Today is the one
year anniversary of the bombing and shelling of New Orleans by Hurricane
Katrina, Halliburton and FEMA. So it�s fitting to remember this was the durable
town where Huey P. Long came to razz the Big Oil boyz in favor of the little
people, saying �every man was a king and he the Kingfish� . . .
Huey P. Long, Jr.,
was the seventh of nine kids from a middle-class farm family and rose from
local schools to top of the class. He won a debating scholarship to LSU, but
couldn�t afford the textbooks. So he worked four years as a traveling salesman,
selling books, canned goods, patent medicines and learned to be an auctioneer.
On that great wave
of the 1927 flood that drowned New Orleans as in 2005, Republican Calvin
Coolidge sent his Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover, chubby little numbnut,
notebook in hand, to check the wreckage, add up the profit and the loss. Also
in 1927, the Democrats were in the same leaking boat as now, depression two
years away and about to sink America, the Mississippi rising like a tide of
anger, and one Franklin Delano Roosevelt preaching a new fiscal fitness for the
nation even in his leg braces.
And a Mr. Louie
Armstrong, from a very poor black family, sent to reform school at 12 for
shooting off a gun on New Year�s Eve, grasped a cornet like a rope from the
flood. By �27, having played every joint and whorehouse in town, he�d taken his
self upstream to Chicago on the tide of swinging ragtime, the blues of field
slaves, the rhythms of the piston engine, the gospel cries and shouts of the
black church that had swept through the soul of America. Amen.
And in Huey (for
whom black Panther Huey Newton was named by his daddy), the Kingfish hisself,
was a rhythm, a rhetoric, a calling to share the earth and wealth of the
nation. His fiery speeches in 1928 opened America�s eyes for a piece of the pie
for everyman, like all that jazz, got hands clapping and feet stomping for a
whole new way to move in America. Amen.
It was a
hellacious, bodacious, ungracious claim to change; to turn the hourglass over
and share the wealth, the rich with the poor, the millions with the penniless;
to build miles and miles of roads, many bridges over troubled waters, and
schools for night and day, with money for free books with which to read and
learn, a great undoing of the Euro classic elitism, for this swinging music of
Democracy. Everybody, clap your hands, one and all. Amen.
It was an
irreverent but religious correction of God�s will delivered by Huey, that taxes
must be paid as billions were made, and a fund set up for everyman to have a
living, a refrigerator, and some food to fill it, and a motor car, too. And
more, the poor folks� votes should be counted as well. And there should be
Social Security for old age, and a benefit fund for the poor and unemployed.
Amen.
So that in 1928,
when the flood backed off and the anger lingered, Huey Long was washed into the
governor�s office. And when Big Oil wouldn�t fess up to its taxes, Huey sent
the National Guard not to Iraq but to seize the Delta oil fields. He believed
the government should protect the people, educate them, shore up the
infrastructure, and talk turkey to power and the corporate elite, �the crooks
of Wall Street.� Huey�s thinking would become the platform of the Democratic
party, the backbone of the New Deal, the new jazz of American Democracy, the
one that�s been so hated since by every elite that�s stiffly walked America�s
streets. Amen.
What happened to
Huey was what happens maybe to any man who proposes democracy, who reaches and
preaches for the people. By September 1938 (the year and month I was born),
Huey Long, a U.S. senator, who held Louisiana in the palm of his righteous and
sometimes severe hand, was shot dead at 42 years of age. And Franklin
Roosevelt, whose huge spirit could barely fit in the same room with Huey�s,
carried on the agenda of Long�s amazing vision, just as Louis turned Satchmo,
crossed the country and later the world with that made in New Orleans, all
American music, jazz, jazz, jazz. Lifting it from the brothels to the
dancehalls, supper clubs and fine hotels, and one day, like Benny Goodman, to
Carnegie Hall, with a group of black and white jazz musicians playing together,
astounding the seated tuxedos and aficionados. Amen.
And let it be known
that the wave of freedom against the status quo that woke the sleepers from
their sleep, shall not be turned by any hurricane of nature, or failure of men
to be humane to man, not now, not tomorrow, not ever. Amen.
And as the camera
pans over the broken streets and homes and levees of the 17th Street Canal the
storm breached August 29, 2005; pans over the sunken houses and cars where
London Avenue�s floodwall gave way, unburdening tons of water and sand; pans
over the wreckage of the Ninth Ward, the apocalypse lingering, a reflection of
human chaos, Huey Long�s vision will stand, the jazz, the energy of America�s
people will endure, the voice of an undaunted Roosevelt will haunt the elites
in their marble bunkers. Amen.
Nor shall the 5
million citizens who have not scattered, nor the billions of dollars gobbled by
�the new thieves� for services half-rendered: mobile homes, lodging, meals,
waste management, deter this spirit of New Orleans, America, this great clear
singing, swinging spirit. I can hear the words of Randy Newman now . . .
Who built the highway to Baton Rouge?
Who put up the hospital and built you schools?
Who looks after shit-kickers like you?
The Kingfish do
Who gave a party at the Roosevelt Hotel?
And invited the whole north half of the state down there for free
The people in the city
Had their eyes bugging out
Cause everyone of you
Looked just like me
Kingfish, Kingfish
Everybody sing
Kingfish, Kingfish
Every man a king
Who took on the Standard Oil men
And whipped their ass
Just like he promised he'd do?
Ain't no Standard Oil men gonna run this state
Gonna be run by little folks like me and you
Kingfish, Kingfish
Friend of the working man
Kingfish, Kingfish
The Kingfish gonna save this land
He and we, all of
us who care, who dare, will save the vision, the music, the land, the great
people that made it once the envy of the world and will do so again. And that�s
a promise. Amen.
P.S. May the soul
of the
great jazz pianist Hilton Ruiz who was in New Orleans to make a video with
a Hurricane Katrina benefit recording rest in peace. Bouncers at a Bourbon
street dance club threw the late jazz pianist face-first into heavy wood doors
and onto the floor after he was attacked by a club patron, his daughter claims
in court papers. But for Hilton�s sake, let death have no dominion. His music
will live like New Orleans itself. Amen.
Jerry Mazza is a
freelance writer living in New York that has risen from the ashes of attack and
will rise from the cloud of perfidy of those same traitors who perpetuated it
and know who they are. Reach him at gvmaz@verizon.net.