I'm currently revising my piece "Converting the Lovebugs" about my post-Katrina relief trip to Louisiana and Mississippi for my book manuscript (which is why I'm taking it down from the site for now - sorry about that). This, in conjunction with a marathon watching of Treme, has had me waxing nostalgic quite a lot lately about my time I've spent in New Orleans. I wrote a couple of pieces for The List and the Story on this, one of which is this:
Every spring I took a bus to Louisville, then drove with my friends Andrew and Todd from Louisville to New Orleans, starting with the Kentucky Derby and ending at Jazz Fest. We’d sit on the banks of the Mississippi, hop railroad cars, listen to Robert Belfour at the Circle Bar or Anders Osborne at the Rock 'n' Bowl, and stay in hostels for $25 a night. Every year at least one of us was broke.
I find that now, for whatever reason, Belfour is the guy I equate with whatever it is I've idealized about the South and about myself. In fact, this photo of me with him at the Circle Bar has become a symbol of the youth I've lost, my Jungian animus, or something else that I can't yet find a name for.
Here's my personal favorite song of Belfour's, "My Baby's Gone." For all I know he's still alive. I'd love to see and hear him again.