Tom Chute on Hurricane Katrina, Washboard Lissa, Frenchy, and more

“I came back after Katrina as soon as I could, the beginning of October. After I cleaned up my own place, the first thing I did was drive around town, looking at all the devastation. On the news they had been saying, ‘New Orleans is destroyed. 80% of the city. It’s not going to come back.’ People were debating whether it should be allowed to come back. The talking heads on the national news. I thought, “Let me see what it’s like down at the old clubhouse.” I cruised down Frenchmen, and everything was closed up. Then I came by the Apple Barrel, and the bartender, Jimmy May, was there. He had the bleach, and he was mopping it out. He saw me, and he said, “Tom, we’ve gotta put a band together. We’re going to be open tomorrow night.”

– Tom Chute (musician)

TC : (continued from above)… When people started opening up there on Frenchmen, there were almost no musicians here. Nobody had come back yet. So we had to just form bands with whoever was around. I was getting calls from people that I’ve never played with before, and they were like, “Can you be here in half an hour?” That’s how I ended up playing with Lissa (“Washboard” Lissa Driscoll). Roberto Luti called me and said, “We need a drummer tonight,” or something. And that was it.

I came down back down not knowing what it would be like, if I would even be able to keep living here. Luckily, my place wasn’t flooded. It had some roof damage, but it didn’t flood. There were cops driving around everywhere. I was worried about my livelihood—mostly playing on Frenchmen Street—about what was going to happen with all these bars. To see Jimmy May mopping up the Apple Barrel … Wow. He said, “Go down to the park, Washington Square park, they have a soup kitchen set up.”

I drove down there, and the Red Cross had a big soup kitchen set up and the Jazz Vipers were playing in the park. Members of the Jazz Vipers, four of them or something. It was all these FEMA workers and National Guard people, and they’re eating red beans and rice in the park and listening to the Jazz Vipers. I was just like—my soul was at ease. I felt this overwhelming reassurance that New Orleans wasn’t made up of these structures, all its infrastructure. New Orleans is the people, the spirit of the people. Just seeing that in the park that day, I said to myself, “Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to rebuild this.”

It was beautiful. After that, I didn’t ever doubt whether we were going to come back. Eventually, the Musicians’ Village and all that came up. I was really excited about being a part of the rebuilding.

On Washboard Lissa (Driscoll):

There was a funny time with Lissa… well, every gig with Lissa always had something funny going on. Playing with her was always an adventure. She got kicked out of every bar we played in, I think. Almost. I think St. Roch Tavern was the only place that didn’t ever give us the boot. A lot of times it would be drama with one of her boyfriends.

After she and Roberto (Luti) broke up, she had a string of guys who were bad news. They’d show up at the gigs, create drama, they’d be drunk and argue, the cops would be called… Then we’d lose the gig.

She was just so pure and didn’t have any filter. She couldn’t be anything but honest, which was both good and bad. I quit playing with her for a year, didn’t speak to her for a year. I was going through my divorce at the time. Sometimes she would just lash out at people when she was in a bad mood. I had played with her for several years and seen it a lot, but never directed towards me.

This one night—I think she and Roberto were going through their breakup at the time—they were drunk, she was aggravated and lashing out at people. She just turned around to me, and said something. I don’t even remember what it was, but it’s something to do with the divorce and it really got to me. I just packed up my drums and left, the only time I’d ever done that, and I didn’t speak to her for a whole year.

She had this ability to see. She could look at you, and she could see what the thing to say or do that would most uplift you. At the same time, she could see what would hurt you the most. It hurt me so bad whatever she said, it’s funny now that I don’t even remember. In hindsight, it was more of a reflection of the place she was in.

But then we kissed and made up a year later at a gig. She showed up at one of my gigs, gave me this smile and I just couldn’t resist her anymore. 

Yeah, she could really read people. There was a time we were playing in the Apple Barrel and this producer–gosh, I wish I could remember his name. Gene. This guy Gene, he owns this record company called Adelphi Records and he was responsible for recording some of the old country blues artists. Sleepy John Estes and some people like that. Mississippi John Hurt. Some of their last recordings. In the ’60s when those guys had faded out and people had forgotten about them, he came around, recorded them and documented them at the end of their lives. 

Historically, he became important in documenting the history of blues. He comes in to a gig with Lissa at the Apple Barrel. We played some Sleepy John Estes tune then he goes, “I produced his last recording,” after we finished the song.

Without missing a beat, Lissa just lit into him and was, “Yes, and you probably never paid him a dime. You probably ripped him off just like you did everybody.” She didn’t even know who he was, but she could see it in him. He got super defensive, stood up, and they ended up being like, “Fuck you. Fuck you bitch.” He and his girlfriend or wife stormed out. Then I found out years later who it was, and it was pretty funny.

