At first glance Preservation Hall seemed like an old daguerreotype. My wife and I entered its carriageway through rusty wrought-iron gates, then were carried by the onrushing crowd into the dingy hall itself. Up front sat seven aged musicians in white shirts, their jackets hanging over the backs of their plain chairs. On top of the time-ravaged upright piano were piled seven derbies; next to them was an Easter lily, appropriate to the season. A huge fan of ancient design stood idle in the corner. The stained walls were hung with original oils of performers past and present.
The scene was monochromatic, with almost everything textured the yellow-brown of a forgotten print found in a dusty attic trunk. This is fitting, since Preservation Hall, as its name suggests, aims at the remembrance of things past.
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