OLD US TV SERIES WITH A MUSICAL TWIST!.....Treme..(2010) 4 Seasons

Recently Pmac a member from New Orleans mentioned this tv series that i never heard of..so i eventually found it and watched 2 episodes last night after the nightmare in paris to cool off. It,s a superb series i would recommend to any fan of black music. Some well known actors and the whole thing is drenched in superb music.Tremé, a historic community just north of the French Quarter, is the oldest African-American neighborhood in America. In the 18th and early 19th centuries, free persons of color and eventually those African slaves who obtained, bought or bargained for their freedom were able to acquire and own property in Tremé.  Pmac was kind enough to give me permission to publish the following information in his own words. "Its an amazingly accurate depiction of what happened in New Orleans in the immediate aftermath of Katrina. When it first aired, there were tons of bars that would host viewing “parties.” Not so much parties, but a way of making sure that you had other people nearby in case the PTSD got too intense. In any event, it does accurately depict Jazz Fest, Mardi Gras and has many notable New Orleans musicians in every episode.I have my own Katrina story that it took a decade for me to be able to tell, because it was just too damn raw at the time.Pmac added "Also – my being in Treme is somewhat a joke. My cousin is an audio engineer who mainly works on movie/tv productions. He was a sound engineer on Treme. They used family photos he had during the opening credits for the first several episodes. There’s one of me standing in a lake, holding onto a small boat that has him and his now deceased older brother in it. They released cds of the music only for the first 2 seasons. If you need copies, let me know. The producers also financed the making of a cd by John Boutte (he sings the theme song, Down in The Treme), entitled “All About Everything” which is very good.Also, the character portrayed by Steve Zahn, Davis MacAulary, is a real person, who also appears several times in the series. The “real” Davis was a below average musician, who was a huge pain in the ass to deal with (much like his character is portrayed). But, he released an album right before the hurricane that the creator of the series, David Simon, absolutely loved. So he not only made him a central character in the story, but also hired him to be in charge of hiring the actual musicians who performed on the series. So, he went from goat to hero quickly, especially since the show paid musicians extremely well (Boutte basically retired afterwards; he still performs but only when he wants)"....many thanks to pmac for the above info...LINK TO SERIES X 4 SEASONS BELOW POSTER .YOU CAN STREAM OR DOWNLOAD,MAY NEED A VPN DEPENDING WHERE YOU LIVE......COPY AND PASTE LINK INTO BROWSER...YOU WONT REGRET IT GUYS!!!....Pmacs own heart rendering experience of Katrina is below the link...Again many thanks to the man for sharing a very personal and painful journey...

 https://ww3.d123movies.to/watch-series-2/treme-2010_cwa8kzy06/a9ewnjw-all-seasons-online-free

 

                                                                PMAC,S OWN STORY

                                                               UPHEAVEL BLUES

     Growing up in New Orleans, you learn to take co-existing with large bodies of water for granted. I was born and raised in the infamous Lower 9^th Ward (completely flooded out in Hurricanes Betsy and Katrina); as an adult, owned a house and raised two kids in the appropriately named Lakeview neighborhood. Some of my fondest memories as a kid was going to Delacroix Island (see Bob Dylan’s song, Tangled Up In Blue) with my father for day long fishing trips. The road to Delacroix ended with a Sunbeam Bread metal sign that proclaimed, “Welcome to the End of the World.” To an 8 year old kid, it certainly seemed that way. My father battled some demons when I was a kid. The serenity of being on a boat in the middle of nowhere, with no one else on board other than your young son was probably comforting to him. The silence of those trips (despite his overall gregarious nature, he rarely spoke when we were on a fishing expedition) was disconcerting to me, especially when we were casting lines from our Boston Whaler adjacent to oil tankers.

     As most people have learned, the topography of New Orleans is somewhat bowl shaped. Ironically, the areas closest to the Mississippi River, are some of the highest in the city, and the least likely to flood. The areas adjacent to the numerous canals and Lake Pontchartrain – ah, you better know how to swim or keep life preservers nearby.

