When this feeble life is o'er

Time for me will be no more.

Lead me, O Jesus, lead me to the shore,

To the Kingdom shore, yes, to the shore.

The band walked slowly in front of the hearse as it pulled away from the curb. We played "Lead Me Savior," next, moving together with slow steps, swaying from side to side to the throbs of Booker-T's big bass drum.

It was too far to walk all they way to the cemetery, so we had to "cut the body loose." The band walked over to the side of the street. Fats Houston paced soberly in front of the hearse as it crept past the band. We were playing "Nearer my God to thee." At about the middle of the block, Fats moved to the side, and bowed gracefully to the hearse. It moved on under the crossed banners of the benevolent society, picked up speed, and was soon out of sight.

The crowd got very noisy and excited now, because the funeral was over and the parade was about to begin. They shouted out for the music to start.

"Hey, Sheik! Gimme some line music, man!"

"Second Line."

"Come, on, baby, let's hear some music!"

The second line--as the crowd people dancing behind a parade is called--had grown to maybe a thousand people. It was tremendous. There was a second line stretching for three blocks behind the band. It was just like the Mardi Gras. Above the head of the people, brightly decorated umbrellas began to appear. Some were very elaborate, with fine, plush layers of feathers on them. One had a big black doll dressed up like a carnival queen fastened to the top. Tassles, fringe, sequins. Green, bright yellow, and lavender were the dominant colors. One umbrella was deep red with black and yellow trimming, like a great flaming torch. It had "Soul Brother" sprayed on it in glossy paint.

THE appearance of umbrellas at these parades is like some ancient ritual. In the beat of the music, a dance will sometimes throw his umbrella on the ground--handle pointing skywards--and writhe around it in a riotous, sensual dance. If you ask him where he learned to do that with his umbrella, he will say, "Man, they always done this at parades!" or "My daddy done that!" It is a remnant of some long-forgotten rite. An astute observer once described that scene as "some vanished ritual grandeur of humanity that has been lost in the stones, the jungle and the dust, yet lies only lightly sleeping in our blood."

The snare drummer picked up a hot shuffle; the second line cheered and lept into motion. The band broke into a riotous number called "Joe Avery's Blues" and began to march down a narrow little brick street behind the French Quarter. This was a soul neighborhood, and the people were hanging out of their sagging window sills and doorways and sitting on front porches of little splintery wooden houses. Children ran out of the alleys and into the street. The old people smiled and nodded approvingly from their rocking chairs. Scruffy little barking dogs were running all around.

It was very hot, and everybody was getting his little "taste" to cool off. Flasks, bottles, and beer cans were everywhere. Even young teenagers were sipping from foaming bottles held in one hand as they danced, head back, eyes closed. The dancing got looser and wilder and better. It went on like this for blocks and blocks, and the second line got bigger all the time. The musicians bounced along blasting out their roughest and raunchiest music, "Little Liza Jane," "Honky Tonk Town," "Shoutin' Blues." The numbers just kept coming. Battiste strutted sideways, holding his trumpet with one hand, a beer can in the other. Huge drops of sweat glistened on his face.

WE WERE just beginning another tune when I heard a muffled "Pop!" I though immediately that it was gunfire, but I wasn't sure. I looked over in the direction of the noise to see what was happening. People were crowding around some woman lying on the ground behind the band.