← DISGRACELAND
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- [00:05]
Jake Brennan
Double Elvis. You know, every holiday season, I'm hit with this feeling of, oh, man, what am I gonna wear to this event that I have to go to? I'm just going to see my relatives. I don't want to get dressed up, but I haven't seen them in forever. I want to look nice. What am I gonna wear? I don't like the stress of this, but I've got it figured out. I've got a solution. Quince. Quince makes incredible sweaters. Last year when I started working with Quince, I got hooked up with a Mongolian cashmere crew neck sweater, which anytime the the temperature dips below 70 degrees, I'm putting this thing on. Now they have these polo sweaters that are also Mongolian cashmere. Fantastic. And when I say sweater, I don't mean like a big bulky Christmas sweater. I mean it's light, it's kind of fitted, it looks great, it's casual, but it also dresses you up. They've also got these cashmere fisherman quarter zip sweaters as well. These are fantastic. This is just like, I don't know, imagine you're hanging out with Anthony Bourdain or something down in Martha's Vineyard and you know, you're eating oysters. It's kind of chilly, but it's not too, too chilly. You're wearing this quince Mongolian cashmere fisherman quarter zip sweater and you can wear it to the holiday party as well. It's going to look fantastic this season with those cold mornings, those holiday plans. This is when you want your wardrobe to be simple and easy. You want to look good, though. You want to look sharp, you want to feel good. Quince makes clothes that I actually want to wear out. And the bonus quince makes great gifts as well. I can talk about the Mongolian cashmere sweaters until I'm blue in the face, but they're denim nails. The fit and everyday comfort that you're going to be looking for at a fraction of what you'd be expecting to pay. Quality quince has you guys covered for gifting. That goes beyond clothing as well. Okay, you can get home items, bath, kitchen, travel. I mentioned before the great Napa leather duffel bag that I got from my wife from Quint, but that I ended up appropriating for myself. Just awesome stuff. You can't go wrong at Quints. Give and get. Timeless holiday staples that last this season with quints. Go to quince.com Disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns now available in Canada too. That's Canada. Q-U-I-N C E.com Disgraceland free shipping and 365 day returns. Quince.com Disgraceland think advertising on TikTok isn't for your business?
- [02:31]
Eve and Anam
Think again with TikTok ads, we went from 250,000 downloads to over a million downloads in less than a year. I'm Eve, I'm Anam and we're the co founders of Alinea. Alinea Invest is an investing app for Gen z. We run 50 new ads per week with three variations thanks to TikTok Small Smart plus campaigns. If you're not advertising on TikTok, you're missing out.
- [02:52]
Josh Radner
Drive more app downloads only on TikTok.
- [02:54]
Jake Brennan
Head over to get started.TikTok.com TikTok Ads Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about voodoo. Not the Hollywood version of voodoo. Because this isn't a story about pincushion dolls and needles. Nobody worships the devil in this story. Well, almost nobody. This is a story about real Louisiana voodoo, the kind with the power not only to hurt and to hex, but also to heal. This is the story of Dr. John, a pimp, a drug addict, an outlaw, and a piano man who made great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my mellotron called nine and a half fingers MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to the Lion Sleeps Tonight by the tokens. And why would I play you that particular slice of no nut high note cheese Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 24, 1961. And that was the day that a musician named Mac Rebenac, who would later become known as Dr. John, was shot outside a bar in Jacksonville, Florida, in an incident that kicked off a harrowing journey through the criminal underworld and ultimately to musical salvation. On this episode, a shooting, a car chase, a drug bust time in the federal pen. Musical Healing and Rebirth with Dr. John I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgrace Sam. It was the night before Christmas in New Orleans. In the city's Third Ward. In a tiny shotgun apartment, a creature was stirring. And it definitely was not a mouse. It was a woman. And she was alone, swaying back and forth in a trance, filling the room with sound because she was chanting a mantra. She repeated it over and over until the words came roaring out of her mouth. In the corner of the room sat a small wooden altar it was covered in black candles. The flickering candles sent menacing shadows stretching toward the ceiling. While the woman was doing her best to conjure up some menacing energy, she banged on a glass bottle with a stick until the rhythm built into a frenzy. All the while she kept chanting. The sound echoed through the narrow shotgun apartment it built until it felt like the wooden beams of the house were resonating with her voice. And just when it seemed like the sound could get no louder, she reached down to the paper bag at her feet and pulled out the object. Inside it was a pair of scuffed leather dress shoes, size 