It was 1998, and Charles Neville and I were walking through the French Quarter on a steamy hot Orleans afternoon. Out of nowhere, a small man in a raggedy woolen overcoat approached Charles.
Unhesitatingly, Charles embraced him, exclaiming, "Waterman Willie! When did you get out, brother?"
"Last month."
"Well, here you go." Charles emptied out his pockets and handed Willie
This article originally appeared on www.rollingstone.com: Charles Neville: Remembering the Neville Brothers’ Saxophone-Playing Mystic