`Le Vent Souffle Ou Il Veut (The wind blows where it may) Part 1 New Orleans (Mardi-Gras) - Feb. '74 Blue Oyster Cult w Hydra

It was freezing in Detroit, with a blistering cold, keeping most of us kids confined indoors to basement activities. Hard snow covered the ground, the type that just doesn’t seem to melt and imbues the air with a bitter chill. I had heard about a “Mardi-Gras” in New Orleans from some of my sister's friends, and my interest grew as the month of February dragged on, cold, gray and dreary.

 

My temptation to attend this “Fat Tuesday” festival, eventually got the better of me. Soon I could ignore it no longer, and was excitedly making preparations for what I anticipated would be a most exhilarating journey into our Southern states.

 

I would like to take this moment to mention that in her passing, my dear grandmother, who had been instrumental in the formation of my love for historical lore, had left me a small inheritance. This was, at her bequest, to be utilized by me for world travel. She understood all too well that with my inquisitive nature, traveling would most certainly be beneficial to both my educational and character development. I felt very blessed to have the ability to put these resources to good use early on, and they became a catalyst in dramatically increasing my traveling horizons and experiences.

 

And now, at my still-tender years, I had already traveled to more places by myself than I could have previously dreamed possible. Aside from the excitement of my adventure to Washington D.C., the most stellar trip so far on my highway journeys had been an excursion from Winnipeg, Manitoba to Vancouver, British Columbia on Kings Highway 1 in the summer before my 16th birthday. Traveling the western expanse of Canada had forever impressed upon me the phenomenal, wondrous beauty that is Mother Earth. I was now hopelessly addicted to travel and the many adventures it afforded (thank you again, Grandma!).

 

Although these resources would have afforded me airline passage, I still enjoyed thumbing on occasion due to the sheer pleasure I experienced in meeting fascinating people on the road to my many destinations. My upcoming trip to New Orleans was to be one of those adventures.

 

I had long ago become cognizant of the value of traveling light. Pockets had been sewn inside my Levi jacket for personal items and cash, and my ever trusty map. I also carried a large tote containing clothes and fresh undergarments, along with make-up and other essentials. One good pair of Jeans mixed with various tops would certainly give me fresh look each day, along with whatever else I may purchase during my stay.

 

I left at daybreak. My older sister Betty drove me to the entrance ramp of I-75, amidst a series of Are you sure you are going to be okays. All the while I kept reassuring her, til we finally hugged and said our good-byes, and out into the cold I ventured. With any luck I would be in Cincinnati by noon, and from there I'd veer southwest to Nashville. After that, onward to Memphis, from which it was then a straight shot south to my warm destination.

 

Yes, I had been following the weather reports, and looked forward to escaping into this celebrated French-themed paradise in the South. I would sacrifice stopping to enjoy the sites of Nashville and Memphis, as I wanted to arrive in New Orleans as early as possible, about a week before the festival would be starting. Fortune was with me, and I was successful in getting ride after ride, moving me steadily toward Memphis as the day progressed.

 

Before long I found myself in a small town called Jackson, about 90 miles from Memphis. It had gotten pretty dark outside, and was getting colder by the minute. I began feigning off more than a few disparaging thoughts, as I had not brought anything along offering protection from the elements, neither blanket nor sleeping bag. I was putting my faith in obtaining rides, staying warm while traveling in the cars of my motorized benefactors.

 

As luck would have it, as soon as some cold wet flurries started whirling in the air and my teeth began to chatter, a faded-red Mustang drove past me and slowed to the shoulder. I was rescued! And to my surprise, the girl behind the wheel was heading all the way to Baton Rouge. Wow, such incredible timing—no sooner had I sat inside her car than a snow storm broke loose. Although not too severe, it would have been a disaster for me outside under those conditions.

 

I expressed an exclamation of grateful thanks to my feminine knight in motorized armor. She introduced herself as Janis, and I discerned that she was about four year older than me. As for myself, I had a habit of always telling others that I was 19, so that everyone would consider me of legal age and not some silly such thing as a runaway. We immediately lit up our cigarettes and began conversing about travel and what what our respective lives were like, hers in Louisiana and mine in Michigan.

 

As our conversation continued, I kept getting distracted by the fact that Janis, who was hitting speeds of around 60-65 mph, had yet to turn on her wipers. Melting flurries continually struck her windshield, turning to a steady rain the farther south we drove. Eventually, my nervousness at the lack of visibility was beginning to show.

