A couple years ago, Ash and I made a trip to New Orleans. I am pretty sure it was late JUne.
We stayed in a hotel on the French Quarter so we could eb close to the action at Bourbon Street and the night life. We were looking forward to exploring the place, eating some benet for breakfast and listening to jazz or Cajun music in the evening bars.
We left late morning on foot, wandering through the area armed with our tourist map and sun screen. It was hot... damn hot! The humidity was incredible. We visited voodoo shops for the air conditioning! We chose a restaurant because it looked the coolest. Our walk along side the Mississippi left others wondering which was wetter... the river or the heavy sweating couple form Oklahoma.
Finally, exhausted and drenched, we stumbled upon the famous bar, J Patrick O'Malleys. We wobbled in... ordered the famous Hurricane drink... a tall, red concoction that we drank quickly to quench our parched bodies. The alcohol went straight to my head.
We ended up in one of the many rooms with music. In that particular room, two women played dueling pianos through a collection of pop songs.
Meanwhile, the sweat began to cool against our skin. The Hurricane drink settled blissfully in my brain. and we breathed a collective sigh of relief while we sat exhausted in the piano bar.
Suddenly the two women started the strangest version I have ever heard of a 70's rock classic. The first chords on the piano sounded strangely familiar. "I think they're playing 'FReebird'" I mumbled to Ashley across the table.
AS the two women traded vocals and piano on the Skynard classic, we could only look at each other, grin foolishly and stifle the giggles that seemed to want to spill forth.
For some reason, at that moment, sweaty and dehydrated, O'Malley's Hurricane coursing through my brain, that version of "Freebird" seemd to be the most surreal song I had evebr experienced.
Wail on Ladies... wail on.
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