By Alex Sardam

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The clouds in the sky drooped overhead, canopying the cobblestone streets and twisted cast-iron balconies, prompting all scurrying feet to either take shelter or relentlessly purchase a plastic, garbage bag-looking poncho.

Yet something that seemed even more appealing than allowing the greedy sky above to dictate the proceeding events of the day,and looking like an unprepared tourist,was the earthy smell of insents and unfamiliar spices that burst through the streets.

The curious aroma warmed the air, quite victoriously convincing any weather-fearing patron to stay out or just a little bit longer. And if the plethora of po’boys and Bloody Marys didn’t suffice any rumbling appetite, the sounds surely did it.

Music was everywhere, brimming beyond the strip of clubs lit up by obnoxious neon signs promising “Two for One” specials and “Huge Ass Beers.” The clink of the beads hanging around the necks of the glossy-eyed tourists-whether it was from overwhelmed excitement or overindulged decisions-kept the bustle of the streets pumping in a steady motion.

Chants and catcalls that sprinkled on top of the city’s sound, allowed for the release of the occasional yearning to partake in one of the mischievous delights that makes New Orleans, well…New Orleans.

Further down the street, violins hissed as washboards fizzled with this grainy but surprisingly sweet sound. Trumpets went off on their own tastefully, garnished tangents, demanding such magnetic attention. Marching bands followed by jubilant smiles from random parade walkers would intersect paths, surprising people with delightful, impromptu celebrations.

New Orleans was it’s own little world, exploding with face painted children to adults in full-body fishnets. This world was bursting from the seams. It was that alive. It was absolutely electric. Beyond the dozens of vendors and street musicians, I noticed a cluster of people collected around the outskirts of a sea of moving brass.

It was another band. Extremities stomped and clapped in time with the symphony, generating this back and forth game between musician and fan that jolted the already heightened energy even more.

Amidst the crowd was a small boy, probably about two years old. He was standing with what it appeared to be with family members but no one was physically claiming him with the hand in hand gesture. This is important because the boy wasn’t being influenced by anyone familiar around him. To the child, it was just him and this glorious band. He stood and watched, slowly tottering from side to side. His hands drew close to one another as he layered clapping onto his movements. The small boy was transfixed. He was mesmerized and couldn’t remove his eyes from the show unfolding before his very eyes.

While the band was a treat to experience, they weren’t world-class musicians. But they had a leg up. They had the hometown advantage. New Orleans thrives because of its people-whether they are stopping by for a short visit or are permanent residents.

The openness of the city buds this mammoth transfer of energy and love, blossoming into the Louisiana culture.

Nothing is ever lost, only graciously transferred. Music is different in New Orleans because of the monumental culture and history that molded it into something bigger than Mardi Gras, bigger than Fat Tuesday and bigger than any pair of exposed breasts trying to earn a strand of purple beads.

Music is just one of the many cultural facets that releases the authentic spirit of the one and only New Orleans.