According to lore, the charming old Falstaff sign that has towered over Central City for as long as almost anyone can remember was more than a spectacular beer promotion. In its heyday, the sign was supposedly a high-tech instrument, able to predict the weather.
We dove into the public library’s digitalized newspaper morgue to uncover the story behind the sign.
It was Aug. 1, 1952, when the owners of the booming Falstaff brewery unveiled what might be the most iconic advertisement in New Orleans history. The monolith atop the brewery spelled out FALSTAFF in 10-foot-tall, sheet metal letters, lit with neon tubes. Arranged vertically, the letters produced a 126-foot, three-sided tower surmounted by a glowing nine-foot plastic globe, called the “weather balloon.”
Just beholding the sign over the cityscape was meant to create a craving for a chilled glass of pilsner, whose manufacture Falstaff assured customers was “flavor-controlled by a rare, precious yeast, insured for $1,000,000."
But the sign wasn’t meant as a mere advertisement; it was a public service. In an era long before everyone had a weather app on the smartphone in their pocket or purse, the Falstaff sign predicted the next day’s temperature and precipitation at a glance.
Based on newspaper descriptions from the time, the letters could be illuminated in sequence by someone operating a switch panel. When the temperature was expected to rise, the letters would “light from the bottom, running upward like the mercury in a thermometer.” They would light from top to bottom when the temperature was supposed to fall.
The lighted ball on top shone “green for fair weather, red for cloudy, flashing red for rain, white for showers, and alternating flashing for storms.”
Predictions were based on reports from the U.S. Weather Bureau.
The meteorological beacon, which stood atop an eight-story section of the brewery, was apparently intended to aid in the planning of fishing excursions and other navigation, since it was touted as being “visible to sportsmen as far away as Lake Pontchartrain and harbor and River points.”
Just below the towering sign was a rooftop beer garden that looked out over the city.
The sign was the crowning architectural touch of a two-year, $4 million expansion of the brewery, which included the installation of 10-ton glass-lined fermentation tanks. The overhaul brought the brewery’s capacity to 1,100,000 barrels, making it “largest brewery in the South,” according to reports.
The lighting ceremony was attended by Mayor Chep Morrison and 91-year-old former U.S. Weather Bureau chief Dr. Isaac M. Cline, who was given the honor of throwing the switch on the landmark.
The sign alone couldn’t have accounted for the success, but in the economic quarter after it was installed, the Falstaff brewery — a national brand based in St. Louis — reported an astonishing 59 % growth in income over the same quarter the previous year.
The great letters, supported by a triangular, trussed, steel frame and anchored by a web of cable, seems to have survived Hurricane Betsy in 1965.
As an aside, we stumbled on a small optimistic newspaper article, written on the day the devastating storm was expected to arrive, that began: “’A little thing' like Hurricane Betsy bearing down on the Gulf Coast couldn’t dampen the spirits of the McDonogh 10 Reunion Group — who decided late Thursday to meet (as previously planned) on the Falstaff roof and welcome Betsy with beer.”
Later, common sense prevailed and “the party was called off.”
Hurricane Katrina in 2005 also spared the half-century-old advertisement. By that time the brewery had been closed and the building empty for 27 years. In 2011, the rambling brick edifice was repurposed as apartments. During the process, the venerable sign was renovated, with the seemingly indestructible vowels and consonants removed and replaced with even sturdier substitutes, illuminated with LEDS.
In recent memory, the great sign has been lit, its letters glowing scarlet and its globe shining perpetually, optimistically green, as if the weather in New Orleans would be fair for all time to come. But on a visit last week, the sign was unlit, a black silhouette on the skyline.
Collector lent Louisiana his treasures a century ago. Now his descendants want it all back.
How a dog named Scrim evaded cages, a dart gun, nets and a posse to become a Mid-City legend
Surfing Grand Isle: A New Orleans dude finds peace and pals amid the waves