Music, Style & Culture
| Print : Web : Radio : Mobile

NOLA: Funeral Rites

A jazz funeral is something that, these days, is very rare.

Posted 2nd June 2010, 3:50pm in Features, by Tristan Bennett


Someone I didn’t know at all died last week. His name was Trent. I never met the guy, at least I don’t think I did, and his friends, for the most part, are unknown to me. But last Wednesday night, hunting the strange, far off hooting of a trombone, I found his funeral.

A jazz funeral is something that, these days, is very rare. Held to honor great musicians or, from time to time, the greatly loved, they invite the whole world to share in the mourning, the passing, of the bereaved. They start slow. They start with a dirge, drag every foot, slow you down, begrudge that every little last step till the churchyard. But once you turn round, and once that music starts to change, starts to lift and swing and push you, it’s a different story. The funeral is a party, a reckless celebration of a life of beer and dancing; of countless such funerals already, and even more to come. And most of all of moment, musical moments, when nothing matters but to keep on going.

I joined the procession hesitantly. Not to put too fine a point on it, but most of these parades are black affairs, and this is, basically, a bunch of crust punks. Now all my life (and this is one of those endearing hypocrisies that makes America so lovable) I’ve been told that when white people do something that black people did first, well, just don’t do it and save us all a lot of bad memories. From cotton to Coltrane, emcees to Elvis, we do have a bit of a bad habit of it. But in New Orleans it’s different.

It is a really difficult thing to explain why. For one, white people and black people actually do intermingle here, unlike the sick pantomime of political correctness often touted in the North. Neighborhoods lay like a checkerboard across this city, with general trends, sure, but an enduring interdependence all the same.

Then you have the feel. The vibe, atmosphere or ambiance. Perhaps even the spirit, the mood - or better yet - the flavor of the city. Something tells you that it’s safe to take some more. So when I see something as outwardly silly as a pasty pallor’d punk funeral, I know that my eyes deceive me, and I let my gut do the deciding and follow along.

We wound torturously through the small streets of the Marigny, and then took a right on Architect. There, in the loading bay of a warehouse, the band stopped to stomp out a tune, then chug a beer. Like ants, gutter punks swarmed over every surface. They draped themselves from dumpsters, climbed rickety old ladders to the rafters, and swung down again. Jesus, they were beautiful.

A force of nature, or humanity or both, they are like some gorgeous/beautiful punishment from God, or aliens, sent to reflect the best and the worst of our civilization. They embody the freedoms of the day. Freedom to do no work, to eat out the garbage, to give not a shit. But these freedoms are those of the spoiled. Loud and obnoxious, they litter the streets and beg and sneer. Grief ridden and human, they build the most beautiful of musics.

I ran and got a beer. One of those big ones, that comes in a big can, for a big man, and fell into line right behind the snare drum. We crossed St. Claude Ave, up Port and into St. Roch. The trumpet player, a short, friendly looking girl, slowed and blew her horn on her sleeve. We took a right, then a left, and went up St. Ferdinand. By now we were way out there, under the overpass, by the trains, and the cars rumbled overhead. The band announced one more song, fast and hard to fight against the sound. So we started to dance. Self-consciously at first, and then wilder, drunker, until our arms moved by the swing of our hips and even the exhaust fumes were a part of the music.

Heading back I had the feeling of having been spit out by the night, in the way that it sometimes will, hours later, after you stopped keeping track. I had been heading home, I remembered. Actually to the store first, then home. Waiting in line at the market, I saw a few erstwhile mourners buying beer. They looked tired too, and all kinds of shiny junk hung off their clothes. But they had learned the evening’s lesson well, or perhaps years before, and so poured themselves out into the night, to live it.

I went home, to sleep.
Click like to get the latest music news, hottest tracks and more via Facebook.

Comments