The hollow stomping sounds of her motorcycle boots hitting the damp sidewalk made her frightfully aware of how alone she was.

“F#%k you…GRRRarrr…I will KILL YOU… Argh!” she spastically muttered as she rounded the next corner with the same routine check over her shoulder. She had somehow adopted this survival instinct during the four months she lived in the chaotic, dangerous, spice-filled bliss of New Orleans.

She was a vision in crimson, a tall young brunette in a short red dress, the previously mentioned boots, black hat tilted intentionally over one eye, and long black leather gloves. Alone on the outskirts of the French Quarter, she clutched a small amplifier in one hand and in the other a sharpened pencil, her only weapon against the evils that lurked in the many shadows on Conti Street.

An old toothless man rounded the corner of Rampart, clutching a brown bag, no doubt enclosing some sort of cheap sin. His eyes were vacant deep pits and his skin looked as though it was barely hanging onto his face. His swaggering slowed when he spotted the girl and mumbled to himself at his good luck. The lady in red clamped onto the pencil tighter, and resumed her previous ramblings, yet this time with real enthusiasm.

“Grrrraaarrrrr! You f$#@er, you die…AH ha hahaha…run, you crazy monkey. I know monkeys when I see them.” This startled the man and he stopped short in his tracks. Carefully assessing the situation, the girl decided more might need to be added to her performance in order to ensure her protection. One of her long fishnet-covered legs began to kick the air, passing car tires, and sides of buildings. The old man shook his head, grumbled, “F@*king crazy bitch,” and turned to stagger briskly in the opposite direction.

A nervous smile crossed her lips and she let out a much-deserved sigh of relief. Now she was only one block away from Bourbon Street, where the possibility of rape, murder, and mugging was much lower than on the outskirts of the quarter.

Tonight was no different from any other Friday night on Bourbon Street. The street was littered with tourists dressed in tacky clubbing clothes and lugging around 80-ounce daiquiris. Bourbon had a plethora of people from all different walks of life. There were the business people visiting for conventions, the retired people who walked around with looks of horror like they’d lost their tour bus headed to the historic plantations. There were the college kids vomiting in the street as their friends cheered, and the married men from Mississippi looking for someone to spend the night with.

So there I was, just another night’s journey through the menagerie of drunks. I rounded my last corner of Conti and Bourbon and was quickly berated with the very distinct stink of the street. Vomit, garbage, urine, cheap alcohol, sweat, sex and cinnamon all melded together to create the decadent smell that I associate with my days as a singer in New Orleans.

The French Quarter, in particular, holds an intrigue and mystery that represents the true spirit of New Orleans. Walking alone down the narrow streets in the quarter, one gets the feeling of walking in a European city. The real history of the place drips off the overhead balconies as you walk beneath. It calls to you in the gusts of warm, sticky wind that hits the back of your neck
when you turn a corner. New Orleans is one of the oldest cities in the United States with one of the most corrupt, eerie, and enticing histories. It even boasts of being the most haunted city in
the United States. Every vampire movie, book, etc., makes some reference to the city of New Orleans. You need only to go to the corner of Napoleon and St. Charles Avenues to see the home of famous vampire writer Anne Rice.

I moved to New Orleans at 19. The intrigue and romance of the place that I knew only from books called me 2,000 miles away from Arcata, my small Northern California home of 15,000 people. I left home with dreams of smoke-filled jazz houses, with me perched on a piano, purring sultry versions of “Cry me a River” into a microphone. The reality always differs from the dream, but I had no idea of the surprises in store. I arrived in August, the second hottest month of year. My suitcases were full of ball gowns and my eyes were full of stars. The reality began to take shape after two months of sit-ins at “jazz jams” with students from the University of New Orleans.

In my third month of insanity in the Big Easy, I ran into what some might call my big break. I moved in with another jazz singer who was my age and we gave one another moral support. One night she was headed over to her piano teacher’s house and asked if I would come along. Her teacher was a bit of a star in the local jazz scene. Everyone had heard of Charlie.

Immediately after introductions, Charlie asked me the question that would change my music path for good.

“Have you ever thought of singing in an electronic band, Alissa? You have just the look my bandmate and I are looking for, for our new project.”

I blushed at my luck, unaware of the future disasters this decision would throw my way.