 

Smiling at me, she said, “I know what you're thinking. I should turn the wipers on, huh?”

 

“Yes!” came my anxious reply.

 

“Only one problem—the wipers don't work. But don't worry, Mischa, I'm used to driving like this,” she stated as we barreled down the freeway. Damn, I thought to myself, we could very well end up in a serious accident! However, still being a young kid, I was, after all, invincible, and kind of accepted this exhilarating potential ramification. But I would be amiss if I did not confide that I was downright frightened to death in a few instances.

 

The snow had now turned to rain, never missing a beat. At our current rate of speed, Janis would be dropping me off quite close to NOLA in a very short time—provided we made it at all. As I said, there were moments when I was in a repressed state of terror, the rain pounding the windshield and my heroine driver slowing for absolutely nothing. However, when morning broke the sun peeked over the clouds to greet us, and we pulled the car into a truck-stop diner for breakfast.

 

Janis and I each knew from our travels to hit the places that the big-wheelers went. Groovy food at fair prices for sure, especially for the hungry highway traveler. After a pleasant fill up of hot coffee and eggs, we were back on the road in great spirits, singing to the radio. Eventually, our paths diverged and we parted ways, she heading to Baton Rouge, I continuing on to New Orleans.

 

It was late that afternoon when I crossed the bridge and beheld the beauty of a city I had until then known only through the descriptions of others. But now, it was oh so very real; I was here!

 

After declining his offer of a “good time,” I bid farewell to the portly gentleman who drove me nearest downtown, exiting his ride at Canal Boulevard. I headed to Canal Street, then onto Ramparts, where in short time I met some other kids here for the festival. We exchanged greetings along with some small talk, and they told me about Jackson Park, which turned out to be the place to hang out, especially for the hippish “street kids”....

 

I began heading in the direction of the French Quarter, where Jackson Square was situated. As I walked, I found myself marveling at the buildings, the wrought iron, the ornate balconies, the assortment of colors—the French architectural influence enthralled me with every direction my eyes gazed. It all seemed designed to accommodate a wonderful street-life atmosphere, to accentuate the beautiful distinctive culture that this city possessed. I loved it!

 

Perhaps by intuition, my sightseeing/strolling found me at the entrance of Jackson Square Park. It was here that I realized the benefits of arriving a week prior to the the actual event. Socializing well into the darkness, I befriended hikers, musicians, and assorted street people, along with a lot of old-timers who appeared to have seen many a Mardi-Gras. I bonded over a bowl of grass with a long-haired hippie named Spider, who turned me on to another girl visitor also in need of nighttime accommodations.

 

Her name was Pam, and she was from Houston. We immediately took a liking to one another. When the subject of LSD came up, she mentioned that she knew someone who sold it. As we felt like trippin', we both went over to this guy's house. He seemed to enjoy our company, and we found his demeanor very friendly.

 

“Girls, you can call me C.J.” is what he told us, and this is how we addressed him. We bought some tabs from C.J., and when he found out that we were both seeking a place to crash he generously offered to let us both stay at his pad. He worked during the day, and as soon as dawn broke we were all up and out of the house. The cool thing was, he had fronted Pam and me some LSD to sell on his behalf while he was at his day job, with a small profit for us.

 

Selling the psychedelics, keeping our cut of the cash, and passing on to him the lion-share of the profits kept C.J. happy enough to allow us to stay over night after night. I loved this arrangement; it was great! Such a fab deal. Seemed I was in a perpetual state of some sort of psychedelic enhancement, walking nearly everywhere within a mile or two of the French Quarter. New Orleans, acid, cool people, bitchin' culture, a place to stay—I was styling!

 

Let me tell you about a few of my hang-out friends. There was Gary, the image of the proverbial hippie. He wore a cool-looking band of pop can pull-tabs linked together around his wide brimmed hat—kind of a lost art. Long straight blondish hair, stubble of unkempt beard, graying slightly, with a lean build. Then there were the twins of around twenty years of age who each played Dylan songs on harmonica. Not a day went by without the park being filled with impromptu groovy music, but these guys were so mind-blowing that they often received standing ovations from those hanging out in the park, as well as the admiration of the straighter establishment types who tipped them as they passed by. As for Spider, he was quite the character and always appeared high on something, to say the least. A Vietnam vet, he wore a long straight black wig and always seemed to take delight in displaying this fact.

