72 Hours in New Orleans

Right after I stepped off the plane in New Orleans, I saw Louis Armstrong, in beautiful bronze and larger than life. It wasn’t the most accurate depiction—his arms were too short, his head too large. But Louis was laughing it all off. That’s what he always did—laugh things off. And this stubby Satchmo had reason to laugh. That’s because, for all his faults, he still looked better than the city’s previous attempt at an airport memorial. The story of how Armstrong got into the terminal tells you a lot about the city’s complicated relationship with its most famous musician—who left New Orleans in 1922, and never moved back. If you want to support my work, please take out a premium subscription (just $6 per month). Subscribe now Instead of commissioning a new statue for the airport, they just removed an existing one on Rampart Street. (And it had been done pro bono in the first place—so the city never paid for the work.) It’s a good reminder that musicians come and go in this city. But the truth is, they mostly go. Read more