“NOLAmericana” rocker Lynn Drury is one of New Orleans’ best known and most soulful singer-songwriters. Originally from Mississippi, she’s been in town and playing on Frenchmen since the ‘90s.
EARLY DAYS (Checkpoint Charlie’s, Darby, the Apple Barrel)
Lynn Drury: I moved here in ‘95. I had a degree in business, and I was working with Volunteers of America. I was getting up at 7:00 every morning, working 8:00 to 4:30 in Metairie, then going out and playing five nights a week. Mainly at Checkpoint Charlie’s, which is where I met Darby and started singing back-up with him. I used to play a Sunday barbecue at Checkpoint’s—that was around 1998. Every Sunday: it was one of my first weeklies.
Darby’s the one who had us play Dream Palace, and then all those Apple Barrel hangs… I met Jimmy—you know, “Gerber Baby”—Jimmy Scott, and I’ve known Ken Swartz since then. Mike Hood, Lani Ramos, Marc Stone I all knew in ‘98. I met Marc when he had little dreadlocks, when he was a little 20-something. We were all in our twenties. We would end up at Apple Barrel, and if Apple Barrel closed down, then we all headed toward Checkpoint’s, which was like ground zero for us.
MORE ON FRENCHMEN VENUES (+ thoughts on venues and genre)
LD: There was DBA, Blue Nile, Apple Barrel, and Café Brasil used to be a really fun hang.
Bamboula’s was a print shop. Sometimes I’m in there and it feels crazy—I’m like, “I used to get copies made here!” It’s got the same ceiling it used to. And it was just piled with crap everywhere. It was a narrow space. And Three Muses was around. I would play there occasionally.
I never really played Apple Barrel—it was always blues there. Roberto and Lissa would play every Monday, and that was a hang.
There wasn’t a real rock-and-roll place. You had Latin at Brasil. You had jazz [at Snug Harbor and others]. There wasn’t really a place for people like me, who just wanted to rock and roll or do country. There’s never really been a place for songwriters in New Orleans. It’s stupid to be here! [Laughter] But there’s a lot of inspiration that happens here, and that’s why we’re here.
[After brief reconsideration] Well I mean, at Checkpoint Charlie’s you could play anything, ever, that you ever wanted.
BRIEF ASIDES ABOUT VENUES’ HISTORIES (BLUE NILE, BAMBOULA’S)
“WHEN WAS FRENCHMEN THE BEST?”
LD: I guess the heyday, for me, was probably ‘99 to 2003 or 2004. I was making a lot of music then. It was around ‘99 that I first played DBA. That was when I joined the band—“Lynn Drury and Bad Mayo”—and we started writing. I did two records with them, between 2000 and 2003. We were at DBA regularly.
KATRINA
LD: It was the storm that made me go completely music, full-time. I was on the road traveling, and I played solo everywhere. That’s when I started doing New Orleans music. I had never done that before, then in the wake of everything I felt like, “Ok, I have a duty to bring you a little bit of New Orleans.” So I played a few Irma Thomas songs, Mardi Gras tunes…
THE BENCH
LD: I remember sitting with Coco in front of the Apple Barrel on the bench. And he would give me all this great advice that I couldn’t understand [because it was so loud]—like, “What? What was that?” But I knew it was good, and I knew he felt me, you know? So yeah, that was really sweet.
There weren’t a lot of people [on Frenchmen]. There weren’t nearly as many as there are now, and it was mostly musicians. By the time 2 or 3 a.m. hit, it was just us, and we all migrated to one club, probably the Apple Barrel. We’d all gotten off work, and we all would walk down there, and everybody would sit in. And it would be just us, and that was a beautiful thing.
THE MATADOR, THE MAGIC SHOW, AND KINGSWAY STUDIO
LD: I remember the Matador, which wasn’t even on Frenchmen. [It’s where BMC is now, right across Esplanade from Checkpoint’s, so it’s close enough for this archive….] It was the Matador and then it became Harry Anderson’s Magic Show. He bought it and had his own magic show: all the windows were covered by red curtains—blacked out—so you couldn’t see inside. Couldn’t see the show. You had to buy a ticket to get inside. I think that only lasted for maybe a couple of years.
