Music and Mourning
A jazz funeral for David Bowie and what it taught me about grief
Hello Mortals, 🥀
I hope your 2026 is starting off smooth. There are so many reasons to grieve and I hope this finds you in a moment of peace or joy or softness in your day. Lately I’ve been reminiscing about when I lived in New Orleans and how I got to experience many second lines, but this one was special. To honor his January 10th passing, I’d like to share a bit about my experience in 2016.
When David Bowie died, I remember seeing an Instagram post from Arcade Fire saying: “A second line for Bowie! Join us in New Orleans!” I was so thrilled because I was going to have that day off and I just happened to be living there.
Within days, folks were on the road. Some friends drove from Wisconsin and many strangers flew in from all over the country. Everyone seemed to be pulled by the same current of grief and celebration.
Bowie had always been a constellation for me: the permission to be strange, to shimmer, to shapeshift. And where better to honor a shape-shifter than in a city that knows how to alchemize sorrow into song? New Orleans does this and they do it well.
When the day came, the streets pulsed with people dressed like cosmic aliens. So many glittered faces, lightning bolts, sequins, hats etc. The Preservation Hall Jazz Band led the procession joined by Arcade Fire and together they conjured something that felt like heaven.
New Orleans can somehow weave mourning and ecstasy into the same breath. I remember dancing and crying and laughing all at once. Strangers were linking arms and horns were blaring into the bright sky. Bowie’s spirit was definitely there in the thick of it.
It was definitely an example of music as ritual, as communal care. We weren’t erasing loss, we were metabolizing it. The rhythm gave our sorrow a body to move through. In New Orleans, funerals don’t end at the grave. They expand into rhythm, brass, sweat, and motion.
If you were there I would love to hear about your experience!
That day taught me what creative care looks like on a grand scale — that when artists, mourners, and strangers all come together to tend to loss through sound and color and movement, something beautiful is expressed. It’s what I try to remember now: that grief is not a silence to be endured, but a song to be shared.
With creativity and care,
Liz💙