Under a Black Sky
by Justin Burnell

Justin Burnell covered the NOLA Book Fair Afterparty, from an undisclosed location in the dark heart of the CBD.

As I spent the past year in Boston I wondered what had happened to the large scene of subverts that populated New Orleans: the anarcho-punks, the Iron Rail/ Plan B crew, the gutter punks, and all the others who drifted between the sects of the scene. I was sure that some would wade and swim through toxic flood water as soon as the storm was over, but I thought others, perhaps most, would hitchhike and train hop out of the way of the oncoming destruction. I also thought if there was a community in New Orleans strong enough to weather the storm it would be this group that already tried to live outside of the lines of modern day society.

The 5th annual NOLA Book Fair was an assurance that the community was surviving and still trying to undermine and subvert the norms of society, but the after party was a paramount showing that the community now seemed not only untouched by but thriving in the wake of the Hurricane. The after party was the type of event that could only happen in New Orleans, and could only be done so well by this community of people who would forgo the more popular Voodoo Fest to showcase or browse through books published by small independent companies.

Ahh...the city that never sleeps...

After driving around the Central Business District trying to find this year’s site, I pulled up to a vacant-looking industrial building with a few twentysomethings hanging outside of the front door. After a few smiles and laughs at the intended camp of the situation, I tried to open the door and heard laughter behind me and was told that I needed to climb through the missing bottom panel of the door. As I crawled through the door into the near pitch-black foyer, I found that small tea candles, which I followed up the myriad flights of rickety metal stairs, were the only source of light in the building. Anyone old enough but young enough to have hit the nineties in those key teenaged years would immediately be reminded of Ministry and Nine Inch Nails videos.

When I reached the end of the stairs and breached the roof I heard music, the din of merriment, and all the other sundry sounds that adorn any party on the rooftop of an abandoned building in the CBD. Instantly I knew that this was the homecoming that had been so needed in my return. I remembered why it was that I felt I had to return to see if the city had retained the ridiculous, unbelievable, and sublime nature that disrupts time, that draws in and traps people here. I ducked the metal beams and stepped over the holes to make my way to the bar. I chatted with the makeshift bartender and mingled with the Plan B/ Iron Rail group. Then I made my way over to the edge of the building.

If you have never seen New Orleans at one in the morning from the roof of an abandoned building in the CBD, it is crucial that you do so as soon as possible. For the first time since the hurricane, I looked on a city that appeared deceptively peaceful, calm, and captivatingly beautiful. For the next few hours we talked, drank, and danced under a black sky, unadorned by daily cares, completely accepting of, but momentarily oblivious to, the hazards of our endeavor. It was this freedom that has been the draw for so many. This is the city of forgetting, and living life in beautiful moments, which may or may not form into a coherent picture.

Then in proper fashion, the music was turned off and there was an announcement that the police had shown up and told the greeters at the bottom of the building to leave. The next hour was spent trying to keep away from the edges of the roof and trying to go on with the show sans the much-required music.

The bar stayed open. People still chatted and laughed. A few of the less adventurous left, but for the most part we all felt the strength in our number, and our innocence is what would save us. Nearing the end of that hour things had returned to normal, and of course, that is when the lone police officer had called in enough backup to feel it was wise to venture up to the roof. In one swift wave the greater bulk of us moved to the opposite side of the roof. I was then told that, yes, the cops were on the roof and someone was already in handcuffs. The NOPD, being a kind and gentle folk that are well trained in dealing with large groups of kids who break laws in the name of pure fun and community gatherings, made threats about accidental shootings and jokes about just throwing us all of the building in lieu of walking us down the now completely lightless staircase. We were all told to sit down and then listened as we were lectured about our own safety. We all watched as two people were arrested, and told that the party was busted because of an inside tip about drug dealing.

If the NOPD asks if you'd like to point out any drug dealers, answer "no."

It was only at that point that I realized what had been missing from this party, which I have come to expect from every party: pot. It could be that somehow I missed every instance of it, but if that was the case then it couldn’t have been that prevalent. Finally, after being asked if any one of us wished to point out any “drug dealer,” we were led down those treacherous stairs now lit by three flash lights providing even less light than the extinguished miniature tea candles. The cops then sat us down again and they were met with jokes and laughter from our reunited group. A few more people got handcuffed after joking about the lack of “No trespassing” signs and debating on whether or not one needs to be told to not enter a building which they do not own or rent, but mostly it was just another hoop to jump through before we were told to go home.

For that night, it was as if nothing had happened. I never went to Boston. I still lived in the 9th ward. Katrina was just a name. New Orleans had survived in a small way for me, which transcends itself to the entire city. For those who were there, this community was fortified by your presence, and I am sure that I will see you again next year, and laugh even more openly when the cops have to climb twelve flights of stairs to bring us down.




Justin Burnell covered the Bookfair Afterparty for NOLAFugees.com, and we hope to see more of him to come.