And then you had Kingsway next door. People would come through and record these big albums, and then they’d go to the Matador and hang out and drink. It was back when I used to go see Royal Fingerbowl; they had a weekly at the Matador. You had the stage at the back, where the bar is now, and then this big circle bar with these high booths all around, where the booth back would come way up…
They played early—at 2pm or 3pm or something, 3p to 6pm or something weird—and I would take my book in there and sit in the back booth and listen. And I would write. I would write my lyrics, write poetry, write whatever. I used to do that a lot. In fact, I think I’m gonna start doing that again, just be the weirdo writing in the bar. Because it did not seem weird at the time!
DON’T BEAT UP YOUR BOYFRIEND IN FRONT OF THE SPOTTED CAT
LD: I think it was 2003, probably. 2002, I don’t remember. But I beat the shit out of my boyfriend, in front of DBA. It was great! That’s probably why I don’t get to play at DBA as much as I used to. [laughter]
Int: He deserved it, at least?
LD: Yeah, he deserved it! It was a year or two late but… he totally deserved it. Keeping the bar open ‘til 5am, playing to one woman til 5am with no other person in the bar—during Jazz Fest! I’m stranded. And the bar kept feeding me—that’s when I drank bourbon and cokes. Don’t ever drink bourbon and coke…
Yeah, so, pint glasses of whiskey coke until five in the morning, from 11 to 5. I was just out of it, I was blacked out. I’m ready to go, I was ready to go home two hours ago. And then the bar manager finally walked up and was like, “What the fuck are y’all doing? Get the fuck off the stage, the bar is closed.”
They were just terrible. Making it horrible for us, the one bartender and the manager. It was… ugh. But don’t beat your boyfriend up in front of the Spotted Cat! It’s not cool. [laughter]
I have a flash memory of being out there like, “Gimme the key! Gimme the keys!” and this guy walks up and is like, “Dude, just give her the keys.”
That’s my horrible story of Frenchmen Street. Not long after that, it was all a different story. I’m sure a few people saw that, and it’s not one of my proudest moments…
“Dude, just give her the keys.” …Jesus.
ROBERTO LUTI AND ADE’S TOOTHBRUSH
LD: Café Brasil was cool ‘cause Adé is so fuckin’ eccentric and fucking fabulous and flamboyant.
I was mad because he got to Roberto [Luti] before I did, when Roberto got deported and sent back to Italy. It took me a month of planning to get over there and stay with Roberto, to figure out how to get the dog over. And then when I finally arrived, it turned out Adé had been there for two weeks. He split right the day before I got there. (Actually, how Adé met up with Roberto was also wild. He went to Europe and he traveled around to other countries, I don’t remember where, but he knew the town that Roberto was from, so he went to Livorno, small Italian town on the sea, south of Pisa, and just went to the main drag record store and asked about him. Of course his father lived just down the street, and they found him. Amazing.)
And here I am, a year later, living with Roberto in Italy, and I’m cleaning, and I’m throwing out this toothbrush underneath the cabinet. And Roberto says, “No.”
I’m like, “What?”
“No. It’s Adé’s toothbrush. I will not let you throw out that toothbrush.”
I was like, are you fucking kidding me? You’re keeping a used toothbrush from Adé—are you insane? [laughter] But he wanted so much to cling to the memory of New Orleans, you know? It broke him so… It broke him completely to have to leave, after nine years in New Orleans where he learned English and played on the street everyday, and just loved the city. With Lissa, and then later he and I had gotten together, in like 2007.
He was banned [from the country] for ten years. So 2018, he was allowed to come back, and I put together a big show for him at Chickie Wah Wah. Andy J Forest, Washboard Chaz, Ken Swartz. He was in all of those bands, and my band.
ROBERTO’S DEPORTATION STORY
LD: He lived with Lissa and it was kind of a flop house situation. There was seven people that lived there, and the rent was only $500, so it was cheap for everybody… You had a lot alcoholic people, addicts… But you had to have electricity and had to have it in somebody’s name, and none of them could get it together to—well, they got it in somebody’s name who had jumped probation. A drug dealer guy, I think.
