The city of New Orleans has seen far more than its fair share of heartbreak and trial. Floods, hurricanes, fires, and a myriad of different diseases have brought this city to its knees time and again, bent but not broken.

Panic has never been part of the New Orleans landscape. There’s a quiet resilience that lies just under the surface of its cool, southern façade. All of this was tested nearly one hundred years ago by the appearance of the serial killer dubbed “The Axeman”, who kept the Crescent City in a frenzy for almost a year and a half.

On May 23, 1918, an Italian grocer and his wife were butchered while sleeping in their apartment. The police found a panel in the rear door had been chiseled out, providing a way in for the killer. The murder weapon, an axe, was found in the apartment, still coated with blood. Nothing in the house had been stolen, ruling out burglary as a motive.

Over the course of his reign of terror, the Axeman claimed 12 victims. Although the police made several arrests, none of the suspects panned out. Whipped up by media coverage, the citizens of New Orleans spent fitful, sleepless nights and anxiety ridden mornings waiting for the delivery of the morning’s papers which might hold word of more senseless murders. Many claimed the Axeman wasn’t a man at all, but an evil spirit who could appear at will to claim his victims.

Like many serial killers, the Axeman seemed to enjoy the media coverage and panic caused by his night time dalliances, and often wrote strange missives to the local papers to enhance his legend as a demon, killing people for pure joy. On Friday, March 14, 1919, the editor of the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper received a letter from a man who claimed to be the Axeman. The letter started with this:

Hell, March 13, 1919

Esteemed Mortal:

They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.

The letter goes on to talk about how terrible a being he is, how the police will never catch him, and how he’s collecting souls to keep him company in hell. Then the killer gets…a little weird, this is New Orleans, after all…

Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:

I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.

New Orleans has always been a musical city. It is, after all, the birthplace of jazz. Chances are, though, that the world itself had never seen a city come alive with music like that Tuesday night in March of 1919. Every restaurant and club was packed to the rafters with revelers, and all through the night the sounds of brass, drums, and strings warded off the evil spirit. The composer Joseph Davilla penned a special song for the night called “The Mysterious Axeman’s Jazz”, and the sheet music became a best seller.

No one got the axe that night, and the Axeman was never identified or caught. I think about this story almost every time I’m in New Orleans, for two reasons. 1) New Orleans is a city where you can feel the ghosts hanging in the air like humidity. The past plays a huge role in what the city is today. 2) The reason is that a stroll down Frenchmen Street, with its many nightclubs and bars, makes me feel like the locals are still warding off the Axeman the best that they can.

There are many cities that can claim to be musical destinations, and all those claims are valid but there’s no city like New Orleans when it comes to sheer volume and variety of music. Jazz, funk, zydeco, folk, rock, soul and even blues are as readily available as fast food is in other cities. Often, two or more of those different kinds of music get mixed together in a kind of a “stew” or a melange that you simply won’t find elsewhere. Charles Neville calls it a “gumbo funk“.

Frenchmen Street is full of famous clubs. There are too many to name. If you don’t like what you hear at one joint you can always just go next door or across the street. Elsewhere in the city, clubs like Howlin’ Wolf, Tipitina’s or the famous Rock n’ Bowl have music pretty much every night. In the French Quarter’s famous Bourbon Street it tends to lean more towards “classic rock” and strip clubs. Although just around the corner at Preservation Hall, you can hear music played where the only thing electric is a bare light bulb. It is a lesson in dynamics for any musician.

My personal favorite, though, has to be the Maple Leaf up in the Carrollton district. The Maple Leaf has a seven nights a week full calendar focusing on local talent and “talent” is the key word. They have regular weekly gigs for Papa Gros Funk, and the Rebirth Brass Band. Also you can hear the famed Thursday night “trio” gigs, where George Porter Jr. and Johnny Vidacovich use a steady stream of talented guests to fill out the trio part, and improvise an entire night of music. Some of the best musicians in the world play here every week.

The Holy Grail of all musical quests has to be the ten days encompassing JazzFest. JazzFest is the multi-stage cultural event held on the last weekend of April through the first weekend of May. At the city’s fairgrounds hundreds of local and national acts grace the various stages, surrounded by all the local culture and cuisine. Everyone has a well marked, ragged looking copy of the all important “grids” showing who’s playing which stage at what time, and which day.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about JazzFest is the way the city becomes one giant music venue for the entire time the fest is going on. There are five or six bands a day playing at the record store called the Louisiana Music Factory. Everywhere that can have music, has a lot of music. Every bar, laundromat, and museum is awash in enough talent to scare the Axeman away for good.

Music in New Orleans is different. It matters. It’s a deeply ingrained part of the culture, more so than anywhere else in the United States. You can’t go to New Orleans without hearing music. It’s everywhere. It’s as present as weather, water, or even food.

Here‘s a little story that illustrates my point. Most people are familiar with the International Blues Challenge (the “IBC“). Local bands from all over the world compete to represent their local blues society at the big contest held every year in Memphis. Fame and fabulous prizes await the winners. The event grows bigger and bigger each and every year.

On a local level, the contests usually starts with nine to twelve bands. Before a finalist is chosen several rounds of competition take place to determine the winner. The problem is the bands who compete are basically playing for free so they often don’t reflect the best bands in each city.

Like everything else in new Orleans, they do things a little differently. The finals are broadcast live on the city’s outstanding radio station WWOZ. Because of the broadcast, each band member gets paid “scale” for their performance. This unprecedented type of cooperation between various elements recognizing a singular goal is a great idea. The promotion of New Orleans blues and blues musicians is a priority to the citizens of the Crescent City.

If you’re a musician or a music fan, you owe yourself a trip to New Orleans. Obviously I’ve just skimmed the surface, but part of the fun is discovering your own magic. If you’re lucky, the city will welcome and caress you the way it has me, and calls to me every day. I’m thrilled to death every time I go there, and sad every time I leave. Three quick pieces of advice:

1) It’s not “Nawlins” and it’s not “New Orleeens”; it’s “new-WAH-lens”.

2) Don’t call it “the Big Easy.” Nobody there remembers that moniker before the 1987 movie of the same name came out. By the way, the locals hate that movie.

3) Remember to make sure you’re around a joyful noise. Remember you have to keep the Axeman away!