Sunday in New Orleans
We walked beside the bleached row houses that Sunday afternoon, the thin shade losing to the heat. It shimmered from the buckled sidewalks, flanking the route for the second line parade.
A second line is a jazz funeral without a corpse—a celebration, a commemoration, a time for the community to come together for an afternoon of music and joy. The parades began as an outreach from the Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs, early organizations formed for fellowship and to properly bury deceased enslaved Africans and free people of color.[i]
This vibrant tradition is alive today. That Sunday, outside of Sweet Lorraine’s in Treme, an eager crowd waited, erupting in shouts and applause when the first brass band triumphantly marched outside.
The parade immediately commenced—stylish men strutted and waved bandanas. Zulu steppers danced on the sidewalks, the atmosphere charged as the molten procession rolled down the street.
Steppers at the 115th Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club, Inc. Anniversary Parade. Photo by the most excellent Sean Dunn.
We followed the second line. People twirled parasols and boogied behind the brass band. Sports cars—convertibles holding local politicians and VIPs—purred past us, followed by bright floats laden with club members waving at the crowd. The entire neighborhood hummed with joy.
The parade advanced to an underpass, the unbroken shade a pleasant relief. Vendors sold cold drinks from wagons, revelers threw beads, a few people caught prized coconuts, and then the spectacle moved on.
We, however, found refuge at Hank’s.
Few things are as satisfying as escaping the heat in a cool, dark bar. Inside Hank’s, slow jams swayed through the speakers, swinging their sexy hips. A couple of gentlemen shared a bottle of Crown Royal, casually pouring the whisky into plastic cups filled with ice. A huge pot of beans simmered in the back, the savory aroma easing through the room.
The first sip of cold beer on a hot day is so damn good, but in New Orleans, the delight is indescribable. We sat at a table and chatted—the buoyant heat from the parade condensing into a pleasant afternoon buzz.
Time lazily passed—we reluctantly finished our drinks, thanking the staff before we lumbered to the car. The A/C dried our damp faces as we cruised to the hotel.
On that particular trip, we had an interior room without windows. Brick walls insulated us from the city’s brilliant thrum. My fella and I undressed and flung ourselves onto the cool sheets, languid and listening to WWOZ—The Sounds of New Orleans.
The Big Easy’s lifeblood flowed into our room.
SOURCES:
[i] https://musicrising.tulane.edu/discover/themes/social-aids-pleasure-clubs/#:~:text=Social%20Aid%20%26%20Pleasure%20Clubs%20(SAPCs,and%20free%20people%20of%20color.