So when this guy jumped, they came and busted down the door, and they found everybody there. Roberto still had his accent. They were so mean to him. They were like, “We need everybody’s ID,” or whatever, and they tell him, “Oh, lemme guess, you lost it in Katrina.”
He had been living here illegally. He had a three month visa, and he just fell in love with the music. In 1999, he moved here and he loved the music so much he couldn’t leave. Meg—you know André and Meg Bouvier? She has a story about being at the Howlin’ Wolf—the old Howlin’ Wolf, I think it’s the Republic now? Anyways, they were in the green room, it was open mic night, it was like 10pm, and Roberto’s returning flight back to Italy was 11:30 or something like that, and [Roberto] was about to go on stage. And she says, “Don’t you have a flight to catch?” And he’s says, “Nope. Not going.” And he got on stage and played his ass off! She said it was amazing.
And that was it, he made his decision: wasn’t going back. And his parents… I mean, he missed his grandmother’s funeral, you know? He missed a lot of things. It wasn’t easy. He couldn’t fly home. He was playing Jazz Fest every year and his parents would always fly in and spend a month or so, stay in the little hotel right around the corner from his house in Treme’. And his brother came here once actually, and we went on the road, me, him, and his brother. Simone’ played bass. We did that in 2008, or maybe 2007—right before he got picked up.
Now he’s back in Italy, and he’s not hurting. Just jammed with Joss Stone—you know, he’s with the Playing for Change band—so he’s doin’ alright. [Laughter] It all worked out.
CHANGES ON FRENCHMEN
LD: Before a few years ago, we would always say to tourists if we met them out somewhere else we’d say, “Oh, you have to come out to Frenchmen Street! It’s where the locals go.” So that was— and then they all came. And now it’s not a local hang anymore! I actually walked down the street the other day and I was surprised that I knew two people. But it was packed, and I just feel like a fish outta water, you know?
There always used to be that hippie drum circle in that intersection. And you would have to stop your car and get out and enjoy the parade. Enjoy the music!
I had moved to Memphis after Katrina, and when I was here for Mardi Gras right afterwards—it was 2007—I remember sitting at the Apple Barrel thinking, “It’s done. It’s over.” Because there was a police officer out there, and traffic was not stopping. I was like, “That’s the death right there.” And I saw it happen! I was watching, thinking, “Wow. Just stop, and get out, and enjoy.” Why were they letting cars through there anyway?!”
It used to be that you could try to make it through Royal Street on Frenchmen, but you were probably just going to turn your car off and get out and enjoy the parade, or the drum circle, or whatever. It was those things where imposing law and order kind of doesn’t make any sense. It’s like those people who move to a neighborhood known for live music and complain about live music.
Int: Exactly. So… that was just after Katrina you noticed the drum circle had changed?
LD: It happened every year, right? There was always these crazy, hippie rainbow people. Deadheads, for lack of better word. They’d start this big drum circle, and it would spill into those four corners of the street, right, they would be in the center. And you couldn’t get down Frenchmen and you couldn’t come drive through. And people would just stop the car and get out. I mean I vaguely remember being in DBA and having people parade through with drums and have to stop, you know? And it’s like, “Oh, they’re just doing the train through the club” and then they’re gone! And it was like, “Oh, oh!” Having fun, you know, join in and enjoy. But…
But in the “last bohemia” now, it seems more control is happening. And it’s kinda… Yeah. If you keep pushing people to the edges, the edges will be where it the culture ends up.
Int: Were there any other moments on Frenchmen that could’ve felt like nail in coffin moments? Like definitely change. For me, granted I’ve only been here since 2014, it was like, “Willie’s Chicken Shack… Gross!”
LD: Dat Dog. Dat Dog, because that vacant parking lot next to Apple Barrel was where you would always see the flame throwers on Mardi Gras. Day and night, they would be in the lot that is now Dat Dot. The baton flame thrower breathing fire, doing a circus act.
But after I started going to Dat Dog—it took me a while—I was like, “OK, fuck it, I’m hungry.” And I love Dat Dog now! I love them. But it took a minute.
And I mean, I’d never set foot in Willie’s Chicken Shack. [laughter]
We lost Mona’s, too, right?
