Voodoo Fest: A Road Trip to New Orleans Vol. I

I always said, if Rage Against the Machine ever got back together I would drive to the end of the fuckin Earth to see that show - in 2007 the Earth ended in New Orleans. I was a senior in college when Rage announced they would reunite and headline the infamous Voodoo Festival. Without any hesitation me and some buddies bought tickets for all three days of the monumental gathering of music, culture, and soul which was Voodoo Fest. Countless bands would rock the multi-stage set-up in the center of the historic City Park, but none more important to me than Rage and Ben Harper, respectively. If you are not familiar with the most prolific and in-your-face band of all time, Rage has had more of an apparent influence on my voice than any other band. And, for that matter, Ben Harper might be a close second. I had seen Mr. Harper at Botanical Garden in Australia two nights in a row and, up until this point, it was the most profound musical experience of my young life. We had no clue where we were staying in New Orleans, but needless-to-say I wasn’t about to miss this shit.

About a week before the concert we found out that Fat Tony’s aunt, who lived in New Orleans, had arranged for us to stay at her boyfriend’s apartment downtown. This guy had a Doctorate in history or something and worked as a fucking curator at the museum - to say the least the guy was a nerd. Whatever, fuck it, we needed a place to stay and he had even graciously agreed to sleep elsewhere, so we had the place all to our selves. Tony and I not only grew up together, we were also in the same frat in college - the other two guys, Schwartzanerd and P-Murder, were friends from back home, and we were all die-hard Rage fans. We met-up in the City Fat Tony and I attended undergrad at, and set off in the Rover around eleven PM. It was a Thursday night, big party night in college, and I had decided it made perfect-sense to go to the bars before our journey to the promise land. Hell, I didn’t have to drive until the fourth leg of the trip anyways. When Schwartzanerd and P-Murder arrived we all took a few minutes out of our unscheduled-time to rip the shit out of the bong. We had about an ounce of various fruity-named kind bud sacks between us, and of course we stopped on the way outta town to grab a few thirty packs of Miller Lite and a firth of Jack Daniels- fuck it, anything worth doing, is worth doing right…

Our first stop along the sixteen hour drive was at a gas station in Memphis, Tennessee. We had been drinking-and-driving for a bit so we flooded into that place, around one AM, like a bunch of rednecks into a gun show- screaming and wailing obscenities, covering all corners of the store like some sorta fucked-up-alien-plague. I don’t think it was quite what the shop keep was accustomed to seeing at that hour. I believe he made reference to this point, but we were in no mood for conversation. I remember being astonished that we had already made it to the Home of the King. Elvis is one of the more interesting characters in American Folklore and his likeness adorned half the worthless shit in this well-equipped house of petroleum. If you want to know about the culture- or at least blatant stereotypes- of any given demographic, look no further than their local truck stop… In the end we decided on aviator sunglasses, cowboy hats, a 3-disc B.B. King Greatest Hits CD and a fist full of Five Hour Energies.

We kept on the journey, switching drivers when one grew weary or just bored. The atmosphere was more like a tour bus than an average road trip and the booze, weed, Rock N Roll and tall tales would continue for the remainder of the trip. I had been attempting to sober-up as I was slated to drive from Jackson, Mississippi all the way in to New Orleans; however we had agreed to stop and get a decent breakfast in Jackson. The only problem was, we were making great time and no one wanted to impede at this point. This was all fine-and-dandy with the waste houses passed out in the back seat, but I was still drunk and didn’t exactly feel like jumping behind this Urban Assault Vehicle. We attempted to stop for food at my demand, but it was somewhere around six AM and nothing tolerable was open. Fuck. Looks like I’m driving from Jackson to New Orleans on no sleep and a shit load of booze. Hell of a way to start a trip. Pass me that bowl of weed bro, gotta neutralize…

The drive into New Orleans was like nothing I had ever seen. Have you been on the highways in Louisiana? There in the fuckin water. Seriously. In. The. Fuckin. Water. It’s like a highway on stilts built up through the Bayou- and I was still pretty intoxicated. Now, I have been driving around drunk for quite some time- I grew up in the suburbs- but these were some damned hazardous conditions for me. The Sheeple on their way to the-daily-grind are just whizzing by at like ninety mph, and don’t get me wrong I love to speed, but I’m drunk and we’re driving on some kinda extended-drawbridge of concrete and steel. I didn’t enjoy the anxiety I had to feel at that juncture, so I decided to impart my misfortunes on the others. I proceeded to abruptly crank-up the music to absurd volumes without warning, or roll down the windows my buddies’ heads were resting on- just to keep everyone awake and in a state of constant uncertainty like me.

When we arrived in New Orleans it was early morning and the city, post-Katrina, looked absolutely extraordinary, as full of life and jubilant as it had ever been. The other fellas’ were at least decently rested, and though I hadn’t slept in a day or so I was running on pure Gonzo adrenaline- as I often do in these situations. Since we were staying downtown we decided to check out our crash-pad and get some good down-home Na’ Lens food for lunch. The place was a pack-rats dream. I had suspected this however- the dude was a thirty-some-year-old curator of a history museum. Let’s just say he wasn’t exactly screaming, come back to my place and we’ll put on a classy record.  We dropped our shit off and were out the door. No need to stay at a place like that except to crash. The City was alive.

We went to a pub to pick up some classic creole cuisine. I love the culinary arts and always jump at an opportunity to experience a new culture of food. We ordered everything: alcohol of course, oysters in a half shell, clams, crawfish, catfish, crab cakes, soft-shell crabs, et to fays, gumbos, jambalayas  and a shit-load of hush puppies… you think I’m fuckin with you? When we go, damnit, we go all out. We had platters of this-and-that coming our way, all intertwined with hurricanes and hand grenades- classic New Orleans drinks. This had to be at like eleven AM and the funny thing was- no one in New Orleans seemed to notice. We went to college in the Bible Belt, and where we’re from this show would have attracted an audience anytime of the day. This pretty much set the tempo for the rest of our stay in, what would quickly become, one of my favorite cities. After walking home, it was pass-out time. We would need our sleep in order to properly experience Rage Against the Machine later that evening...

I couldn’t sleep - unlike the rest of the guys. I drifted in-and-out between episodes on the South Park DVD I brought, but there is no real rest for the wicked. Say what you want about me, but Gonzo adrenaline is a frighteningly-real phenomenon that the Average Joe can’t even begin to comprehend. I lived in Australia for awhile, and when I first arrived I slept only nine hours in the first five days- this is another story- but the point is, in these types of situations I’m more likely to rob an arts and crafts store than sleep my day away on some historian’s couch. I soon roused the rest of the troops with a fifth of Sailor Jerry in one hand and a kind-blunt in the other- Rage ‘Wake Up’ cranked on my portable stereo system.