Orphaned in Storyville by Orphaned in Storyville

It is well after midnight and most of the French Quarter bars have closed. you’ve become lost in a dense fog that veils the old buildings. Somewhere in the nights revelry you’ve lost your phone and become separated from your friends. You see lights and old buildings through the mist. You hear muffled voices as if from a party but see no people. You hear the elegant sounds of a guilted age soirée, but see only closed locked doors. For a split second you see a beautiful stranger smoking a cigarette on a balcony but when you look twice there is nobody.

You follow the sound of the party. A distant wailing clarinet. Muffled laughter. Maybe someone can point you in the direction of your hotel or call you an Uber. But there are no cars on the streets. Did you hear a horse drawn carriage go by? All the lights are lit by gas.

It is a costume ball, a masquerade. You can’t see the people’s faces but only the Sequin dresses, people smoking inside, ancient vanilla perfume, absynth and peacock feathers. The crowd makes a warm muted hubbub as the band takes the stage. The softly wailing clarinet, the jingle jangle piano, the pulsing brushes on the old oak drum kit, and the steady bouncing guitar bouies the band. Django Reinhardt is on guitar. Dr John is on Paino. Sidney Bachet on clarinet. Cab Calloway is front and center singing a Tom Waits song. He does a call and response with the audience. Hi-dee hi-dee hi-dee high. It’s traditional jazz but the least traditional Trad jazz you’ve ever heard. It’s swing music but it swings like Muhammad Ali, it swings like a married couple.

You notice your hips are moving. You notice your head is bobbing. A beautiful stranger takes your hand and soon you are dancing in swirling colors. You and the stranger share a drink. Then share a kiss. “Stay with us” the stranger asks. “The party is only just now beginning” you can’t see their face but you swear you recognize that voice. When you dance together there’s a familiarity between you, like you’ve danced together long ago. Of corse you’ll stay. You’ll stay forever. You just need to text your friends and let them know you’re ok. The stranger grabs your hand as you duck out, slips something in your pocket.

It’s bright out now. The fog has lifted and the cars and delivery trucks rumble past. You reach into you pocket only to remember your phone is gone. You turn around and try to get back into the speakeasy but the door is stuck shut. You knock but get no response. You press your ear too it and you hear nothing but the hum of an air conditioner. You peek through the keyhole and see an empty room inside. The glitter is dust, the bandstand covered in cobwebs. The instruments locked away. The lights are off. The dance floor has caved in. There hasn’t been a party here for years. Maybe generations.

You hail a cab. In the silence of the back seat you hear the music from the club echoing in your head. The warmth of Satchmo. The elegance of Duke Ellington. The manic rocousness of Louis Prima. And a melody that you can hear in your minds ear but disappears like a waking dream when you try to sing it out loud. The sound of a city that no longer exists. That maybe only ever existed in your imagination. As you step out of the taxi you reach for your wallet but only find a peacock feathter.

Contains tracks

• End of the World by Orphaned in Storyville
• Frenchmen Street 4am by Orphaned in Storyville
• No Holidays In August by Orphaned in Storyville
• The Humanity by Orphaned in Storyville
• Riverbed by Orphaned in Storyville