The Jazz Funeral Someone Didn’t Know They Had

The Jazz Funeral Someone Didn’t Know They Had

Yesterday, in honor of Mardi Gras I was listening to the jazz channel on satellite radio. I was driving north into Tyler. The East Texas sun was shining down. It won’t be long until the azaleas are all blooming instead of just a jump-the-gun few. Suddenly the cars in front of me swerved to the right and stopped. In the opposite lane two police cars, lights flashing, were escorting a funeral procession. If I had been wearing a beer hat I would have taken it off.

On the radio, playing low and slow was something sad by King Oliver. I love King Oliver. In fact I love all of the early jazz players. They were playing God’s own favorite tunes.

“How nice,” I thought. It’s a real New Orleans jazz funeral. Sad no one is dancing along with black umbrellas. But there we were. I’m sure I was the only one having a jazz funeral in my head.

As the hearse passed me, and the first 10 cars or so of the very long procession, the song changed to the Preservation Hall Band playing St. Louis Blues. Another favorite, it started slow then gradually got the Dixieland bounce tempo. Happy, happy. Someone’s soul was being played on to heaven in real style.

I don’t need the beads or feathers or floats. I don’t even need a King Cake. I had the real thing. A jazz funeral all by myself, praying for someone I’ll never know.