By Michael Rutschky
Published on November 7, 2007
On the afternoon of Sept. 30, I arrived in New Orleans with my friend, Wes, to catch a show by the legendary Norwegian punk band, Turbonegro. I had already been up since 5 a.m., and was looking at being awake until at least the same time the next day.
I took the opportunity to conduct an experiment in mobile gonzo journalism. During the entire trip I used my phone to post micro-blogs of 140 characters or less to www.twitter.com (which sent them to my blog at eCorsair) and send photos to www.flickr.com, in essence creating a Vultures column that people could follow on the Internet as it unfolded in real-time.
I wound up writing 535 words, taking 25 pictures, crossing four states, staying awake for 24 hours straight, and accidentally hitting one girl right on the head two times with my elbow (I felt terrible, but she insisted on standing right under me)! The following is a transcript of the event.
During the Trip:
Vultures over Loxley, Ala.: I swear I saw a woman walking her dog with some kind of genital harness. Vultures over Mrs. Sippy: Discount Tobacco, Beer, and Guns! Actually saw a McDonald’s billboard standing over a church parking lot. Vultures descending on New Orleans: Wes says his dad survived ‘Nam, but is scared to death of this city.
In The French Quarter before the show:
[We just] ducked into a pub called Turtle Bay. [I bought] a single beer to feel more local. I am out of my element in a very nice way. Dark beer and French fries; there’s nothing better. [We’re] awaiting nightfall in the French Quarter. Marilyn Manson said Florida is where you go to die when you’re 80; New Orleans is where you go to die when you’re 18.
Some frat kid tried running up to me and screaming in my face to impress his cronies; I brushed him off with an unamused “oh my” and kept walking. They laughed. Now it’s time to wait for the doors to open.
[We] found a place that serves “fine French absinthe.” We’ll see. Absinthe tastes like black licorice. Obviously it isn’t true absinthe. No green pixies here. The absinthe bar is a tiny pirate’s cove in the back of an alley. The ritual is preserved: burning sugar cubes and all.
[I’m] watching metal cowboys and scarlet pixies mix into the crowd on Bourbon St. Bourbon [Street] has an occult shop called Marie Laveau’s, where I am getting yelled at for almost taking a photo.
Earlier we kept passing the same red fairy mime girl. After the fourth time Wes fell in love and started throwing her bills for pixie dust.
[We just] passed a tall gorgeous woman walking alone. She brushed by and said hello with shame in her voice. [A] lady of the night?
The show:
One Eyed Jack’s: gothic saloon. Earlier I could hear the world’s premier death punk band warming up inside. One Eyed Jack’s Parlor room: classy saloon atmosphere. Cozy, with tables and booths lining the walls. [The] stage is close and low.
Queen of the Stone Age’s bassist has a side project, Mondo Generator. They opened for Turbonegro. They had an okay set, but they were nothing special. Very much destined to remain a side project. [It was] fun for a show, though. No moshing, how weird. A few head banging, mostly people just watched and a few played with their phones. Jack’s lets us stand up on the booths. I have a flawless view of the stage.
Going home:
Ears ringing, voice dead. Turbonegro had the best show ever. [I] threw my shoulder nearly out of joint pumping my fist. A woman standing next to me kept getting unintentionally brained in the head by my sharp elbows after every fist pump. [It looked] bad, but funny. [The] band played two encores. The audience had to lure them out by chanting “I got erection,” the title of their crowd pleaser.
The romance of the French Quarter is lost after you exit and see the real New Orleans. [It] took us 30 min to find the on ramp. [It’s a] scary place. The Vultures on a Carousel have left New Orleans. The circus of scavengers is en route back to Pensacola. Sleep well. I won’t.