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 is the levee 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 mayhem 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 cemetery, laissez-fairey, debutantes, 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 piers, 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,

teat baring, bead wearing, plaited 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,

You’re 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

Lillian Boutté vocal

Phil Parnell piano, organ

Don Vappie guitar

Denny Ilett guitar

Gregory Boyd steel drums, vocals

Peter Rudeforth lead trumpet

Pete Wraight trumpet

Finn Peters tenor sax

Bob McKay baritone, alto saxes

Finn Burich trombone

Rick Trolsen trombone, tuba

Thomas l´Etienne clarinet

Ben Martin tenor sax

Andy Crowdy double bass

Torben Biörnskov electric bass

Chris Hill electric bass

Dylan Howe drums

Scott Hammond drums

Espen Laub drums

Imelda May backup vocals

Tanya Boutté backup vocals

Neil Thomas backup vocals

“...an astonishingly authentic New Orleans sound that harkens back to nights in Tipitina's or The Rusty Nail”

Chris Mosey, All about Jazz Magazine