7 Things That Might Surprise You About Treme

Because what you’ve heard is only the beginning.

1. St. Augustine Church: Where I Found My Place

A woman I sat next to on a plane told me to go.

She said, “If you’re in New Orleans on the right weekend, go to the Satchmo Mass at St. Augustine. Go for the music—the choir and the Treme Brass Band together. Stay for the vibe.”

So I went.

And I never left.

Now I sing in that choir—the Soulful Voices of St. Augustine. One of our favorite songs is called Holy Ground. We’ve been singing it in the annex since Hurricane Ida, waiting on repairs to the sanctuary that just keep stretching. It’s expensive. It’s taking forever. But we’re still here. And we’re still singing.

St. Augustine is the oldest Black Catholic church in the country (per the African American Museum by Smithsonian). It’s where Henriette Delille took her vows, long before sainthood was even a conversation. She lived nearby. Worked with the poor and the sick. Founded the Sisters of the Holy Family. Her legacy is everywhere in that building—even when we can’t be in the building itself.

Out front, there’s an iron cross made from shackles and chains. The Tomb of the Unknown Slave. It was placed there with a second line, in remembrance of the enslaved people buried nearby—many in graves long paved over as the city expanded. It didn’t just happen in this part of town. It happened all over New Orleans. But here, we said something.

St. Augustine is still a neighborhood church. White people have always worshipped here too. It’s complicated, like everything in this city. Gospel, jazz, Catholic tradition, voodoo history. Baby dolls dance on the front steps during Treme Fest. Snakes appear in the iconography if you know where to look. It’s not always tidy. But it’s honest.

2. Claiborne Still Celebrates

People drive through Claiborne and think mess.

They see a massive highway running right through a neighborhood. Flashy cars parked sideways. Smoke rising from barbecue pits. Kids weaving through foot traffic. Sometimes, even encampments under the bridge. It looks loud. It looks unplanned. It seems like something that shouldn’t work.

But it does.

Most weekends—especially during big second lines or Mardi Gras—you’ll find crowds gathering under that overpass. Music bouncing between the pillars. Elders in folding chairs passing down stories without even meaning to. Vendors frying catfish or selling handmade tees. People dancing in the street. Kids playing tag.

It’s not a block party in the suburban sense. There’s no permit. No signage. Just rhythm and presence and history pushing up through the concrete.

Before the interstate, Claiborne was a grand, oak-lined boulevard full of Black-owned businesses. It was the commercial heart of this neighborhood. The highway took a lot away—but not everything. The roots are still there. And the celebration never left.

3. Jazz Didn’t Start in a Club

Ask someone where jazz was born, and you might hear the name of a street or maybe a stage. But spend any real time in Treme and you’ll understand—it didn’t start in a club. It started on a Sunday.

Sunday was the day the enslaved were allowed to rest. A rare moment to leave their work, gather with family, and hold onto the parts of themselves that the system tried to erase. So they came together in Congo Square. They danced. Played drums. Shared rhythms remembered and remixed. People left the church—often St. Augustine—and walked straight into that gathering.

What came out of it wasn’t yet called jazz. But it was already everything that made jazz possible.

Treme didn’t just shape the sound—it kept it alive. Even now, brass bands rehearse on porches. Second lines roll down familiar streets. And kids here? Before they can spell it, they can feel the beat.

This isn’t performance. It’s inheritance.

4. So, Who Was Treme?

Here’s the thing: Claude Treme wasn’t a musician or an activist. He was a French hat maker. And he wasn’t from here.

He came to New Orleans, married into land, and ended up owning a chunk of what was once plantation property. He sold off lots to wealthy white buyers and, yes, he enslaved people too. So no, he wasn’t a community builder. But the name stuck.

What’s surprising isn’t him—it’s what happened after.

This part of the city eventually became one of the first neighborhoods in America where free people of color could buy property. It grew into a place of ownership, of music, of culture, of resistance. And none of that had to do with Claude Treme.

