Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

Didn’t he ramble
… he rambled
Rambled all around
… in and out of town
Didn’t he ramble
… didn’t he ramble
He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

His feet was in the market place
his head was in the street
Lady pass him by, said
look at the market meat
He grabbed her pocket book
and said I wish you well
She pulled out a forty-five
said I’m head of personnel.

Didn’t he ramble
… he rambled
Rambled all around
… in and out of town
Didn’t he ramble
… didn’t he ramble
He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

He slipped into the cat house
made love to the stable
Madam caught him cold
said I’ll pay you when I be able
Six months had passed
and she stood all she could stand
She said buddy when I’m through with you
Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

Didn’t he ramble
… he rambled
Rambled all around
… in and out of town
Didn’t he ramble
… didn’t he ramble
He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

I said he rambled
lord
… ’till the butcher shot him down.

Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.