|
Books by Kalamu ya
Salaam
The Magic of JuJu: An Appreciation of the Black Arts
Movement /
360:
A Revolution of Black Poets
Everywhere Is Someplace Else: A Literary Anthology
/
From A Bend in the River: 100 New Orleans Poets
Our Music Is No Accident /
What Is Life: Reclaiming the Black Blues Self
My Story My Song (CD)
*
* * * *
Another Duke Ellington Story
By Kalamu Ya Salaam
The dance had ended forty-some minutes ago but no one seemed to be in any
rush to go anywhere. Though they usually clamored to be on the road, quickly
gone from these hick towns after they played, tonight the musicians were
casually strewn backstage; some even cradled their still warm horns,
occasionally sounding a very soft note or two. Duke grinned inwardly.
Collectively, these men were his instrument and it made Ellington feel good when
they felt good.
As always there was a coterie of jazz aficionados, aspirant entertainers, and
non-music-related hopefuls who lingered in the hallway that led to the rear
parking lot in which a bus waited to take the band back to the train depot where
Duke's private pullman car was parked, well-stocked with appropriate food and
other road comforts almost unknown to most musicians who crisscrossed America.
One gentleman stood at the end of the slow moving queue crawling along the
wall outside Duke's dressing room. This small farmer recently turned salesman
patiently awaited his turn to thrust the evening's printed program into Duke's
hands so that Mr. Ellington might grace him with the gift of an autograph and,
hopefully, also a flash of that fabulous love-you-madly signature smile. A
stone-faced woman stood stiffly at his side. She had had a long day, was tired,
and was the only audience member not displaying a beatific expression.
Unfurling the seduction of his whiskey-tinged baritone, Duke graciously
received this last couple. "I am Duke Ellington. With whom do I have the
pleasure of making an acquaintance?"
"Ah, Squire, Joe Squire. You can just put: To Mr. and Mrs. Joseph
Squire. Please, I mean if you don't mine."
"Mister. And madam. Joseph. Squire. Thank you so very much for gracing
us with your appearance tonight. You, your lovely wife, and all the other
audience members made each of us feel at home." Duke shook hands cordially
and paused to sign the program that Joseph Squire had tentatively proffered. As
Duke finished his inscription with a flourish, he turned to the woman who
remained starkly still looking as though it would have pained her to move.
"Mrs. Squire, I'm sure you have a lovely first name. Might I inquire what
it is?" Duke held his gracefully manicured right hand waist high in front
of Mrs. Squire.
Mrs. Squire was slightly taken aback by the man's forwardness. She had not
touched many negroes before and though she appreciated his musicianship she was
not interested in any personal contact with this mister Duke Ellington. But he
spoke with such manners and deference in his tone, and he bent at the waist
slightly in sort of a half bow, and his smile seemed so sincere; her hand
floated forward more drawn by Duke's personal magnetism than guided by her own
will.
"Her, her name is Rosemary," Joseph Squire spoke up on behalf of
his silent wife. Joe knew that Rose was past ready to go home and she had
begrudgedly accompanied him backstage in his quest for Ellington's autograph.
Now that Joseph's search had been successful, they should go.
But, she hesitated: Ellington's handshake was so smooth, so warm, so tender
as he courteously held Rosemary's farm-roughened palm. "Mrs. Rosemary
Squire would you please allow me to show you something stunningly beautiful
which I have just recently discovered? Please indulge me. It won't take but a
small moment of your time."
Duke gently released Rosemary's hand after slowly guiding it back down to her
side. He turned to the small group of people surrounding him. "Excuse us
one moment please." Without hesitation Duke cleared a path with a regal
sweep of his left arm. He touched no one, instead everyone instinctively melted
back like butter retreating from the radiance of a heated knife. With his right
forearm Duke smoothly pushed open the dressing room door.
The first object Rosemary admiringly focused on was Duke's stage shoes: a
pair of gleaming patent leather pumps which sat languidly atop the dresser table
next to a half drunk demitasse of tea--between two slivers of lemon a chamomile
tea bag lay beside the china. Had Rosemary glanced at Duke's feet she would have
spied black lambskin loafers, but at that moment Rosemary's nostrils flared as
she inhaled the fragrance emanating from a spray of cut flowers which freshened
the atmosphere as the bouquet lay beneath the over-sized dressing room mirror.
Duke sensibly had left the door wide open. At a discreet distance Joseph
Squire and a few other people peeped into the room hoping to also see whatever
was the beautiful something Ellington had promised to show the tight lipped
woman.
"Rosemary Squire," Duke guided her forward with the faintest touch
to her waist, "regard. Behold something beautiful." She turned to look
at Duke. What was he saying? Duke nodded toward the mirror. She turned again.
Duke stepped sideways so that he was out of the reflected line of sight.
"Notice the elegance of the eyes. The determined jaw line which undoubtedly
reflects a willful and passionate personality. But above all, the clean symmetry
of the facial plane and the...aghhhhh," Duke intoned wordlessly, "but
oh, you can see as well as I." Then Ellington stopped speaking.
