HBO "Treme," Ep. 7 -- "Smoke My Peace Pipe"

This, the darkest episode so far, was co-written by Davis Rogan, upon whom the Treme character, Davis McAlary is based.  It's the saddest, the scariest and the sweetest.

We're up to early February, which is when we came back to New Orleans for the first time after the Flood, at the end of January. What's been missing is the eeriness of the city at night, which was still in place at this first return (we came back almost immediately after that, for two weeks prior and after Mardi Gras). Until Mardi Gras, New Orleans was mostly dark at night. The sheer spookiness of night New Orleans, which has always been present at times, that instructs you, among other essential information, that trees can be something other, something more, than trees, for instance, no matter emergency or not, is also missing.  Gigs in Mid City were played by candlelight. The cops were not there. The violence was perpetrated by mysterious others -- Blackwater, etc. Who you saw patrolling on the street were the National Guard, the Reserves.

The Goodman character is not like any of the members of the Tulane English Dept. we know – they're much hipper, for one thing,. His style of teaching? That's been gone from English depts. everywhere, one might think. It's the kind of English professor David Simon maybe had when he was an undergrad, but man, English academics don't hold forth like that these days (well, maybe, some older members, somewhere, but not at Tulane).

Everything that's not going right, everything's that going wrong, all that isn't being done, is converging. The police dept. covered up the deaths of many prisoners – some of whom shouldn't even have been arrested; LaDonna discovera that Daymo is dead and has been dead a long time. She can't tell her ailing mother, at least not until after Mardi Gras.

It's the depiction of the relentless wearing down, the constant doing it wrong, getting it wrong (particularly by the politicians and media) the checks that don't come or arrive too late, the choice between restoring your home or restoring your business, the lost and the missing, the lack of health services, the trek to get to a place that sells groceries, the lack of mail, the lack of electricty and water, struggle to find, buy and bring in the materials to clean up and rebuild, the work sabotaged by thieves, the lack of work because the construction jobs go to subcontractors who use undocumented labor, not you, who live here, whose family has always lived here, here, where you and your family always did your work as builders, restorers, plumbers, electricians (while playing as much music as you can, very likely), the endless, relentless lying -- that's the terror of Treme, built up out of the previous six episodes. In this episode it is reaching the tipping point.

But this terror is leavened by the sweetness and tenderness that is also living in New Orleans, even at this time. In this episode the sweet and tender are provided by Antoine Batiste, particularly with the dying Danny Nelson. That teeny, silent scene of Antoine putting one of his earbuds into Danny's ear, sharing a final listen of Jelly Roll's "I Thought I Heard Buddy Bolden Say" was all sweetness and tenderness, without sentimentality. This is the face of love, the face of respect. This is understanding another person, down to the bottom of his soul. This is the heart of New Orleans. If you don't understand this you don't understand New Orleans, past and present -- and the terrifying implications for the future. This scene wasn't about the hotshots, the lucky ones, the world class traveling artists of New Orleans. It was about what they are rooted in. And when / if this goes, so does their next generation, and so does the New Orleans we all love and value. So does a fundamental treasure of the history of this nation.  Later, another few-seconds-only scene -- Antoine returns. Danny's bed is empty.

Additionally, every scene in which Antoine interacts with a woman in this episode, his eyes, his face -- we understand why there are so many baby mamas. That scene at the airport, with the woman who is returning to New Orleans, her home, who asked who they are playing in honor of? He gives her those eyes, that face, that touch to the cap, and says, "We're playing in honor of you, Ma'am." She melts. So do we.