This is one of the more horrendous stories to emerge from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Barry was a regular solo performer at the Kerry Irish Pub in New Orleans for several years starting in about '99 or '00, but I hadn't seen him a couple of years. In fact, the last time I saw his face was on TV two Octobers ago, singing the National Anthem with his brothers and sister at Fenway Park for the Red Sox's first World Series home game.
Barry and Susan were the two youngest Cowsill siblings, and both have lived in New Orleans in recent years. Susan maintained a higher profile as a member of the Continental Drifters, and recently went off on her own as a solo act.
Barry kept himself a bit further under the radar, with just the one regular but very local and low-key gig at the Kerry. On occasion (such as the first time I saw him), he could be a tremendously entertaining performer, able to very engagingly put across just about any song of any kind with just an acoustic guitar and his solo voice. Other times, I soon learned, he wasn't nearly so much fun.
I eventually concluded that the guy was just such a thoroughly trained musician, from such an early age, that his playing always betrayed and conveyed his personal mood much more strongly than that of the average player. More often than not, Barry was depressed (and drunk), and his performances in such circumstances would serve only to make the audience feel similarly depressed. On the other hand, when you caught him in one of his rare good moods, he could make the entire room happy and lively.
Too bad Barry was back in town for the hurricane, after having left and stayed away for well over a year. Putting himself into danger of being swept away by the storm may have been a half-consciously suicidal move on his part ~ we'll never know ~ but without the occasion of the storm, he probably still be with us, stumbling aloong and trying to find his way.