I’ve never been to New Orleans, though I always meant to go, and was planning to pay a visit this fall. I started writing a biography of Louis Armstrong back in January, and the time had come for me to pay a visit to Tulane University’s Hogan Jazz Archive
and start trawling through its massive collection of documents and other source material. More than that, I wanted to see Armstrong’s home town for myself at long last. It was mostly a matter of curiosity: I’d been reading about New Orleans all my life, and I longed to put the flesh of first-hand observation on all that I’d learned from books.
Needless to say, book learning is not to be despised. For one thing, it made it possible for me to write the first paragraph of the first chapter of Hotter Than That: A Life of Louis Armstrong:
To the northerner New Orleans is another country, seductive and disorienting, a steamy, shabby paradise of spicy cooking, wrought-iron balconies, and streets called Elysian Fields and Desire, a place where the signs advertise such mysterious commodities as po-boys and muffuletta and no one is buried under ground. We’ll take the boat to the land of dreams, the pilgrim hears in his mind’s ear as he prowls the Vieux Carr