Spring rolled around, and with it came French Quarter Festival — four days, dozens of stages tucked into courtyards and squares and riverfront lawns across the Quarter, almost entirely free, and absolutely packed with the kind of local talent that doesn’t always make it onto national radar but absolutely should.
I went all four days. No half-measures.
What struck me most was the density of good. You could wander from a brass band on one corner to a jazz trio in a courtyard to a gospel choir on a riverfront stage, and every single one of them was excellent — not “good for a free festival,” just genuinely, legitimately excellent. The festival felt like the city clearing its throat before the bigger show, except the “smaller” show was already better than most cities’ biggest nights out.
By day four, my feet hurt, my voice was gone from singing along to songs I didn’t know the words to five minutes earlier, and I remember standing near the river thinking: I used to count good days. Now I’m losing track of them. That’s the goal, right? That’s what I came here for.