Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about voodoo, not the Hollywood version of vudu, 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 into hecks, but also to heal. This is a story of Doctor 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, And that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called nine and a half Fingers MK.
One.
I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to the Lions Sleeps Tonight by the Tokens. Why would I play you that particular slice of no nut high note cheese?
Could I afford it?
Because that was a number one song in America on December twenty fourth, nineteen sixty one, And that was the day that a musician named mac Rebenak, who would later become known as Doctor John, was shot outside a bar in Jacksonville, Florida, in an incident that kicked off a heroin journey through the criminal underworld and ultimately to musical salvation. On this episode, a shooting, a car chase, a drug bust, time in a federal pen, musical healing and rebirth with
doctor John. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgracing. 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 dressed shoes, size eleven. 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 bell, and snake skin. It was goopher dust, a powerful conjuring agent. The woman used it to cast a hex on the owner of the shoes. Meanwhile, five hundred miles away, a man threw open the door of the back office of a tiny juke joint in Jacksonville, Florida. His mind was raising as fast as his fingers on the dial and 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 contents, but 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 thirty caliber bullet to the bastard's skull. Mac Rebenac was relaxing in the club's dressing room when suddenly he felt the 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's size eleven 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 Mack 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 bust you.
And if he didn't have enough bride 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 Max veins right now was doing its work. Mack 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'd
just met. Mack couldn't blame him. It was a kid's first time on the road, and after all, he was only seventeen, so Mack 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. Max stepped outside and fished 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 Max's old lady. Instead, it was Ronnie Baron's mother. Just a few days ago, Mack had showed up in her kitchen. He wore his clean as 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 a 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 Max Cajoni's the same way she sliced.
The roast, and it.
Scared the shit out of Mac at the time, But now five hundred miles away, Mac couldn't help a 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 Barren in the face. The club owner was screaming that he was going to kill Ronnie. Mac 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 Mac realized that he was holding onto the barrel of the gun. Mac screamed in agony as a thirty caliber bullet tore through his hand. Blood was streaming everywhere. Mac 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. 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 point size 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 bee 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, 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 fists directly into the comedian's nose, and 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.
He pushed the comedian back into the club.
Meanwhile, inside Madam Francises, no one skipped to 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 Quarter justice in nineteen sixty three. 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 twenty four to seven party, as long as you knew which rules to follow. Unlike this comedian, mac Rebenak 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 waring climax. Now, as soon as the band finished, the bouncers pushed the comedian on stage, still
wearing his blood splattered white jacket. While the comedian was attempting to do his set with the broken nose, Mac hopped off the bandstand and headed out into the French Quarter at 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 the Black Liberacei for his flamboyant fashion as well as his devastating chops on the piano. He showed Mac a few tricks on the keys, and in return, Mac taught him a few tricks of his own, like where to find the best heroine in the French Quarter and
how to score without getting caught. Max showed James Booker where to buy the Gregory bags and give them protection. He showed him how to lay a jack of club's face down under a black candle and then lighted when were citing Psalm thirty five, 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 nineteen sixty three, 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 bride money could go a long way and 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. Max spat on the ground and cursed Garrison's name. For years, Garrison had
been a low level assistant district attorney. Mack seen his face darkened 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 and shut. And with every club he shut down, that was one less stage for a gigging musician like Mac, because weiss 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 slam shut. A moment later it reopened and the man had two small bundles in his hand. Max slipped a handful of bills to the crack in the
door and palmed the bundles. The door slam 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 Madam Francines. 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 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 Gregory bag around his neck, and as he kept walking toward the car, he could
see two men sitting in the front seat. A bad feeling was brewing in his gun, 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 badgers in hand, screaming at him to put his hands up. They grabbed Mac by the collar and began searching his pockets, and they came up empty.
But one of the cops.
Smirked at him, and then he asked a question, Hey, buddy, what's your favorite kind of gum? The cop gave a big shitty and grin is a juicy fruit, and the other cop pulled the two bundles out of the ditch and held them up. The headlights of the car reflected off of the foyle gum wrapper. Mack Rebenac knew that his mojo had just run out. After his bust, Mack was sentenced to two years in lock up, 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, mac didn't need the advice. Jim Garrison's war on vice was killing the music scene in the French Quarter anyway, so mac Rebenac I 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. The red and blue lights in the rear view mirror were large and getting larger. Max screened at the driver to step on it. But the rustbuck in sedan was no match for the police cruiser, and 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 to Molly.