     With my first wife, we raised two kids in Lakeview. Despite the rituals that I experienced with my father, neither my son or daughter ever spent any significant time on the natural bodies of water in the city. My daughter was more concerned with equestrian pursuits (she actually won NCAA championships while attending Auburn), while my son was pre-occupied with H2O in its frozen element – even though he was born and raised in South Louisiana, he became one hell of a hockey player and went on to play juniors in up-state NY (my dad was a renowned HS athlete in NO, while I played college football and my first wife was a college gymnast, so I guess there is something about genetics).    

     For 45 years, water and I co-existed. Whether it be the fishing expeditions that my father and I experienced, or being a homeowner adjacent to Lake Pontchartrain with my ex-wife and kids, it was ever present, but not anything you dwelled upon. It was the Big Easy; life was a constant Bacchanlian feast. Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest, the innumerable other local musical festivals and just the daily experience of living here, emphasized the Joie de Vivre of a French/Carribbean heritage. Being called the Northern most Carribbean outpost in the world was taken as a badge of honor, instead of the insult for which most people intended it to be.

     In the summer of 2005, change was afoot. My daughter was about to graduate from Auburn, while my son was just starting his collegiate experience. After having endured a loveless marriage for the better part of a decade, my then wife and I felt that the empty nest syndrome was the best time to finally sever the marriage ties. Our split had longed been planned, and was as amicable as such things can be; I was a somewhat successful lawyer (but I absolutely hated the practice of law, and longed for doing anything else with my life) and that enabled us to devise a plan under which she got the house (I would pay off the balance of the mortgage), and I would continue to pay for my son’s college years while also helping out my daughter until she found a career. We advised the kids and other close family and friends of our parting, drafted and signed the necessary paperwork to begin the divorce proceedings, and while I still hated being a lawyer, the overriding solace it gave me was that it would fund the necessary moves that the divorce prompted.

   

                                                                   THEM STAY AT HOME BLUES

  Such was early Summer 2005. Upheaval was the theme; relationships being severed, graduations, college entry and new housing arrangements. I found an apartment for myself, and secured a lease starting September 1^st, which afforded me the opportunity to stave off paying four housing notes for a few more months and try to accumulate as much cash as possible throughout the summer to help cushion that economic blow. I also wanted to spend my 45^th birthday (August 29^th) with the four of us, realizing that it could be the last for any such get together.

     New Orleans’ summers are hot, and further marked by humidity levels that make everything feel damp. Mornings gave you a brief respite, and I would normally enjoy the first cup of coffee sitting in our backyard, in which we had planted trees and other shrubs that provided sanctuary to birds and other wildlife. Although I normally kept a radio playing during waking hours, my morning ritual typically was silence, since I was usually the first one up, and enjoyed the solitude marked with frequent bird calls and other animal noises. Late August found me in the midst of packing clothes and also bartering with my soon to be ex over the possession of several pieces of accumulated artwork. It was the only source of friction in the separation proceedings; we had purchased several paintings during our marriage not so much as an investment, but simply because we admired the art. Some had actually become somewhat valuable which also added more fuel to what was becoming an acrimonious point in the ending of our marriage.

     The start of my final week in the family house was upon us. My morning ritual was changed due to the presence of a storm system that was projected to enter the eastern Gulf of Mexico. Although hurricane warnings were typical for the summer in the Gulf Coast region, I would try to get a weather report once I got out of bed, to gauge any potential impact on travel conditions (my legal practice frequently kept me at airports). This storm, named Katrina, initially didn’t seem any more ominous than the other handful of hurricanes that would dot a typical NO summer season. But, as the storm system got into the gulf, it quickly grew in size and soon was labeled a category 4 (on a scale of 5) behemoth.