So here I was, six weeks later, briskly walking down Bourbon Street on my way to my weekly night gig at the 735 Club. Dressed in what my all-male bandmates called “The Bait,” referring to my costume’s magical ability to bring people in to watch our band, I had to break through yet another barricade of intoxicated vacationing businessmen.

The 735 Club looked like all the others on the street, two stories with long picture windows and lime-green shutters. The paint on the outside was a dull-rose color that was chipping off to reveal a cobalt-blue layer underneath.

The bouncer stood outside the club as usual, trying to coax people in with his fine people skills. He was meager in standing but made up for it in girth and muscle mass. He was the personification of a brick wall. He’d told me that he worked at the club “to meet hot chicks.”

“Girl, you’re looking sexy tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah. Where are the boys? I have been trying to call Charlie all day because I had to miss sound check. Did they get it all set up?”

“Yes, techno princess,” Charlie tackled me from behind. “I was going to call you so we could come here together, but Natasha called.” Charlie was referring to one of his many gorgeous girls; he never tired of vividly describing all of his torrid affairs. Charlie took the whole rock star stigma a step too far and his reputation as a musician in New Orleans only fueled his endless mission of
pursuing sexy girls with no brains. “We don’t think you should walk by yourself. The owner of the club was mugged tonight by five guys on the corner of Conti and Rampart.”

“Great, that is where my car is parked. Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I mean he’ll live, but he is pretty shook up… Damn, girl, you are crazy. No one walks
alone in that part of the quarter. We need to get you a gun, some mace, or some big-ass bodyguard.”

After set up and a second sound check we started our first set. My songs were basically comprised of breathy techno pieces, acid rock, and drum and bass. Anything involving the topic of sex was all too praised by my bandmates. Being the youngest member of the group, the least experienced in music performing, and the only girl, I decided to simply go with the flow and write music the group liked.

The 735 Club is right on the “Lavender Line,” the line that divides the homosexual side of Bourbon Street from the heterosexual side. This provided for many interesting people frequenting the 735 Club. There were always a few drag queens, gay men and a bunch of drunken tourists. I
got used to hearing that I was “fabulous” from some Cher look-alike at the bar after a set.

The French Quarter is typically the target destination for visitors to New Orleans who want to let loose and have their vices catered to. Vice definitely holds a spot in the deep-rooted history of the quarter. The French Quarter has a combination of Spanish and French influence. The French laid out the city in 1718, only to cede to the Spanish in 1762. France eventually took back New Orleans, only to sell it in the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. Under American rule, New Orleans became a mecca for thieves, murderers and petty despots. With the legalization of prostitution in 1857 and the creation of the “red light” district called Storyville, located on what are now the
outskirts of the quarter, New Orleans came to further symbolize a place of vices and sins. The New Orleans-style music and jazz actually developed from the collaboration of musicians playing in the whorehouses in Storyville.

Even with many changes made to better the city, the feelings of danger, corruption, and sin still leak down the walls of dingy clubs, beat in the music at the various strip bars on Bourbon, and
lurk in the long Dumpsters that line the streets in the quarter. If you listen closely, you can hear the constant-breathless chant of “Another lost soul, lost soul, lost soul…” This lifestyle would give
any sane person pause, but I had soon given up any attachment to sanity living in New Orleans.

My story of departure doesn’t hold a flame to my arrival. I simply awoke one morning in May as the sun was flooding my room. I looked around the room and felt this feeling of vacancy, the same vacancy I had observed in the eyes of the local people when I arrived. New Orleans has a way of stealing pieces of your existence and zest for life. I was tired of fighting the tourists to
get to the club every week. I was exhausted from being terrified when walking to my car, to my house, sleeping in my bedroom, jogging, etc. So that day I got out of bed, packed my stuff into my tiny Toyota car and drove the 2,000 miles home to California. I left my band and all those who knew me wondering, “Whatever happened to her?” This is the ubiquitous question in New
Orleans.

But I stayed alive and that, alone, deserves some credit. With my motto, “No sane person wants to mess with a crazy person and no crazy person wants to cross paths with another crazy person,” I kept myself breathing on the rough streets of New Orleans. I also managed to live the life of a singing diva on Bourbon Street for a short spell. I guess I lived my dream–a twisted, rotten, tangled version of my dream–but my dream just the same.