April 2008 Archives

Now, the making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art. Many do's and don'ts. First of all you're using someone else's poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing. -- Rob, High Fidelity

If I was an artist like Greg Peters, or a photographer like dsb or Galfreaka, or had the design aesthetic of dangerblond, or had kept up with my musical training like the Hot 8, I could have created something original for Ashley. Instead, I do what most former zine editor/rock critic/college radio DJs do...I rearrange other people's art to express my feelings.

This is the mix CD that was played during the visitation at Ashley's funeral. Probably most of you didn't get to hear it, or only heard snippets. Maybe you can take this list and turn it into your own version, or I can burn a couple copies for people to pass around if anybody wants. I kinda like it. I used to be a mix tape fanatic back in the day, and it felt good to make this. Keeping it down to one CD was the hardest part.

Many thanks to Greg Peters for the vast collection of vintage funeral jazz to dig through.

Warren Zevon "Keep Me In Your Heart" The Wind
Everybody's seen Greg's video that goes with this song. It still makes the tears flow, two weeks later. This song is going away in the vault with Sigur Ros "Staralfur" and Martin Sexton's "Wasted" as songs that are so associated with pain that I don't think I can listen to them ever again.

Treme Brass Band "The Old Rugged Cross" Gimmee My Money Back
Classic jazz funeral dirge done with modern Treme flair. Plus I think Ashley is gonna be reincarnated as Uncle Lionel. Seriously. When Uncle Lionel passes, Ash is gonna sneak into his body before anybody notices and live the life for a few years (with Lionel's blessing, I'm sure).

Steve Riley & The Mamou Playboys "La Toussaint" La Toussaint
La Toussaint is the Cajun French name for All Saints Day, the day we pay respects to our ancestors who have passed on. This song is beautiful and haunting.

Queen "Love Of My Life" A Night At The Opera
Requested by Hana.

Professor Longhair "Tipitina" Doctors, Professors, Kings & Queens: The Big Ol' Box Of New Orleans
We had to have the most classic of all New Orleans songs by the most classic of all New Orleans musicians, and this is one of the most stellar studio versions. I never went to Tip's with Ashley, although we always talked about this show or that show. Always thought there was plenty of time.

Warren Zevon "Accidentally Like A Martyr" Excitable Boy
Looking for an older Zevon song that was funeral-appropriate, I happened on this and it was such a fucking obvious winner.

Louis Armstrong "St. James Infirmary (Gambler's Blues)" Birth of Jazz
Liam's choice, a classic version by the man who made it famous.

James Booker "Over the Rainbow" Spiders on the Keys
Recorded live at the Maple Leaf, the last place I ever saw Ashley, played by another man who lived too loud and too fast and too crazy and left the world too soon without realizing how much he was truly loved.

Lyle Lovett "If I Had a Boat" Pontiac
Requested by Hana.

Kermit Ruffins "What is New Orleans?" The Barbecue Swingers Live
Ashley Morris IS New Orleans. Kermit needs to re-record this.

Flogging Molly "If I Ever Leave This World Alive" Drunken Lullabies
This song brought me to tears in the first days of April. Check the lyrics if you don't believe me.

Cheap Trick "I Want You to Want Me" Live At Budokan
Requested by Hana.

Eddie Bo "When The Saints Go Marching In" Our New Orleans: A Benefit Album
A brilliant post-Katrina mellow-sad version.

Queen "You're My Best Friend" A Night At The Opera
My choice. Nuff said.

Davell Crawford "Gather By The River" Our New Orleans: A Benefit Album
My favorite post-Katrina gospel recording that is heavy with tragedy, brotherhood, and redemption all at the same time.

George Lewis "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" Funeral Songs (Dead Man Blues)
Supplied by Greg Peters. A 1920's recording of a classic jazz funeral dirge.

New Orleans Wanderers "Perdido Street Blues" Funeral Songs (Dead Man Blues)
Another 1920's vintage recording from Greg Peters. Ashley would have wanted at least one title with a political subtext to it. Gotta get that last dig in.

Henry 'Red' Allen "Canal Street Blues" Funeral Songs (Dead Man Blues)
The third selection from the huge library of vintage jazz Greg Peters sent me. We started Ashley's journey homeward at the funeral home on Canal Street, and we definitely had the blues.

Allen Toussaint "Tipitina And Me" Our New Orleans: A Benefit Album
A post-Katrina recording that renders the Fess classic slowed down and in a minor key, taking our happiest of happiests and producing a dirge with a hint of triumph.

