As a kid, I would wake up, and there'd be a jazz funeral while

Host: The sun was sinking over New Orleans, washing the streets in that lazy amber light that makes even broken sidewalks look like gold. The air was thick — humid, alive, and humming with sound. Somewhere down the block, a brass band was warming up — tubas growling, drums rumbling, horns bright and unashamed.

The whole city seemed to move on rhythm. Pigeons danced across the telephone wires, a child drummed on a bucket with plastic spoons, and an old man sold snow cones with gospel playing from a dusty radio.

At the corner of a small, weathered bar, Jack and Jeeny sat at an outdoor table, their drinks sweating in the evening heat. The smell of spice, beer, and rain-soaked pavement wrapped around them like a melody that never ended.

Jeeny: “Trombone Shorty once said, ‘As a kid, I would wake up, and there’d be a jazz funeral while I’m walking to school. And when I come home, you can find Rebirth band playing for a birthday party the same day.’ Can you imagine that, Jack? A city where joy and grief share the same beat?”

Jack: “Yeah, I can imagine it. That’s life, isn’t it? Death on one corner, a party on the next. Only New Orleans has the honesty to play both tunes at once.”

Host: The brass from down the street flared, wild and beautiful — a trumpet soaring over a second line of drums and laughter. The rhythm was chaotic but whole, like the heartbeat of something ancient refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You sound like you get it.”

Jack: “I don’t think anyone ever really ‘gets’ New Orleans. You just let it happen to you. The city doesn’t perform — it confesses.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about it. They don’t hide sorrow here. They dance it out. A funeral that sounds like a parade — that’s how life should be lived. No pretending it doesn’t hurt, just choosing to sing anyway.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s denial with better music.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s acceptance with rhythm.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through the street, carrying the faint smell of gumbo from a nearby kitchen. Jack leaned back, lighting a cigarette. The smoke curled upward, merging with the heat like a small ghost finding its way home.

Jack: “You think people here are happier?”

Jeeny: “I think they’re more honest about being alive. The rest of the world hides grief behind silence or spectacle. Here, they make it swing.”

Jack: “You say that like music can fix death.”

Jeeny: “Not fix it. But maybe it can remind us that loss and love come from the same place. The same lungs that cry are the ones that sing.”

Host: Jack took a slow drag, watching a group of kids race past the table, their laughter high and wild. Behind them, a man in a black suit played a slow, sorrowful trombone. A few steps later, the tune shifted — brighter now, faster, unstoppable.

Jack: “You ever notice how this city never stops moving? Even the grief has motion. It’s like standing still here is an act of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because New Orleans knows something the rest of us forgot — that life’s not about avoiding endings. It’s about filling the spaces between them with noise, color, and flavor.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every time someone lifts a horn here, it’s like they’re praying with sound.”

Host: The band had made its way closer now, the snare drum rattling against the bricks, the tuba vibrating through the soles of their shoes. A small crowd gathered — strangers, neighbors, tourists — all moving together, some clapping, some crying.

Jack: “You think that’s why Trombone Shorty never left? Because this place teaches you how to live with contradictions?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he realized that contradiction is life. The funeral and the birthday — the loss and the celebration — they’re all the same song, just in different keys.”

Host: A woman passing by tossed a handful of glitter into the air, and for a brief moment, it caught the light — tiny constellations drifting over the crowd before disappearing into the dusk.

Jack: “You ever think we’ve lost that, Jeeny? That sense of ritual? We don’t know how to celebrate or mourn anymore — we just consume. Turn everything into a post or a product.”

Jeeny: “Because we’re afraid of feeling too much. But New Orleans doesn’t have that fear. It feels — loudly. Even its pain comes with brass and rhythm.”

Jack: “Yeah. Back where I grew up, funerals were quiet. Black suits, straight faces, everyone pretending they weren’t thinking about their own mortality. Here — they turn mortality into melody.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. They don’t worship death — they dance it home.”

Host: The drummers switched tempo — a quick shuffle, syncopated and fierce. Jeeny’s foot tapped under the table, instinctively catching the beat. Jack watched her, that rare glint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You ever been in one? A jazz funeral?”

Jeeny: “Once. I cried so hard I started laughing. It was confusing and perfect.”

Jack: “That sounds about right.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what life is — confusing and perfect. Trombone Shorty grew up between those two sounds — mourning and celebration. It taught him how to turn contradiction into art.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why his music sounds like memory — loud, bright, impossible to separate from pain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the sound of someone refusing to choose between joy and sorrow.”

Host: The crowd swayed now — bodies moving in the soft glow of the streetlights, umbrellas spinning, the rain returning as if it wanted to join the song. The band played on, unstoppable, alive.

Jeeny stood and extended her hand.

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “We can’t just sit here and watch life happen. Let’s move.”

Jack: “You mean dance?”

Jeeny: “No — live.”

Host: He hesitated only a moment, then took her hand. They stepped into the street, into the music, into the pulsing, jubilant ache of being human. The rhythm caught them immediately — not polished, not planned, but pure. Around them, strangers clapped, horns soared, and the night vibrated with a wild, holy energy.

Jack shouted over the music, laughing now.

Jack: “You think Westwood would call this sustainable?”

Jeeny: “Sustainability’s not about saving the world, Jack. It’s about remembering why it’s worth saving.”

Host: And as the music rose — joyful, mournful, alive — the camera would have pulled back, high above the soaked street, showing the river winding through the city like a living vein.

Below, two small figures twirled in the rain as brass and drums filled the night — one heartbeat, one song.

And through that heartbeat, Trombone Shorty’s truth echoed:

Life isn’t divided between sorrow and celebration — it’s one continuous tune. You just have to learn to dance between the notes.