11. Still chanting, she grabbed a handful of dust from a bowl and sprinkled it across the altar. Then she placed the shoes on the dust and blew out the candles. But this was no ordinary dust. It was a special blend of three ingredients. Dirt from a graveyard, grease from a church belt, and snakeskin. It was goofer dust, a powerful conjuring agent. The woman used it to cast a hex on the owner of the shoes. Meanwhile, 500 miles away, a man threw open the door of the back office of a tiny juke joint in Jacksonville, Florida. His mind was racing as fast as his fingers on the dial in the combination lock of the heavy room safe tucked into the corner of the office. This man was the only one who knew the combination. After all, he was the owner of this little club. It was a down and dirty job, and sometimes it was dangerous, so he kept a gun in the safe just in case. On the good nights, though, it was worth it. There were piles of cash to be made like tonight. The holidays were approaching and the crowd was in a festive mood, and the bar was already doing brisk business, and there was a hot New Orleans band set up on the stage. On a night like tonight, this man should have been seeing dollar signs in his eyes, but instead he was seeing red. He spun the knob on the combination lock to the final number and heaved open the heavy door of the safe. Loose bills flew into the air as he frantically rifled through the safe's contents. Finally, his hands made contact with cold steel. It was the long black barrel of his Colt revolver. He pulled out the gun and stared at it for a moment, and the memory came flooding back. He shuddered, and then he loaded the cylinder with six bullets. As the man pushed his way back out of the office, he left the safe wide open behind him. He had more important things on his mind, like finding the musician who fucked his wife and pumping a.30 caliber bullet through the bastard's skull. Mack Rebenak was relaxing in the club's dressing room when suddenly he felt a chill. It tingled all the way down to the soles of his feet, like he was walking on pins and needles. He reached down and rubbed the leather on his second favorite pair of size 11 wingtips. Up until this moment, he had been feeling mellow. And why not? He'd stolen his old lady Lydia's last bag of brown on his way out of town. He kept the small stash of heroin hidden in a few Juicy Fruit wrappers in his coat pocket. All except what he had already shot up during the drive to Jacksonville. That was the rule of every junkie musician Mac knew in New Orleans. Never carry on you more than you can eat. Because he never knew when a vice squad cop would try to bus you. And if you didn't have enough bribe money, then you might be doing forever in a day in Angola. But that was a worry for another time, because the heroin that was coursing through Mac's veins right now was doing its work. Mac was feeling knocked out, loaded, ready to show these Florida fuckers what a hot New Orleans band could really do. Except for one thing. He couldn't find his lead singer. It was that damn kid, Ronnie Barron. Ronnie had a knack for disappearing just before showtime. Usually he was making time with some girl that he just met. Mac couldn't blame him. It was the kid's first time on the road. After all, he was only 17, so Mac tried not to go too hard on him, even if he took longer to get ready for a show than the two dancing girls who were traveling with the band. Mac stepped outside and fished him into his coat pocket for a thin joint. It was one of a few he snagged from one of the girls that he was pimping out of a fleabag motel in the French Quarter. As the reefer smoke filled his lungs, the girl wasn't on his mind, and neither was Mac's old lady. Instead, it was Ronnie Barron's mother. Just a few days ago, Mack had showed up in her kitchen. He wore his cleanest dirty shirt, and he was mostly not stoned. He promised Ronnie's mother that he would keep Ronnie out of trouble on the road, but the woman didn't buy his speech. Instead, when he finished, she just stared at him for a long moment. Then she grabbed a meat cleaver in front of her and she slammed it down on the counter, slicing a roast in two. She warned Mac that if Ronnie got in trouble, she would cut off Mac's cajones the same way she sliced the roast. It scared the shit out of Mac at the time, but now, 500 miles away, Matt couldn't help but crack up about it. He wasn't scared of the old lady. Still, it was time to get the show on the road. So he flicked the butt of his joint towards the gravel parking lot and went looking for Ronnie. It was when he turned the corner that he heard it. The unmistakable sound of hard metal colliding with soft flesh. It was the sound of the club owner's pistol whipping Ronnie Barron in the face. The club owner was screaming that he was going to kill Ronnie. Mack launched himself forward. He jumped into the melee and tried to grab the club owner's gun. He clamped down on the cold steel and then he heard a bang. And that's when Mack realized that he was holding onto the barrel of the gun. Mack screamed in agony as a.30 caliber bullet tore through his hand. Blood was streaming everywhere. Mack lifted up his left hand and that's when he realized his finger, not to mention his future as a guitarist, were both hanging by a thread.
