fff # 27

lush, plush, brush, hush, gush
you can hear the tuba boom over the roar of the distant thunder vast approaching; threat of the storm unable to stop the lush sounds of the ever growing second line as it trails through the canyon of shotgun homes. fathers wearing their father's suits carry parasols and lead the march in time with the thump of the stickered bass drum. masked women wine waists and raise plush flags like the spirits around them as the trombones slide viciously through the c scale. men follow. rifling trumpets demand jubilee, replacing inhibition and anxiety with a blithe positive energy felt through each brassy note. the crowd, high on clarinets, chant the line's 'do whatcha wanna' anthem as parked cars become makeshift stages to dance on and light posts make for temporary jungle gyms. clouds follow the wind as it blows back against the brass in an attempt to hush the streets in preparation for the inevitable storm, but the shade from the sun seems to only welcome new zealots to the celebration though does nothing to dismiss the already heavy humidity. the line continues it's weaving dance through the neighbourhood finally turning down north derbigny toward the park where the gathered crowd is greeted with the beginnings of a surprisingly cool soothing rain; greeted in return with a boisterous cheer. the brass keeps blaring over the more present thunder; the rain seems to fall in tempo.
you join in as the crowd become chorus singing "i feel like funkin' it up, i feel like funkin' it up," when suddenly the man you chose to brush up against collapses, knocking your daiquiri and several other liners to the ground. a slim younger woman who turned to see the man fall seems to throw her children from her arms. another woman collapses. then another man. a shrill chilling scream resonates from the slim woman and silences the music as she dives down beside her fallen child. the crowd rapidly begins to thin, some suddenly hug the earth as your eyes race dumbfounded across the chaos. you hear a gunshot and another among more screaming as someone pulls you by the wrist to the ground. screeching car tires and the smell of burnt rubber fills the air. thunder roars, tearing through the clouds and unleashing an instantly drenching downpour that almost immediately makes it even more humid than you thought possible. as you lay in a puddle of daiquiri, blood and rain, you're eyes connect with the worried mother and are able to differentiate between the raindrops and the teardrops rolling down the her face; but not between the gush of blood from her baby's head and the blood dripping from her red-soaked shirt as she holds him. sirens blare. it was most certainly his first second line, too. the storm will wash away the streets, the incident, but never the memory.
the next morning headline on the times-picayune reads second second line shooting: 2yr-old among dead.
this story was inspired by tragic true events and the +vibes of a joyous second line.
... and while we're talking new orleans brass, check out this awesome animation featuring st james infirmary.