corner of Gravier and Rampart. "Yessuh, this is called a cylinder" said Bolden to the group of his admirers that had gathered around him. "And my band done played a tune on it. Made some dough for doin' it too." He opened up the leather carton and pulled out some dollar bills and the brown wax cylinder which he passed around with obvious pride. The barman ,who everybody knew as "Mustache", gave him another whiskey and a beer . Buddy Bolden hardly ever had to buy his own drink.

Dejan had heard about these new cylinders. A "white" phonograph company from up North had set up in the Old Absinthe House and was recording local bands to give the engineers practice. The better recordings were also kept for the salesmen to use in their demonstrations. The fact that Bolden still had his, suggested to Dejan that he had failed to make the grade. But he was more interested in the bundle of dollar bills that Bolden had stuffed back into the carton. He was on a losing streak at the tables and had also lost a few of his girls to Lulu
White's new place on Canal Street. When times were hard he was not averse to turning to more direct ways of getting some cash.

"I gotta git movin'." said Buddy Bolden. "Them folks up back'o'town are waitin' to hear me play my music cos I am the blowingest trumpet man since Gabriel. I ain't got time for no mo' booze." He retrieved the cylinder, returned it to the carton , picked up his horn and left the bar, closely followed by Percy Dejan.

Buddy Bolden swayed from side to side as he turned into Perdido Street. He had drunk too much again but it never seemed to affect his playing; maybe it made him improvise even better. The street was dark and quiet and Dejan saw his chance. He drew his billy stick and gave Bolden a swift blow to the back of his head; just enough to make him go down and to give him time to snatch the carton. As he made off towards the familiarity of the French Quarter he could hear Bolden cursing him but he was in no condition to come after him. Further along the road he opened the carton , removed the money, thought about taking the cylinder but finally decided to throw it over one of the elaborate wrought-iron gates that opened up into the courtyards of many of the houses in the Vieux Carre district of the city.

The Bridge…

New Orleans, 2005, and Paul Dejan had moved back to his home town in June of that year. His family had lived in the French Quarter for over a hundred years. Both his father , Willie, and his grandfather , Alcide , had been sign-writers and had supplemented their income by playing New Orleans jazz. Alcide played trombone in the many bars and clubs in the French Quarter as well as in one of the city's best brass bands that was always busy at picnics , parades and funeral marches. The latter brought him regular work every Monday and Tuesday after the usual violence of a New Orleans' weekend. His father performed in the falsified-funky atmosphere of Preservation Hall where tourists queued for hours to hear a dying music.

Nobody in the family had talked very much about his great grandfather.

Paul had not followed in his father's footsteps having graduated in law at Tulane University and moved to work in Memphis. His father had died earlier in the year and left the house, in St Peter Street, to him.

The house was on two floors and had a beautiful shaded courtyard which was surrounded by an intricately decorated wrought-iron fence. In season, the courtyard was a mass of hydrangeas , magnolias and multi coloured roses. He had decided to live on the upper floor mainly because it had a lovely balcony that resembled a tropical garden teaming with ivy, bromeliads , begonias and ferns and that overlooked the street and the courtyard. He could take his meals outdoors, above the courtyard or spend the evenings having a Dixie beer whilst watching the world go by, below. He had moved his belongings into the main room downstairs alongside his father's collection of jazz albums and photographs of black musicians , dressed in their tuxedos and proudly holding their instruments.

There were old books and manuscripts too. Although Paul didn't play, he had maintained an interest in the music of his home town. "Some day soon I'll have a good look at all this stuff" he thought "including these old leather cartons. They look real interesting."

But Paul's short term plans were about be changed dramatically on the 23rd August. Information about a hurricane which was forming in the Caribbean was beginning to be broadcast on local TV .
He remembered that before a storm the oppressive summer heat begins to lessen, the winds become gentler and the weather is calm and beautiful; the Big Easy is at its best. It had been like that for the past few days.

Later that week , Mayor Ray Nagin announced that the hurricane which had been given the name of " Katrina" was heading towards the city and that those who could leave should do so. Emergency centres were to be set up for those who couldn't or wouldn't go.

"Sir, it's only a precautionary measure" the police officer had assured him."Assumin' that the levees hold, there'll only be wind damage."

Paul had a feeling it could be much worse than that. As he still had his apartment in Memphis, he decided it was best to leave until the storm blew over.

He collected some belongings from the ground floor room and moved his father's artefacts from the floor into cupboards and onto shelves where they would be safe.

On the 29th August Hurricane Katrina arrived . Although the most severe portion missed the city, the resultant tidal surge caused the levees to break in fifty places. By the 31st, eighty per cent of the city was under water.

The Final Chorus……

New Orleans, September 2005, and on the first of that month, Aaron Humphries, like the other members of his neighbourhood gang, started looting. Aaron was eighteen, around six feet tall and with hair done out in dreadlocks. He had been brought up in the notorious Iberville Project which had been built where Storyville used to stand. He had never had a job and had spent his youth involved in petty crime.

Whereas his friends had decided to break into shops and were running the risk of being apprehended by the NOPD, he had decided to move into the French Quarter. Being five feet above sea level, it had escaped the worst of the flooding although there had been substantial wind damage . Many of the inhabitants were still away and the streets were quiet.

He walked up St Peter Street and came across a gate that had been flung off its hinges by the wind. He entered the deserted courtyard. Plants and flowers had been ripped off the trellis-work. Garden furniture had been thrown around as if made of plastic rather than iron. The ground floor window shutters were lying in large pools of water. The door was open . He went inside.

The living room had suffered some damage but nothing in comparison to other homes in places like the 9th Ward. Aaron opened some of the cupboards expecting to find some electrical goods that he could sell easily. Instead he found old LP records, books, photographs, sheet music and a leather carton that had some kind of wax cylinder inside.

He had seen stuff like this before . His cousin worked at the local museum and library across from Jackson Square and once he had gone there with him. He had been bored by all the books , photographs and instruments belonging to guys he had never heard of , with strange names like Jelly Roll, Big Eye and Slow Drag . But he remembered that his cousin had said that these things were valuable and that his bosses were always looking for new items. " No mo' so than now" he thought and he decided that he would pay his cousin a visit when things began to get back to normal. He found a large box and filled it, placing the leather carton on the top.

He was glad to get outside again. Man, it had felt so cold in that place. He had just walked back into St Peter Street when something hit him. He had no idea who or what, but it was a mighty force which knocked him clean off his feet. He hit his head on the sidewalk and blacked out.

When he came to, he saw that the box was still beside him. Everything seemed to be there except for the leather carton. He picked himself up and turned onto Burgundy. There was no one about apart from an old woman who was sweeping water out of her shop which, only a few days ago, had sold the best po'boy sandwiches in the French Quarter.

"Hey, yo' see anybody comin' past this way?" asked Aaron.

"Only that crazy old guy we sees a lot round here." she replied. "The one that shows off his red drawers and calls hisself the King."