- [12:11]
Eve and Anam
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- [12:58]
Josh Radner
Hey everyone, I'm Josh Radner and I am so excited to tell you about How We Made youe Mother a rewatch podcast. Looking back at How I Met yout Mother and I'm here with Craig Thomas who co created the show along with Carter Bay. Hi Craig.
- [13:11]
Craig Thomas
Hey Josh. Somehow it has been 20 years since the show premiered. That's I'm going to check the math on that. Ten years since it went off the air and we thought that made this a perfect time to look back, see what the hell we did and why the show still seems to resonate with fans around the world today.
- [13:25]
Josh Radner
Follow and listen to How We Made youe Mother wherever you get your podcasts. As a raider scavenging a derelict world, you settle into an underground settlement. But not now. You Must return to the surface where arc machines roam. If you're brave enough, who knows what you might find. Arc Raiders, a multiplayer extraction adventure video game. Buy now for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X and S and PC rated T for Teen.
- [14:05]
Jake Brennan
The comedian was a little guy. He stood barely five' five. Even with the lift from his shiny black dress shoes, he wore a white tuxedo jacket and an oily smile that matched his slick black hair. He looked like he came to Madame Francine's strip club in the French Quarter straight from Las Vegas. And for good reason, because Las Vegas is exactly where this pint sized comedian came from. No one knew how he landed this month long gig, warming up the crowds at Madame Francine's. But even though he was from out of town, the comedian still should have known the rules. Like stay away from the strippers working the stage and stay away from the B girls working the crowd. They were all spoken for by the pimps who operated out of the club or the gangsters who owned it. But this comedian either didn't know that or didn't care. And he didn't waste any time because he was already messing around with one of the strippers. This guy moved quickly. Unfortunately for him, working word got out just as fast. So when he arrived at the club on this night, he was greeted by two huge bouncers. They grabbed him by his lapels and his face turned almost as white as his tuxedo jacket. His smarmy smile melted away. He stammered out a few lame excuses, but the bouncers were in no mood to listen. Instead, they pulled him out to the street corner and then one of the huge bouncers smashed his fist directly into the comedian. The comedian crashed to the ground. Blood was pouring down his face and onto his white jacket. The two bouncers then continued kicking the shit out of the comedian on the street corner in front of anyone who cared to look. After they were done, one of the bouncers picked up the comedian and screamed in his face. You want to be funny? Go be funny now, you little motherfucker. They pushed the comedian back into the club. Meanwhile, inside Madame Francine's, no one skipped a beat. The card players didn't even look up from their hands. The dancers kept dancing and on the bandstand, the band kept playing. This was French court of justice in 1963. Laws didn't matter and the police didn't run the show. The gangsters who operated these New Orleans clubs did. Which wasn't all bad. In fact, it made the French Quarter 2477 party as long as you knew which rules to follow. Unlike this comedian, Mac Rebenac knew the rules. So he knew better than to stop the music. He stared at the blood dripping down the comedian's face, but he kept stabbing at the electric organ until the band brought their set to a roaring climax. Now, as soon as the band finished, the bouncers pushed the comedian on stage, still wearing his blood split, flattered white jacket. While the comedian was attempting to do his set with a broken nose, Mac hopped off the bandstand and headed out into the French Quarter night he needed to score. His left hand was absolutely killing him. Even two years after a surgeon successfully reattached his ring finger after that shooting, he could barely move it. When he did, it still caused him plenty of pain. So much pain that he gave up on playing guitar and he shifted to playing keys. That was thanks to his friend and bandmate, James Booker. James Booker was a local legend who was nicknamed Black Liberace for his flamboyant fashion as well as his devastating chops on the piano. He showed Mac a few