This article is entirely satire. All information and interviews below are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

I thought I imagined it at first. There was no way this band playing in the seediest bar on Frenchmen Street was comprised of who I thought it was. This had to be some kind of Parks-and-Rec-induced fever dream. 

I sipped my drink and squinted. Sure, their disguises weren’t all that impressive, what with the fake mustaches only a prayer away from falling off, cheap sunglasses I was sure were Mardi Gras throws and trenchcoats covering their bodies. Yet, I knew in my gut who stood before me. Playing in a jazz trio in this dingy dive bar, were members of Tulane faculty. 

And you know what? They were absolutely killing it.

I know; I know. Not a single Tulane administrator outside of the performing arts departments looks like they could play an instrument if it hit them in the face, but it’s true! These uptight old hags were reigniting the spirit of jazz before our very eyes. 

Their playing was spectacular: true improvisational jazz without a beat missed or a wrong note to be heard. These cats had clearly been doing this for a while and had honed their skills enough to rival the masters. 

Dr. V was shredding it on the saxophone. I had never seen anyone play with such care for the craft — her fingers moved like lightning across the keys. As she whipped perfectly improvised and insanely complex solos seemingly out of thin air, I stood there amazed. 

I panicked. “She can’t see me with this drink!” I thought, remembering how much she scolded us for consuming alcohol during her CELL 1010 lectures. So I hid. But she was killing it, all while wearing transitional glasses. 

And Robin Forman on the piano. Wow. And I thought Billy Joel knew what he was doing. This was an artist in his field. His hands danced around the keys with such precision and intricacy that I can only compare it to how well he dances around any subject he’s confronted with by a Tulane student. 

As Dr. V took water breaks from her masterful solos, Forman was banging out some top-tier riffs. He poured whatever is left of his soul into that performance.  

Dean Lee Skinner? She was obliterating it on drums. Skinner was manipulating the hi-hat with impeccable skill. She was ringing her cracked cymbals through the entirety of the dingy venue that very well could’ve spiked the drinks. 

She seemed to be dressed in her best attempt at a disguise: a hot pink balaclava and a skin-tight lizard suit from the neck down. But I still felt her looming presence. And I saw her take off the balaclava while on a bathroom break. 

I wish I could say Dean of Students Er**a W**dley was a part of this iconic trio, but I doubt she knows how to play an instrument. All she knows how to play is the Tulane student body.