I had moved between bands and divisions during the second-line, but from Claiborne Avenue on I decided to stay behind the Hot 8 Brass Band, who were keeping the groove with an intensity that belied how hot and tired they had to be. Past a Church’s Fried Chicken, we swung around onto Martin Luther King, a divided thoroughfare that used to be called Melpomene. The street wasn’t as wide as Claiborne, and the crowds were thick on both sides. Some had parked in the neutral ground, or set up folding chairs there, and one man had set up a barbecue grill and was selling food. The smell drifted invitingly over the parade route.
New Orleans Louisiana
I had moved between bands and divisions during the second-line, but from Claiborne Avenue on I decided to stay behind the Hot 8 Brass Band, who were keeping the groove with an intensity that belied how hot and tired they had to be. Past a Church’s Fried Chicken, we swung around onto Martin Luther King, a divided thoroughfare that used to be called Melpomene. The street wasn’t as wide as Claiborne, and the crowds were thick on both sides. Some had parked in the neutral ground, or set up folding chairs there, and one man had set up a barbecue grill and was selling food. The smell drifted invitingly over the parade route.
I had moved between bands and divisions during the second-line, but from Claiborne Avenue on I decided to stay behind the Hot 8 Brass Band, who were keeping the groove with an intensity that belied how hot and tired they had to be. Past a Church’s Fried Chicken, we swung around onto Martin Luther King, a divided thoroughfare that used to be called Melpomene. The street wasn’t as wide as Claiborne, and the crowds were thick on both sides. Some had parked in the neutral ground, or set up folding chairs there, and one man had set up a barbecue grill and was selling food. The smell drifted invitingly over the parade route.
As we approached a church on Washington Avenue, we noticed that people seemed to have come outside to watch us pass. The band in front broke into a slow version of “Just A Closer Walk”, I thought at first as a respectful gesture to the congregation that was clearly still meeting. However, I soon realized that it was because of the cemetery in the next block, an ancient one with the above-ground tombs that remind New Orleanians that those who have passed are still among them, and so the song was in honor of the dead. Not just the dead of the cemetery, I imagined, but probably the deceased members of Young Men Olympian, the deceased band members, those who lost their lives in Katrina, those who were cut down all too young through neighborhood violence. African-Americans in New Orleans often say “God bless the dead” after mentioning a deceased person, and the city is no stranger to death. But the city is also an affirmation of life, and the band soon followed the dirge with “I’ll Fly Away”, the mirror image, which reminds us that what is grief for loved ones is bliss for the departed. Past the cemetery, the party atmosphere returned, but it is appropriate that New Orleanians will pause the party long enough to honor the dead.
As we approached a church on Washington Avenue, we noticed that people seemed to have come outside to watch us pass. The band in front broke into a slow version of “Just A Closer Walk”, I thought at first as a respectful gesture to the congregation that was clearly still meeting. However, I soon realized that it was because of the cemetery in the next block, an ancient one with the above-ground tombs that remind New Orleanians that those who have passed are still among them, and so the song was in honor of the dead. Not just the dead of the cemetery, I imagined, but probably the deceased members of Young Men Olympian, the deceased band members, those who lost their lives in Katrina, those who were cut down all too young through neighborhood violence. African-Americans in New Orleans often say “God bless the dead” after mentioning a deceased person, and the city is no stranger to death. But the city is also an affirmation of life, and the band soon followed the dirge with “I’ll Fly Away”, the mirror image, which reminds us that what is grief for loved ones is bliss for the departed. Past the cemetery, the party atmosphere returned, but it is appropriate that New Orleanians will pause the party long enough to honor the dead.
As we approached a church on Washington Avenue, we noticed that people seemed to have come outside to watch us pass. The band in front broke into a slow version of “Just A Closer Walk”, I thought at first as a respectful gesture to the congregation that was clearly still meeting. However, I soon realized that it was because of the cemetery in the next block, an ancient one with the above-ground tombs that remind New Orleanians that those who have passed are still among them, and so the song was in honor of the dead. Not just the dead of the cemetery, I imagined, but probably the deceased members of Young Men Olympian, the deceased band members, those who lost their lives in Katrina, those who were cut down all too young through neighborhood violence. African-Americans in New Orleans often say “God bless the dead” after mentioning a deceased person, and the city is no stranger to death. But the city is also an affirmation of life, and the band soon followed the dirge with “I’ll Fly Away”, the mirror image, which reminds us that what is grief for loved ones is bliss for the departed. Past the cemetery, the party atmosphere returned, but it is appropriate that New Orleanians will pause the party long enough to honor the dead.
Not all the second-liners are dancers. Some participate in the rhythm with sticks, cowbells or empty beer bottles, anything that can keep a beat. Interviews with older New Orleanians suggest that at one time, when neighborhood rivalries were fiercer, second-liners had the responsibility of protecting the band and marchers from attack and carried weapons. Nowdays, their weapons are strictly musical, reinforcing the clave patterns of the bands’ bass drums.
Not all the second-liners are dancers. Some participate in the rhythm with sticks, cowbells or empty beer bottles, anything that can keep a beat. Interviews with older New Orleanians suggest that at one time, when neighborhood rivalries were fiercer, second-liners had the responsibility of protecting the band and marchers from attack and carried weapons. Nowdays, their weapons are strictly musical, reinforcing the clave patterns of the bands’ bass drums.
Not all the second-liners are dancers. Some participate in the rhythm with sticks, cowbells or empty beer bottles, anything that can keep a beat. Interviews with older New Orleanians suggest that at one time, when neighborhood rivalries were fiercer, second-liners had the responsibility of protecting the band and marchers from attack and carried weapons. Nowdays, their weapons are strictly musical, reinforcing the clave patterns of the bands’ bass drums.
As the second-line passes through different neighborhoods, people come out of houses and businesses alike. The party spirit is infectious, and some come off their porches dancing, and occasionally even join in behind the band heading on up the street. When the parade passes a particularly-significant intersection, such as 2nd and Dryades, where the Sportsman Lounge and Wild Magnolias headquarters are located, there may be a large crowd of people gathered on the sidelines. Occasionally, the second-line itself will head into a bar or lounge for a refreshment break, or in order to salute another neighborhood or marching club.