tricks on the keys. In return, Mac taught him a few tricks of his own, like where to find the best heroine in the frame. French Quarter and how to score without getting caught. Max showed James Booker where to buy the grigri bags, give them protection. He showed him how to lay a jack of clubs face down under a black candle and then light it when reciting Psalm 35. The ritual was supposed to make them invisible to the police. That was the idea at least. One could never be too careful, especially in those days. Because by 1963, the Frank the French Quarter was changing rapidly. As Mac walked down a wide avenue, he passed door after door that was chained up and padlocked shut. Just a year ago, nearly every one of these buildings would have been packed full of people. Tourists looking for a little Saturday night action, Locals looking for a fix. Brothels, speakeasies, strip clubs. None of them strictly legal. But in the French Quarter, a little bribe money could go a long way in keeping the party running all night long, no matter what the law said. That's how it was. At least until the city elected a new Attorney General named Jim Garrison. Mack spat on the ground and cursed Garrison's name. For years, Garrison had been a low level assistant district attorney. Mack had seen his face darken the doors of French Quarter bars and brothels more than once. But now Garrison seemed intent on getting his face plastered on the nightly news. He organized raids of strip clubs and illegal speakeasies in front of news cameras. He dramatically chained the doors and padlocked them shut. And with every club he shut down. That was one less stage for a gigging musician like Mac, because vice and live music went hand in hand in New Orleans. Mac had one specific vice on his mind as he slipped through an alleyway and arrived at a familiar door. He rapped three times in quick succession and the door opened a crack. Pulling tightly against the chain lock, Mac nodded to the man inside and held up two fingers. Without saying a word, the door slammed shut. A moment later it reopened and the man had two small bundles in his hand. Mac slipped a handful of bills to the crack in the door and palmed the bundles. The door slammed shut again. Mac carefully wrapped each bundle in a foil Juicy Fruit wrapper and tucked them in his coat pocket. He headed down the alley and back towards Madame Francine's. Once he got back to the club, he could get his fix. And then he could find a better place to hide the rest of his stash. As he turned back onto the avenue, he could see the moonlight glinting off of the Mississippi river ahead of him. Or at least he thought it was the moonlight. But as he kept walking through closer, he realized that it was actually a pair of headlights. And they were coming from a black Cadillac parked on the side of the road. Mac felt a cold shiver run through his body. He reached inside his coat and touched his fingers to the grigri bag around his neck. As he kept walking toward the car, he could see two men sitting in the front seat. A bad feeling was brewing in his gut, so Mac carefully slipped his hand into his coat pocket. He grabbed a pair of foil wrapped bundles and tossed them into a drainage ditch. But it was too late. The men jumped out of the black Cadillac and ran toward him, guns and badges in hand, screaming at him to put his hands up. They grabbed Mack by the collar and began searching his pockets. They came up empty, but one of the cops smirked at him. Then he asked a question. Hey buddy, what's your favorite kind of gum? The cop gave a big shit eating grin. Is it Juicy Fruit? The other cop pulled the two bundles out of the ditch and held them up. The headlights of the car reflected off of the foil gum wrapper. Mack Rebenak knew that his mojo had just run out. After his bust, Mack was sentenced to two years in lockup. First in New Orleans Parish Prison, next in a federal penitentiary in Fort Worth, Texas. When he got out of the slammer in Texas, the judge had just one piece of advice for him. Don't go back to New Orleans. Of course, Mack didn't need the advice. Jim Garrison's war on Vice was killing the music scene in the French Quarter anyway, so Mack Rebenak already knew he wouldn't be heading east to New Orleans. Instead, he was going west to California. He hoped he could find a new scene, a new start. And he figured he might just need a new name to go with it. We'll be right back after this. Word, word, word.
