My Last Chinese Funeral

Before wine, I was in music. The trumpet provided many seminal music memories, none more so than playing Chinese funerals. Here is the tale of my last one.

Prior to entering the wine portal in my early thirties, there was an entire other life spent in music. I played the trumpet from the fourth grade until the end of 1989. During that time I earned two music degrees--a BA in Music History from the University of New Mexico and an MM in classical trumpet from the University of Michigan. After I finished my master's, Carla and I moved to the Bay Area at the beginning of 1984 with the idea that I would play freelance and hopefully work with the San Francisco Opera Orchestra and the San Francisco Symphony. While the former happened, playing never generated enough income, making a return to the restaurant business inevitable.

After bartending for a string of restaurants over the next six years, I was asked to open a new restaurant and help run the wine program. The required hours with the new job would leave me no time to play. But before then, the trumpet provided many seminal music memories, none more so than playing Chinese funerals. Here is the tale of my last one.

I had never heard of Chinese funerals until I moved to San Francisco. But a few months after getting ensconced in our apartment, good friend Bob Reyen got me a gig playing trumpet for a Chinese funeral in Oakland.

Some background is needed. Traditional Chinese funerals in the Bay Area involve a post-service procession from the mortuary. The procession is led by a black convertible, usually a Cadillac or Mercedes, with a large portrait of the dearly departed in the back seat placed on an easel so as to be seen by mourners as well as passersby. Next, the hearse follows with the deceased. Finally, several vehicles with the immediate family of the dearly departed complete the cortege. However, and this is where I enter the picture, many Chinese funerals feature a New Orleans-style brass band of around a dozen players who march slowly in front of the procession and play Protestant hymns. Further, the musicians are dressed in black suits and wear captain’s hats not unlike the one sported by the Skipper in Gilligan’s Island.

Once the procession leaves the mortuary, it slowly makes its way through what was more often than not was the deceased’ neighborhood. Depending on the family—and income strata—the funeral procession could comprise up to a dozen vehicles making for serious traffic issues.

I played over a dozen Chinese funerals in the first couple of years after we moved to the City, always at the Green Street mortuary. It’s located in North Beach a half a block off Columbus Avenue. Though technically in the city’s historic North Beach Italian neighborhood, it’s less than two blocks from Broadway which separates the area from Chinatown.

The banda for a typical Green Street funeral was made up of union guys, most of whom played in various local jazz and R&B groups. I was one of the few outliers at the time who played classical music. However, no one cared because all are considered equal in the eyes of the almighty when it comes to Chinese funerals. The pay was a mere $60 per service then, which doesn’t sound like much. However, on any given Saturday up to a half-dozen funerals could be scheduled. So if all the families went the whole hog and hired a band, one could make decent coin for a day’s work.

The last funeral I played was in the summer of 1987. By then $60 no longer seemed worth having to get up early on a Saturday morning after bartending until midnight or later the night before, much less being presentable before noon with trumpet in tow. But that Saturday I did, joining the rest of the raggedy-ass crew at the mortuary just before the service began at 11:00. My band mates looked like they’d been gigging and drinking until the wee hours of the morning.

Soon one of the ushers gave us the heads up to assemble in formation. We made our way out front and lined up in two rows in front of the convertible with a large photo of the recently departed in the back seat. Minutes later the mortuary emptied out and people made their way into various town cars and limousines parked behind the hearse. After several minutes of chaos, everyone was in place and the procession was ready to go. My use of the term “chaos” is not accidental. It’s going to figure prominently again in just a moment.

When all was ready, the driver of the convertible gave a sign to the trumpet player in front, who was also the contractor for the gig. He immediately turned to the group and called out a hymn, which was contained in a small marching band-sized booklet. Then he gave us a downbeat and we set off playing something like Rock of Ages or Nearer, My God, to Thee.

The plan was for us to go around the corner and then head down Powell Street for two blocks crossing Broadway into Chinatown. As per usual, the entire cortege moved in slow motion immediately creating a major traffic disruption in one of the busiest parts of the City.

By the time we crossed Broadway, itself a major intersection, we were already on the second hymn. Somewhere between Broadway and Pacific Avenue, literally the next block down, I started to hear what sounded like another band. Then I remembered there was another mortuary in the area that likewise did traditional funerals. As we approached the intersection, the sound of the other band grew louder. Mind you we were still playing as well. 

Both bands hit the intersection of Pacific and Powell at precisely the same time—and kept playing. It was a surreal moment scripted long ago by composer Charles Ives in his piece, Three Places In New England. Ives took inspiration from an incident where he was listening to two different marching bands, one marching toward him with the other marching away. Both were playing the same tune but the laws of acoustics as they relate to sound and distance made it sound like two different keys. Our situation was made better/worse because the bands were playing different hymns.

From Ives to Dr. Seuss. There we were, foot to foot and face to face, just like in the Tale of the Zax. The two bands continued to play on despite the fact that the intersection was now completely gridlocked. Eventually, everyone stopped playing, which sounded like the death of a hundred bagpipes. Then we put our instruments down. Only then did the two bandas actually look at each other. In seconds, people in both groups recognized colleagues and started calling out. Many thought the situation was hilarious. Laughter ensued.

However, not everyone found humor in the moment. The drivers of both convertibles got out of their respective cars and proceeded to get in a screaming argument in Mandarin in the middle of the intersection. Waving of hands and threatening gestures were involved. However, in short order détente was reached. It was decided that we would allow the other procession to pass first. To do so, our banda backed up along sides of the convertible. Then the other procession made its way through the intersection.

Finally, the other group made it through allowing us to proceed. That we did, making our way slowly down Powell St. cranking out hymns all the while. From there, we headed several blocks to Clay St. where we took a left for two blocks before heading back up Grant Avenue towards the mortuary.

With the blockade incident behind us, I’m sure everyone involved breathed a sigh of relief and looked forward to finishing up the proceedings with appropriate dignity and decorum. Fortuna, however, had other plans.

The intersection of Broadway, Columbus, and Grant is like a giant mutant five-legged insect. It’s also one of the busiest intersections in that part of the city. As the banda reached the intersection, the driver of the convertible call out to us to stop. We did so immediately and turned around to see the driver of the hearse getting out of his car. It had stalled and he couldn’t get it started. The driver of the convertible quickly joined him. In short order the hood on the hearse was popped and both men were looking into the vast cavern of the engine.

To fill the lull in the action lead trumpet guy had us dial up another tune. After all, the hearse surely would be sea worthy again soon. Meanwhile, traffic behind us on Grant Ave. was already backed up for several blocks.

Finally, after playing four or more hymns, the driver of the convertible came up and told us to stop playing and that we could leave. As it turns out, we were coming up on the hour and the family didn’t want to pay the band for another hour of service.

Just like Mongo in Blazing Saddles, we were free to go. I turned one last time to see the front of the hearse, hood still open, now surrounded by a group of men. Some were family members who had exited their vehicles in an effort to help remedy the situation.

I crossed Broadway with other guys in the band. We made our way back to the mortuary where we quickly packed up, said adios, and went our separate ways. I then walked the short distance to the garage on Vallejo St. where I paid $15 for parking, leaving me a whopping $45 for my morning’s work (less after taxes). But it was worth it.

Looking back, I wonder if they ever got the hearse started. Or did they have to have it towed, which would have made things really complicated. Regardless, I bet Charles Ives would have loved it. He probably would have written about it. I know I did.