Right now, I'm sitting in a dark, one-bedroom basement apartment in the uptown section of New Orleans. To my right is Catman , a 28-year-old heavy metal fan who got the nickname two decades ago from some cruel children after his Tourette syndrome caused him to lick his hands repeatably and wipe them on his shirt. (These days, he's lost the habit but still wears the moniker proudly.) On the table next to him is a small studio: mixers, drum machines, two guitars including a Lyon series Washburn electric, a microphone — all connected to a Dell Inspiron 530 desktop. In a thick British accent, Catman describes his musical tastes, his past bands (from the Nundown to Albino Spiders) and the first album he ever danced to (Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band). He briefly stands up and hits a button the drum machine filling the room with a techno remix of the old Super NES game, Battletoads.
On my left, two music fans hover over Catman with three video cameras. One of them, Phil Bardi, probes Catman with questions, slowly getting the musician to open up while operating two cameras on a tripod. The other is Terrence Duncan, who pans and tilts and zooms around the room, catching Catman's musical history on HD. These videographers are with me.
We're Routes Music — a documentary film acting as a roving music census, taking in the true musical passions (and disgusts) of folks like you and me, and folks like him and her, all across a place we like to call America.
This article appears in Oct 22-28, 2009.