Written by Jon Hanna

"This is Hell"....Hmm, this is Hell? That's what the black man with his rainbow hat yells through his megaphone as he spreads through his perverted gospel as hundreds of people walk down the street. Everyone's just oblivious to his warnings of Jesus being a "mad motherfucker who's coming back 2nite!". It's kind of entertaining. He doesn't even miss a beat as he picks up lines in his sermon as beautiful Creole girls strut by.

This place isn't Hell. Eternal fires of damnation don't blaze here, although there never is any relief from the sweltering afternoon heat. The humid swamp air is soaked with the aroma of urine & vomit, not brimstone.

"This is Hell!"...Far from it. This is a place where legends were made, now it's just a caricature of it's own decadence. Uncle Sam stands in the streets frozen, walking his dog, his pink skin blackened. Poor Boys with Hand Grenades make their idle threats to Saint Peter. Women paint themselves up like rag dolls, then auction themselves off for costume jewelry. As I walk through these streets near the church fending off the fortune tellers, the preacher's words reverberate through the dilapidated buildings to reach my ears to remind me that he believes.....

"This is HELL!"....Hundreds of people are just flooding past me on the street as I stand in front of the House of Blues. The sun never seems to shine on this street, on this building. I can still hear the echoes of the old souls within. As I stand near the doorway, I see my own avatar of music approach me. He just smiles, and gives me a sign of good fortune. It kind of reminds me that magicks can still thrive in this place. But still I can hear those words of the preacher coming back to me through the streets to remind me of what he thinks this place is....and I think to myself: This isn't Hell. This is the French Quarter.