Int: Yeah, now it’s some Egyptian place, I think. [note: “Torshi,” opened 4/2/21, been closed a while as of this edit, 6/30/23]
CULTURAL REFLECTIONS
Another thing was, I went to a Super Sunday around 2008, maybe 2010. I was in that park Uptown, Washington… The exploitation of the Indians I saw was crazy. I mean, enjoy them, look at them, take it all in, but people just jamming cameras in front of their faces? Wow.
[The Indians] used to be kind of secretive. You had to hear about them word-of-mouth, like, “They’re gonna be at the Bayou!” And you’d think, “Oh my god, I’ll ride my bike down!”
I grew up an hour from here, so I came here as a kid. I started coming to Jazz Fest when I was 15, 16 years old. I always had a deep respect for the Indians, the culture. It made me so sad seeing things change like this. Sometimes seeing the influx of new people, how they respond to the culture, is a little scary. I think New Orleans will survive because it’s New Orleans—it’s gonna be change and be different, just like everybody else who came from everywhere else that makes New Orleans unique.
But… I don’t know. There’s this feeling I’ve gotten, as I’ve gotten older, that I want to be an ambassador for New Orleans. To teach people how we are here, about the culture, that you’re supposed to say hello to people when you walk down the street…
Everybody’s on this general rhythm for New Orleans, and I find that has been lost a little bit with the influx of a lot of people.
I love it when business people come here and expect business to roll just like normal… “What, what do you mean, people aren’t working?” Not working on Fat Tuesday, but you’re not gonna make a call for business on Wednesday.
Who would do that? No one! [laughter] You might even not make it Thursday or Friday! You give everybody time to recoup.
I kept seeing more and more—after Katrina—the exploitation of the culture and I couldn’t believe it. Everyone making their own krewes—and okay, on one hand it is part of the spirit of New Orleans to start your own krewe, so I’m not begrudging anyone. I’m in the Bearded Oysters, for example, but that’s because Karina started this female krewe, and after really fighting as a female musician, I like that. I like the message. The world is your oyster, you know? [laughs]
But it’s this attitude thing sometimes, where I just never would have felt like,“I’m entitled to this.” The way I act is I put my toe in and I meet the people.
ST. CLAUDE – THE NEW FRENCHMEN?
LD: A lot of people were saying, “Oh, the new Frenchmen Street is St. Claude.” I don’t think it really is. It’s just becoming a satellite [to Frenchmen].
Int: Is there anything there that makes you feel like how Frenchmen used to be? When you’re out on St. Claude do you feel similar things or not really?
LD: No, not really.
MUSIC, FOOD, AND COMMUNITY
Int: [asks about Lynn’s Farm to Table community music project]
LD: The response we’ve gotten has been great. There’s just been this feeling in the world, in our community, lately: “Let’s start small again. Let’s just have this community thing. Not about making money, not about anything except for bringing people together again. That’s one good thing that came out of the pandemic, maybe. That sentiment.
GENDER AND MUSIC AND BOOKING
LD: So many women musicians have come and gone in my 23 years here—it’s kind of crazy to think about it. I try to keep up with all the new people, but there are so many. So many have come and gone. It’s interesting to have kind of become a mentor now.
[Int asks about the challenges of being a woman in the business.]
LD: I had to learn how to be a man. I literally had to learn how to be more of a man to even be in this business.
I mean, a guy can call somebody up and just get the gig. Me, I have to go through: maybe they want to date me, so there’s that. Or maybe they want to sleep with me. There’s that. And now it’s sort of like “I’m just gonna use you as— I’m just gonna talk to you for an hour before ever giving you an answer,” just be like your therapy session or whatever… They know men are not gonna waste their time [with all that].
I’m also probably low-balled as far as money is concerned. That’s why, when you have a boyfriend in the band, it’s really nice. You have an ally in the band, where you can say, “Okay look, this guy doesn’t like women.” ‘Cause there are, straight-up, men who book venues, who are booking agents, who just think less of women. And it’s probably not their fault, but it’s just ingrained in them somehow: they don’t know how to deal the same way.
Int: It’s interesting—you were saying that there aren’t many women booking gigs.