Sometimes a name outlives the person. What matters more is what the neighborhood became: layered, rooted, fiercely proud. The kind of place that holds memory in its bones—and doesn’t owe its identity to a man who sold hats.

5. This Neighborhood Was Built From the Ground Beneath It

Long before music poured out of open windows or church bells rang through the block, this part of town was a brickyard.

Clay was pulled from the ground here and fired into bricks that built much of early New Orleans. Which means that some of the houses in Treme—maybe even the one you’re standing in front of—are made from the very dirt they sit on.

It’s not something you see right away. But once you know it, you feel it. There’s a kind of weight to the neighborhood that isn’t just cultural—it’s physical. History isn’t sitting on top of the land here. It’s in it.

6. It’s hard to miss. The place is wrapped in murals—music legends, second line scenes, color everywhere. It doesn’t whisper its history. It paints it loud and clear.

The Mother-in-Law Lounge was opened by Ernie K-Doe in 1994, named after his hit song Mother-in-Law more than thirty years earlier. It started as a tribute to his career, but like anything real in New Orleans, it grew into something bigger.

After Ernie passed away, his wife, Antoinette, kept the Lounge alive, right down to the life-sized mannequin of Ernie in his capes and crown. Today, it’s still a clubhouse for the neighborhood—a front porch for music, memory, and whoever comes through.

These days, it’s Kermit Ruffin’s spot. And he’s not just behind the scenes—he’s outside with the grill, barbecuing for whoever shows up. No reservation. No agenda. Just a man and a lot of meat. He’s said the Lounge is his church, though when I asked, he smiled and said he really ought to get back to St. Augustine one of these Sundays.

TBC Brass Band plays here now. Kermit’s helped them rise, just like Uncle Lionel helped him. That’s how it works in places like this—mentorship isn’t announced. It’s practiced.

I live nearby in the Marigny, and when I come by, it doesn’t feel like I’m walking into a venue. It feels like I’ve walked into someone’s living room—one with louder music and better stories.

7. Treme Is Still Somebody’s Block

People come to Treme looking for history. And they’ll find it. It’s on the plaques and the porches and the murals wrapped around corner bars. But what surprises people—what really surprises them—is that Treme isn’t frozen in the past.

It’s still a neighborhood.

I don’t live in Treme—I live nearby in the Marigny—but I worship here. I sing here. I spend time here. It’s become part of my rhythm, not because I’m from here, but because I was welcomed.

I’m white. I’m a transplant. And still, I was invited in. I contribute where I can because I still can’t believe I get to stand shoulder to shoulder with the people I do. People you’ve seen in the show Treme. People whose voices have defined this city for decades.

Singing 18 inches behind John Boutté while he sings Amazing Grace at a funeral should feel otherworldly. But in Treme, it doesn’t. It feels like Sunday.

It feels like community. It feels like being part of something.

People talk about what Treme has had to carry—losing Claiborne. The broken promises around Armstrong Park. Katrina. Ida. The attempt to shut down St. Augustine. They’re not wrong. But that’s not the whole story.

The whole story is that it’s still holding on.

We’re still in the annex. Repairs to the sanctuary are slow and expensive. The church could still close. The future’s not guaranteed. But we show up anyway.

And in a place like this, showing up still means something.

So what do I say to people looking to explore Treme?

Do more than take a tour. It’s not a museum. It’s a place in time—today’s time—and you’re welcome to join in. Not just observe.

And if you want to move here? Do it. You’re not just buying a house. You’re becoming part of the fabric of something that doesn’t exist anywhere else.

Voted Neighborhood Favorite by Nextdoor the last three years, Cool Murphy is a top-producing, licensed real estate team based in New Orleans, brokered by Cool Murphy, LLC.

Celebrated for her next-level creative approach to real estate, Elisa Cool Murphy is an award-winning, top-performing real estate broker in New Orleans and the founder of Cool Murphy Real Estate.

You can learn more about her here.

Contact Her -

email: cool@coolmurphy.com

Facebook: @homeinneworleans

IG: @coolmurphynola

YouTube: @coolmurphynola

phone: 504-321-3194