Al Hirt was in the twilight of his career when he performed in Natchitoches in 1991. But he was still brilliant, colorful and New Orleans to the bone then at age 70.
When we visited in his dressing room after rehearsal and a few hours before the show, he was sweating profusely in boxer shorts, T-shirt and socks up to his knees.
He was wiping out a roast beef po-boy from the sandwich tray the caterer delivered. There was mustard on his beard, and he laughed loudly and heartily as he always did.
Hirt liked to talk about his roots in New Orleans where I saw him often at his Bourbon Street club, in Mardi Gras parades and other venues when I worked at the newspaper there in the 1960s.
The powerful sound of his trumpet echoed across two blocks of the French Quarter in those days when he and Pete Fountain were superstars in the city.
Some guys at the newspaper like Buddy Diliberto and Pete Finney who grew up in New Orleans and knew Hirt well called him by his nickname Jumbo. He was already a national celebrity when I met him, and I called him Mr. Hirt.
Hirt was a sports fan who became a minority owner of the New Orleans Saints and performed at some of their games.
His dad had been a policeman, so there were usually cops and some of us sports writers at his club. I don’t remember ever paying to get in.
He talked the night he was here about music, sports and famous rogues from his hometown.
We shared stories about bigger-than-life New Orleans characters Allen Lacombe and Anthony Richidella. Both of them used to hang out at the newspaper and at bars, race tracks and night clubs.
Lacombe was a gambler called Black Cat. Nobody messed with him because they said he knew important people.
He had a heart of gold. They sent me to cover horse races, and I didn’t know much about the sport. Black Cat sat with me and told me what I needed to write.
He noticed I was having trouble seeing the numbers on the tote board and asked if I had vision problems. I said I didn’t think so. The next day, he took me to an old building downtown. We went up some stairs to a dark, musty office.
There were eye charts on the wall, and a bald elderly man asked me to read them. He ordered me some glasses and said there would be no charge because he owned Black Cat a favor. I got the glasses and started seeing road signs again.
Black Cat ran for governor once and raised campaign funds with red beans and rice dinners. He got half of one percent of the vote.
Richidella was called The Stooper. He went to every horse race in town and walked around picking up betting tickets that people threw away because they didn’t understand win, place, show, daily doubles and trifectas. He made a living cashing them in.
Al Hirt and I laughed about those and many more stories from the city where he spent his lifetime and I worked for a few great years.
He went on stage with his trumpet, played Java, Cotton Candy and some of his other hits that he had been doing for decades and left the crowd wanting more.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES