Class Acts and Daredevils: Black Masculinity in Jazz Funeral Dancing

Class Acts and Daredevils:

Black Masculinity in Jazz

Funeral DancingJennifer Atkins

Part of what makes New Orleans unique is itsdistinct traditions, like the smell of gumbo waft-ing through the French Quarter or Mardi Gras’mock carnival royalty parading with pomp downcrowd-filled streets. Joining these vibrant culturalelements is another singular New Orleanian icon:the jazz funeral. In the African-American com-munities of New Orleans, death and mourningare confronted through an idiosyncratic musicaland dancing procession that involves jazz musi-cians, benevolent society sponsors, and neighbor-hood tag-a-longs. At these funerals, communitymembers take to the streets in order to celebratethe life of a deceased loved one. Improvisationalhigh stepping and other ambulatory dancingsolidify communal agency and reaffirm life; jazzfunerals are spiritual, somber, festive and lively.They are so spectacular, in fact, that Willie Pajaud,late trumpeter with the Eureka Brass Band, oncecommented: “I’d rather play a funeral than eat aturkey dinner” (Allen).

Traditions like these are crucial to maintainingregional identity and become even more impor-tant during times of distress. In the wake ofHurricane Katrina, New Orleans—especiallymany predominantly African-American neigh-borhoods—endured immense loss and destruc-tion: decimated homes, people dead or missing,and a sense of being forgotten by a government

that hesitated to act permeated the landscape.Almost 1,500 Louisianans died from the stormand its aftermath. Moreover, the efforts of theFederal Emergency Management Agency(FEMA) to evacuate residents and assist in thecity’s recovery demonstrated a stunning lack ofpreparation, from gathering preliminary disasterresponse supplies to providing sanitary medicalattention. Added to this was an outbreak of vio-lence and crime in the days following the storm.Amidst these ordeals, the jazz funeral functions asa mechanism of healing and as a rallying cry thatthe unique spirit of NewOrleans isn’t lost or evensilent. It perseveres.

Despite resilient determination, the jazz funeraland its cultural siblings (brass band and secondline parades) face new challenges. Rising tensionsand violence in Katrina’s wake left one personkilled and several others wounded after gunfireerupted during two-second-line parades early in2006. In response, the New Orleans PoliceDepartment (N.O.P.D.) now requires the spon-sors of these parades and jazz funerals—benevo-lent societies called Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs(SA&PC)—to pay escort fees of almost $4,000,more than triple the cost previously paid (Nossiter;Burdeau). According to the N.O.P.D., thisincrease allows for heightened numbers of paradepolice escorts (Nossiter). On November 16, 2006,

Jennifer Atkins is an assistant professor in the School of Dance at Florida State University, where she teaches courses in dance history,theory, and research.

The Journal of American Culture, 35:2© 2012 Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

166 The Journal of American Culture � Volume 35, Number 2 � June 2012

the American Civil Liberties Union of Louisianafiled a federal lawsuit in representation of theSocial Aid and Pleasure Club Task Force, a groupof 21 clubs and “other plaintiffs” (Simmons). Inaddition to fighting the exorbitant costs (impossi-ble for most clubs to raise), the ACLU suit alsoargues that higher escort fees run the risk of kill-ing the jazz funeral tradition, especially as thisongoing lawsuit is continually taxing residentsfinancially.

The jazz funeral’s survival involves overcom-ing more than just financial woes, however; rep-utations are at stake. The SA&PC are fraternalsocieties who typically operate out of histori-cally African-American neighborhoods—someof the same neighborhoods hit hardest byKatrina. While struggling to rebuild their homesand their lives, SA&PC men also work to com-bat the negative images of black men in NewOrleans: as looters, violent gang members, andhomicidal drug dealers. These persistent stereo-types plague most of New Orleans’ black com-munities, but the media portrays the NinthWard in particular as an area inundated byshootings, drugs, and physical assaults. Againstthis backdrop, though, resides hope. This is,after all, jazz funeral territory, where the neigh-borhood turns out to support each other as theycollectively face the loss of a valued communitymember. The presence SA&PC men’s efforts(among other positive collective pursuits ofNinth Ward inhabitants) make clear that the“portrayals of the Ninth Ward as isolated anddangerous failed to capture what it meant to thepeople who lived there: family, friends, andneighborhood.” In fact “residents developedcross-generational neighborhood bonds thatencouraged activist pursuit of better public ser-vices and nourished cultural traditions singularto New Orleans” (Landphair 837). Whatemerges is that, despite living in a murder capi-tal, SA&PC members use tradition in the fightto make their neighborhoods safer. Throughdancing jazz funerals, they instill positive mas-culine values in their communities by taking tothe streets with public performances of respect-ability and rejuvenation.

Jazz funerals are the pulse of New Orleansregeneration. At the heart of these rituals liesthe financial support of the SA&PC, who, alongwith their historical predecessors, benevolentsocieties, have enabled community members toproperly bury family with a jubilant send off,even during times of hardship. Importantly, jazzfunerals are instrumental in creating the identityof New Orleans’ black communities. Throughthe development of the jazz funeral tradition,benevolent societies then SA&PC have builtupon communal, cultural practices that upholdWest African traditions while firmly plantingthese customs within an American context.While scholars have explored jazz funerals atsome length, a crucial element of interpretation—dancing—has been absent from the literature.Dancing is at the heart of the jazz funeral cul-ture; through dancing bodies, men in jazz funer-als underscore how community, self-respect,and heritage are critical, positive elements offraternal society membership. As such, thesedancing jazz funeral participants foster commu-nal power, provide positive alternatives to vio-lence, and promote a complex manhood thatrejuvenates the community during a time ofloss. Throughout this ritual, the class act grandmarshals, guides of the jazz funeral procession,lead the way in every respect.1 Likewise, thedaredevil second-liners who dance up the rearof the funeral procession are models of theneighborhoods’ resilient nature. Both roles usecreative, improvisational dancing to stabilizeand revitalize the community.

Jazz Funerals in NewOrleansCulture

Jazz funerals are part of a standing NewOrleans tradition that can be traced back to theearly 1800s, when benevolent societies providedhealth care and burial services, including brassband funerals, for their members. These fraternalsocieties, rooted in the semisecret organizations ofWest Africa, were a grassroots effort to aid blacks

Class Acts and Daredevils � Jennifer Atkins 167

and immigrants. Benevolent societies also upheldtenets of the early nineteenth century Christianmovement known throughout the United Statesas the Second Great Awakening: altruism, charityfor society, and moral and racial uplift (Jacobs22). By 1890, more than 226 black social aid clubsappeared in New Orleans and by 1900, 80% ofthe population belonged to at least one benevolentorganization (A. Hall 72). New Orleans benevo-lent societies not only bolstered the blackcommunity with a sense of belonging, but alsoensured that uninsured black neighborhoodssurvived poverty and illness without sacrificingcultural traditions. The jazz funeral filled thisunaddressed social need.

Often referred to as “funerals with music” or“brass band funerals,” jazz funerals were namedfor the Dixieland jazz music that local musiciansplayed both to and from the cemetery. Dixielandwas born from the convergence of slave songs,brass band marches, ragtime, and blues. Thisexperimental, improvisational style was eventu-ally integrated into funerals that already relied ontraditional brass band music.2 As Dixielandspread throughout New Orleans, brass bandscongealed into formal groups that averaged ten innumber and were comprised of cornets, trom-bones, baritones, horns, and cymbals; the drum,though, remained the heartbeat of the band andkept West African musical traditions at the centerof the jazz explosion.

Due to a set of unique historical factors—thepeculiar nature of Louisiana’s slave trade, theNew Orleans born African-American andCreole populations, and the institution ofCongo Square (a demarcated public space whereblacks legally gathered on Sundays to sing anddance from the mid-eighteenth century until the1880s)—New Orleans was able to maintainstrong linear musical and dance ties with tradi-tional West African and Caribbean customs.The first slaves arrived in Louisiana in 1719 andcame directly from Africa or were “seasoned”in the French Caribbean. Under French rule,Louisiana traders imported slaves through theCompany of the Indies from the Senegambianregion of Africa, the area between the Senegal

and Gambia rivers of Africa’s west coast (A.Hall 15). During this time, two-thirds of theenslaved brought to Louisiana were from Sene-gambia and mostly included the Bambara, butalso Senegalese (Wolof) and Maninga people (G.Hall 29).3 Under Spanish, then American rule,the majority of Africans were imported fromthe West Coast, especially the Congo. New cul-tural groups were introduced to Louisiana: fromthe Bight of Benin, the Fon, Mina, and Yoruba;from Central Africa, the peoples of Congo andAngola. Historian Philip D. Curtain estimatesthat by 1803, around 28,300 slaves had beentraded to Louisiana (83).

With the enslaved, then, African cultures estab-lished a foothold in New Orleans. Specifically, anAfrican/French religious hybrid emerged throughVoodoo,4 whose dance rituals rapidly spreadamong the free and enslaved black populations.Additional African cultural practices also survivedbecause Louisiana’s later identity as a society withslaves allowed for a more fluid cultural exchangebetween masters and their human property.Moreover, with the creation of Congo Square fur-ther pockets of African cultural retention surfacedwithin the slave communities themselves. Thesetraditions included dance and religion, especiallythe West African rituals concerned with deaththat honored ancestors.

Within the West African traditions, funerarypractices acted as a conduit between the materialand spiritual realms and commemorated the cycli-cal nature of the world through “[s]trong and gaypatterns of movement” (Warren 19). These fun-eral processions solemnly wound their way to thegrave, purposely “getting lost” in order to trickthe spirit of the deceased into moving on. Afterthe body was laid to rest, the procession returnedto the land of the living—the village—accompa-nied by lively dancing and music. Funerals weresometimes supported, as in the case of the Daho-mean culture, by semi-secret societies. Thesesocial organizations created an outlet for thetransmission of sacred rituals and could be calledon for mutual-aid or insurance in order to assurethe community that ancestral lines would beproperly observed through customary burial rites.


The New Orleans jazz funeral developed inmuch the same way as West African death rituals.Like West African funerals, the jazz funeral isdivided into pre- and post-burial sections.Throughout the funeral, a grand marshal leads thesponsoring society members and the brass band,followed by the hearse (traditionally, a horsedrawn carriage), family and mourners. This iscalled the main line, or the first-line. The strag-glers who join the event trail this entire proces-sion. These neighborly, sometimes unruly,participants are the second-liners.

During the first part of the funeral, servicesare held for the deceased at a church or a wake.From there, a procession winds its way to thecemetery. Traditionally, this is the time whenfuneral dirges in 4/4 tempo dominate the musicalselections. Musical standards like “Lead Me Sav-ior” and “A Closer Walk with Thee” are playedwith little improvisation as the somber crowd ofmourners and musicians make their way to theburial site. Once the procession arrives at thecemetery, the body of the deceased is “cut loose”by the community as the band and family mem-bers enter the graveyard for the final service.Upon the last words at the grave, music fittingthe deceased is played—taps for a military man,or blues for a blues lover. As with African funer-als, the music “most representative of his person-ality and accomplishments” is selected forperformance at the deceased’s funeral ceremony(Warren 19).

During the second part of the funeral, along thezigzag route home and at a respectable distancefrom the gravesite, the music’s tempo and thecrowd’s general attitude morph into an upbeatdancing celebration. The procession stops at vari-ous hangouts of the deceased—mostly bars—torevel in the continuation of the good life and tolaud the memory of a valued community member(Regis 763). Louis Armstrong described themoments following cutting the body loose, writ-ing: “Once the band starts, everybody startsswaying from one side of the street to theother…” Armstrong noted that the communitybecame lively with the spirit of the jazz funeral(91). Likewise, blues banjoist Danny Barker

fondly remembered his first involvement in a jazzfuneral. To him, the custom was “an excitingspectacle,” with “[m]ore than a thousand peopleof all ages dancing to the music until the last noteended in a cloud of sounds” (24).

At the forefront of the jazz funeral traditionare the class act grand marshals. These respectedleaders epitomize the best of benevolent societymasculinity, which rests on a prevailing sense ofpride, community, and racial uplift. Whilewomen certainly second-line and even have theirown clubs today, these associations are tradition-ally male and serve to instill positive masculineideals in their members. Historically, dancing atfunerals or social parades solidifies the bondbetween male benevolent society members andneighborhood inhabitants. Because of this, theways in which manhood is played out on thebody becomes an important signifier of blackmasculinity, especially when considering thegrand marshal role.

A Class Act: The GrandMarshal

In traditional jazz funerals, the spectacle of ahorse-drawn hearse was a call to march and dis-played a sense of importance among mourners(Habenstein and Lamers 409). Despite the impres-siveness of this image, many jazzmen rememberanother figure, the grand marshal himself, as anindelible part of creating the jazz funeral tradi-tion. The grand marshal, or “Norman” as he canbe called, is responsible for organizing the funeral,determining the route, leading the procession, set-ting the pace, and keeping unruly second-linersfrom interfering with the band.5

The grand marshal is dignified; he is a reveredmember of whichever benevolent association isburying the dead or sponsoring the parade. Agrand marshal is dressed to the nines, traditionallywearing a tuxedo and white gloves. He is alsoattired in a decorated sash, usually black on oneside for mourning and vibrant on the other to rep-resent his affiliated group. Often, he dons a slick,


black hat, usually a top hat, fedora, or bowler. Hisappearance is as important a performative elementas his actual movement. Arguably, the grand mar-shal is the most outwardly refined representativeof the group. He is a class act.

At the start of a jazz funeral, the grand marshalleads the procession to the grave with a slow two-step glide. As a sign of respect and mourning, heholds his hat on his side near his hip, or on hischest next to his heart. To signal a change in routedirection, the marshal lifts a gloved hand or awhite handkerchief and points to where the groupwill next go (Jazz Funerals). This signal is stately—the grand marshal fully extends his arm into theair, claiming space with a regal quality as his headbows down; he is so sure of where he is going thathe doesn’t even have to look (Figure 1).

Once the body has been cut loose, the grandmarshal signals for the festivities to begin bychanging his sash from the mourning side to thedecorated. Like the second-liners, the grand mar-shal adopts a celebratory attitude as he “getsdown.” Yet, unlike some second-line dancers, thegrand marshal does not abandon all decorum. Heremains respectable; he is a strutter and he stepslively on the way home. His quick-thinking danc-ing moves to the music (now highly improvised)

and regulates the band’s tempo. On the windingroute, the marshal is in control of the entire com-munity. He leads the band and procession; evenshaping the memory of the deceased: he decides atwhat bar or local hot spot to briefly visit and howlong the parade will last once the body has beencut loose.

It is at this point that the grand marshal alsoclosely monitors the second-line. In the midst ofthe excitement and call-and-response interactions,second-liners can become a menace to the march-ing brass band. The grand marshal steps in byordering the dancers to move out of the way or bytricking the second-liners through abrupt direc-tional changes (Marquis 19; Zander 9–10). Evenamidst chaos, the grand marshal and his dancingremain respectable and in control, revealing anall-encompassing pride in his reputation as a classact leader.

The grand marshal as class act reveals a com-plex understanding of African-American mascu-linity. As a well-dressed marcher, the grandmarshal immediately evokes images of a dandy.But the application of dandy to dancing African-American men presents complications, mainly inits reference to minstrel characterizations and sus-pect, deviant sexuality. This is especially evident

Figure 1. In a 1956 jazz funeral, accompanied by the Young Tuxedo Brass Band, iconic grand marshal,Matthew “Fats” Houston, dances to the grave with a slow glide. Photo by Ralston Crawford, RalstonCrawford Collection of Jazz Photography, Hogan Jazz Archive, Tulane University.


in the case of the African-American dandy, who isoften seen as the culmination of black artifice—decadent in behavior and appearance, representa-tive of white elitism, and shaped into a commodi-fied cultural product (see Glick). The dandy asdeviant is seen as a display of hypermasculinity, aperformance of diversion. In order to subvertattention from relished female attributes (displayof the delicate body through meticulously con-structed fashion, effeminate gestures coded as“cultured” body language, and/or objectificationof self for male attention), a dandy becomes ultra-masculine in his debonair attitude and overlyemphasized intellect (see Miller).

If we look closely at the grand marshal, wesee that elegant, refined dress and stately danc-ing can have insightful meanings outside theminstrel or negative dandy label. Movingbeyond these stereotypes, the grand marshalinstead exemplifies what Marshall and JeanStearns define as a “class act” performer in theirseminal work, Jazz Dance: The Story of Ameri-can Vernacular Dance (1994). According to theStearns, class acts were tap dancers who finessedtheir routines by incorporating the total body,not just fancy footwork, into their dances.These (mostly) black male dancers, who regu-larly performed in teams, were impressivebecause of their formal dress, distinctive style,and suave, precise dancing (293). Grace and ele-gance defined the class act tap style.

The class act mode of performing began in theteens, took off in the 1920s and lasted until the late1940s. Most class acts further refined their styleby dancing in smooth unison. They were welldressed, wearing white gloves, a slick suit with atie and top hat, and maybe even a monocle orboutonniere. Early class act shows always incor-porated some version of a soft shoe; their dancesreflected equality and respectability. EddieRector, a famous tapper from the early twentiethcentury, exemplifies the class act style. Instead ofhoofin’ it like other tappers of his day (tap danc-ing with emphasis just on the feet), Rectorinvolved his entire body in the dancing processand seamlessly blended one step into the next. Hewas refined and sophisticated, not only in his

unique dancing style, but also in his fashion(Stearns and Stearns 285–91).

Though the class acts wore suits or tuxedoesand were associated with a vaudeville circuit, theydiverged from the dandy in a number of crucialways. The class act dancer defined himselfthrough a dignified blend of characteristics. Impli-cit in his dancing was a battle for distinction, anaspiration to become a high-class gentleman. Per-formances by Rector, Honi Coles, Cholly Atkins,Pete Nugent, and others were about real elegance,not affected, highfalutin impressions. Even moreimportantly, as exacting technicians with superiorskill, class acts were not found among the per-formers who delighted white audiences in popularclubs. Class acts danced in lesser-known venuesand because of this, maintained their own sense ofauthenticity. They nurtured a reputation for beingimpressive, eccentric strutters; they were infa-mously great dressers with impeccable posture,and were revered for distilling hard moves into an“aesthetic delight.” The last, great class act team,Honi Coles and Cholly Atkins, were the epitomeof sophistication and respectability—they were“connoisseurs of stages and audiences” (Stearnsand Stearns 287–88, 308).

Like the class act, grand marshals are connois-seurs of their audiences—benevolent societies,brass bands, and neighbors. A grand marshal isintimately aware of his surroundings and is par-ticularly successful in imbuing them with an airof dignity and grandeur. The grand marshalmoves effortlessly and elegantly at all times.From the beginning of the procession until thecemetery has been vacated, he remains staunch inhis stately walk, even extending his majesticdemeanor into the livelier dancing that occursafter the body has been cut loose. According tojazz legend Sidney Bechet, the grand marshal wasa symbol of respect and deft artistry. Bechetrecalled that grand marshals were also masterstrutters:

It was really a question of that: the best strutter in theclub, he’d be the Grand Marshal. He’d be a man whocould prance when he walked, a man that could reallyfool and surprise you. He’d keep time to the music,but all along he’d keep a strutting and moving so you’dnever know what he was going to do next. Naturally,


the music, it makes you strut, but it’s him too, the wayhe’s strutting, it gets you. It’s what you want from aparade: you want to see it as well as hear it. And allthose fancy steps he’d have—oh, that was really some-thing!—ways he’d have of turning around himself.People, they got a whole lot of pleasure out of justwatching him … strutting and marching … gallivant-ing there in real style. (66)

At the core of the respectable class act is anenveloping sense of pride and dignity that resultsfrom agency through self-definition. The classact tappers found this element of their perfor-mances to be paramount. They shaped their ownimage and turned the minstrel stereotype on itshead, even in the South. In an account about“Ginger” Jack Wiggins’ headlining TheatreOwners Booking Association performances(T.O.B.A., the African-American vaudeville cir-cuit), Stearns and Stearns explain: “Tall and slen-der, with innate dignity in every step, he worehigh-heeled patent-leather shoes and a series ofdazzling dinner jackets with rhinestone lapels,and sequins which sparkled as he danced. To thesouthern folk, Wiggins transformed the stereo-type of the ‘Dark Dandy’ into a high-class gen-tleman” (287). As a jazz funeral class act, thegrand marshal likewise develops his own sense ofself, but rather than safeguarding his agency, hisbehavior acts as a model for his community. Thegrand marshal leads his people out of chaos andinto a dignified state of celebratory union. Hepays respect to the dead while championing theliving to emulate his respectability.

The grand marshal’s technical dancing skillsset him apart as a highly regarded figure withinhis group—he is iconic—but the dancing SA&Pmembers who follow him also uphold the stan-dard of excellence he emanates, reflecting self-generated esteem and a sense of accomplish-ment among club members. Associations likeThe Perfect Gentlemen, The Untouchables, andThe Treme Sidewalk Steppers reinforce thegrand marshal’s high social standing throughmeticulously fashionable clothing and smoothyet ebullient dancing. Accompanying finely tai-lored suits, peacock fans, cigars, decoratedumbrellas and batons, and even champagneglasses sewn atop a jacket shoulder are all dee-

ply embedded iconographic displays of themarchers’ pride.

These performances of dancing and fashionreflect a sense of respect and agency—the commu-nity’s reputation. Leading the procession, thegrand marshal’s status and prestige are importantelements clubs use to cultivate a good reputationand to counter damaging stereotypes. Because ofthis, grand marshals function as emblems of clubs’success. In fact, the number of grand marshalswho lead jazz funerals or club anniversary parades(called second-line parades) directly correlates tothe sponsoring club’s reputation. The societiesthat are more prestigious employ three, four, ormore grand marshals to lead the way with stellardancing (Figure 2).

As scholar Ronald L. Jackson II points out, it isdifficult to create agency without validation. Sinceagency lives in a world of negotiation, throughinteractions with others, it results in a relationshipto “Other.” Following this, Jackson argues that inan African-American male’s effort to maintainpower over self-definitions, frustration thenstruggle evolves out of the need to “reacquire sta-bility and control over his choices, worldview,and life possibilities.” For Jackson, this ultimatelyleads to balance, the definitive goal of masculinebehaviors that also defines struggle (133–34). Bal-ance also defines the class act grand marshal. Hewalks with a solemnity that befits his high stature,but he can also bust a move with the best of them.His dancing maintains a sense of self-control buthe does not allow his composure to inhibit eitherhaving fun or connecting with the rest of thegroup.

To find the balance, Jackson argues, black menmust define the space around them. In this orien-tation of the self to society, defining spacebecomes a struggle to deal with isolation and frag-mentation, but it is also a struggle that can beenseen as a “behavioral quest” that encapsulates“human possibility and growth” (136). The grandmarshal certainly defines his space—at the veryleast, he sets the parade route and activates thespace around him with outstretched arms indicat-ing direction changes—but he is not alonein defining the processional space. He leads the


parade; he makes independent decisions; but sincehe is driving the group forward, his decisions areultimately influenced by what’s best for thegroup, or by the group’s desires. These decisionsmight include the pacing of the procession, whento stop for moments of circle dancing or for foodand drink, when to step it up and really strut, orwhen to finesse a dance into the smallest, mostrefined of moves. According to Jackson, this is thehealthiest of relationships between man and hisenvironment—one of balance, of give-and-take.Following West African style, the grand marshalfinds balance and personal power through hiscall-and-response relationship with the commu-nity. The marshal, connected to the band, mourn-ers and second-liners, uses dancing to invite thecommunity into an exploration of new group pos-sibilities. In the face of shared loss, he offers thosearound him an opportunity for growth throughbonding, creating communal power and a positivealternative for expressing grief.

Grand marshals and other jazz funeral partici-pants also claim public space in a collective waythat is charged with political meaning. Helen A.Regis, foremost scholar on the subject of secondlines, notes that, for the communities involved in

second line anniversary parades and jazz funerals,claiming the streets with their processions is atransformative experience that enables parademembers to own the streets, even if only tempo-rarily. This is an important connection betweenindividuals in the community, especially becausemost club members, musicians, or tag-a-longs donot own homes or large businesses. According toRegis, claiming the streets and defining the spacearound them provides opportunities for blackcommunities to animate a “subtext of resistance”to forces (Regis uses police violence as one exam-ple) that have challenged the solidarity of parad-ing communities (756–57). Throughout thisempowering act, the grand marshal guides theway.

In this way, class act masculinity not onlydefines the grand marshal as a leader, but it alsohighlights the importance of a community ethos.As Jackson points out, “[i]t is impossible to defineone’s self alone while living in a community ofpersons who must validate one’s presence … Thecommunity not only affirms, but also contractual-izes the behaviors of Black men via interaction.The value of Black manhood is what it gives tothe rest of the community” (139). For black New

Figure 2. Several grand marshals lead a jazz funeral with dancing that simultaneously gets down andportrays respectability. Photo courtesy of The Michael P. Smith Archive at the Historic NewOrleansCollection, accession no. 2007.0103.4.455.


Orleans communities, grand marshals contributea sense of self-respect and propriety. Throughtheir polished dancing and impeccable fashion,grand marshals are the icons of authentic refine-ment for those involved in jazz funerals. Thegrand marshal stands proud; he leads the commu-nity forward and represents the dignity of NewOrleans’ black cultural traditions. As a leader, as afine dancer, and as a black man, the class act grandmarshal establishes his own worth—and that ofhis community—by setting his own standards,cultivating his own elegance, exuding gentlemanlybehavior, and acting as a respectable role modelfor those who follow him.

Daredevils: Second-Liners andCommunal Regeneration

Unlike the grand marshal and main line, whoare instrumental throughout the entire funeral,the second-line forms from the start yet takes thespotlight only after the body has been cut loose.Traditionally, after leaving the cemetery, the bandstrikes up jubilantly, playing “When the SaintsGo Marching In,” “Didn’t He Ramble,” or otherpopular songs, always upbeat, always highlyimprovised. This journey back home is the finalstretch of the funeral, but in many ways repre-sents the most crucial moment for the commu-nity. Though the band played collectively beforesending the body off, individual musical expres-sion during the homeward bound processionaffirms that life is vibrant, continual. It is at thistime that the second-liners and musicians partici-pate in a call-and-response pattern of movementmeshing with music. Competition and improvisa-tion contribute a sense of aliveness to the peram-bulatory nature of this event. It is here that we seethe dominance of the daredevil, the gravity-defy-ing second-liner who literally takes dancing tonew heights. The daredevil is bold, adventurous;he’s a risk taker and thrill seeker. Whether climb-ing telephone poles, dancing on car hoods, orusing front porches along the route as his ownpersonal stage, what makes this personality daring

is that he activates unused spaces around him inthe attempt to draw out the community.

Not only is the daredevil found in the mostunlikely spots, but he also exhibits deft virtuosityof movement through his syncopated steps andimpeccable balance. Ardencie Hall notes that, “[a]tone funeral, a young male secondliner wasobserved performing cross-steps, spins, and pelvicthrusts on the extended arm of a stop light” (208).In these difficult spaces, the daredevil’s stylisticperformances are conducted in time to the passingprocession. He is never left behind. He can stagehis feats and be back in line with the marchersbefore they pass him (Figure 3).

