|
Drums, Trains, Alarums, and Escapades
Breath
of Life Music
Commentary by Mtume ya Salaam
& Kalamu ya
Salaam
John Coltrane: "The
Drum Thing"
It was 1967. I was
a sergeant in the military, on a nuclear missile
training base, Fort Bliss, Texas. Because I had already
done a year in Korea and was a grade E-5, I was a
supervisor of trainees which reductively meant I had a
bunch of time on my hands. So I decided to follow a
dream and become a drummer.
It was like I had two jobs: from 7am to 3pm I worked
(well, not really worked, supervised and taught,
although most of the teaching turned out to be how to
use a paint brush to paint rocket launchers; seems like
we had about ten of them sitting in the desert and by
the time we got to number ten, the blowing sand would
have worn-off most of the paint on launcher number one
so we would start all over again), and from about 4:30pm
to 8:30 or 9pm, I would practice and play music. Since I
didn’t have to stand in formation and didn’t have to
wait in the chow line (as a sergeant I could just walk
right in to the front of the line whenever I arrived), I
was therefore able to get to the USO before most of the
other soldiers, which meant that I could check out the
one full set of drums first and have roughly an hour to
practice by myself before we started jamming.
There are three essentials to getting good as a drummer.
One is practice. Two is study (i.e. listening to good
drummers). Three, and the most important, was actually
playing. Jamming with the fellers was good but it was
not the same as actually performing on a gig. In fact, I
considered our nightly jam sessions group practice.
Ultimately, nothing replaces what you learn by actually
playing for an audience.
So who was I listening to? A lot of people. But there
were three who were my main inspirations: Art Blakey,
Max Roach, and Elvin Jones. Later, I would add Tony
Williams to that group.
Art Blakey’s work on the Dizzy Gillespie composition “A
Night In Tunisia” (specifically the one on the Blue
Note album of the same name) was numero uno in
teaching me. Blakey was so powerful. He felt like an
extra heart beating inside you. Made you coordinate your
breathing with his rhythms, your head moved with his
sock cymbal, and you just had to bob and weave like
Muhammad Ali when Blakey started those press rolls and
cymbal crashes. And when he used his elbow to alter the
drum’s pitch, ah, man there wasn’t even a sliver of
space between him and perfection. (I knew that no human
was perfect but damn, you could run a German train on
Blakey’s ability to keep time.)
First I memorized the solo; in fact, I memorized the
whole song from the opening bombs to the concluding tom
tom thump. Then I spent weeks trying to do what Art did.
Of course, I never was able to duplicate what Mr. Blakey
did with such seeming ease but when I played “Night in
Tunisia” everybody could hear what I was doing. I even
won a talent show contest on the base playing Blakey’s
solo.
That was a hell of a band Blakey had. Especially that
demon Lee Morgan filling up my ears with lava-hot
trumpet solos. Where Dizzy (who was Lee’s idol) played
with a bright, light and agile tone, Lee Morgan had this
swagger as if he had shitkickers on and intentionally
walked down the street with one foot in the gutter. I
loved it and, of course, I admired the way Art Blakey
was the high sheriff of hard bop, pile driving the
rhythms atop which Lee erected jazzily designed, aural
skyscrapers.
Maybe it was because I had seen Blakey live two years
earlier, had seen him dramatically end a breath-taking
solo by throwing his drum sticks in the air. I was, as
we say in New Orleans, too through!
But then I copped this Max Roach record:
Speak, Brother, Speak. Max made me dance.
At that time I hadn’t yet heard him live, my hero
worshiping days had not yet arrived, but nevertheless, I
was mighty, mighty impressed with the melody in his
drums. Art Blakey had driving rhythms, Max has beguiling
melody. The only cat I knew of close to what Max had was
Mingus’ main drummer, Danny Richmond, and can’t forget
Monk’s drummer Frankie Dunlop. But both of those cats
mostly played the music of their respective leaders, Max
was playing everything.
