Bamboula's

Brass hits the sidewalk before you even catch the neon sign at 516 Frenchmen. It's loud out here on a Friday night, and the guy taking cover cash by the entrance isn't messing around with small talk. You hand over your ten bucks, squeeze past the threshold, and the humidity hits you harder than the drums. It's packed tight right up against the bar where bartenders are slinging Abita faster than anyone can drink it.

The stage sits right there in the middle, pushed against the brick, and the band is blowing doors off the hinges with a fast-rolling shuffle. You can't hear yourself think, but nobody's trying to talk anyway. People are spilling drinks on the worn wooden floorboards, dancing in cramped circles, and sweating through their shirts. Loud room. Real crowded.

Someone knocks over a glass bottle near the back corner, and it shatters while the saxophone player hits a high note that cuts right through the noise. You grab another drink, dodge a guy waving a tambourine, and try to find a square inch of wall to lean against while ice cubes melt in your plastic cup.