The Lady of the the Delta, be wise, beware, she's a mysterious, naughty, tantalizing, and decadent affair.
Her dough-nuts are not round, her pegs not square. She's really not like anywhere.
She's not the south, the east or west... not left or right, not big or best,
not young, not old, not dry, not cold, not pigeon-holed or coalesced
she isn't cut from any mold, she sits apart from all the rest.
She's an elegant non-conforming, pro-static, camp, tra la walla balla anti-bellum tramp, a blanc witch, a hoodoo bitch, beguiling, debonair
and a big fat mambo mama rich with uniqueness that is admired and envied everywhere.
She's a cat on a hot tinned roof, alive and aloof, red light always on and curtains always drawn,
a low lying high flying, lazy-dayed, sticky sup, battered like a storm in a chicory cup.
The muddy river is her aorta , the bayous and canals her veins, her blood is tainted with tabasco, her temper hurricanes
The spanish moss is her greying hair, eau'd stagnate her perfumed air,
Flambeau lamps light her twinkle, and we feel her hot breath inkle from a million ceiling fans on our sweaty corpuses.
But the music is her heartbeat,
the dancers her pulse, the people hold her spirit, her skin the levees she cusses.
She is the BIG, mosquito bitten, paddle-wheelin, half-shelled, cotton-mouthed, chicken-fried, termite-ridden, pot-holed, monkey-hilled Easy.
She is any excuse for a party, a celebration of the magic and the absurd
and from her loins came sounds called Jelly, Ory, Louis, Bix, and Byrd.
It has been said and I truly believe if your feet get dirty on Bourbon Street you may never leave
staying a blissful captive caught up in the unbridled gladness,
dazed and confused by the relentless heat in a pre-dawn mule-drawn madness
She's a black, white, brown, beige, purple, green, pink, gold,
indian, cuban, irish, italian, cajun, creoled, african,
carribean, red necked, catholic, baptist fold,
who dons a mask and summons her queendom out on her saintly rues
to celebrate a christianized pagan tradition with a french moniker and krews
honoring roman gods and goddesses and deities of ancient greeks
thrown by indians, merchants, masons, mafia, politicians, peasants and sheiks.
From around the world en mass converge on her gala fetes
and allow their hydeishness to emerge from behind their painted tetes,
They wave and holler and scramble for the fleeting faux treasure
adding to the total mayham and all the pre-lent pleasure. They drink, and dance and drink and shout and drink until they crawl
for the sheer toe curling, umbrella twirlin', jollification of it all
With rainbows of chinese baubles, coconuts gilded and glittered ,
and freshly minted bauxite coins, her alleys and streets are littered
with seas of disused drinking vessels, sticky with sickly red juice,
and retch from presidents, princes, queens, and imbibed bible belt pilgrims in the sluice.
Cat fish flats, horse-flies, gnats, mud bugs from a ditch,
Her mollusks salty, levees faulty, her poor boys well dressed and rich,
She's pycaunes, funky tunes, couchon du lait,
quarter rats and drunken yats, foul weather ofay
She's cemetary, laissez-fairey, debutants, doubloons Trolly cars, smelly bars, oleander in June,
pontchatrain, sugar cane, sasafras, neutral grounds
sazeracs, oyster sacks, cypress knees, brass band sounds,
She's the take the fake the make, the slums,
king cake babies, wakes, bums, drums,
scum bags, hatted nags, mimosa-ed fags and rex
palmetto bugs, hooded thugs, beer soaked rugs, sex
door barking, pool sharking, market stalling, steam
calliopes, black-eyed peas, daiquiris and creme
fishin peirs, abita beers, gator bait, old algiers
lower nine, ripple wine, dixie crates, and sequined queers,
She's wrought iron-cast, quarter mast, half-fast, garter strappers
tourist trappers, red socked tappers, gold-toothed horse and buggy nappers,
tit bare-ing, bead wearing, platted octoroons and
hats at the feet of street musicians playing their rent paying tunes.
We lift our goblets to your stubbornness, you travel your own pace.
You defy those who try to tame you, scoff at they that shame you,
Your not in any race
we raise our go-cups into the air thick with H two O
and wish you speed back to health and may the carpetbaggers go
I've gone away it's sad to say, Who knows when I'll return
Makes no difference where I am, one thing for sure I've learned
She'll always be here in my heart, and when I lay down in my plot
That still won't ever keep me from Cookin In A Gumbo Pot
Phil Parnell 2007
Known as The Musical Ambassador of New Orleans, for the past 25 years Lillian has been capturing the hearts and ears of listeners from the
Mississppi Delta to Bondi Beach performing her special brand of R&B, Jazz, and Gospel and hosting singing workshops for kids of all ages.
She has been working extensively to help Katrina victims, doing benefits and organizing relief funds for musicians, many of whom have lost everything, and she has been invited to participate in the Council for World Affairs in Boulder Co for the past 4 years.
Her newest show and CD That Don't Keep Me From Cookin In A 'Gumbo Pot ' is a tribute to New Orleans music with the sounds of Sassafras, Mardi Gras, funky creole blues, smoky bars and jumpin' jazz featuring 'new' New Orleans songs by Phil Parnell, Lillian Boutte, Ed Frank and others.
About Phil Parnell
- Pianist/Songwriter from New Orleans, based in London. He has collaborated and performed with many notable artists from a wide spectrum of styles including Matthew Herbert, Lillian Boutte', George Porter, Gatemouth Brown, Dani Siciliano, Bettye Lavette, Don Vappie, Rick Trolsen, Bugge Wesseltoft, Johnny Vidacovich, and Freddy Kohlman. His has cd and vinyl releases on Accidental, Soundslike, Mantis, Perlon, Slam, and his own Village Studio label. He is currently working on projects with Andy Cleyndert, Franco Mento, Thomas Letienne, Dani Siciliano, Imelda May and PP3
(Phil Parnell Trio)