Well I walked on down to Bourbon Street
I'm looking for the house of New Orleans
And I sold off all my whiskey
I bummed a cigarette from a man who had no arms
And I asked him for directions
He just turned around and walked on down the road
Well I remeber the night
That we danced out in the rain
I remeber the night
That she helped me thru my pain
I know there's times I feel like I could go insane
But I remeber the night that we danced in the rain
I walked on down to the waters edge
Watched the Mississippi river boats flying down that waterline
And I watched couples walking in the sand and holding hands
Well I got lost that night in the shadows of the dam
("New Orleans", Casey Donahew Band)
Well I went south
With a case of survival
To amend my heart
that's paper thin
You see I felt her words
and her images filed
I'm gonna carry my
heart to New Orleans
I have no home to go
So I wander awhile
From coast to coast
From sin to sin
From the coldest shores
To the warmest islands
Been around the world
Back to New Orleans
Well I held my breath
and I swam for miles
When all was lost
and hell took place
You see it rained all night
and the city she flooded
It rained all night
in New Orleans
("New Orleans", Rancid)
There is a house in New Orleans,
They call the Rising Sun.
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,
and God I know I'm one.
My mother was a tailor,
Sewed my new blue jeans.
My father was a gamblin' man.
Down in New Orleans.
Now the only thing a gambler needs is
A suitcase and a trunk.
And the only time he'll be satisfied
Is when he's on a drunk.
Oh mother, tell your children,
Not to do what I have done.
Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the house of the Rising Sun.
Well I've got one foot on the platform,
and the other on the train. There takeing
me back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain...
("There Is A House In New Orleans" ou no original "The House Of The Rising Sun", The Animals)
PS: esta postagem foi inspirada numa série de cartões postais que vi em Nova Orleans (EUA). Os cartões mostravam simplesmente as portas de antigas casas e casarões do French Quarter, a região histórica e turística da cidade.
Empolgado com a ideia, percorri vários quarteirões (junto com o amigo jornalista Carlos Giannoni de Araujo, que ajudou na tarefa) em busca de exemplos de portas. O resultado é o que se vê aqui.
As músicas servem apenas como complemento da postagem, uma espécie de recheio.