From Pan’s lips to our ears, these words of Cajun sacramental blessing ring out through the eons of celebration here at the big easy Amoeba Music, here in the City that Public Transport Forgot. Once again, winter with its cares and sub-70 temps has crept away on little cat feet, Spring has sprung, and as the great mudball we call Terra hurtles in its gyre towards the sun, we mark the turning of the season with a grand fais do-do that is suitable to the season. Before the ashes of Wednesday mark thy brow, toodle thyself down to the great creaking music emporium where the pagans await thee, ready to robe mask and bead thee, wanting only to draw thee into their voodoo jamboree of horns, floats, gumbo and confetti, shiny green gold and purple mylar waving in the southland breeze. Lose thyself in epic indulgence before the self-denial of Lent, followed of course by the rebirth of Bacchus X. Dionysus Ludo, who shall lead us prancing sun-roasted into Summer! It’s Mardi Gras at Amoeba -- ritual madness awaits!
Said weary mylar was resurrected as always from the depths of the Amoeba warehouse, and let shine once more. The Amoeba parish was coated in the sacred colours of purple gold and green, bedecked with more layers of party store finery than a muffuletta sandwitch or an etouffe. We immersed ourselves in the funky backwater sounds of Dr. John, Professor Longhair, the Wild Tchoupitoulas, Preservation Hall, the Meters, Fats Domino, and Lee Dorsey. We lashed ourselves with the fennel rod, donned the goatskin, drank the day’s wine and prepared ourselves for rejoicing!