     With a wild card now thrown into life, my wife decided to vacate the house and seek shelter in Lafayette, La with some of her relatives. Although he initially was reluctant about it, ultimately my son decided to accompany her. My daughter was still in Alabama job seeking, so she was out of harm’s way. I opted to stay at the house. Even as a kid, my family had never evacuated during storms. I had learned the trick of hording candles and battery operated radios and had a sufficient supply of both at hand. Plus, despite the ominous nature of a Cat 4 storm, the city government had not issued anything other than standard storm warnings. Even a football game scheduled for Saturday night was still being held.

     That same Saturday, with the storm persistently adhering to a track that would impact NO, my soon to be ex and son headed west to Lafayette. Landfall (if it were to happen here) was projected for late Sunday/early Monday so I boarded up a few windows at the house and also made my way to my business office to make sure nothing was needlessly left in a vulnerable state. One of my neighbors, who had also become a good friend, Pete, was going through similar rituals and he also opted to be the lone ranger of his family and stay at home throughout the storm. That evening, Pete and I watched the football game together and while we engaged in typical inane chitchat, we steadily avoided any discussions about Katrina.

                                                           GOT MY WALKIN’ SHOES BLUES

     The next day, Sunday, was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The storm was now a Category 5. The city issued a mandatory evacuation order, which despite its sound, meant that if you did opt to stay, you could not count on any emergency response in the event it was needed.  Weather forecasts revealed a storm that literally occupied the entire Gulf of Mexico with landfall now projected to be due south of NO by the next day. Any thought of actually leaving the city at that time was dashed by bumper to bumper traffic on every major road artery.

     With nothing else to do, I just stayed at the house and kept the tv on – all of the local channels had gone to 24 hour news broadcasts. I actually started to regret my decision of adhering to the shelter at home policy but realized that it was too late to cut and run. I kept in frequent contact with Pete and we would exchange ideas about how to lessen the personal impact of the worst that the storm could bring, such as leveraging against the loss of electricity and the impact on coffee makers by storing a carafe in a large thermos. Booze, a storm’s friend, was already accounted for in one of several ice chests.

     While it was not unusual for storms to go off target at the final hour, Katrina stayed true to its course. I stayed awake all Sunday night and into Monday morning (Happy 45^th!). The storm did veer slightly to the east upon landfall, and it wasn’t as wet as expected. Also, once it did actually make landfall, it quickly devolved into a less ominous Cat 3 variety. Still once it passed over the city, you could feel the house shake at times, punctuated by howls of wind and the cracking of tree branches.

     With day break at hand, and electricity still funneling to the house, I decided to venture outside. The worst of the storm had passed. I checked on the exterior of the abode and happily discovered minimal damage across the 2 story structure; some missing roof shingles, a wooden fence section missing, backyard littered with tree limbs and other shredded plant leaves. Surveying the rest of the neighborhood from my front door, it also looked like this was typical for what the other neighbors would find; not much damage, just a lot of inconvenience.

     In a celebratory mood since it appeared that the worst had failed to materialize, I grabbed the thermos and emptied out a hot cup of coffee. I fell back into a chair, and once again started to watch the local news reports. A few moments later, there was a loud, repetitious knock at the side entry door of my house. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by Pete, who immediately yelled, “Come on, we got to go, now!” I simultaneously looked to the street view from my door step. What had been a dry street less than a half hour before, now had water cascading down it, akin to what you would see by fully opening both faucets in a bathtub. The water was advancing at such a furious rate that it was now past the sidewalk in front of my house, making the street impossible to view. The view absolutely froze me. Pete again exhorted that we had to leave. Not sure how we were going to accomplish this, I followed behind him back to his house. But, what I had forgotten was that Pete was an avid fisherman, and kept a small boat trailered in his backyard. We grabbed the trailer and brought it to the edge of the water, and pushed off the boat. I told Pete to hold on and returned to my house and grabbed shoes, cellphone, a wallet, a small transistor radio and then went and locked all of the doors. When I returned to the boat, Pete advised that we shouldn’t use the motor since we had no idea as to what we might hit – so we grabbed stored paddles and commenced to navigate this new waterway.

