Now in his eighth decade of circling the sun, he is as ebullient as ever with his pan-Africa take on Black music, his signature infectious blending of jazz and funk. When many of his contemporaries have either departed or retired, brother Roy keeps on keeping on. Making feel good music. Enjoy!

I know. I know what you’re thinking. This some useless shoo-shoo. But it ain’t.

This a warning. Look out. White folks (i.e Gentrifiers) comin’. Higher taxes. A lil’ bit of money for your old house, going to cost twice as much once they remodel. So forth and so on.

The real deal is what was once cheap is now far beyond your means. So forth and so on.

Did you heard me? Life in New Orleans is changing. Changing times, changing ways. Survival requires dinero. Gotta be a big money grip to live comfortable. No matter, up or downtown. 

I know this sounds like semi-literate belly aching. But Betsy. Katrina. And now this. How much can one (two, or even a community of somebodies) stand?

I don’t pretend to know the answer, but how to live under somebody else’s dictates is not the question. Two lane streets, now are one lane and a biking lane. Is that really a solution? Or is that a dee-volution? A comedown that’s really a come up-pence. If getting rid of Negroes is an improvement, then you trying to transform a chocolate eclair into angel food cake.

I know you think this some mess I’m starting, but if new residents don’t start no shit, then there won’t be none. New Orleans is an old city. Got old ways, old culture. 

I know everything must change–been that way since day one–but change don’t mean getting rid of old folks. Yeah, yeah, I know crime is bad and we be killing, shooting, and looting each other. But damn, Sam. This new shit ain’t going to get it.

Can’t we all get along?

Bland living ain’t for me. I likes flava in my food. Spice in my dirty rice. Hot sauce on my poboys (oh, I forgot, some y’all call them sandwiches). Here is the rub. Here culture clashes is much more than just a news report about Black folk letting their hair grow wild. “Relax. Just relax yourself.” Really? You really think the lye about relaxing is acceptable?

Well, you fixing to make me go off. And if you don’t know what I mean, you better ask somebody. Flagboy Giz, where you at? Sound the alarm. They mean to white-wash the whole damn city. Make it look like the white cliffs of dover or the walls around a cemetery.

Stand tall peoples. Hold the line. Resistance is the word. We won’t bow down!

In South Africa, house music is massive, especially the musical stylings of the man known as “Black Coffee”. He is internationally celebrated as a DJ and producer. Over the past decade, I have featured bra Coffee a number of times, especially his humongous Africa Rising stadium show that included a full string orchestra.

South Africa is his home but he is lionized worldwide for his stunning, live DJ sets, routinely attended by thousands. Fans be screaming, dancing, sweating, exhilarated. But none of that is what this post is about. This is African music conscious of itself.

This is a live Tiny Desk concert. House music is overwhelmingly electronic and studio produced but this is acoustic. The musicians are live. The music is live.

The ensemble is not only live, they are also joyfully interacting with each other. Black Coffee with his mixing rig and a microphone is a maestro directing his amigos through a sizzling program of music.

As much as I appreciate Black Coffee’s entire oeuvre, this stunning, fun-filled, in person presentation is iconic. Black Coffee at his best. Sweet.

Answering An Eager Question

“Where do the ideas
for your poems
come from?”

from being
alone
w/h myself
even when others
are present

or seeing
the me in each piece
of we

reading w/h
music on—preferably
some stuff i
haven’t fully digested
yet—so i can’t predict
the moves nor
my reactions

and my brain clocking
incredible journeys
in nanoseconds

. . .like this morning
on the toilet
milton nascimento singing
& kamau braithwaite’s
zea diary
in my hand

and then an
idea clicking
that had
nothing to do
w/h
brasil
or the caribbean
or shit

i mean if
your head can’t process
at least three
or four levels
at a time

then you don’t
have a mind
you are a hole
/ / not a whole
mind you/ /
but a hole

cause there’s nothing
there & art
will never
come from emptiness

in deed art
abhors voids

art sings, dances, preaches, embraces
the inner of everyone–of course
some more than others, yet
the particulars
of any specific art touchs
diverse human realities and
imaginations

at its most potent
art is the nectar
that quenches
the human thirst
for truth,
beauty & relevance

As obvious as it may seem, making art is what humans do. However, the critical question is not only the specifics of the art but also the identity of the humans who make art. Why aren’t each of us considered an artist? Who among us is steadfastly dedicated to truth, beauty, and relevance? To making of ourselves a resounding instrument of human history and development–whether physical, mental, or spiritual?

