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When the Saints
Filed Tuesday, September 20 2005.

In the wake of Katrina, I've read countless interviews of New Orleans musicians who've been called upon nearly nonstop to perform at jazz funerals. 

For those not familiar with the ritual, a jazz funeral begins with musicians accompanying mourners to graveside, underscoring with slow marches and somber dirges.  The body is 'cut loose' from earthly ties, laid peacefully to rest. 

Then, the musicians and mourners raise horns and voices to the heavens, singing the spirit upwards with the raucous music of the French Quarter, of the pubs and dives and dance halls of Storyville.  The musicians and mourners dance in the street and sing and eat and party until they collapse.

As one well-known jazz historian explained, "we celebrate and laugh at life.  So we must celebrate and laugh at death."

Which, I think, is exactly right.  Or, at least, exactly what I want. When I kick the bucket, don't give me somber memorials.  Skip the eulogies and quiet tears.  Once I'm in the ground, play and sing and drink and eat.  Party until it hurts.