DISGRACELAND - Dr. John: A Shooting, Federal Prison, and Voodoo Healing

Episode Date: November 18, 2025

A gunshot ended his career as a guitar player, but opened up a path to becoming an iconic piano man. Heroin, pimping, and federal prison nearly ended him, but Voodoo––and music––saved him. Listen to find out how one of New Orleans’ most notorious musicians, Mac Rebennack, became Dr. John. For a full list of contributors, visit ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ To listen to Disgraceland ad free and hear an exclusive mini-episode that explores Dr. John's stay in a psychiatric hospital and his life as a fugitive, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠YouTube⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠X⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠TikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Marone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hotter in a doorway than Elizabeth Taylor? That's the kind of analysis you'll find every week on Dear Movies I Love You, the new podcast from the Exactly Right Network. Every Tuesday, we break down the films we're crushing on, from blockbusters to deep cuts. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis.

This is a story about Voodoo. Not the Hollywood version of Voodoo, because this isn't a story about pincushion dolls and needles. Nobody worships the devil in this story. story, well, almost nobody. This is a story about real Louisiana voodoo, the kind with the power not only to hurt and to hex, but also to heal. This is a story of Dr. 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 9.5 Fingers, MK1.

played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to the lion's sleeps tonight by the tokens. And why would I play you that particular slice of no-nut high-note cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 24th, 1961. And that was the day that a musician named Mack Rebenack, who would later become known as Dr. John, was shot outside a bar in Jacksonville, Florida, in an incident that kicked off a harrowing journey through the criminal underworld, and ultimately to musical salvation. On this episode, a shooting, a car chase, a drug bust, time in federal pen, musical healing, and rebirth with Dr. John. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace to him.

It was a 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 dress shoes, size 11. 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 goofer dust, a powerful conjuring agent. The woman used it to cast a hex on the owner of the shoes. Meanwhile, 500 miles away, a man threw open the door at the back office of a tiny juke joint in Jacksonville, Florida. His mind was racing 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's contents. And 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 30-caliber bullet through the bastard's skull. Mack Rebenack 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 of size 11 wingtips. Up until this moment, he had been featured. 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'd 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 squat cop would try to bust you. And if you didn't have enough bribe 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 Mac's 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 just met. Mac couldn't blame him. It was a kid's first time on the road, and after all, he was only 17. 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. Mack 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 Mack's old lady.

Instead, it was Ronnie Barron's mother. Just a few days ago, Mack had showed up in her kitchen. He wore his cleanest 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 his 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 Cajonies the same way she sliced the roast And it scared the shit out of Mac at the time But now, 500 miles away, Mac couldn't help but crack up about it He wasn't scared of the old lady But 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 Barron in the face. The club owner was screaming that he was going to kill Ronnie. Mack 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 Mack realized that he was holding onto the barrel of the gun. Mack screamed in agony as the 30-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. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl.

You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of the girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck.

I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe.

On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an act or whatever. And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb.

And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance like he's about to attack me. You're like, making karate noises. And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been asleep walking. David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts.

Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monsu.

Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words Podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever.

Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Median was a little guy. He stood barely 5'5, even with a 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 pint-sized comedian came from. No one knew how he landed this month-long gig warming up the crowds at Madame Francines. 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 bouncer were in no mood to listen. Instead, they pulled them out to the street corner, and then one of the huge bouncer smashed his fist directly into the comedian's nose. The comedian crashed to the ground. Blood was pouring down his face and onto his white jacket. The two bouncer 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 bouncer 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 Madame Francines, no one skipped a beat. The card players didn't even look up from their hands. The dancers kept dancing, and on the band stand, the band kept playing. This was French Quarter Justice in 1963. Laws didn't matter, and police didn't run the show. The gangsters who operated these New Orleans clubs did, which wasn't all about.

In fact, it made the French court or a 24-7 party, as long as you knew which rules to follow. Unlike this comedian, Mack Rebenack 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 roaring 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 a broken nose, Mack hopped off the bandstand and headed out into the French Quarter 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 Liberace for his flamboyant fashion, as well as his devastating chops on the piano. He showed Mack a few tricks on the keys, and in return Mac taught him a few tricks of his own, like where to find the best heroin in the French quarter and how to score without getting caught. Mac showed James Booker where to buy the Grie Grie bags and give them protection. He showed him how to lay a jack of clubs face down under a black can. and then light it when reciting Psalm 35. 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 1963, the French Quarter was changing rapidly. As Mack walked down a wide avenue, he passed door after door that was chained up and padlock shut. Just a year ago, nearly every one of these buildings would have been packed full of people. People. Tourists looking for a little Saturday night action. Locals looking for a fix. Brothels, speak-easies, strip clubs, none of them strictly legal. But in the French quarter, a little bribe 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 had 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 speak-easies. In front of news cameras, he dramatically chained the doors and padlocked them shut. And with every club, he shut down, that was one less stage for a gigging musician like Mac. Because Vice and 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 a chain lock. Mac nodded to the man inside and held up two fingers without saying a word. The door slammed shut. A moment later, it reopened, and the man had two small bundles in his hand. Mack slipped a handful of bills to the crack in the door and palmed the bundles. The door slammed 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 Madame 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. Mack felt a cold shiver run through his body. He reached inside his coat and touched his fingers to the Grigree 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 gut. So Mac carefully slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

He grabbed the pair of foil-wrapped bundles and tossed him into a drainage ditch. But it was too late. The men jumped out of the black Cadillac and ran toward him, Guns and badges in hand, screaming at her to put his hands up. They grabbed Mack 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 the question, Hey, buddy, what's your favorite kind of gum?

The cop gave a big shit-eating grin. Is it juicy fruit? The other cop pulled the two bundles out of the ditch and held them up. The headlights of the car reflected off of the foil gum wrapper. Mac Rebenack knew that his mojo had just run out. After his bust, Mack was sentenced to two years in lockup, 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 Rebinack 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. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends.

I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care, so they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed, I will be his last target.

He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me

and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head. with a water bomb.

And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance, like he's about to attack me, like, making karate noises. And his entire, the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been asleep walking. David O'Yellowo.

I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships, or religion, or sex, or addiction, or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Monjou. Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts.

I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, a host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the children.

journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The red and blue lights and the red and the red. rearview mirror were large and getting larger.

Mack screened at the driver to step on it, but the rust bucket sedan was no match for the police cruiser. There was no doubt about it. The cops were closing in on the fast. The driver of the car was a skinny Mexican chick known on the street as Gloria Hot Tamale. 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 Mack, because after a year in Los Angeles, he was a He was already an in-demand session player for stars ranging from Aretha Franklin to Sunny 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. Mack watched the police car creeped closer in the rearview 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 that Gloria had just boosted from a Venice Beach drug deal. 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 swirled viciously to the left. The bundle in his hand went flying, and Gloria screamed as she rammed 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 last second. She cut across the highway heading in the opposite direction in front of the car buckling. flew down the first exit rent they could see. As the sedan was heading around the curve, Max saw the cop car racing ahead into the distance. There 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,

Max's thoughts turned to his primary frustration. He was pissed off at record company executives. The rich dudes and suits who were forcing him to live like an outlaw just to scrape together enough cash for a shitty $17.50-cent motel room in the worst part of town. Meanwhile, these record executives were raking in cash on the songs that guys like Mack were working themselves to death creating. And that wasn't an exaggeration.

Mack himself had witnessed an overworked studio engineer, literally dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of a session. It was too much, and something had to be done. So Mack thought of the worst offender, a manager of 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 L.A. recording studio. A pale Englishman with dark black hair stood in the center of a pentagram drawn in chalk on the rooftop.

There was an evil look in his eyes as he muttered a series of dark, incantations. Next to him, Mack lit black candles and incense. He scattered figurines of the graveyard spirit, Baron Sondi. As the smoke from the incense rose into the night air, Mack kept chanting and singing. Meanwhile, a lanky Texan chain smoke cigarette after cigarette, while he watched the other two with a confused look on his face. The trio 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 Alist Aly. 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 Grigree 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 gree-gree and no gun, Mack 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, Mack Rebenack stepped into a tiny shotgun house in New Orleans's 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. A few people had congas. Some just used pots and pans. And everywhere around him, the rhythm pulsed. And then, gradual, from all corners of the room, people started singing. 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 Mack'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 Quarter 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 L.A. and talking with neighborhood elders like Mother Shannon reminded Mack 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, Mack stayed and talked to Mother Shannon into the night. She told Mack 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 20 years in slavery before he finally gained his freedom. The man sailed to New Orleans where 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 Jean-Bayu, but most people just called him, Dr. John. Mac, like the sound of this cat. It seemed like the prime. perfect character to front of new musical gumbo that have been cooking around in Mac's brain

ever since he landed back home in New Orleans. Hey guys, we're going to get back into a story here in just a few seconds, but real quick, I wanted to mention something. This episode focuses entirely on Mac Rebinex's early years before he was known worldwide as Dr. 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 Dr. John's stories that took place after the time period we're covering here. Stories like the one about how Dr. 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 disgrace in all access to become a member. just go to disgracefodd.com to sign up with Patreon or Apple Podcasts. All right, now back to this story about Dr. John. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon in Topanga 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 72 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 were supposed to be recording a new album for Sonny and Cher 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 Orleans cats have been jamming on some new material in between recording sessions for other artists. So far, everything had been extremely loose,

and 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 song. So the studio was empty, and they were already getting paid to be there. All he had to do is find the right way to pitch you. That was a problem for tomorrow, though.

Right now, Matt 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, his 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 a 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. 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. They seemed like hordes of half-naked hippies were crawling out of every nook and cranny in the canyon to come listen to this spontaneous nature jam.

People started climbing down into the water. 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 grew. 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 Dr. John into the world. And it's a good thing he did. Because under the name Dr. John, Mac Revanac recorded more than 30 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, with music nearly every night of the week.

And of course, it's not quite the same as it used to be, that 24-7 musical party, the birth music icons like Dr. John, it's gone forever. But Dr. John, his music, his legacy, it lives on and will for a long, long time to come. Mac Rebinac was healed through music, great music, and inspired to use music, to propel himself beyond a life of crime,

beyond a life of disgrace, to become Dr. John, not just a New Orleans icon, but a music icon. I'm Jake Brennan and this. All right, thanks for hanging out with us in Dr. John down in the French Quarter and in Topanga Canyon. Listen, there's so much more to this story. Dr. John had an incredible life. There's this crazy nuts story about an escape from the psych ward. We couldn't fit it into this episode, so it's going to be in our mini episode for all access members.

Go to disgraceandpod.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 has made you feel great. It's really pulled you up out of those dark places, giving you life in new ways,

just as Dr. John was reborn. Let us know, 617-90666-638 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 disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a disgrace land 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 disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod. And on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at Disgraceland Pod. Rockeroma. of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. They take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this.

He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, We have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever.

And my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yello. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things. Santa Monjeu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app,

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