LD: Well there’s Doris who owns The Kerry, because she loves music and did it out of the kindness of her heart when Kay [Harris] died. Kinda bought that place from Kay, and Kay used to wheel herself in in the wheelchair. Anyway, that was known kind of as a country music venue. That was really the only place you could play country music other than… I mean, Checkpoint Charlie’s you could play anything, ever, that you ever wanted, but also, you’re kinda playing for the dregs, you know? For lack of a better word, not to put anybody down.
Int: No, no, I gotcha. They’d probably be—the ones I’m picturing, at least—would be honored to be called dregs! Also in terms of women bookers, I don’t know who was booking Checkpoint’s before but Claudia’s doing it now.
LD: Yeah, that’s right! Her, Doris, and Linda. But Checkpoint’s apparently—I talked to Claudia the other day and she said that, “Yeah, the owner says we’re making just as much money without music so we might not bring it back.”
Int: [dark muttering]
LD: She goes, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m gonna work on it. I’m working on it.”
“I’ll find a way,” she said.
Int: I love Claudia so much.
LD: I mean, if you don’t find a way Claudia, what?! After you make the stage so nice and everything….
PLAYING AT CAJUN’S PUB (MICROCOSM OF NEW ORLEANS)
LD: Some of the best times I had actually was playing Checkpoint’s. And also I used to play the karaoke bar, Cajun’s Pub. I loved playing there ‘cause it was all of the worker Hispanic people, people playing pool, and black people from the hood, and then you had the gay and trans people, and then you had the fuckin’ hippie deadhead people! I was playing for gutter punks, Africans, Hispanics who had worked all day and were fucking gonna just tie one on. And I’d play “La Bamba” for—I mean, I love that! That was—to me—that was every facet of New Orleans in this one bar.
And they used to pay better than everybody. JoAnn Guidros, that was the name of the woman who owned it. A trans woman who built this beautiful thing there. Beautiful. I don’t think they really have bands anymore. Only occasionally.
THE LAST BOHEMIA VS. THE INTERNET
Int: [talking with Lynn about reading books/writing in bars, etc., how people in New Orleans are less fazed if you’re acting eccentric or whatever in public.] …. That’s what I loved about moving here. In Montreal, I could still do it, but the amount of weird looks that I got—I’m still gonna do it, goddamnit, but you’re making me tense, looking at me! And I feel like in New Orleans, people don’t give a shit. Or at least less of one.
LD: Yeah, we have to bring back the true bohemian lifestyle here. I think we’ve gotten lost track of it. We have our phones, and it’s a cop out: “I’m not alone! I have my phone.”
Int: That’s something I think about a lot. The fact that we have this need for a base level of connection, and I think the phone thing, and the Internet—social media and whatever—provide enough of a band-aid that they don’t—
LD: Feels like you’re still connected.
Int: Exactly. And you get accustomed to not making the effort you’d have to otherwise.
LD: And it’s okay, it’s good, during a pandemic, to be connected that way. But it’s not at all a substitute, and I don’t think it should be. In fact, I sometimes don’t go on it all because it’s a source of anxiety for me. I think it’s a lot of artists are like, “Oh they’re doing that. Oh fuck, I’m not doing that—I’m a loser!” You don’t want to reinforce that kind of thinking—you never would’ve had a thought like that if you hadn’t gone online!
And then through branding, “What are you doing for your brand?” Like your Instagram should be your brand? I’m like, “Fuuuuuck.” [laughter]
Pre-pandemic I was probably playing four, five nights a week. I was not happy. I was not really feeling like being creative. Another good thing that came out of the pandemic was that it was kind of a reset for everybody. Nobody is itching right now to clamor for a gig that pays $100 or $75! It’s like, “You know what? You can keep that.”
Int: Here, here. What y’all were talking about earlier, the rent going up and the gig prices staying flat is, you’re killing the opportunity to have a bohemian New Orleans because to have actual artists, you have a limit. You guys care about what you do and you’re gonna fucking do it and it’s not about the money, it’s for the art. But when you can’t even survive, then it’s, “Alright, I can’t…” People have to survive, at least, to be able to do what they’re doing. It’s frustrating.
LD: It’s true. But I mean, I always have faith in New Orleans.
