Didn't He Ramble 

                     —for Charles "Buddy" Bolden

             By Rudolph Lewis

If the Devil  is a master musician, Buddy Bolden

was his Man. This black boy had it in him. Seems 

like only yesterday on a First Street

box step he played notes bodaciously

that started in the toes as hoodoo. And in no

time he had the body in a wild reckless joy.

Had you blind, simple, crazy — cakewalking,

Second-Line stepping along Rampart & Perdido.

Had the damnest eyes women call bedroom eyes.

He'd have the ladies swaying like Pontchatrain

palms to a slow blues. Waiting in desperation,

knowing he the One. They felt it as women

feel it. They'd say, "Ain't that Kid something.

Those eyes, that honey skin." They all

wanted to wean him on their special brew.

The King took a breast full and then some.

Got to be the Sweet Man: a diamond smile. 

Tight and easy, dressed as the Cock of 

St. Peter, he ruffled, pleased the Ladies 

of the Globe. Each will take a piece 

before the night ends. He's generous—

market feet busy in the streets. Those eyes, 

that smile would say, "Lay me a pallet, on 

the floor, make it low, make it soft." 

He was the Man, a wild blues horn

that set a salon or a joint on fire.

In Algiers, his wailing staccato burst 

snapped a drag world  living in an echo 

chamber of quadrille and lace.

In Pecan Grove, a new jazzed-up world 

came to life. Big, brassy, b-flat notes 

of Delta sugarcane cutters and Mississippi

cotton pickers—raw-bone blues men black 

& sweaty. Washerwomen regal, balancing  

mountains of other people's clothes & sins, 

smelling like lye. He didn't care

He took them all on. With his horn 

raised  to the Milky Way, Funky Butt

conquered the stars whipping space 

with quilted sounds. Buddy Bolden served 

up a gumbo. Threw it all in. Didn't care what 

other bands did. He knew what the blues 

could do. When he told his children to come

—they came, clapping their hands, moving 

their rhythm feet. When he told them to go 

they went dancing  . . .

Bolden's funk broke all the  walls down

into natural soul. Stepped in everybody's yard

—the sheets of quadrille folks along Esplanade.

And I heard him say, heard him shout, "Open

that window! Open it and let that foul air out!"

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