Up at the unholy hour of 5 a.m.; off to Midway for an 8:40 flight. Day dawned raw & cold in Chicago, with a wintry mix forecast for the Cubs' home opener--stepped out of New Orleans airport into summer!
Killed time till our room was ready, downing what will have likely been the first of many oyster po' boys for lunch. At the hotel, Bob woke me from my nap to bring me a potent Hurricane from Pat O'Brien's-- don't remember them having been that strong in my youth. Took three gulps and was out for two hours! I don't like to eat much before a gig but Bob was starving, so we headed to Bourbon St. (already deafening and crowded by late afternoon) for a cup of gumbo. Got to Neutral Ground in time to hear the first set, and unfolded my Voyage-Air dread. Fished around to remove the by- now superfluous humidifier (Toto, you're not in Chicago any more); when I couldn't reach all the way in, I upended the guitar so the thing would be reachable. Fished it out only to find that to my horror, two bridge pins had fallen out.....black bridge pins, black case, black pants, black paisley carpet! Found the first one right away, but no luck with the second. Found all manner of detritus on the floor: Scrabble tiles, pennies, scraps of balsa wood, tinsel--despite my efforts none worked. Neither of the two first acts had a spare. But the barista directed me to a decrepit beater guitar, in various stages of stringlessness, and suggested I borrow a pin from it. White plastic and not black ebony/abalone, but it did the trick. Gina Forsyth arrived, we got caught up on news since last we met, and agreed on the two songs on which she'd play fiddle and the one of hers I was only going to sing harmony on but found out I could also suss out the harmonica part (good thing I brought the right ones from home). The song was "St. Anthony:" she joked that since he was the patron saint of lost objects I might find my bridge pin. The set went well, and we exhorted the crowd to sing along to help St. Anthony do his thing. Lo and behold, as we were packing up afterward, she spotted my bridge pin on the carpet. (I'm still remaining Jewish, however). Speaking of that, on the way over we saw a sign on Touro Synagogue advertising Jazz Shabbat services, featuring Irma Thomas the weekend of Jazzfest. Our cabbies included a retired guitarist with the Gypsy Kings, a 20-yr-old with both an e-Trade account and mean sax chops, and a full-on conspiracy theorist. And on Bourbon St. I saw a guy in full pirate regalia, with a sign on his tip box reading "Not Somalian!" Lord, I've missed this place!!!