Someone nearby gasped almost inaudibly. Rosemary virtually transformed before
their sight. What had once been a cold mask of tolerance warmed into a tender
visage of contentment. And as she started a smile, Duke picked up his pair of
shoes from the dresser and backed out of the room. In the hallway Duke paused
and touched Joseph lightly on the shoulder, " Never forget , your wife is
beautiful. Though youth may leave us, beauty can always find a home within.
Sometimes beauty slumbers but even then requires merely an appropriately gentle
nudge to reawaken."
Then, on padded feet, Duke glided noiselessly down the carpeted corridor just
behind Johnny Hodges who was already blasèly ambling toward the back exit.
Clark Terry had been patiently leaning against the wall opposite Duke's door; he
grinned as he too shoved off to take his leave. Terry had seen the master do
this many, many times before. Duke was casually adept at reading people and
adroitly drawing out their best qualities regardless of how they felt at any
given moment.
Exhibiting a rainbow of diverse complexions, a small knot of people stood
outside the auditorium's rear egress. Sporting their best coats and warmest
hats, the locals huddled in the chilly Indian summer night exchanging murmured
conversations with Ellington's worldly array of well traveled musicians.
"Excuse me, the time of our departure draws neigh and I'm afraid we must
bid you good night." Disappointed but understanding sighs drifted through
the frosty air as Duke strove to extricate himself from the thinning throng. A
lady who would not be denied sought Ellington's attention, an attractively tall
woman, slightly darker than cinnamon. Duke signed her program "love you
madly" and then climbed into the vehicle, the beginnings of a melody
capering in and out of his consciousness.
Suddenly realizing where she was, Rosemary Squire pirouetted in slow motion
searching the dressing room for Ellington. Ellington however, by then, was
reclining aboard the bus. Rosemary's gaze fell directly onto her husband. Joe
was a bit blurry as Rose squinted at him through partially damp but very happy
eyes. He smiled at her. She beamed back. And they walked off hand in hand.
* * * * *
 |
"Another Duke Ellington Story" (published in Italy; journal?; date?)
-- "it's been published in italy. i don't even know the name of the journal,
but i can find out and get the publication date. the story is about duke ellington, but the focus is on a female audience
member" (Kalamu ya Salaam).. |
 |
*
* * * *
music website >
http://www.kalamu.com/bol/
writing website >
http://wordup.posterous.com/
daily blog >
http://kalamu.posterous.com
twitter >
http://twitter.com/neogriot
facebook >
http://www.facebook.com/kalamu.salaam
* * *
* *
Guarding the Flame of Life
New Orleans Jazz Funeral for tuba player Kerwin
James /
They danced atop his casket Jaran 'Julio' Green
Audio: My Story, My Song (Featuring blues
guitarist Walter Wolfman Washington)
* * *
* *
* *
* * *
 |
Obama's America and the New
Jim Crow (Michelle Alexander)
/ Michelle_Alexander Part
II Democracy Now
(Video)
Michelle Alexander Speaks At
Riverside Church
/
part
2 of 4 /
part 3 of 4 /
part 4 of 4
There are
more African Americans under
correctional control
today--in prison or jail, on
probation or parole—than
were enslaved in 1850, a
decade before the Civil War
began. If you take into
account prisoners, a large
majority of African American
men in some urban areas,
like Chicago, have been
labeled felons for life.
These men are part of a
growing undercaste, not
class, caste—a group of
people who are permanently
relegated, by law, to an
inferior second-class
status. They can be denied
the right to vote,
automatically excluded from
juries, and legally
discriminated against in
employment, housing, access
to education and public
benefits—much
as their grandparents and
great-grandparents once were
during the Jim Crow era.—Michelle
Alexander,
The New Jim Crow |
* *
* * *
The Natural Mystics: Marley, Tosh, and Wailer
By Colin Grant
The definitive group biography of the Wailers—Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Livingston—chronicling their rise to fame and power. Over one dramatic decade, a trio of Trenchtown R&B crooners swapped their 1960s Brylcreem hairdos and two-tone suits for 1970s battle fatigues and dreadlocks to become the Wailers—one of the most influential groups in popular music. Colin Grant presents a lively history of this remarkable band from their upbringing in the brutal slums of Kingston to their first recordings and then international superstardom. With energetic prose and stunning, original research, Grant argues that these reggae stars offered three models for black men in the second half of the twentieth century: accommodate and succeed (Marley), fight and die (Tosh), or retreat and live (Livingston). Grant meets with Rastafarian elders, Obeah men (witch doctors), and other folk authorities as he attempts to unravel the mysteries of Jamaica's famously impenetrable culture. Much more than a top-flight music biography, The Natural Mystics offers a sophisticated understanding of Jamaican politics, heritage, race, and religion—a portrait of a seminal group during a period of exuberant cultural evolution. 8 pages of four-color and 8 pages of black-and-white illustrations. Colin Grant Interview, The Natural Mystics
|
 |
* *
* * *
updated 11 June
2008
|