For example, within athletics Jack Johnson, Jesse Owens, Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali, and so many more are honored for their talent, their accomplishments, but a meaningful question is an examination of the context within which they made their contributions. When or why is whatever someone does considered an art?

Whereas, high accomplishments are nearly universally recognized when speaking of athletics, within literature the recognition of talent is much less celebrated, particularly, in the case of African Americans or non-English-speaking peoples.

The Greeks had Homer, Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides. Philosophically, they had Plato, Aristotle and a number of others. If it is true that art and philosophy are hallmarks of humanity, who have we? Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, August Wilson, Angela Davis, Assata Shakur, Cornel West. While it is tempting to compare, contrast, rank, and celebrate the best of humanity; such listings are not necessary to prove each of us is worthy, is truly human/humane.

What we do with and for each other is the real proof of who we really are.

At our best, we humans are social creatures who care for and ennoble each of us to share with all of us. As the song says, reach out and touch; and in touching, help and uplift each other. Sometimes we bemoan disasters, or condemn anti-social actions, while simultaneously, hopefully, we work hard to improve ourselves and our environment.

Some days we eat the bear.

Some days the bear eats us.

Some days we both go hungry.

Some days everyone is satisfied.

Regardless, survival is a great opportunity to eat as well as to feed; to surmount sufferings as well as extol sacrifice and/or success; and, if we are lucky, to sing, dance and celebrate both each night as well as the next day.

That is what humans do. How well, how graceful, how significant is our doing, well, that is the art–the art of living, and, yes, when appropriate (or inevitable) also the art of dying. As the Sioux knew, today is a good day to die.

Moreover, if we are true artists our death is done with panache. Our living will not have been in vain.

This article was contributed to and can be found in Rorschach Art Publication >https://rorschachpublication.blogspot.com/?m=1

I first met Ishmael Reed back in the early 1970’s when he, along with David Henderson and Calvin Hernton, came to New Orleans to visit their friend Tom Dent, a Crescent City (i.e. New Orleans) native. They had all met and formed Umbra in New York City in the early 60’s. Umbra was the first major writer’s workshop of the Civil Rights Era.

Uncle Ish, as I sometimes affectionally referred to Reed, became a long time friend. Perhaps it was Reed’s interest in African-heritage spirituality that attracted me. Reed was both intellectually deep and simultaneously  as funny as Richard Pryor when holding forth on literature. Also Reed evidenced a serious investigation into our history and contemporary conditions. And when my man announced he intended to learn Japanese, that about sealed the deal. His intellect was second to none.

Reed had moved west to California and established the Yardbird collective and journal in tandem with Al Young. Reed’s subsequent literary output was humongous–over 12 books of fiction, 10 collections of poetry, 7 plays including broadway productions, 14 books of non-fiction, plus 10 anthologies. Additionally, Reed also produced three recordings, and was an early proponent and practitioner of video work. Check out this major interview with Ishmael Reed published in The Paris Review (Issue 218, Fall 2016).

Far too many students of Black literature, as well as American scholars in general, are unaware of and/or overlook Reed’s literary work. Fortunately, Reed is known and celebrated internationally because he never surrendered to American racism and has been warmly received overseas.

Three little words. But there is so much drama therein.

Less than a hundred miles below the USA, nestled on the northern periphery of the Gulf of Mexico, situated just below Florida, is where Cuba is located. In political terms, the island is older than the United States. However, its social relevance revolves around 1959 when the current Cuban government waged revolutionary war and took over.

Since then Cuban life has been caught up in a seemingly unending cycle, grappling with one after another confrontation and conflict with the U.S. on one hand, and internal shortages and contradictions on the other.

But amid all of that, Cuba continues. Although economically and politically pressed by foreign forces and beset my internal repressions, Cuba people continued, producing a resilient and profoundly beautiful musical culture.