Chris Rose writes about Ashley today and gets it pretty damn close for somebody who barely met the man. He writes about Ashley the way we all wrote about Ashley, and the way Chris writes about most topics...through the lens of his own personal sense of loss.

He identified himself. Turns out, he lived across the street from me. That pain in the ass Ashley Morris was my neighbor!

And it turns out I loved this guy; he gave my kids candy (and me a cigar) on Halloween, and he often invited me over to drink fresh Abita beer from the kegerator he kept plugged in on his porch.

I never accepted the invitation. I don't know why, really, other than I am generally anti-social. And I had no idea who he was.

What I loved most about this neighbor of mine was that he, like me, still has not taken down his Christmas lights. Our street shines prettier than most. That's such a New Orleans thing, the not taking down Christmas lights.

So Morris, now identified, invited me over for a beer and a smoke. "When I get back to town," he wrote to me in an e-mail dated March 29. And this time, I accepted.

Thing is, Ashley never made it back to town. He died April 2 in a hotel room.

I don't know the cause, but he was huge and he lived too large and laughed too loud and that kind of behavior can kill a man.

Exactly right. My last emails to Ashley are about plans we had, things we were going to do, "when I get back in town". And when he finally got back in town, it was by plane in a slate blue fabric-covered extra-large casket, which we later filled with cigars, drumsticks, Jameson, Abita Amber, Mardi Gras beads, a copy of Confederacy of Dunces, a muffaletta, and all the other trappings of a life cut too short which is hopefully being carried on joyfully on the Other Side, free of the bondage and weaknesses of mortal flesh and blood.

Thanks, Chris. We all needed that.

I'll have more details and links to photos of Ashleys' funeral later this weekend, but people have been asking me to post the eulogy that I read at the service this morning.

For those of you who haven't heard the original, it's a take on Kermit Ruffins's song "What Is New Orleans?"

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(My most heartfelt apologies to Kermit Ruffins for what I’m about to do here.)

What is Ashley Morris?

What IS Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is a fiery spirit who inspires and energizes anyone whose life he touches.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is a poet, a patriot, a teacher, scientist, comedian, cook, gadfly, bulldog and warrior.

What is Ashley Morris?

What IS Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is theology and geometry, never lacking in taste and decency even while strapped to Fortuna’s wheel, scribbling on the modern Big Chief pad he called his blog.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is the bass drum. Ashley Morris is the snare drum. Ashley Morris is the high hat. Ashley Morris is the tri-tom. And Ashley Morris never claps on 1 and 3 and hates anybody who does.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is smoked duck poor-boys from Crabby Jacks, shrimp poor-boys from Domilise’s, roast beef poor-boys with extra gravy from the Calhoun Superette, and any kinda poor-boy you wanna get on a lazy Sunday on a barstool with the afternoon sun shining in the window at the Parkway Bakery, y’all. What is Ashley Morris?

What IS Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is Krewe du Vieux. Ashley Morris is the Mystik Krewe of Pan. Ashley Morris is “Buy Us Back Chirac!” and “Bring Back Competent Corruption” and “The Cult of Lafcadio”.

Ashley Morris is at the top of Harry Shearer’s list of favorite mimes. (It’s a short list.)

What is Ashley Morris?

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is daddy to the beautiful Katerina, to the charming Annabel Lee, and to Big Rey d’Orleans Morris.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is the roller derby husband of the best blocker the game is likely to ever see, and woe be to the first jammer who thinks she’s gonna sneak by Soviet Block without a serious ass-whupping.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is an Abita ale, a wee dram of Jameson, a fine Cuban cigar, and an endless supply of stories and experiences both sacred and profane, enough to while away many a late night.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is the Saints 12th Man, the first to arrive and the last to leave in section 635, the Gentilly of ticket sections, reachable only by an arduous three-quarter mile journey by escalator, escorted by sherpas, where you WILL stand and you WILL cheer until the end of the fourth quarter regardless of whether Dem Boys are up by 6 or down by 17.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is he who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds New Orleans through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the saver of lost cities. And he will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy New Orleans. And you will know he is Ashley Morris when he lays his verbal vengeance upon thee. What is Ashley Morris?

What IS Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is Lenny Bruce and Bob Dylan and Bill Hicks. Ashley Morris is Che Guevara. Ashley Morris is Thomas Jefferson. Ashley Morris is Michael Collins. Ashley Morris is any separatist rebel patriot anywhere who ever said “Sinn Fein”, “Ourselves Alone”, or “Let ‘em freeze in the dark without any shrimp or coffee until we get some real levees up in here.” What is Ashley Morris?

