To capture my mood this morning, just recall the first line of “Little Gidding”:
Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
We stand on the threshold of a new year, ever hopeful, ever ignorant of the language needed to speak new truths.
But I’m not hesitant; nor am I in any way suspicious of what next year might hold. Part of this attitude stems from my life-long habit of retiring before midnight on the last day of the year and part to my total disbelief in the linear nature of time.
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[Instead of delving into the darkest corners of my psyche this morning, I’ll tell the story I’ve been working on of a musician many believe doesn’t actually exist as a single person. This is the precis of a larger piece I’m writing that explores the biography of a musician I believe lives in or near New Orleans. Years of research and interviews haven’t brought me much closer to finding him, much less understanding him, but the evidence of his existence is piling up. I’ve left some editorial notes in for those interested in my sources and further research.]
Local lore in the bayous of south Louisiana has it that “Louie Ludwig” is a myth, a specter that appears now and again in the oldest parts of the old quarters of New Orleans busking for sou—or at least a consortium of musicians that have, through the years, taken on the identity to carry on the musical tradition of playing society’s conscious.
But I know better.
He was actually born in a raised shotgun not far from the final rail trestle at the edge of the Bonnet Carre Spillway. His musical aptitude was recognized early on in the small town of Mauvais Gout, but before he turned six, the place was essentially washed away in a freak flood when a drunk spillway inspector “just wanted to see” how the locks worked. The money originally appropriated for rebuilding was redirected to New Orleans, though, and ended up financing capital improvements in the Treme. [There are, however, partial documents which hint at a strange little local man named E.J. Bellocq—who apparently had a trove of glass plate negatives of local pols—that was the force behind the redirected funds.]
His family having been lost in the flood, Little Louie was taken in by the Sisters of Ursuline in the old quarters, where he was cared for and educated through his 12th year. While extant records report numerous visits to Mother Superior and reports of a “simple dolt more interested in beating pencils on his desk than studying Latin or learning his catechism,” his talents blossomed after he scaled the walls of the home one chilly night in October of that year. [See, e.g., “They Took the Radio” and “Water Tower Road.”] He made money tap dancing on Bourbon Street while playing harmonica. In fact, he’s credited with having been the fist waif to have confronted a tourist with, “Bet you I know where you got them shoes.” It was during these years that Larry Borenstein reportedly ran him off from his club numerous times. Apparently young Louie would yell in at the musicians, “Come on! You gotta add sevenths, man!”
Some say he spent some time in the local lockup back then (see, e.g., “If You Ever Lose Jesus”), but contemporary records from that time were lost following Hurricane Katrina.
While he struggled on the banks of the Old Man in those days, his dream of being a real musician never died; he perfected his art in smoky bars in the Ninth Ward and lower Irish Channel—often playing for beer and po-boys. [Reference “Big Man” and “Not Enough”?] By the time he was 17 he had saved enough for a train to NYC and again he scaled the walls. Destitute, he crashed with a friend of a friend (Louis Reed) and exchanged guitar lessons for a room in a shitty little place in Greenwich Village. [See, e.g., “New York Apartment”]. He even took on a few students to make ends meet: he taught a kid named Robert Zimmerman the harmonica, tutored Carol Klein on the basics of song writing, and gave pointers to Andrew Warhola on the use of an 8mm camera. [Confirm “Highway 61 Memories” reference.]
There is an apocryphal story from the mid-seventies when he was drinking with Maurice Gibb in the Bowery. In that annoying English accent, Maurice was arguing that the “new music” was the natural outgrowth of the discothèque dance music of Paris. Louie commented that Maurry couldn’t speak French for shit and that he should call it “disco” if he wanted to get it on the radio. I understand that to this day Mr. Ludwig regrets having encouraged Maurice; still, the rest is (as they say) history. [See, e.g., “The Man With No Point” and “Shoulda Listened to the Hippies.”]
Growing tired of the scene, he and his buddy, Jim Osterberg struck out for Europe [Ireland first, perhaps—ref. “Clear Across the World”] where they hooked up with a curious guy named David Robert Jones and did some acid or some such stuff that I can’t exactly confirm—but there were spiders involved, some purportedly from Mars, and a bunch of face paint and sequins [see, “La Mort”]. A few years later, pronouncing most European musicians “a bunch of disgruntled punks,” he headed back across the pond, spending some time hiding out in Muscle Shoals, Alabama until he was discovered building an un-permitted music studio [see, “Heading Home” and the flute accents he longingly adds; also, “The Hills that I Love” with the banjo rhythm and “House on a Hill,” which perhaps owes some debt to The Boss].
Having been found out, again he scaled the walls [see, e.g. “I Went Down to Mexico” and the Freudian-rich “The Day My Daddy Swam to Mexico” and perhaps “My Secret Life in Rio”]. I can only surmise that from there he wandered a while—just listen to “Death and the Devil” and “Steppin’ Out in Babylon”—and eventually made his way back to New Orleans. Listening to “My Last Love Affair,” I get the sense he has ceased wandering and has settled in for a while.
While this is as far as I’ve gotten this morning, I will continue my research and update you as facts are revealed.
In the mean time, enjoy the music below (although one will immediately note that “Louie Ludwig” has appeared in not a single video of his work) and enjoy your day. And to end this, “Au Revoir.”
Be good and be kind.
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The word of the day, for December 30, 2016, is:
portents
Clicking on the link above will bring you to a weekly blog post by our very own Officebss on a wonderful site called Flowers for Socrates. This week features various works of a dark and foreboding nature.
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?