Perhaps one of the best-known legendary sec-ond-lining daredevils is New Orleans’ own “Spi-derman.” Spiderman is a local who earned hisname from his specific type of daring—his roof-top performances. Spiderman was an avid second-liner, at least in the mid-1970s. He was such apopular character that he soaked up several min-utes of the spotlight in Alan Lomax’s populardocumentary Jazz Parades. Though Spiderman’spresent situation is unknown, what is significantabout him is his contribution to daredevil danc-ing. Often dressed in a red shirt, the well-lovedSpiderman traversed walls and danced onto roof-tops along the second-line route. Precariously bal-anced on old shingles and inclined roofs,Spiderman danced with a sleek fusion of fluidityand spicy accents. His liquid body waves, simulta-neously moving with rolling hips and shoulders,would be a spectacular sight anywhere, but theaerial Spiderman, gliding on a rooftop, makes hissignature steps all the more impressive (for a cur-rent example of an aerial daredevil, see “KerwinJames Second Line, Pt. 2”).

Spiderman’s sleek dancing was not the onlysignifier of his style. His talent elevated him inhis social network. He was respected, welcomedinto parades, lauded for his dance mastery, andgranted bragging rights. In an interview, AlanLomax inquired as to whether or not Spider-man’s performances were giving his communitya good name. With upturned lips, Spidermanreplied that he gave to his people and they gaveto him (Jazz Parades). Because of his talent and


innovative dancing, Spiderman achieved statusamong his peers.

Spiderman, as well as other aerial daredevils,challenge the solidarity of the group by breakingaway, yet they remain closely tied to the ebb andflow of the parade. The basic vocabulary of thesurrounding community is never far from thedaredevil’s wily and idiosyncratic movement riffs.In tune with the African-American aesthetic, thedaredevil gets down, uses his body parts in a myr-iad of ways and keeps his hips and knees loose. Infact, he is so loose that the predominant stepamong daredevil second-liners is a crazy kneewobble. Hands on the hips, palms facing out, headcocked to the side, daredevils move their knees inand out at an alarming speed as their chest andhips play counterpoint through the sagittal plane.Also common are extremely fast cross kicks thathop. Like true daredevils, even the most familiarmovement is turned into a virtuosic display. Thesekick hops quickly turn into a rapid series of highjumps, a street savvy cousin of the Russian balletpas de chats.

The daredevil’s appeal spans beyond his spe-cific movements; his talent shines because of theunique spaces that become a daredevil’s stage.One can see amateur daredevils sprucing up thedynamism and changing the spatial levels in their

everyday movements. The more advanced adven-turers move up to dancing on top of and beneathcars, on lampposts and stop signs. Literally tower-ing over these beginners and amateurs are themature, professional risk takers. These men, likeSpiderman and the second-liners who emulate histactics, are the pinnacle of daredevilry.

The underlying masculine traits that emergefrom these demonstrations reveal the lengths towhich these men are willing to establish theirmanhood and create a community. The daredevilsportray bravado and strength, but their true meritstems from their adventurousness. Like a sentinelon high, they overlook the revelers and establishthemselves as a protector of the community. Theyare the frontiersmen, always expanding theboundaries of their neighborhood, yet they saun-ter down from high to remain close to their group.Paradoxically, they are loners, innovators, butalso communal agents of tradition.

It becomes clear that daredevil masculinity isindicative of scholar Lawrence Levine’s analysisof the historical African-American hero. Levineargues that the black hero is an important rolemodel and mythic figure that “symbolized thestrength, dignity, and courage that manyNegroes were able to manifest in spite oftheir confined situation” during slavery. Often

Figure 3. Young daredevils dance atop cars during Malcolm Dolliole’s 1982 funeral. Photo courtesy of TheMichael P. Smith Archive at the Historic New Orleans Collection, accession no. 2007.0103.4.451.


vengeful against oppression, the heroes whoemerged in folk-tales could “hold their own”yet were “circumscribed by the limits of reality”(400). The daredevil is emblematic of these fea-tures in that he challenges his physical sur-roundings in order to exist within a heightenedrealm. He subverts dominant power structuresby rising above physical, creative, even intellec-tual confinement. Despite this, he does remainbound to the community around him. Whilelimited by physics (he cannot fly or leap over therooftop in a single bound), the community belowis a constant reminder that he is part of some-thing greater than himself. He is connected to thepeople around him, a relationship underscoredby his periodically returning to the group.

The daredevil shares commonalities withLevine’s concept of the post-emancipation, secu-lar folk heroes as well. These figures (still seen inmovies, comic books and the like) depart fromolder African-American hero types in that theyare not subject to the confines of reality. Likeolder, white folktales, the freedmen’s heroes wereexaggerated and fantastical; they revealed newpossibilities for combating subjugation. Levinenotes that, “[t]he heroes emerging from these taleswere gifted with extraordinary, often extrahumanpowers” (403). These men, “capable of superhu-man feats of strength,” could transform them-selves into “superblack” characters, enactingstatements about overcoming a negative past andtriumphing over present concerns (Levine 403–04). The daredevil turns superhuman in his thirstfor peppery dancing and elevated spaces, whichadds a tinge of marvel and risk to the scene. Hisappetite for unconventional stages, coupled withhis fiery dancing and sprightly use of heights sug-gests that the daredevil is the pixilated comic bookcharacter come to life.

Though daredevils are obviously not able toperform the unnatural feats of comic book charac-ters, they do elicit a sense of superhuman exis-tence. Seen from the street, skilled daredevils aresurely an impressive sight. They stand as rolemodels for the heights of individualism and artis-tic mastery that anyone can achieve. We only haveto look to the nickname “Spiderman” to realize

that the New Orleans community believed in the“strong, self-contained hero who violated not thelaws or the moral code but the stereotyped rolesset aside for black people in a white society”(Levine 407).

