Far from here, where the earth meets the sea, there’s a colorful land that belongs to neither but is alternately claimed by both. It was founded by woodsmen, soldiers, convicts, and whores, and at various times has been inhabited by pirates, traders, and zealots. The people of this land knew that their pretty pink houses would one day sink into the silt upon which they were erected, and so for one week every year they diverted their worries with an extravagant, lawless street party.
So the slender inventor invited the people to a gigantic party, and when they were properly assembled he stepped onstage wearing a baby blue suit encrusted with white rhinestones. A small table cloaked in a matching blue cape stood to his right. The people drew in one collective breath, straining forward to see what he would unveil. “Behold–the Drum Buddy!” Quintron exclaimed. He yanked off the cover to reveal a punctured tin can mounted over a lightbulb.
The segments come in rapid succession, each more surreal than the last: White indie-rap artist MC Trachiotomy, wearing an Afro wig and a Fu Manchu mustache, takes 30 seconds’ worth of samples from the Drum Buddy, then returns moments later with a song. A junior high school teacher earnestly explains that the Drum Buddy is an excellent learning tool because it provides a hands-on physics lesson. The Drum Buddy is featured in a puppet show; Ernie K-Doe, the guy who sang “Mother-in-Law,” dons a red suit and feathered headdress to sing “Fever” over Drum Buddy beats. Quintron tests the Drum Buddy’s heat resistance by lighting it on fire. The staged action is broken up by “commercials” shot at a rave, where kids in tiny T-shirts and huge pants twirl glow sticks and blow whistles as the Drum Buddy whirls.
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Throughout the video, Quintron, Bob, and Rebecca allude to a “target date,” when Drum Buddy production will cease and all the proud owners will flock to New Orleans for a how-to seminar. Though the actual date is never revealed–stay posted to the Web site, www.drumbuddy.com, advises Quintron–they do say that only 100 Drum Buddies will be made. At $999.99 a pop, selling even a few may seem like a pretty lofty goal, but Quintron insists it’s a steal. Each electronic component is hand selected, and just the parts cost more than $300. Plus Quintron guarantees it for 99 years. Currently there are 20 on back order.
In 1990 she went to college on the west coast. She graduated in two and a half years, and shortly thereafter decided she needed to see Guardian Angels, a painting by American surrealist Dorothea Tanning housed at the New Orleans Museum of Art. She traveled to New Orleans by train–only to find the museum closed for renovations. She decided to wait. It would be a month before it reopened, and by then she’d decided to stay.
In subsequent years, Quintron and Miss Pussycat have become celebrities in their adopted hometown. There’s even a picture of them painted on the side of the Mother-in-Law Lounge, the bar run by Ernie K-Doe’s wife, Antoinette. Ernie K-Doe died on July 5; his last recording, “White Boy, Black Boy,” features Quintron on organ. He was best known for his flamboyant costumes and his elaborate hairpieces, which looked like fancy cakes left out in the rain. The Mother-in-Law would host “hair extension nights” just to celebrate Ernie’s dos; in fact, the interior of the bar is usually decorated according to some kind of conceit. During Mardi Gras this year, ironically, it was “Party in Heaven,” and cardboard stars hung from the ceiling, bearing names of dead musicians like Hank Williams, Otis Redding, and Frank Zappa, with whom Ernie hoped to party after he passed on. Reportedly, newlyweds Quintron and Miss Pussycat were the Mother-in-Law’s first customers. They hit it off with the owners immediately because, as Antoinette told Offbeat magazine, “They are character people and so are Ernie and I. They are theme people and we are theme people.”
I made the pilgrimage this year, and the Spellcaster Lodge was every bit as magical as I’d heard. Outside Quintron and Miss Pussycat’s red-and-white house, a rickety path made of cinder blocks and plywood wound through knots of wild foliage and past a grinning larger-than-life powder blue fiberglass pony wearing a porkpie hat. A sign above the door warned absolutely no video recording devices or working reporters: Quintron and Miss Pussycat believe that video cheapens the experience, that reporters add too many filters, that every moment at the Spellcaster should be special to each guest–and they’re probably right. Inside, velveteen red-and-white-striped wallpaper and a glittery turquoise ceiling enveloped white plastic plants, tables, and chairs. Miss Pussycat’s red felt mock-brick puppet schoolhouse stood in one corner, across from a vinyl-upholstered DJ booth with lit-up portholes. Mirrors and little lights made the small dance floor seem much bigger, but pretty much everything was dwarfed by Quintron’s organ, draped in a regal satin-and-felt cover made by Miss Pussycat. An adjacent room housed the bar–an old fishing boat packed with pirate-themed tchotchkes–and inside the tiny, wood-paneled women’s bathroom a deteriorating treasure chest overflowed with Mardi Gras beads.