- [22:09]
Podcast Advertiser
This episode is brought to you by 20th Century Studios. Upcoming comedy Ella McKay from Academy Award winning writer director James L. Brooks. Emma Mackey plays Ella McKay, an idealistic young woman who juggles family and work in a story about the people you love and how to survive them. Featuring an all star cast including Jamie Lee Curtis, Jack Loudon, Kumail Nanjani, Iowa Debris Julie Kafner. With Albert Brooks and Woody Harrelson. Ella McKay in theaters December 12th.
- [22:41]
The Replacer
Hello friends. Guess who? That's right, it is I, the replacer. Once again, I've been called on so you can play the new Call of Duty Black Ops 7 with three expansive modes, 18 multiplayer maps, and the tastiest zombie gameplay you've ever freaking seen.
- [23:01]
Jake Brennan
Call of Duty Black Ops 7 available now. Rated M for mature.
- [23:09]
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- [23:45]
Jake Brennan
The red and blue lights in the rearview mirror were large and getting larger. Max screamed at the driver to step on it, but the rust bucket sedan was no match for the police cruiser. There was no doubt about it. The cops were closing in on them fast. The driver of the car was a skinny Mexican chick known on the street as Gloria Hot Tamale. She had a talent for scamming drug dealers, and she could drive the hell out of a getaway car. She also had a soft spot for musicians, which was good news for Mac, because after a year in Los Angeles, he was already an in demand session player for stars ranging from Aretha Franklin to Sonny and Cher. Still, he barely had enough cash for the fleabag motel room he shared with Gloria on the corner of Melrose and Van Ness. Mac watched the police car creep closer in the rearview mirror, he thought about the trunk full of stolen clothes. He thought about the stash in his pocket. And he thought about the bag of cash and grass Gloria had just boosted from a Venice beach drug dealer. If the cops caught them, they were looking at serious time. Max started pulling the stash out of his pocket. He was just about to eat it when the car swerved viciously to the left. The bundle in his hand went flying and Gloria screamed as she rammed the car into a concrete highway barrier. Instantly, the front bumper peeled off and the car sent sparks into the air as it slid to his stop. The asphalt, the tires skinning across the concrete. Car buckling. They nearly spun out, but Gloria managed to straighten up the wheel at the last second. She cut across the highway, heading in the opposite direction and flew down the first exit ramp they could see. As the sedan was heading around the curve, Max saw the cop car racing ahead into the distance. It was a narrow escape. Max should have been happy about it, but instead he was furious. Not at Gloria. She was doing what they needed to do to survive. And not at the cops. He didn't like the cops, but at least he knew where he stood with them. No. After the adrenaline of the high speed chase had worn off, Mac's thoughts turned to his primary frustration. He was pissed off at record company executives, the rich dudes in suits who were forcing him to live like an outlaw just to scrape together enough cash for a shitty $70 $19.50 motel room in the worst part of town. Meanwhile, these record executives were raking in cash on the songs that guys like Mac were working themselves to death creating. And that wasn't an exaggeration. Mac himself had witnessed an overworked studio engineer literally dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of a session. It was too much and something had to be done. So Mack thought of the worst offender, a manager at Mercury Records, a guy who'd stiffed him on payment more than once in the last month. And he decided to strike back the best way he knew how. That night at midnight, an unlikely trio gathered on the rooftop of an LA recording studio. A pale Englishman with dark black hair stood in the center of a pentagram drawn in chalk on the rooftop. There was an evil look in his eye as he muttered a serious of dark incantations. Next to him, Mac lit black candles and incense. He scattered figurines of the graveyard spirit, Baron Somni. As the smoke from the incense rose into the night air, Mac kept chanting and singing. Meanwhile, a lanky Texan chain smoked cigarette after cigarette while he watched the other two with a confused look on his face. The trio were supposed to be working on a new album together. The Englishman was the blues rock musician named Graham Bond, who claimed to be the bastard son of the famed occultist Aleister Crowley. Mack was hired to produce the record along with a Texas musician named Wayne Talbot. But the record executive at Mercury kept jerking them around. He changed recording dates, he