Lissa was a really magical person to play with. I’ve always been drawn to playing with people who are honest in their music. Lissa and Coco Robicheaux, they never played any song where they didn’t really identify with the lyrics, that hadn’t lived some part of that. Playing blues with somebody like that is a really deep experience. For me, it was a very cathartic and very healing process.

I didn’t ever know what it was going to be like. Each night could be more chaotic than another, but it was always a healing experience. Many times, I saw Lissa cry while she played on stage. If it was a sad song and it really connected with her she would just let that out. I think that’s part of what made Frenchmen Street, that you had artists that were willing—and some still are, I don’t want to speak in the past tense. Artists here are given a platform where they’re able to share part of their soul, and the main intention isn’t always necessarily to entertain the audience, it’s to actually share a piece of yourself as an artist. If you do that in an honest way, that resonates with the people.

On working as a Frenchmen Street musician:

I think that in other musical hotspots around the country, even maybe on Bourbon Street to some degree, there’s this unspoken pressure on musicians to entertain first. You don’t hear a lot of new original new music. You hear a lot of people trying to play what’s modern and hip now. These cover bands learn the hits as they keep churning them out.

Here, that’s not really of the utmost importance. I think it’s because it developed in a local way. Before Frenchmen became a real hotspot, I think a person who was a singer/songwriter and had original music was more likely to get a gig at one of these places. Trying to hustle down on Bourbon Street, they say, “Oh don’t you know ‘Brown Eyed Girl’?” or whatever.

Here, you could play your own music. Even though the pay was come and go, it provided a space for that. I think that’s a huge part of what Frenchmen Street is.

That’s changed a little bit now. When I first came here in 2000, you had to ask around. If you were a tourist staying in the French Quarter and you went to Bourbon Street, you’re only hearing things like Journey. Ask maybe a doorman or a cab driver, “Hey where do I hear the local music, New Orleans music?” Local people would direct you to Frenchmen Street.

After Katrina at some point, the city embraced Frenchmen Street. The city hadn’t really recognize it before; it was a little bit of a sketchy area. Before Katrina, I remember reading official things from the city that were aimed at tourists saying not to go outside the French Quarter, basically. Saying don’t go into the Treme, don’t go past Esplanade.” I remember after Katrina, I was doing a gig at a hotel and they had a pamphlet in the lobby for tourists. I picked it up and sure enough it was like, “Second only to Bourbon Street is Frenchmen Street. Make sure and check it out.”

I think that change was affected by Anderson Cooper, who broadcast live from in front of The Spotted Cat a few times after the storm. And the Treme show, which had several scenes and stuff down here on Frenchmen. A lot of people had never heard of Frenchmen Street, and then they see that and they go, “Honey, we should go to New Orleans, and we got to go to Frenchmen Street, go to that one club and all that.” I noticed a difference in the crowd.

Also, as a musician, I notice that even though the crowds have gone up in the quantity, they’ve gone down in quality. Not as far as being people, but as far as monetarily. In the old days, you were more likely to get a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar. You might have a smaller crowd and it might be half people you know—they’re friends, or they’re other musicians or whatever—and you know you’re not going to get much money. But then maybe it really touches somebody, or somebody who works offshore and is in for a little while puts $100 in your tip jar.

Now, it seems like you’ve got a ton of people down here but you’re pulling teeth to get a dollar from them. They’re getting hit up for dollars everywhere they go. A little more hustle-bustle and a little less relaxed.

On the Apple Barrel bench:

Another thing, I don’t know if anybody talked about the bench in front of the Apple Barrel? There was always a bench in front of the Apple Barrel. Even when one would get old and break down, they would replace it with a new one. [Taking it away] was a sign to people, I think , that, “Wait, the scene’s disappearing.”

It used to have this clubhouse atmosphere. Even if you didn’t know everybody, you knew them by sight. You didn’t know their name maybe, but you just saw them all the time, so you felt a bit like it was a clubhouse, the whole street, or that it was an array of clubhouses and that you had a membership to every one of them.

That was the vibe I always got. The bench was representational of that and that it was a spot where you could always find somebody hanging out. Oftentimes Coco would be sitting on the bench, or some musician, or somebody, would be sitting there just hanging out and it would create a little scene. You’d have people sitting on the bench together talking. Talking about the news of the day.

When Apple Barrel switched hands, the new owners didn’t want the bench because homeless people were hanging out on it. In the old days, until recently, the bartenders who worked there were always really good about keeping the homeless people from taking over the bench. They would come out from behind the bar and say, “Hey, you can’t sleep there.” When the place switched over, they got all new bartenders and the new bartenders just weren’t aware that that was part of the job.

I think a lot of the changes that people don’t like maybe are rooted in miscommunication. Things switched hands, and then the ideas and concepts weren’t really handed down. Even though the Apple Barrel is still called the Apple Barrel, it’s not the same place that it was before. You could argue that about a lot of the places. 

