But not here. Not on this spot. This is a shadowy city corner at midnight, a place where Bourbon Street and indulgent evenings end. This is a place for the blues. The sidewalk musicians do not sing. But passing couples, lubricated and listing, know the words. Not surprising. For New Orleans is the home of the House of the Rising Sun--the legend at least, and maybe--once, long ago--the reality. The song that launched the myth of a brothel where Southern girls met ruinous ends is known by all in New Orleans, though there is little indication it originated here.
More than that, though, this is a perfect locale for a song that has crossed genres with glee. For New Orleans, like the song itself, is a cultural, racial gumbo--a Creole city where races and cultures and traditions mingled to form something entirely new.
Ragtime rose to prominence here, and of course Dixieland jazz. Traces of that musical past are hiding in plain sight here, everywhere you look. In the old U. Their hostel features ample brothelabilia. Louis St. They just wanted to get me there. But the St. Was there ever really a House of the Rising Sun?
No one can say for sure. But in the end, it matters little. Because in the universe of music, in the world of Eric Burdon and a New Orleans French Quarter happy to latch onto any exuberant myth, the legend itself may well be enough. The most important California stories and recommendations in your inbox every morning. You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.
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