(The author, who was born and raised in New Orleans, became interested in jazz and began playing the clarinet when he was 14. Since then, he has studied with most of the major traditional artists, including "Kid" Thomas, Billie and Dede Pierce, and the Olympic Brass Band, as well as George Lewis.

The Galvanized Washboard Band, which he joined a year ago, was formed three years ago at Yale. One of its members has since graduated and now lives in Cambridge; the others are still in New Haven. Several of the author's articles on traditional jazz have appeared in Downbeat.

This is the first in a two-part series. The second part will appear tomorrow. -- Ed. Note.)

I ARRIVED at Buster's just in time for the funeral. Some for the old musicians in their black parade hats were coming out of the little bar room and chatting excitedly with one another. There was a tremendous crowd of people out in the street--mostly black children and teen-agers. The brass instruments and little gold letters on the parade hats glistened in the bright sunshine. They seemed very jolly, and I guessed everyone had been tanking up in Buster's for a good while. Emanuel Paul grinned with a look of mock surprise when he recognized me.

"Man, where you been?" he said.

"Up north. I been missing you guys for a long time."

"Is that right? Well I'm glad you made this one, cause look at all these fine women they got out here today." He winked and chuckled softly. Then he put the mouthpiece of his tenor sax to his lips and made a sort of "zonk" deep in the lower register. Just behind Emanuel, I spotted "Booker-T" Glass, the 85-year-old bass drummer. He was standing erect behind the clumsy, weathered old drum. The painted letters on the sides were barely visible: "Olympia Brass Band of N.O., La."

"All right, junior," he smiled. "All right." He grabbed my hand in his sinewy paw and squeezed it warmly. "How you been making out?"

"Pretty good for an old man," I answered. This drew a shrill burst of laughter from him.

"You and me both," he grinned.

I saw them all as they came out of Buster's, shaking hands, exchanging greetings--Milton Battiste, Kid Sheik, Andy Anderson, Papa Glass. "Say, man," Sheik said, "this is gettin' to be more like a party or something than a funeral."

"Where that big fat lazy bastard at?" Booker-T demanded suddenly. "He still inside? Fats! Get out here, man!" Just then, Fats Houston, a tremendous man of maybe 300 pounds, waddled through the door of Buster's in his elaborate Grand Marshal's uniform and blew a burst on his silver whistle.

"All right," he yelled, "Let's go." His mouth showed a thousand huge teeth as he strutted before the band. The snare drum began its military marching tempo, then Booker-T thumped two pick-up beats on the big bass drum, and we were off. The number was "Lord, you sure been good to me," an un-tempo hymn played to the lashing syncopation which only a New Orelans brass band can achieve.

SEVERAL hundred of the blacks danced around us in a tremendous, floating wave of bodies as we slowly made our way toward Congo Square. Two hundred years ago, the local slaves were allowed by custom to dance in that square every Sunday. The slave drummers would pound out their ancestral rhythms while their brothers would chant and dance for a few hours of freedom.

Tourists walked along the sidewalk, clicking their cameras and trying to stay clear of the mass of dancing bodies and umbrellas swinging in the street. The number ended in a powerful discord of shrill brass notes, and the crowd let out a great "Whoop!" We continued marching to the beat of the snare drum.