Jelly Roll Morton, Inventor Of Jazz, Online Book by Alan Lomax

with Some sheet music & lyrics.

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He rambled, He rambled, He rambled till the butcher cut him down. . . .
Two persons at the funeral knew that something was miss­ing out of the coffin. 'Tve always lived with diamonds and i want to be buried with them," he had said time and again, but now beneath the cold lips forever sealed, the gold inlay in the front tooth showed a ragged hole. The diamond was gone, it was curious that no one accused the undertaker.
As the funeral procession wound its way through the deco­rous meadows of Calvary Rest at least one mourner thought of the old French Cemetery of New Orleans and of the tomb of Marie Laveau, scrawled over at midnight with formless, im­passioned black crayon appeals to the old voodoo queen. Anita Gonzalez, to whom Jelly had now finally returned after twenty years, looked down at the new mound and shivered, surmising in her dark Catholic soul where the man she had loved had gone.
Jelly was a very devout Catholic. Anita explained, speak­ing calmly, giving the facts. But voodoo, winch is an entirely different religion, had hold of him, too. I know. I nursed and supported him all during his last illness after he had driven across the continent in the midst of winter with that bad heart of his.
The woman, Laura Hunter, who raised Jelly Roll, was a voodoo witch. Yes, I'm talking about his godmother who used to be called Eulalie Echo. She made a lot of money at voodoo. People were always coming to her for some help and she was giving them beads and pieces of leather and all that. Well, everybody knows that before you can become a witch you have to sell the person you love the best to Satan as a sacrifice. Laura loved Jelly best. She loved Jelly better than Ed, her own husband. Jelly always knew she'd sold him to Satan and that,