Brenda Navarrete is representative of a modern Cuba. In a feature in the August 3, 2018 issue of Pride Magazine, Brenda delineates the origins of her love of percussion, as well as her goals in promoting Cuban culture.

I was around eight years old, and my sister said ‘What do you wanna do? Music? Sports?’ I loved music, and I wanted to be a percussionist, but she told me, ‘Percussionist? That’s a little strong, it’s a strong instrument’. I was hyperactive, and I loved to sing, but I wanted to play percussion – so she brought me to music school, I did a test and I was accepted. I spent 10 years of study, study, study – and now I’m here. Singer, percussionist, producer, dancer, composer, it’s all in the work. –Brenda Navarrete       

Grounded in Cuban rhythms, Brenda’s expansive music now reflects world influences, particularly American jazz, soul and gospel. There was a time when women mastering percussion instruments was frowned upon. Early on while formally studying harmony and melody, Brenda decided to focus on rhythms and drumming. She is now considered a leading Cuban percussionist.

Brenda’s specialty is the Bata-drum set, which consists of three drums, often bound together. The Wikipedia reference notes that “In Cuba, the batá consists of a set of three tapered cylinders of various sizes. Iyá, the largest, is referred to as “mother drum”. Itótele, the middle one, and Okónkolo, the smallest, are called “father” and “baby”, respectively.”

“My objective is to promote the Cuban culture. Not ‘pure’ Cuban, as I mix with jazz, and now with reggae, with gospel – but to bring these Cuban rhythms to the world. More than myself as an artist, I want to promote the Cuban culture around the world. I love the Cuban people and energy so much. It’s not a rich country, but the riches of Cuba is found in our energy.” –Brenda Navarrete

Slavery. Its meaning and repercussions are not abstract in the lives of African Americans, especially for females. From disease to sexual comodification. From hair to music to dance to sexiness.

If you are woman, regardless of what you look like, slavery advertises that you are sexually attractive/available (i.e. the Black woman is yours for the taking if you are White and male, and especially so if you have money).

Regardless of your name, if you are a Black woman, when you are young, you are “sweet thing”. Indeed, you do not have to be fully grown, you could be a nubile teenager, or perhaps even prepubescent in age, no doubt you remain reductively considered a “sweet thing”.

You become Fat, Black, mammy when you are no longer young. These descriptions may sound like exaggerations except if you are gendered female and, to earn a living, you have to work in American businesses and homes. Then the sneering term “sex work” takes on a whole new meaning.

For Black women, damn near any work is also sex work. And if not overtly sexual, it’s guaranteed to be bound up in the physical and psychological tasks of taking care of a male recipient, and especially so if the man is White; as well as emotionally-conflicting so if the man is African American. Like I said, it’s not an exaggeration.

Unsurprisingly, misogyny is the plasma of the American bloodstream, tainting and characterizing the entire of society and social relations. Although misogyny may be un- or under-recognized, both the blatant and subtle hatreds of women are all-American realities. Slavery and misogyny are paternal twins, especially pernicious if you are Black and female.

From 1619 to 1920 women in general, and Black and native women in particular, had no suffrage in regards to their own bodies, literally no political self-determination that was unmediated by laws and mores overwhelming established by White men. (Note that I capitalize “White” because I mean much more than hue. In America to be “White”, particularly when one is also male, means to be on the top shelf of the patriarchal hierarchy of American values and society.)

All of the above, plus more of the above–the myriad of implications and privileges that the patriarchy commands, indeed, demands–all of that goes hand in hand with being a White man. And if you have no idea what all of that means, well, just walk down any American main street, pass (not to mention, inside of) any number and types of business enterprises and concerns. You’ll soon find out how you are viewed and treated when and if you are other than a White male. You and your services are literally for sale, and your physical and psychological presence does not even have to go to and for the highest bidder.

This book, The Ledger and The Chain, breaks down the American way and economic benefits of bondage. The historic aftermaths reverberate even now in the 21st century. Slavery may be legally ended, but the after-effects of human bondage are still very much in partial, if not full, effect.