     Although we both had been watching the televised news, nothing about the flooding had been reported. I turned on the radio and after a few moments the local announcer claimed that there were unsubstantiated reports of some portions of the city starting to experience flooding. Yeah, unsubstantiated. We decided that we should try to paddle toward a relatively close by elevated interstate offramp since that was the highest point in our vicinity. We otherwise sat in silence as we paddled, both stunned by what we were viewing. Water was now completely topping over parked automobiles, and entering stores and houses. It actually felt like we were paddling upstream given the force of the current that we were encountering. Eerily, the only sounds we were exposed to was the rushing water and the paddles entering it. No birds, no people, no other noises.

     I truly had no idea as to how much time elapsed before we got to the elevated ramp. While we didn’t see any other people while paddling, there were a couple of other abandoned boats at the ramp. The radio announcer was also now proclaiming that the flooding was “substantiated.”

    Once we walked up the ramp and onto the interstate, we peered out across the city – all we could see was water with houses, buildings, trees and street poles emerging from it. There were a few other people also on the roadway. All of us were standing silent by what we were viewing, and just shaking our heads in utter disbelief. I was completely numb. Having just gone through the relief of believing that little to no damage had been occasioned to my neighborhood by the storm, to now maybe 2 hours later viewing complete devastation by flooding, left me completely emotionless.

    After a few moments, we started walking west on the roadway. I kept trying to contact people with my cellphone, but calls were met with a quick busy signal, evidencing that service was out. The further we walked down the elevated interstate, we encountered more people doing the same. No one was talking. All of us were just too stunned. Although I had no concept of how much time elapsed, or the length we had walked, we ultimately got to the boundary between Orleans and the west suburban neighbor, Jefferson Parish. Below us was a levee which separated the two areas. The Jefferson side – relatively dry. The Orleans side- don’t ask.

     Finally, the silence was broken by the ring tone from my cell phone. My son called to check on me and advised that he had been trying for over three hours. He confirmed what we already knew – levee failures after the storm had passed had inundated most of New Orleans.

     Ultimately, I was able to make phone contact with a friend in Jefferson Parish who retrieved Pete and me from the interstate. Shortly thereafter we both made arrangements to go with relatives in nearby areas. My ride got there first and I embraced Pete as I left, never contemplating the thought that we would never see each other again.

 

                                                                                 ARTWORK BLUES

     After a month had elapsed, the city was re-opened to allow people to return and take inventory of their houses. I drove over from my temporary living quarters in Baton Rouge, and passed through several military style check points. The closer I got to my house, the one thing that immediately struck me was the smell – a putrid mix of dried mud and mold. Navigating streets was arduous, because there literally were no longer streets in certain areas. I only knew where to make turns due to landmarks I recalled – a certain tree meant you were close to the end of the block and to turn left; a store front meant you were now on the appropriately named Lakeshore Dr.

     I pulled up to the front of my house. The last view I had had of it was in its minor damaged state immediately after the passing of the storm. Now, the doors I had taken care to lock upon leaving were completely blown open by the force of the water, which had actually subsumed 15’ of the two story structure. Once I summoned the courage to walk inside it, I was struck by the colors on the still standing walls. Purple and orange tinged hues were dotted across the plaster and drywall, and appeared to be throbbing. Only later did I learn that this was the effect of a certain deadly mold which had festered in many of the water logged structures. Every step I took was met with the sound of either glass breaking or crusty mud giving way to the weight of my foot. The artwork that my ex and I had argued over? Now, consumed by mud. While I had hoped that my trip would enable me to gather a few mementoes of my life there, I quickly discovered that nothing was salvageable. Everything that had been acquired into converting a house into a home was gone. Water, mud and mold had indiscriminately left nothing fit to be retrieved.

     I probably spent no more than 5 minutes in the house before my sense of self preservation forced me to leave. The place I had fastidiously locked the doors when leaving by boat approximately one month earlier, was no longer fit for habitation. Upheaval was the theme, indeed.