Preservation Hall Jazz Band

The name was quaint: "Preservation Hall". It had a dignified ring to it, like Carnegie Hall, but also a comical note which reminded me of preserved pickles. On Monday when we came to see the 8pm show, the line at 7.30pm extended an entire one block. So on Saturday we came at 6pm and patiently waited 2 hours out in the cold to get front seats. At 8.00 pm the iron gates opened with a clang, and we were ushered into a tiny, dilapidated room with yellowing walls, faded oil paintings of jazz musicians, and wooden ceiling fans. On one end of the room, a silent assembly of the piano, drum, bass, and three antique wooden chairs for the brass players stood waiting, lit by dim yellow light bulbs. The place was magical. It was exactly like it used to be when the first jazz musicians played here decades ago. It was perfectly preserved.

We all sat on long wooden benches or floor cushions. The band was smooth, laid-back, soulful, and amazing in every way, but the real kick was when the trumpeter sang. I've heard many singers with better voices, but this was something else. Without microphone, he stood up and sang to us like he was telling a story. He sang the blues the way Shakespeare plays used to be done in small medieval theaters. Then he sang "St James Infirmary" by Louis Armstrong, and I was spellbound.

"I went down to St. James Infirmary
I saw my baby there,
She's laid out on a cold white table,
So so cold, so white, so fair.

Let her go, God bless her,
Wherever she may be

She may search this wide world over
She'll never find a sweet trumpet player like me."