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Mac "Doctor John" Rebennack is a torch-bearer for – and a living monument to – the eternally funky music of his native New Orleans. In the month he releases his post-Katrina album City that Care Forgot , we revisit the good Doctor in his Right Place prime. As originally published in Sounds on 20 October 1973. -- Barney Hoskyns, RBP Editorial Director

On the boardwalk at Asbury Park, New Jersey, you can hear the black waters of the Atlantic rippling against the rotted sides of the pier with subtle precision, echoing some deep and sombre music of the unknown. Inside the Convention Hall, the rock group Kracker play their own music, a little more obvious perhaps, but no less rhythmic or insistent.

And in the dressing room which opens onto the boardwalk, preparing to follow them, Mac Rebennack steps into a cape, winds a brown sash around his middle, dons a lavender headband with red, black and purple feathers – a modern musketeer – and in so doing sets out on an even deeper journey towards the mystical roots of jazz, the funky voodoo soul of New Orleans. Wandering down pathways first walked by Prince La La and Professor Longhair, Doctor John, otherwise known as the Night Tripper, will reveal, to the twisted teenyboppers of Jersey's South Shore, the strange and eerie music of a world outside of time, music of the inner soul, the third eye – a soundtrack from beyond the mind.

Back on the boardwalk Jeff Miller, the good Doctor's road manager, says he prefers the ease and calmness of the Pacific to the icy, mechanical Atlantic. Somewhere between those two massive waterways, the music of Mac Rebennack will seek a balance, claim its own sea-level home in the swamps of the Bayou, the outbacks of New Orleans jungle country. The music of the Mardi Gras Indians, creole music, cajun music, the rock 'n' roll of Fats Domino, Little Richard, Huey "Piano" Smith – a black and white soul, French and Indian, American and Spanish; the rhythm of the many races.

"The Indians at the Mardi Gras popularized the Indian form of some creole music," the Doctor tells me. "I think that now there seems to be a little more interest in recording some of these things than there was before. I've made some records of the kind of stuff that they do...but I haven't actually used a whole tribe of Indians to do it...whereas the Mardi Gras Indians themselves have made a record and hopefully maybe it'll get noticed or maybe it'll be good enough to sell or something."

The man speaking is intense, imposing, more than six feet tall and probably close to two hundred pounds, at once the granddaddy of the swamps and a gentleman of Southern comfort, master of the manor, with a drawl a mile long and six feet thick, drawing his words out in pain, pondering each choice. In his right hand he carries a specially-handmade walking stick, whittled out of wood by a friend. In his right ear he wears an ivory earring shaped like a tiny tusk. Around his neck dangle assorted crosses and good luck charms. On his head he wears a straw hat. He says he's thirty-one years old – hard to believe. I'd say he's closer to two-hundred.

"You know, I'm looking to see that certain kind of music gets heard by the general people in the world, man. It's like there's plenty different forms of music on the planet that's never been heard...and there's no way that a lot of people will hear plenty of these sounds unless they record it. You know, like myself and other people might take some interest in recording some of these things, but from there that's about all of my end of it. From there somebody else has to take over. But, you know, what you like ain't got nothing to do with the reality of the situation. Maybe as some interest is brought on, maybe some of the kids from down there [New Orleans] will pick up on what their music and cultural heritage is and get into it."

Outside the carnival night of Asbury Park is just beginning, the Doctor and his band relax inside, each going about his separate reverie – Jessi Smith and Robbie Montgomery, the female rhythm chorus are looking through a hatbox... the Reverend George Henry (on bass) is shadow-boxing... Jerry Jumonville is blowing his sax in the boiler room... Sugar Bear, the guitarist whose name fits him perfectly, is out getting sandwiches... and Jeff Miller, who's been with the team for the last few months, after performing the same duties for such as Leon Russell, Freddy King and the Grassroots... just sits outside watching the ocean, wishing he were home.

The band, such as it is now, has only been together since the beginning of the tour two weeks ago, but many of the players go all the way back with Mac. John Boudreaux, the drummer, for instance, has been with the Doctor, off and on, for nearly 15 years.

Two agents, William and Morris, are chatting with the amiable Doctor, suggesting plans for future promotion, a possible tour upcoming with the Temptations – a prospect which pleases Mac no end. Television dates are anticipated, international fame in the wake of his first "hit" record whose title, "Right Place, Wrong Time," belies the reality. It's the right time now for Doctor John – or is it?

What he has going for him, essentially, is the memory of New Orleans. In presence as in sound, Mac Rebennack is that fabled city of his youth, land of dreamy scenes. And inextricably linked with New Orleans is his life in music. A working musician at the age of 15, by the time he was in his early twenties he was a straw boss for three bands in the French Quarter, playing jazz, playing rock and playing his own brand of voodoo funk on the organ, New Orleans' answer to Jimmy Smith. Sometimes he'd be playing backup for a stripper...an exotic dancer... on streets with legendary names – Bourbon, Decatur, Royale, Chartres, Beale and Canal – in clubs called Madame Francine's and Poodle Patio and Papa Joe's. He ran all the white groups in the Quarter and James Booker ran all the black groups. Today these clubs may still exist, but more than their names have changed.

On the stage of the Convention Hall in Asbury Park, Dr. John and his group are a mini-Mardi Gras – the dream revived in flesh. He sings the street songs of Little Richard-cum-Allen Toussaint, with a backbeat that draws applause. He dances around his piano and flings glitter into the audience. Tonight there is no light man to add his special effects, but the Good Doctor gets an encore nonetheless.

New Orleans is gone, but Mac Rebennack is no put-on, no act, is the essence of the dream that has vanished into the swamps and jungles of Bayou country. A music noted here and on wax for posterity by the last of the race, soul man and native... Dr. John, a fully ordained priest in the voodoo church of Louisiana.

The night is clear as we leave the Jersey swamps and head back to the urban jungle. William and Morris are with me as we say goodbye to Mac, the three of us to go in one direction, the Doctor to go off on his own. The vibrations are exquisite. I comment to Morris that the Doctor seemed in particularly fine spirits tonight. William laughs and nods and sums up in a phrase what all the world should only know.

"Listen," he says, "that man was mellow 10 years ago!"

Hear an audio interview with Dr. John and read more articles about him at www.rocksbackpages.com. Over 12,000 articles by the greatest writers from the finest rock publications of the last 40 years.