 

My morning nutrition was by way of one of the Church kitchens in the French Quarter. This was not my typical manner of enjoying the local cuisine. But, I must give the devil his due, as their beans and coffee were a very filling way to begin another day.

 

Pam and I were getting quite a cool reputation selling “L” (blotter acid). Seems we always had a few extra dollars in our billfolds. Plus, it gave me an inner satisfaction to provide to others the psychedelic-enhanced pleasures of this lovely city. Never a problem had we. There were always plenty of kids wanting to get high, and our interactions produced wonderful vibrations.

 

However, I found that the most marvelous thing about being in NOLA was the Jazz groove. Upon my arrival, I had been expecting to hear the heavy sounds of rock, albeit with some blues influences. I must admit, my exposure to jazz prior to this trip was nearly non-existent. Yet, the magic of this sound soon had me an ardent admirer. This, my friends, was a revelation, especially for someone from Detroit. Much like a religious experience, I was converted. “Praise The Lord!” This was what an earthly journey was meant to offer the inquisitive traveler—an expansion of mind into new and exciting realms of music and life.

 

During the days I still partied with the street kids. But as darkness grew, I found myself gravitating with ever increasing frequency to the sounds emanating from the clubs lining the streets of the French Quarter. My modelesque height, along with the company of my more mature gentlemen friends, allowed me passage into most any of the clubs, where I enjoyed the sounds of the empyrean blues and rhythmic jazz well through the night and into the dawn.

 

I must admit that I did engage in some intimate escapades with my mature benefactors. These encounters enriched my knowledge in the realm of erotic delights, and I remember with fondness my baptism into those southern refinements to this day.

 

On the other hand, I learned a dramatic lesson from a reckless encounter with some mood elevators which succeeded in curtailing my use of recreational drugs from that point on. It was near the final days of the festival; Pam and I had just sold the last of our LSD and were partying on Bourbon Street. We were both primed to see BOC at the Warehouse that evening, and most of our hipster friends were beginning to head in that direction. But on our way to the venue, we met a couple of cool-looking guys a few years our senior. We exchanged introductions, and quick as a flash, one guy had fired up a joint while the other returned with some hurricanes from a nearby vendor.

 

“Drink up, girls. Happy Mardi Gras!”

 

It was serendipitous how easy everything seemed to come—pot, alcohol, and more. One of the guys reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out some capsules he called yellow-jackets. He handed a couple to me and told me to take two, and without giving it a second thought, I did....

 

I was coming to, emerging from a hazy fog...kissing someone—who?—now kissing someone else...then fading out again. I'm not sure how much time passed as I faded in and out of consciousness in this manner—at some point I was aware of arriving at the concert, but too late to see Hydra, the opening act. I was surrounded by kids smoking and drinking, just having a good time during the intermission. I knew I was about to see BOC live, right there on the stage, and I felt ecstatic at the thought.

 

Then the moment everyone was waiting for had arrived. The announcer walked onto center stage as a huge “Hooray” filled the auditorium...the lights grew dimmer, and suddenly I felt myself growing faint yet again.... I do recall hearing the announcer's voice as he yelled enthusiastically out to the crowd: “On your feet for the amazing Blue Oyster Cult!”...and as the first note of the band's opening number resounded loudly in the air—face first to the floor I crashed.

 

I awoke the next morning at a large party where everyone was in some form of near nakedness, sleeping or passed out, with only a few stirring. Damn! I didn't remember how I got there or anything of what had happened. I quickly snatched up my clothes, put them on, and quietly exited the house.

 

I was so disappointed that I had missed BOC in NOLA the night before. I made a personal vow that I would never again risk my well-being in such a reckless fashion of over-indulgence with pills and liquor. My remaining time in the French Quarter was spent relaxing safely, and when the final day of Mardi Gras had concluded, I, like many others, began my migration home.

 

Missing Blue Oyster Cult's New Orleans show was not something I was proud of. Thus, as soon as I arrived home, I began making plans to attend a BOC concert elsewhere.... This was to occur in California after the summer of this most adventurous year!

 

End of Part 1 

Story is an excerpt from, The Incredible Adventures of Mischa