While the airborne daredevil is impressive, histerrestrial counterpart is equally dynamic. Danc-ing on sidewalks and in the streets, the earth-bound daredevil’s style is grounded and youth-fully sexual. He elucidates the beauty inherent insexual reproduction and reminds his neighbors tocelebrate their time in the material world. Hedances with confidence as he barrels throughplayful tootsie rolls and sinuous back bends thatare suspended as one arm touches the ground forsupport while his body pumps up and down,exuding energy from the hips. This daredevil typeenergizes his surroundings as he roves throughthe parade, daring others to top his style and tan-talizing the crowd with slick, precise moves. Hefans his crotch to show that he is hot; he lifts oneleg as he scoots a few feet, all the while pulsatinghis body. The grounded daredevil copulates withthe space around him. He is the flirt, the hunk, theagent of desire, but he is also a sacred reminder ofthe cyclical rhythm of birth, death, rebirth. In thisway, the sensual, tellurian daredevils are positive,vital elements of black masculinity, especiallyduring moments of loss. They represent renewaland allude to the prospect of a future that brimswith life.

One possible reason for the relationshipbetween dancing, death, and rebirth in this dare-devil’s dancing may be the historical and culturalinfluence of Voodoo on life in New Orleans. Inthe early years of the nineteenth-century, over8,000 people emigrated from Santo Domingo toNew Orleans as a result of the Haitian revolution.Two-thirds of these were enslaved who broughtwith them West Indian dances (Emery 14). Oncein New Orleans, West Indian religious dancepractices merged with those from Yoruban, Con-golese, and Dahomean descendants forcefullymigrated to the city. Through this syncretic reli-gion, known as Voodoo, the enslaved adapted totheir new Catholic environments and used Louisi-ana Voodoo song and dance rituals as a viable


mechanism for keeping African religion alivewithin a NewWorld context.

Important to the daredevil legacy is that inNew Orleans, African and West Indies forms ofVoodoo merged into a single cult: Damballa,the snake cult (Mulira 40). Damballa representsfertility; his power is always used for good andhe imbues worshippers, especially mourners,with a sense of optimism and renewal. He is theultimate benevolent power (he has no evilequivalent) and with his wife Ayida, representssexual totality (Deren 116). To access Damballa,worshippers began their services with a songsupplication to Legba, guardian of the cross-roads. Integral to Voodoo, Legba is a male/female spirit who acts as portal between the loa(spirit deities) and humanity and thereforestands both between and within the world ofthe spirits and the material world. As MayaDeren explains, “Whether as cord or phallus,Legba—life—is the link between the visible,mortal world and the invisible, immortalrealms” (97).

These associations between Voodoo and sexu-ality might explain the presence and function ofsexual dancing among male second-liners. Facedwith death, the community must embrace theirsexuality and remain alive. Sexual dancing is anoutlet for this tension and in fact, epitomizes someCaribbean funeral dances, customs that wouldhave been transported to New Orleans throughvoluntary or involuntary African migration.6 Thesecond-lining daredevil, then, is appropriatelysexual during jazz funerals since he is acting forthe greater good of his family and his community.He does not concern himself solely with seducingthe women around him, though this is one aspectof his appeal. Instead, he seduces the entire com-munity through his sensual dancing and peacockstrutting. He demands attention in his flamboyantdisplays of virility and he draws the eye with hisvivacious hip thrusts and tricky back bends. Mostimportantly, the daredevil not only shows off forthe women—he dances for the men, too. Still ero-tic, but now competitive in tone, daredevil show-downs highlight the dancers’ prowess and highlyarticulate improvisational call-and-response skills.

Although some critics might take issue withlegitimizing this behavior, sexual dancing plays acrucial role in second-lining, especially after afuneral. Once the body is laid to rest the idea ofdeath is left behind. The second-line is a jubilantreminder of the vitality and liveliness of the com-munity, an admonition of continuity. The sexu-ally suggestive moves of the daredevil reinforcethis important element of the jazz funeral by figu-ratively rejuvenating the community and ensuringthe survival of the group. Their interactive andchallenging sexual behavior strengthens intracom-munal male relations, where communicationbetween men is viewed as a familial negotiation, abrotherly bond (Roberts 387). Sexual moves alsomitigate the tensions built up by the loss of a val-ued community member. Because of this, maledaredevils infuse the community with optimismand allude to a forthcoming rebirth, reminiscentof Damballa. It is at this point that the daredevils,like Legba, stand at the crossroads between pastloss and future community regeneration.

“Feet Don’t Fail Me Now”:The Legacy of GrandMarshalsand Jazz Funerals

What brings these roles together—the dare-devil and the class act—is that, while often com-petitive for status as the best dancer in funeralparades, the two temperaments work together assymbols of communal uplift and as creativearticulations of African-American masculinity.The community is not only dependent upon theenactment of these characters, but also rein-forces the significance of daredevils and classacts by incorporating them into some of theirmost important cultural expressions—second-line parades and jazz funerals.

Though grand marshals remain vital to the tra-dition of jazz funerals, the funerals themselveshave changed over the past thirty years. By the1970s, a majority of the younger jazz funeralmusicians saw the older bands as outdated. The


younger band members, many of whom wereunfamiliar with traditional Dixieland tunes, beganincorporating new musical styles, like funk andpop (Burns 8). Jazz pianist Ellis L. Marsalis, Jr.,saw this shift as a positive reinforcement of jazz’sinherently improvisational nature and noted thatthe “traditional jazz funeral expresses a recogni-tion that there is something not only to mourn,but also to celebrate, even in death; the same truthapplies to the ongoing metamorphosis of the jazzfuneral custom itself” (3). Further changes grewfrom this shift, including the availability of jazzfunerals to anyone who could afford one, eradi-cating the tradition of jazz funerals being anhonor only for jazz musicians or club members.Additionally, bands are no longer definitivelyassociated with particular benevolent societies,more women have moved into grand marshalroles, and the somber music that once marked thejourney to the gravesite has been replaced with“livelier music that begins at the church door”(Marsalis 3).7 Musician and historian Mick Burnssuggests that these changes in part grew from anincreased media attention since the mid-1970s;record labels, documentaries and the like infusedNew Orleans brass bands with new vitality, inevi-tably causing changes in the jazz funeral, as well(8).