On murder, drugs, and other crazy things:

There were some crazy things that happened down here too. There was a murder around the corner, and they burned the guy’s body to try to cover up the evidence. There was a guy that everybody knew who was a DJ down here. He lived around the corner there by Café Brasil. Somebody broke into his place and robbed him. He knew who it was. Then they found [the robber’s] body on the sidewalk just outside the guy’s place and he had to split town.

I don’t know if you know of the story of Willie Bynum. René Coman from the Iguanas interviewed him recently on his podcast. This cat named Willie Bynum, a guitar and mandolin player and a Frenchmen street musician, got into a dispute with this famous gangster named Frenchy, who’s known as Mr. New Orleans. He was an enforcer and pimp for the mob back in the day and lived to tell about it. There was a big famous book written about him called Mr. New Orleans.

He and Willie were living in the same house and got into this crazy dispute where Frenchy had stolen his stuff and sold it. Willie ended up killing Frenchy. Stabbed him to death. In self-defense, that’s what he says. He just got out of prison a couple of months ago or something. He did only three years, but they ended up not prosecuting him and just gave him a deal.

There is also a blues’ guitarist named Billy Gregory who doesn’t live in town anymore. He just moved a couple of years ago. He was a long-time musician here. Played for decades. He was walking by Checkpoint Charlie and one of the gutter punks who was singing out there started talking with him. I think the guy’s girlfriend said something like, “Oh, I like your guitar” or “I like your hat,” or something like that. The boyfriend got mad and tried to reach to take it from Billy. Billy pulled out a gun and shot him.

He didn’t die. He was hospitalized, of course, but it didn’t kill him. That was not too long ago, maybe within the past four or five years.

Then there are tons of drug stories. Crazy stuff. It was a lot of crazier back in the day as far as the green rooms. Some places don’t even have green rooms as they used to have anymore, but there were some wild parties.

I was hanging out in the green room one time on break from a gig between sets, and somebody walks in. He dumps a huge bag of cocaine out on the table, like this big baggy full, a huge pile. I just stood up and walked out of the room immediately, because I already felt my heart racing. I didn’t even touch the stuff, and I could already feel like the energy from it. I’ve never seen that much coke ever before for free. I guess I can say that was back in the day at the Spotted Cat. Different owners now.

Sometimes there would be a wild scene on the street too. Back before the Dat Dog was there, that was a vacant lot, and there’d be circus performers that would come to town. They would put on little shows there—fire-dancing, acrobatics, all kinds of stuff.

On some of the changes that are actually cool:

Another thing that’s changed a great deal is that before it was just a music scene, but now you’ve got the art market, and you’ve got people doing the typewriters on the sidewalk thing, and you’ve got the people pulling up with their grills on their trailer behind their trucks and cooking out on the corner. None of that was going on before.

I’m trying to think what year it started transitioning. A couple years after Katrina you started seeing more people selling art, selling things on the sidewalk. Then it just blossomed from there and turned into the art market and things like that. 

Before that, it was just music and there was no place to get food. Late at night, if you’re playing a gig after ten o’clock, or really after nine, because at that time plenty of places closed earlier too. Mona’s closed earlier. If you wanted food, there was really no place. When I first came here, I was a vegetarian. There was only one vegetarian restaurant in town called Old Dog New Trick. They were in the Quarter in Pirates Alley but then they eventually moved to where 13 is. The only vegetarian restaurant in town was here on Frenchmen for a little while.

But it was horrible. It was the worst. I was a vegetarian for 11 years and that was the worst vegetarian food I’ve ever had. I tried everything on the menu. The only thing they got right was the drinks. The tea and stuff would be fine. They had a tofu sandwich that was just toasted wheat bread with a slab of tofu, and a tomato and lettuce on it. They did not marinate it, or season it, or anything. It was just like this slab. It was disgusting. The bread would be all dry. I was like, “Oh, God. What the hell is this?” 

It’s cool to see now that there’s more food options and more late-night options here in a wider variety. People talk about gentrification down here, but I think the spirit of it is still alive. That spirit is probably still greater than the Chicken Shack [Willie’s Chicken Shack] and whatever. Yes, it’s a sign of the changes, but that happens with everything. Everything starts as a nice, little, cool, secret. Then enough people find out about the cool secret, and now there’s a Starbucks where the cool secret used to be. It’s just part of the cycle.

Some final thoughts:

Everyone’s been talking about where the next Frenchmen street is, right? Where is the next Frenchmen street going to be? Maybe you could do a research project on that. 

I think it’ll happen very organically, and I’m sure it will happen the same way.  We’ve people who say, “Oh, St. Claude,” and “St. Bernard.” I’m sure it’ll just happen naturally, somewhere that looks like a sketchier area, where nobody is making a lot of money at the gigs. The crowd is mostly your friends and other musicians and all that. Then, eventually, the word will get out, “It’s cool. Go check out the place.” You know what I mean?

You’ve got to just enjoy it. When we see those things, we’ve just got to enjoy them for the time that we have them.