Henry Blanke in New York
Two years after Hurricane Katrina I decided to visit New Orleans. As a passionate lover of jazz I had long known that the Crescent City had produced Buddy Bolden, Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton and others who it is said invented the music. My buddy Brian – with whom I shared a perhaps over enthusiastic fondness for rich food, whiskey, permissive nightlife and black American music – had lived there for two years and urged me to go by saying that you don’t feel like you’re in the US, but in a Caribbean port city. On the day before my flight his parting words were: ‘Go to the Abbey. You can get anything you want there.’
Among the many NOLA songs I listened to in preparation for the trip was Iko Iko which was written and first recorded by R&B singer James Sugar Boy Crawford and his Cane Cutters in 1953. It was later covered by The Dixie Cups and Dr John and then by the Grateful Dead and Cyndi Lauper.
Crawford himself abruptly quit the music business in 1953 after being severely beaten by state troopers and subsequently only sang in churches. In 2012, he made a guest appearance singing gospel in an episode of the HBO series Treme. He died one month before the episode aired, aged 77.
Originally titled Jock-A-Mo, the song perhaps pre-dates its first recording and is considered emblematic of New Orleans. I recognised its call-and-response vocals and shuffle rhythm from jazz and was drawn to the Caribbean flavour. But the lyrics were another matter entirely. ‘Iko Iko/ Iko, Iko an de/ Jock-a-mo fil lo an da de/ Jock-a-mo fi na ne.’
As far as I could discern the song depicts some sort of confrontation between two groups involving ‘spy boys’ and setting the rival’s flag on fire. It was only later that I learned that linguists and musicologists have traced the roots of the language sung to either Louisiana Creole patois; the trade language of Choctaw and Chickasaw Native Americans; or to West Africans taken as slaves to Haiti who went to New Orleans after the slave revolt there.
Perhaps the key to unlocking Iko Iko’s linguistic strangeness and hybridity lies with the Mardi Gras (or Black) Indians, semi-secret tribes or gangs of black men (and some women) who spend a year sewing intricate and elaborate costumes. These ‘suits’ are in homage to the Indians who sheltered escaped slaves in 18th and 19th centuries and can cost tens of dollars to make and weigh as much as 100 pounds.
The Black Indians traditionally ‘mask’ (appear in full costume) only twice a year: on St Joseph’s Day (why they do this on an Italian feast day is an interesting story in its own right) and on Mardi Gras day when they can be seen, not in the heavily touristed French Quarter, but in the surrounding Black neighborhoods. In recent decades they also mask at the annual music festival known as Super up Sunday.
A few days into my stay in New Orleans I realised that I not only could live there, but it was a place especially suited to my own tastes and sensibilities. Gumbo, étouffée, jambalaya and God’s own fried chicken; the profound history of Spanish, French, African and Native American influence; Congo Square where on Sundays slaves were permitted to play their drums, sing and dance; this country’s oldest continuous African American community in Treme with the 200 year old St Augustine Church (host to prominent leaders of the Civil Rights movement); and an overall vibe of laissez les bons temps rouler (let the good times roll).
And the music! Every night you can hear NOLA’s own unique brand of jazz, R&B, rock ‘n’ roll, soul, funk, hip hop and roots music. A strong case can be made that most major genres of American music originated in New Orleans. And what is more controversial and little know is that the chants and songs of the Black Indians dating back to the mid-1800s may be this country’s oldest extant folk music.
I went to the Uptown Super Sunday in the 11th Ward and joined the ‘second line’ of dancing revellers as they followed the brass bands snaking their way through the streets surrounding AL Davis Park. And then I saw them or, I should say, first heard their strange chants accompanied by drums, cowbells and tambourines. Then I saw the Black Indians wearing their spectacular hand-sewn suits made of beads, plumed feathers, sequins and rhinestones.
When they played Iko Iko I had read enough to know that the song depicts a street battle between two Indian gangs. And I could see that the ‘flyboy’ mentioned is the advanced scout on the lookout for rival gangs or law enforcement (the fearless dignity of the Indians has always been a police target).
The most elaborate suits of all are worn by each tribe’s leader, the ‘Big Chief’. Davis Park is in a poor section of New Orleans where drugs are easily bought and sold, and it was getting dark. So with my ghetto pass expiring and more drunk from seeing the Indians than the copious amounts of bourbon I had downed, I made my way to the famous St Charles streetcar and back to my hotel.
On my last night in New Orleans it was 2am and I was winding down a night of music on Frenchman St when I remembered my friend Brian’s advice about the Abbey Bar. The place was jumping with musicians, bikers, hustlers and assorted characters when a group of young women came in. They were dressed, how shall I say, in a way guaranteed to catch a straight man’s attention and they took over the bar. I asked a guy about them and found out they were off duty strippers from Bourbon St.
The first song they played was Nolia Clap by native son Juvenile. The second was Iko Iko which the whole bar sang along to like it was their anthem.
On the plane back to New York I realised that I still didn’t know exactly what ‘Jock-a-mo fi na ne’ means. Then I listened to the New Orleans funk group the Meters’ song titled Hey Pocky A-Way….