What IS Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is the exposer of FMooks, and Ashley Morris is…(all together now) F Y Y F-ing F.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is a whole fried chicken from Dooky Chase’s with baked macaroni, collard greens, cornbread, and candied yams as sweet as bread pudding, eaten out of a box on the front steps of a condemned housing project on a cold drizzly January day saying, “This is the life. You know what they’re eating in Houston right now? Quiznos.”

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris is our voice. Ashley Morris is our rage. Ashley Morris is our laughter, our tears, our heart, our soul.

What is Ashley Morris?

Ashley Morris IS New Orleans.

And Ashley Morris is my friend. Ashley Morris will always be my friend.

And I will always miss him. Forever.

Ashley's funeral will take place this Friday:

SCHOEN FUNERAL HOME, 3827 CANAL ST.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Public visitation will be from 10:00 am until 1:00 pm.
Funeral service 1:00 pm.
Interment to follow in St. Louis Cemetery No. 3

I'm told by his wife Hana that Saints-wear is an acceptable substitute for traditional funeral attire.

Also, if you could, please click below to donate to the "Remember Ashley Morris" fund.

Remember Ashley Morris and DONATE!

Ashley was the sole breadwinner in the house and leaves behind three children ages 5 and under, and they have very little in the way of extended family, so those of us who count ourselves as friends and fans must step up as surrogate aunts and uncles for Katerina, Annabel, and Rey d'Orleans. Funeral and living expenses are an immediate pressing need.

I knew Ashley by reputation in the months after the storm. The first words I ever saw by him were:

You do not want to fuck with pissed off New Orleanians. We're the murder capital, bitches. We will rain that shit down on you.

and I thought this might be a man I need to get to know better. And we got acquainted at Geek Dinner I the first night I moved back to New Orleans after 25 years in exile.

But I think the day Ashley Morris and I became friends was during the first Rising Tide planning party at Dangerblond's house. The group hadn't yet thought up the "all agenda items must be addressed before the wine is opened" rule at that meeting, and conversation had degraded into a confused meandering mess, so I got up to go to the kitchen for a break from the madness and Ashley followed me. He dug in the fridge and pulled out an Abita Restoration Ale for himself, and dug out one of my giant bottles of sparkling water and held it out to me by the neck of the bottle, as if to say, "here, you look like you need this". There was something in his manner, like an understanding. There was none of that awkwardness of the drinker around the teetotaler that those of us in recovery are used to dealing with. He just treated me like a normal guy and hefted the bottle towards me knowing it was my drink of choice. He treated me just like a drinking buddy, with no acknowledgement or sense of the difference between what he drank and what I had to drink, not knowing how much I had yearned for the past three years to have somebody treat me unselfconciously like just another drinking buddy.

And so we sat in the kitchen, he with his beer and I with my fizzy water, and we shared our very first of many "JEEZUS, what a clusterfuck this is" rants with each other. We like to rant. We like to curse. We got along great.

I knew I had found a true friend.

We did a lot of stuff together. Not nearly as much as I would have liked. We both had kids to raise, we both worked long hours and had to leave town regularly to work. We both jokingly called ourselves "roller derby widowers" when our wives were at practice leaving us home to watch the kids.

But the memories we do have feel legendary to me. We ate Dooky Chase's takeout on the steps of the Lafitte Projects, in the rain, and no Michelin 4-star white tablecloth crap from out in the world could ever top that experience.

He took me to my first ever Thursday night Kermit show at Vaughan's.

We spent a Mardi Gras day hefting kids up and down ladders, sharing food with total strangers, swapping my gumbo for some pork ribs on the neutral ground on Napoleon, and crashing out on my couch listening to the Treme brass band, feeling fat and happy with the world and with the feeling that many happy Mardi Gras lay ahead of us. The corner of Napoleon and Prytania is our standard spot; it's going to feel empty next year.

I helped him get his first tattoo. I didn't think it would be his last.

We fried turkeys together. We joked about the gay porn that was a running gag in the blog circles, and half-joked about our moral unsuitability to teach at a Catholic girls school.

When I lost my friend Evan to suicide, and I needed to get out of the house and scream and cry and rant at somebody, there was only one person I could call, and it was Ashley, and he dragged himself to Carrollton Station after midnight on a weeknight and stood me rounds of O'Doul's while I stood him rounds of Abita and Jameson, and he patiently let me tell stories and laugh and cry and yell about a guy he'd never even met before. Because he was that kind of friend.

