As I drove south on the 10 from Baton Rouge, I thought about the last time I had visited New Orleans seven years ago. The rain had been falling so hard and so loud that it not only stung my skin it actually stung my eardrums. I remember leaving a Saints game and dashing from the cab through the French Quarter to grab some raw oysters and crawfish etouffee when suddenly I heard a wailing guitar that made me forget the weather.

I felt sad, then reflective, then exhilarated, then peaceful. This musician completely controlled my emotions with little more than the movement of his fingertips on a string. I looked up at the sign to see where I was: The Absinthe Bar on Bourbon Street.

I went inside and ensconced myself in a dim and dusty corner. On stage with a tired spotlight shining on eyes that had never seen sat a musician I came to know as Bryan Lee.

His bluesy rock enchanted me, and I returned every night of my vacation to hear the magical music conjured by this man. During a hurricane I brought in from Pat O'Brien's, after beignets from Café du Monde, before jambalaya at Tujague's, I trekked down Burgundy, Chartres, Bienville, wherever I was that afternoon, to be wrapped in the spell of Lee's music that night.

On the day I left old New Orleans, I swore that, if I ever had a chance to return to this city, I would come to The Absinthe Bar to hear Lee play.

So there I was driving south on the 10 from Baton Rouge into New Orleans seven years later anticipating another visit to the Absinthe. I checked into Le Richelieu hastily--but I did not stop for a bowl of red beans and rice and I did not stop for a cup of gumbo--instead I rushed to Bourbon Street searching for The Absinthe Bar.

Up and down. Up and down. Wait. I passed it. Wasn't it back there? Now I'm too far the other way. Where is it? I could have sworn it was right here.

You may not believe this…but I was in exactly the right place. The world famous music venue had been turned into a daiquiri bar. In fact, I could not find any of the great old jazz or blues clubs. The entire stretch looked like neon nausea imported direct from Daytona Beach spring break.

I asked around for my long lost Absinthe. A taxi cab driver. A hooker. A bartender down the street. But no one remembered the little bar on Bourbon Street.

I guess this is the new New Orleans.

P.S. Good news! I finally found Bryan Lee at the 544 Club on Bourbon!

July 2001