The story of the capitalization of American wealth is not a pretty picture, not a summer romance, nor even a cinematic adventure tale; Indiana Jones is not going to save the day for you (unless, of course, once again, if you are a White man, and especially so, if you are also fashionably young and handsome; and, not surprisingly, if you are rich, you do not have to be handsome nor young). Money is a cosmetic that can make attractive the most ugly and repellant of people and things.

Moreover, the book is not an abstract economic treatise, the bottom line is clear and easily understandable: there was (is?) a healthy profit to be made in managing the slave trade. After reading this book you will recognize the profitable perfidy of  John Armfield, Rice Ballard, and Isaac Franklin, slave traders extraordinaire who grew wealthy on the misery and labor at the heart of the all-American experiment in human bondage. In short, American slavery equaled American wealth.

Many readers of William Somerset Maugham’s 1915 novel and its subsequent notoriety may have thought that Of Human Bondage was simply an elegant turn of phrase to describe the machinations of patriarchy. But in truth, the phrase points to the reality of American slavery in its many manifestations and contortions, some of which continue today, and much of which, although transformed, nevertheless, was and remains legal.

“SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER”–We hear the phrase, sometimes even repeat it out loud. But here in the comparative safety of 21st-century, what does it cost us when we are uttering the phrase in the bathroom mirror, or to friends as we devour pastries with coffee or (herbal) tea? Or even when wave a hand-lettered placard during a mass demonstration?

Sojourner spoke when, for a Black woman in America, speaking up/speaking out was tantamount to a capital offense throughout much of America. We, who today can march down mean streets shouting “Black lives matter” owe a major debt to woman-warrior Sojourner Truth. For her it was neither a cliche nor simply a catch phrase. For Sojourner our very existence was a struggle. She waged a major and life-long fight for equal rights for all.

Her biography is inspiration and example.

For Ms. Truth the battle was fierce and often knotted with difficult choices. Her life story was not, in total, a pretty picture. There were extremely difficult passages.

Whether fighting for the abolition of slavery or suffrage for women (she debated Frederick Douglas on that issue), “speaking truth to power” was her motto, indeed, was her life-long commitment. We would all do well to follow her steadfast leadership in seeking true self-determination.

On one level the African America story is complex. But on another level, the story is simple and direct: the more women present, the more revolts against slavery.

This story is a direct refutation of the popular view that because more men than women were enslaved, there were a limited number of “slave revolts”. While many of us feel that resistance was happening since day one, the proof was scant and usually known only to serious scholars on enslavement in the Western Hemisphere.

Now there is a graphic history book that not only focuses on resistance but moreover shines the light on women who fought against enslavement. In Wake: The Hidden History of Women-Led Slave Revolts professor Rebecca Hall breaks it down in both words and images (by illustrator Hugo Martinez).

We know Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth, but Hall reaches deep into her personal family history augmented by heavy archival research. Inspired by what she found, she creates an important addition to the historic record.

In all of popular, American music history, there is only one Nina Simone. There are many other distinctive voices but there is only one woman who is top ranking. Nina.

First, she is a musician’s musician. Whether blues, bop, or Bach–or for that matter anyone or any other genre or whatever else–Nina was a piano monster.

Second, she is the ultimate vocalist. People crow and shout hosannas for  vocalists who they claim could sing the phone book. Well. Nina didn’t need no book. No words. She could moan and make you swoon. Could sing “Jack went up the hill” and make that bad boy come running back down for more.

Don’t believe me. There is recorded evidence. At one particular concert, I was there in the audience. Oblivious to everyone else. All I saw. All I heard. Was Nina.

Third, she was a presence. Lord, could she dance. Make them ballet people sit on their hands and take notes on how to move your body; really move your body. She would just jump up from the piano, saunter from side to side, swivel her hips (slowly, mind you, never in no hurry), stare at you, mesmerize you, make you wish you were a Damballa snake wrapping round her waist. That close. Snuggled up.

I once won a prize for writing about Nina Simone. (If you care to, you can read those words here.)

With or without all due respect, ain’t nobody else even close.

All hail, Nina Simone. All hail, the Goddess of song. All hail! Now and forever more. Nina. Nina. Nina Simone.