The last time I saw him, two Sundays ago, we spent a chilly afternoon at the Maple Leaf, planning a crawfish boil for the high school volunteers coming down from Maine in a few weeks, and drinking and kvetching and flirting with the bartender, as if two 40-something overweight happily-married geezers from the neighborhood had anything but harmless flirting to offer to a hottie with a pierced navel who liked to flirt back at middle-aged men. When I got home I stunk like cigar smoke. I hate cigars. But with Ashley, I didn't care.

When I broke the bad news about Ashley to my kids, they were both upset, but Liam is taking it kind of hard. He idolized Ashley ("Big Ashley", we called him, to distinguish him from all the girl Ashleys we know). Both he and Ashley were drummers and hockey goalies. Liam bought himself a bad-ass skateboard for his birthday last week:

decorated with a picture of a Mardi Gras Indian Spy Boy, and I said, "Man, you gotta show that to Big Ashley, he'd love it." But he never got the chance. He's still got the hockey stick Ash gave us, an adult size one so that I could do slapshot practice with the kid in the driveway. And he had his NOCCA jazz auditions today, electing to play "St. James Infirmary" as his prepared piece. Last night he couldn't play it, said the song reminded him of the words and the words reminded him of Ashley and he got sad. I told him, "Just remember, buddy, that song is the blues. It's supposed to be a sad song. It's a song they play at jazz funerals, and Big Ashley is gonna have a jazz funeral, so if you feel sad when you play it, then play it sad and that will make it sound even better." Reports are that he blew the judges away at his audition today. That was Ashley pulling strings to keep that reed from squeaking, I bet.

Last night I remembered something from Wednesday. Somewhere in the middle of the day Wednesday, the day Ashley died, before I knew he was gone, I got a weird tight pain in my chest. It started on the left, and slowly spread across my breastbone. I spent a tense 15 minutes trying to decide if it was just something I did to myself at the gym, or if it was something more serious.

Now I know. It was Ashley. He was on his way Home, and he stopped by where I was working and punched me real hard in the chest, just to be funny, just to let me know that I can't go around thinking that he's not going to be making things happen down here on Earth just because he's up there with Zevon and Shavers and Satchmo. He's gonna show up here and pull some strings here and there when he feels like it. Like my grandmother does with cardinals. Like she did with the 2004 Red Sox the year she died and they swept the Cardinals in the World Series in four games.

Watch them Saints this year. You'll see.

His earthly self is going to St. Louis #3 some time next week, the cemetery right behind the Fairgrounds. His soul is going to a righteous place somewhere else. But I have no doubt that every year when Jazz Fest rolls around, if you hang close to that end of the neighborhood, you'll hear an extra drumline coming from somewhere and maybe the whiff of Jameson and a Cubano. You won't be able to see him, but you'll know he's there, drumming like mad and laughing his ass off.

Our council member Shelley Midura's speech at today's City Council meeting:

I wanted to honor the life and passing of one of my district's neighborhood activists, Professor Ashley Morris, who we lost to an early passing yesterday morning. He was a friend to my office and a champion of his neighborhood. More than almost anything though, he was a fierce lover of New Orleans. He spent much of his time during the week teaching at an out-of-town university, yet he had no desire to move there. He preferred to commute.

To Chicago. From New Orleans.

Why would he do that? Why do so many others in our city do such things? I believe it was because Professor Morris wanted to be able to tell people, "I'm from New Orleans." He wanted people to know that New Orleans was his home and that this truth was not only conscious and deliberate, but perhaps also something fated. He seemed to believe that New Orleans chose him as much as he chose us, as if it were some quantum entanglement that could not be logically explained or rationalized. It was a matter of the heart and knowing in the bottom of your soul exactly where you belong. It was a deep yearning for a city he loved, cherished, and felt gratitude and appreciation towards every day, despite the challenges and the ups and downs of post-Katrina life.

On his blog only a couple months ago, he wrote about going out to lunch with his friend Ray to Willie Mae's and grabbing take-out there and how "There on the stoop, we tore into a whole fried chicken, macaroni and cheese casserole, mixed greens, and candied yams that tasted more like bread pudding. An excellent meal, as you can see… anywhere else, we'd be having lunch. Here in New Orleans, we were having a world class meal. For lunch." Ashley knew that any moment in New Orleans was unlike any moment anywhere else in the world, that typical days here are not typical days anywhere else on this planet, and that being a New Orleanian, especially now, comes with a special badge of honor.

And so I honor my fellow New Orleanian, Professor Ashley Morris. He will be so dearly missed by so many, of whom I am only one. New Orleans aches for him today and wishes his wife, young children, family, and loved ones its heartfelt condolences.

1963 - 2008

I miss you, old man. More than you can ever know.