In the aftermath of devastation from Hurri-cane Katrina, traditions of community are keyreminders that we can rebuild families, homes,and even our beloved cities. Now, perhaps morethan ever, jazz funerals and their secular equiva-lent, the second-line anniversary parade, repre-sent the regeneration of black New Orleans.One year after Katrina, New Orleans looked tojazz funerals and dancing as a way to mitigatean entire city’s loss. Journalist Lolis Eric Elieremarked that the whole world watched as NewOrleanians and others from the Gulf Coast losttheir homes. He lamented: “After such public-ity, what privacy is possible? Of course, wehave an old honored tradition of public grievingand redemption in New Orleans. The jazz fun-eral, in its proper form, elicits catharsis on theway to the graveyard and commemorates theenduring power of life as it leaves the ceme-

tery.” For Elie, the iconic jazz funeral is notonly a rich custom, but it is also a road map torecovery. He concluded: “As much as is possi-ble, we must leave our sorrows and our dead atthe graveyard and dance our way into thebrightest future we can create from our loss”(Elie).

Another journalist, Bruce Nolan, covered thevery political, very public “ceremonies markingdeath, loss and rebirth after the calamity of Hurri-cane Katrina” that occurred around the city oneyear after Katrina hit. After the public anniversarydisplays that involved George W. Bush, WyntonMarsalis, Ray Nagin, and Governor KathleenBlanco, a jazz funeral wound its way from theErnst N. Morial Convention Center to the Super-dome. Nolan spoke to someone in the crowd:Anne Schott, a River Ridge paramedical examiner.Of the jazz funeral, Schott remarked that: “This isour soul right here,” she said. “This is our heartbeating” (Nolan).

The grand marshals and daredevil second-lin-ers discussed in this article transmit vital socialinformation. They use their dancing to empha-size pride, act as positive role models, animatetraditions that have contributed to a commu-nity-wide racial uplift, and regenerate communi-ties during times of loss. Grand marshals anddaredevils add flexibility and virtuostic improvi-sation to a traditional spectacle while creatingcommunal cohesion. In the words of LouisArmstrong, “To watch those clubs parade wasan irresistible and absolutely unique experience”(225). Part of that unique experience is deeplyconnected to the identity that emerges from thepresence of dancing. In jazz funerals, dancingelicits a profound sense of commitment—thebody is fully engaged in honoring the dead andcelebrating life. Grand marshal two-step glidesand second-lining funky struts become symbolsof a united community and dedication toimproving life. With a dignified attitude, flashysteps, and dexterous personal touches, these jazzfuneral leaders dare and coax onlookers to emu-late their dancing styles and entice the commu-nity to become active adventurers in their ownsurroundings.


Notes

1. The role of the class act is used here as a tool for examiningblack masculinity in jazz funerals, not as the creation of a stereotype.Furthermore, as a white, female New Orleanian, I readily acknowl-edge my position as both an insider to “New Orleanian-ness” and asan outsider to black identity. However, as dance historian Ann Coo-per Alright noted, “Being white is no excuse for not making theeffort to learn about and come to understand the complexities andmultiple layers of meaning in contemporary African-American epicdance” (Albright 154). Thank you to John O. Perpener III for shar-ing this passage with me and for directing me towards Stearns’ “classact” idea. Additionally, generous comments by Sally R. Sommer,Tricia Young, and Suzanne Sinke have been invaluable to the com-pletion of this work.

2. There were some white musicians involved in this process,though it was predominately from African-American origins. Histo-rian Reid Mitchell argued that these white musicians “were thosewilling at least to absorb black ideas. It is not surprising that so manyof the early white jazz musicians were Irish and Italian—white peo-ple who lived near the racial boundaries both geographically and eco-nomically” (Mitchell 160).

3. For a table of slave importation, see Appendix C, G. Hall 403–04.For the history of Bambara in Mali and their enslavement, see pages 41–55, and for a context of Bambara in Louisiana, see pages 96–118.

4. In this article, the term “Voodoo” is capitalized because itdenotes a formal religion practiced in NewOrleans.

5. Archie Carey, a Hogan Jazz Archives staff member, remarkedthat “nelson” was another name for both the marshal himself andhow the grand marshal moved. Carey explained: “He says that Mat-thew ‘Fats’ Houston is the greatest nelson in the city, that all the oth-ers try to imitate him, but they can’t match him because Fats iscrippled as a result of a broken leg, and it’s the only way he can walk.‘Fats not only is a great nelson, ‘he has that nelson’.” (3/23/65, writ-ten observation in Hogan Jazz Archives, Tulane University, NewOrleans).

6. Katherine Dunham, dance anthropologist and one of the fore-most African-American choreographers of the twentieth century,studied Caribbean dance and also saw links between communityfunerary rituals and erotic dancing. See Emery 41 for her descriptionsof Trinidadian customs.

7. For an interesting clip of female grand marshals, see “You bet-ter second line! Jazz Funeral in New Orleans for Juanita Brooks,”and for video of a female grand marshal leading a brass band parade,see “NewOrleans Parade: Second Line/Jazz Funeral.”

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Class Acts and Daredevils: Black Masculinity in Jazz Funeral Dancing