refused to pay the musicians, and when they complained, he threatened them with bodily harm. So now they were on the rooftop of this recording studio trying to conjure up a death curse. Well, at least Mac and Graham Bond were. The Texan watched the other two work themselves into a frenzy for a while before he casually reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. If the curses didn't work, he assured them, they could always just shoot the guy. In retrospect, Mac realized they should have used Wayne's plan first. Because the gris failed, the record executive didn't have a heart attack in his sleep. And he didn't crash his car on the way to work either. The next day, Wayne managed to get himself caught up in a drug bust with the gun still in his pocket. With no grigri and no gun, Mac knew he had to put his plan for revenge on ice. The cops were hot on his trail, and it was time to get out of town, out of Los Angeles and back down to New Orleans. A few months later, Mac Rebenac stepped into a tiny shotgun house in New Orleans 3rd Ward. People were packed into the room, shoulder to shoulder in all four corners. White candles were lit, incense was burning, and people were holding broomsticks with bottle caps nailed to them or glass bottles and sticks. A few people had congas, some just used pots and pans. And everywhere around him, the rhythm pulsed and then gradual. From all corners of the room, people started singing. And eventually the sound grew deafening. It was so loud, Mac felt like it wasn't even coming through his ears. It was penetrating straight into his body. He watched an elderly woman step forward and lay her hands on a man seated in the middle of the room. Everybody called the woman Mother Shannon. She was just one of the people from Mac's old Third Ward neighborhood that he was reconnecting with these days. It felt good to come home and play these familiar New Orleans rhythms, to sing familiar songs, even if the French Quarter was still reeling under the thumb of District Attorney Jim Garrison. The homecoming was enough to light a fire in his playing and make him want to bring that sound back to la. And talking with Neighborhood elders, like Mother Shannon, reminded Mac of the true voodoo. The way the music continues vibrate the spirit, the way it could heal the body, the way it could bring people together. After the healing ceremony, Mac stayed and talked to Mother Shannon into the night. She told Mac about a root doctor in New Orleans, a man who was born in Senegal. Some said he was a prince. As a teenager, the man was captured by Spanish slavers and shipped to Cuba. He spent 20 years in slavery before he finally gained his freedom. The man sailed to New Orleans, where word quickly began to spread of a newcomer with extraordinary abilities. He served poor communities, the outlaws, the outsiders, and with their support, he became one of the most powerful men in the city. The man went by many names. Some called him Jean Montanet. Some called him Jean Bayou. But most people just called him Dr. John. Mac, like the sound of this cat, seemed like the perfect character to front a new musical gumbo that had been cooking around in Mac's brain ever since he landed back home in New Orleans. Hey, guys, we're going to get back into our story here in just a few seconds, but real quick, I wanted to mention something. This episode focuses entirely on Mac Rebennek's early years before he was known worldwide as Dr. John. And as you can imagine, there are just so many insane stories that intersect with the world of true crime from The Wildlife of Dr. John, stories that took place after the time period we're covering here. Stories like the one about how Dr. John made a daring escape from a psych ward with with a warrant on his head, and how that led to him writing and recording his biggest hit, right Place, Wrong Time. We don't have time here in the full episode for that story, but you can hear all about it if you listen to this week's brand new mini episode of Disgraceland, which you can hear if you are a member of Disgraceland. All access. To become a member, just go to Disgracelandpod.com to sign up with Patreon or Apple Podcasts. All right, now back to this story about Dr. John. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon in Topanga Canyon. This kind of weather made Mac admit that there were at least some good things about coming back to the West Coast. The temperature was a perfect 72 degrees and the humidity was zero. Mac sat at the bottom of the canyon. He was listening to a stream burbling along at the perfect volume. He couldn't complain. Plane. Especially since he was actually getting paid for this rare day off. He and the rest of the New Orleans exiles surrounding him were supposed to be recording a new album for Sonny and Cher today. In fact, in a rarity, they have been paid in advance for this session. But then at the last minute, Sonny Bono had second thoughts about some of the material. So he called off the sessions so that he could have more time to work on the music. And now word among their crew was that Sonny was going to call off the sessions for the rest of the week as well. Mac was glad for the break, but he was even more excited about the prospect of the studio being open for the next week. After all, Mac and the rest of these New Orleans cats have been jamming on some new material in between recording sessions for other artists. So far, everything had been extremely loose, and they still hadn't tested anything in front of an audience. But Mac thought the material was already sounding great. He thought maybe he could convince the record company to let them lay down a few of the tracks. It would be an easy sell. The studio was empty and they were already getting paid to be there. All he had to do was find the right way to pitch it. That was a problem for tomorrow, though. Right now, Mac could just lay back, relax, and enjoy a rare peaceful moment. He listened to the spirit sounds of the burgling stream, and then he noticed the melody of the frogs chirping in the background. A moment later, his buddy Charlie pulled out a small flute. Charlie was jamming along with the symphony that the frogs were creating. Pretty soon somebody else was clinking a rock against a glass bottle in time with the rhythm of the rushing water. And then another person added to the rhythm with whatever they could find around them. Mac was moved by the spirit, and soon he began singing a little improvised melody that reminded him of a healing song that he learned from Mother Shannon. It was nothing much, just a light afternoon jam session, but man, it felt good. Felt like a vibration through his whole body. Matt couldn't help himself. He dug in and began to sing louder. Soon enough, they started attracting a crowd. It seemed like hordes of half naked hippies were crawling out of every nook and cranny in the canyon to come listen to this spontaneous simultaneous nature jam. People started climbing down into the water. Once they were in the water, they proceeded to get down to the music. And the more the people got down, the more the musicians got into the groove. And the more the musicians got into the groove, the more the energy grew. It grew until everyone, the musicians, the dancers, the people watching from the top of the canyon were whooping and laughing and singing and smiling. It felt like a healing ceremony. That Mack had witnessed back in New Orleans. It made him think again of Mother Shannon. It made him think of the healing power of music. And it made him convinced that it was time to bring Dr. John into the world. And it's a good thing he did, because under the name Dr. John, Mack Renac recorded more than 30 albums, won six Grammys, and became a New Orleans icon, an unofficial ambassador for one of the greatest music cities in the world. Because even today, the French Quarter is packed with music near nearly every night of the week. And of course, it's not quite the same as it used to be. That 24. 7 musical party that birthed music icons like Dr. John, it's gone forever. But Dr. John, his music, his legacy, it lives on and will for a long, long time to come. Mac Rebenac was healed through music, great music, and inspired to use music to propel himself beyond a life of crime, beyond a life of Disgrace, to become Dr. John, not just a New Orleans icon, but a music icon. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgrace. All right, thanks for hanging out with us and Dr. John down in the French Quarter and in Topanga Canyon. Listen, there's so much more to this story. Dr. John had an incredible life. There's this crazy, nuts story about an escape from the psych ward. We couldn't fit it into this episode, so it's going to be in our mini episode. For All Access members, go to disgraceandpod.com to sign up for All Access on Patreon or Apple podcasts. Listen. Question of the week. What music or musicians or artist has made you feel. I don't know, reborn might be too strong of a word. But it's made you feel great, has really pulled you up out of those dark places, giving you life in new ways just as Dr. John was reborn. Let us know. 617-906-6638 voicemail and text. You might hear your answer on the after party coming up right after this. All right, guys, here comes some credits. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in the in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, tik tok, Twitter and Facebook. Disgracelandpod and on YouTube at YouTube. YouTube.comisgracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.