CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY ment with cold-numbed fingers. Blank hasn’t shot a commercial in years, but his eye for human detail is well known to Blackburn, along with his ability to work under impossible conditions and bring back gorgeous footage. So Blackburn has flown Blank and Gosling in from Berkeley to capture “ the soul of Mardi Gras,” and Morthland and I have talked Blank into letting us tag along as semi-skilled camera assistants. The sun is coming up behind the - clouds. Three Blackburn camera crews are shivering under the hard, grey sky. The Zulus are coming in. And a long, long freight train is creeping down a track directly between us and the dock. With the clock running and no end to the train in sight, we grab the equipment and swarm over the slow-rolling freight, onto the dock and right to the edge of the Mississippi River. The Zulu boat has landed. Fat Tuesday is under way. I t’s my first Mardi Gras. Blackburn’s Best Moment Two days ago at Blackburn’s studio: “ How about Blank?” asked an adman. / ‘He’s not gonna shoot documentary crap, is he? Or too much gay beauty pageant?” “Blank is terrific,” said Blackburn. “ Haven’t you seen his New Orleans movie, Always For Pleasure? It’s just the kind of stuff we need.” “ We need a family commercial,” insisted the ad-man. “ Don’t worry,” said Blackburn, “ I ’ll make sure Blank knows what we’re looking for. He can get stuff no one else can get.” “ Are you sure the King will come through?” asked a Dixi-Fried man. “ Well, he’d better, ’cause I’ve already paid him,” said Blackburn. “ But I’m gonna be on the boat with him in case he forgets.” “ For Chrissake be delicate about it,” said the Dixi-Fried man. “ He may have our money, but he’s still a drunken black man.” There was a moment of silence; people looked at the floor. “ So am I ,” said Blackburn, who isn’t. It was his best moment. Double-Cross Here comes the Zulus in leopard skins, black Afro wigs, grass skirts. Black to begin with, they have FRUIT Retail HERBS-SPICES R O N H I N C K L E Y M A T T L A B A D IE The Rosebay Homebirth Service Practical Midwifery 659-8295 complete home maternity care POT’SME Open 10 a.m. to 6 p.m Wholesale Monday - Saturday 1026 S.W. Stark — Portland — 224-6797 painted themselves blacker, and outlined eyes and lips in white like darkies in a minstrel show. They step onto the gangplank, across six feet of choppy, grey water to the dock — cliches coming home to roost. But whose cliches? Zulu Number One is not carrying a Dixi-Fried box. Neither is Zulu Number Two. Meanwhile, a bunch of Zulus are jiving around on the deck of the boat, passing bottles from hand to hand. A cold wind is blowing off the river. Now a slightly better class of Zulus appears at the head of the gangplank said the king. "But for $500 I could work up an appetite." "How about $300?" asked Blackburn. "For $300 i I'll eat some chicken," said the king. — adding shiny gold vests and white gloves to the skins and skirts. But still there is no chicken in sight, and the camera crews are getting nervous. At last, the King of the Zulus steps from a doorway on deck — crowned, sceptered, dignified and completely without chicken. It’s a double cross. As if by white man’s magic, Blackburn materializes at the head of the gangplank with a box of Dixi-Fried and shoves it into the hands of the Zulu King. The King pushes it away, looks straight ahead, and steps onto the gangplank. Blackburn elbows his way into the crowd on the gangplank and sticks the box to the King a second time, yelling something in his ear. The King gives him a dirty look, but he takes the box — his expression that of a man holding a giant dog turd. Blackburn steps back, the cameras roll, and for exactly one half second everything holds. Suddenly the Zulu right behind the King spots the box of chicken, grabs it angrily and throws it off the gangplank into the Mississippi. The king steps onto the ground followed (and quickly surrounded) by a crowd of furious Zulus. The Zulu Queen looks on, serene and unruffled in shimmering full-length evening gown. It looks like the King is about to earn his $300 getting his ass kicked. Les Blank, whose passion for good food may even surpass his passion for traditional music, turns off his camera. “Good for him,” he whispers. “ I ’m gladhe threw it in the river.” But ten minutes later the entire Blank camera crew is eating Dixi- Fried — even Les. It’s cruelly cold on the waterfront, and the chicken warms the hands as well as providing a good, greasy feeling in the stomach. “ I’m extremely fond of chicken, notes Les, polishing off a wing. “ Anyway, I respect their gimmick of adding spices and hot pepper. Pass another drumstick.” Forces Of Fast-Food Canal Street is the main drag of downtown New Orleans; it borders the French Quarter, and it runs from the Mississippi most of the way to Lake Pontchartrain. By noon it will be packed solid with a wild, drunken party. Most of the parades end up on the Canal; also most of the French Quarter celebrants, checking to see what kind of action might be shaping up. At 9:30 in the chill morning, the only action is a small protest demonstration, dressed down in radical jeans and army fatigues, walking a grim circle on the green center strip, carrying signs about police brutality. “ Hey, hey hey, two heads popped today,” chant the demonstrators (a clever variation on the traditional Black Indian chant “ Hey hey hey, two-way pockyway,” ) and “Mardi Gras ain’t no fun, brutal cops hit everyone.” Hell of a note on Mardi Gras morning. By 11 the crowds are building fast. We float through the Quarter on a wind of costume and music. Freedom fills the streets, a perfect inertia-less opportunity. Anything is possible today; there are no limits. Even Les, who’s often withdrawn and sad, seems at peace with himself. I can’t remember what I was afraid of. Perhaps it has to do with masks, behind which lust can be ack- behind which lust can be acknowledged and passion acted out in 2 1 0 8 N .W . GL I S A N ST . P O R T L A N D , O R E G O N 9 7 2 1 0 PH O N E ( 5 0 3 ) 2 4 8 - 9 1 4 2 anonymity, but I ’m beginning to feel strangely liberated. No one can see me, only the mask I’ve chosen — so I can be myself without fear: part of a camera crew in the midst of Mardi Gras, filming our own free flight through a ritual celebration designed to push us past observation into full participation. What a party! Around the corner of St. Louis Cathedral, Blackburn and a chicken crew materialize suddenly in the wake of a family of devils. “ I want you to cover the parade on Canal in 15 minutes,” he tells Les. “ I thought I was just supposed to wander a round shooting local color,” says Les. “ Well, we’re short-handed,” says Blackburn, disappearing into the crowd — but not before I grab some hot chicken from the chicken grip. “ Shit,” says Les. “ I bet he’ll do that to us all day. You want to be a Spy Boy, Goodwin?” “ Black Indians?” “ Yeah,” says Les. “ The Spy Boy keeps an eye out for enemy tribes, and when he spots one he warns the Big Chief and the tribe runs away.” “ Run away! Run away!” I whisper loudly, as Blackburn reappears at the edge of the crowd. “ Huh?” says Les. “ After you shoot the parade,” adds Blackburn, “ you better come up to the hotel room at the Royal Sonesta. We may need you for shots this afternoon.” “ Shit!” says Les, giving me a bitter look as he bites into a drumstick. He’s starting to feel guilty about his alignment with the Forces of Fast- Food. Ancient Magic People throw you things. People on floats throw you necklaces and Mardi Gras doubloons. People on balconies toss you beads, medallions, streamers and masks. Mardi Gras status depends on how much stuff you catch. A woman with 15 strings of cheap beads around her neck is a When money talks, we listen. 31
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