[Dixielandjazz] A New Orleans story, circa 1950s

[Charles Suhor]

This short memory piece appears in edited form in the current (July) 
issue of The Sun. I tried to get into how it felt at the time to 
worship at the altars of jazz and Our Lady Star of the Sea Church .

Charlie Suhor


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FISHERMEN?S MASS

My teenage years in a strict Catholic home in New Orleans in the 1950s 
would have been pretty sheltered if it hadn?t been for music gigs on 
Saturday nights. Sitting behind the drums at sleazy bars, country club 
dances, wedding receptions, neighborhood dance halls, debutante 
parties, and what-not else, I got a wide view of the social spectrum, 
unguarded and at play, that wouldn?t have been accessible otherwise.

After those unchained evenings, many young musicians congregated at 
what was called the ?Fishermen?s Mass? at 3 a.m. at Our Lady Star of 
the Sea Church on St. Roch Avenue. It started out as a service for 
early rising fishermen and hunters, but it became fashionable for 
Catholics who were out late to ?make Mass? at the ungodly hour. So the 
sportsmen were totally outnumbered by musicians, partygoers, and 
night-clubbers.

?It was great fun after a Saturday night gig to go for a sandwich at 
L?Enfant's, or Martin Brothers, then meet other musicians on the steps 
of the church before Mass.

??Where?d you play tonight, man??

?Buzzards Hall on Annunciation Street. Angelo played guitar. Played his 
ass off.?

?Yeah, we played a dance at the Roosevelt. Mostly stocks, no jamming.?

We had a gently patronizing scorn for the nightclubbers and promgoers. 
Many showed up in tuxes and gowns, bleary-eyed and foot-dragging, 
unaccustomed to the wee hours but intent on being seen at the hippest 
Mass outside of St. Louis Cathedral.

Our Lady Star of the Sea was a cavernously large church, so the odd 
assemblage of attendees looked like lonesome pilgrims scattered among 
the pews. The priest?s Latin mumblings took on an eerie sound, echoing 
solemnly in the sepulchral silence of morning. Sermons were short and 
dull, in line with the borderline comatose atmosphere. Few went to 
communion. In those days, abstaining after midnight from all food and 
drink, even water, was required. Those who took communion were seen as 
heroically devoted by those aware enough to take notice.

Almost every week, though, there was a shock of awakening that broke 
the mood and evoked irrepressible giggles. To understand this, you have 
to get the picture. The proper kneeling position in a pew is knees on 
the raised wooden platform, spine straight, forearms resting on the 
back of the pew in front of you, hands together in prayer. Every 
Catholic, though, knew the improper fallback posture. When you?re 
tired, your back hunches and your butt slips back to the seat, taking 
pressure off of your knees. It?s an ungraceful slump, and not really 
comfortable, but at 3 a.m. it?s a real option.

And a real problem, if you?ve been drinking since 8 p.m.  A thundering 
WHACK!would break the silence as someone in the halfway position nodded 
off, his head hitting the pew in front of him, smack between his 
forearms.

We joked a lot about the comic relief, but the Fisherman?s Mass 
appealed to me deeply. The after-image of jazz, dancing, and po-boys 
merged pleasantly with the deep-night tranquility of the 3 a.m. 
service. It was confusing yet invigorating to be part jazz musician and 
part Trappist. My grab-bag of heroes as a teenager included Louis 
Armstrong, Thomas Merton, Jacques Maritain, and Max Roach. I couldn?t 
put it all together then, but by the time I left the Catholic Church I 
knew that the Saturday night music, camaraderie, and Mass were 
spiritual celebrations, different faces of what had been misidentified 
as the uptight God of my Catechism book.

?