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 rear
view 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.
If 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, and the car swore.
Viciously to the left.
The bundle in his hand went flying, and Gloria screamed as she ran 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 a stop on the asphalt, the tires skinning across the concrete, the car buckling. They nearly spun out. Gloria managed to straighten up the wheel.
To the last second.
She cut across the highway, heading in the opposite direction, flew down the first exit. Rent to could see as the Saddam was heading around the curve, Max on 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 him. 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 seventeen dollars
and fifty cent 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
that something had to be done. So Mac thought of the worst defender, 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 and chalk on the rooftop. There was an evil look in his eye as he
muttered a series of dark incantations. Next to him, Mac lit black candles and incense. He scattered figurines of the graveyard spirit baron Somney. As the smoke from the incense rose into the night air, Mack 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 tree 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 worked 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, Mack realized they should have used Wayne's plan first. Because the Greegrey 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 guns still in his pocket. With no Gregory 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' Third 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, and a few people had congress, some just use pots and pants and everywhere around him. With 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 Max'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 charter 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 could vibrate the spirit, the way it could heal the body,
the way it could bring people together. After the healing ceremony, Max 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 twenty years in slavery before he finally gained his freedom. The man sailed to New Orleans, where a 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 Montenay, some called him Gan Bayeux, but most people just called him Doctor John. Mac like the sound of this cat, seemed like the perfect character in front of new musical gumbo that had been cooking around in Max brain ever
since he landed back home in New Orleans. Hey guys, we're gonna 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 Rebinuc's early years before he was known worldwide as Doctor 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 Doctor John's. Stories that took place after the time period we're covering here, Stories like the one about how doctor John made a daring escape from a psych ward 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 disgrace slandpod dot com, sign up with Patreon or Apple podcasts. All right, now, back to this story about doctor John.
It was a gorgeous fall afternoon into Pega 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 seventy two degrees, the humidity was zero. Mack sat at the bottom of the canyon. He was listening to a stream burbling along at the perfect volume. He couldn't complain, especially since he was actually
getting paid for this rare day off. He and the rest of the New Orleans exiles surrounding him was supposed to be recording a new album for Sonny and Chaer 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 Roman's cats had been jamming on some new material in between recording sessions for other artists.
So far, everything had been extremely loose. 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 him. 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 sounds of the burgling stream, and then he noticed the melody of the frogs chirping in the background. A moment later, as 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 the 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. There was nothing much, just a light afternoon jam session. Well, man, it felt good. It felt like a vibration through his whole body. Mac 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 crying out of every nook and cranny in the canyon to come listening to this spontaneous nature cham People started climbing down into the water and 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 group 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 mac had witnessed back in New Orleans. It made him think again, Mother Shannon. It made him think of the healing power of music, and it made him convinced that it was time to
bring Doctor John into the world. And it's a good thing he did, because under the name Doctor John mack Rebenac recorded more than thirty 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 nearly every night of the week. And of course it's not quite the same as it used to be. That twenty four to seven musical party, the birth music icons like Doctor John, it's gone forever. But Doctor John, his music, his legacy. It lives on and will for a long
long time to come. Mack Rebinac was healed through music, great music that inspired to use music to propel himself beyond the life of crime, beyond a life of disgrace, to become doctor John.
Not just a New Orleans icon, but the music icon.
I'm Jake Brennan and the Yes this Disgraceland. All right, thanks for hanging out with Listen doctor John down in the French Quarter and in Tipanga Canyon.
Listen. There's so much more to this story. Doctor John had an incredible life.
There's this crazy nuts story about an escape from a psych word. We couldn't fit it into this episode, so it's going to be in our mini episode for All Access members. Go to disgracelandpod dot com to sign up for All Access on Patreon or Apple Podcasts.
Listen.
Question of the week what music or musician or artist has made you feel?
I don't know. Reborn might be too strong of a word, but this makes you feel great.
It's really pulled you up out of those dark places, giving you life in new ways, just as Doctor John was reborn. Let us know six one seven nine oh six, six sixty three eight 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 partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show
notes page at disgracelampod dot 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 disgracelampod dot com slash membership, rate and review the show, and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at disgracelampod and on YouTube at YouTube dot com slash at Disgracelandpod, rock a Rolla, He's an Land