I never learned any Max Roach solos. I took structure
from him. A few special techniques. An appreciation for
reaching for the widest variety of tones from the
drums.
Three was Elvin
Jones; the systole to John Coltrane’s musical diastole.
I spent a lot of time with my mouth open, holding my
breath when listening to Elvin. Nobody did what he did.
Shit, not even no two-bodies was able to do what he did.
Everybody else played rhythm, he played wind, thunder,
earthquake, and volcano; river current and ocean
undertow, Elvin Jones was a force of nature. Either you
were him or you weren’t, trying to play like him was
impossible.
There was no sense in practicing “at” that. Just like
you didn’t practice catching the spirit in church,
either you caught it or you didn’t (or, more accurately
either it caught you, or it didn’t). Of course, I wasn’t
the only drummer in the world who wasn’t Elvin Jones. I
had plenty of company.
I don’t know if you have ever stood outside during a
thunderstorm, not necessarily in the rain, maybe under
an overhang, or in a garage with the door up, or even on
a covered porch, but the air is literally electric then,
and the crack of the lightening, the rumble of the
thunder, the way the wind whips the rain, the
cross-rhythms of precipitation tap dancing on the side
of a house or the roof of a car, I don’t know if you
have ever done that but if you have, then you have felt
some of what it felt like listening to Elvin Jones.
Jones’ playing was so complex. There were no regular
rhythm patterns to memorize. No one-two-three-four beat
you could count. No simple reoccurring downbeat to
reference. Elvin Jones just flat out played: beneath his
hands the drums were no longer simply a percussion
instrument, the skins, wood, sticks and metal became the
four earthly elements. And that solo on “The Drum Thing”
(from Coltrane’s album
Crescent) was so astounding because it was soft
thunder. There was nothing noisy about it but it was so
moving.
If you were a drummer and listened to Elvin Jones you
could never become vain because you knew no matter how
good you got, there was somebody hotter than the sun,
somebody whose sense of rhythm was as strong as gravity
working on the planets circling the sun at different
speeds, slanted at different angles and making inexact
but perfectly coordinated rotations. Imagine Coltrane is
the sun and Jones is all nine planets spinning and
rotating simultaneously.
Blakey’s "A
Night In Tunisia," Roach’s "Speak,
Brother, Speak," and Elvin Jones on Coltrane’s
composition "The
Drum Thing," are three classic drummers recording
three instructional classics of jazz drumming. Although
they are neither the first word in jazz drumming, and
certainly not the last word in jazz drumming, they are
the pinnacles of their respective styles and time
periods. For me, they were both beacons and milestones,
guiding me forward as I pursued a career as a drummer
and standing as standards to mark off my progress.
In June of 1968 when I was discharged I went home for a
few days to see my family. I left my drums in El Paso.
While in New Orleans I went looking to see what the
drummers were doing at home. I ran across Smokey Johnson
and James Black, David Lee, and Zigaboo.
I had become good. Was in two bands and a highly sought
sub. But man, my homies hurt me. I looked deep into the
mirror one day soon after arriving and counted the
carets. I had thought of myself as a diamond who needed
some polishing and refining. I knew I wasn’t no where
near Elvin Jones, or Blakey, or Roach for that matter,
but I “knew” I was good, or so I thought. The truth was
I was only good and what I really wanted was to be
great.
At that point in my life, I took the left fork and
pursued writing. I consciously gave up on being a
drummer. I never saw my beloved drums again.
—Kalamu ya Salaam
* *
* * *
Talking about drummers
It’s very, very interesting to read a writer who used to
be a drummer talking about drummers. I listened to all
of three of these tracks twice each while cleaning the
house yesterday. Although my favorite was easily "Speak
Brother Speak," I enjoyed all three.
But then I’m
sitting here reading Kalamu’s comments and I feel
compelled to listen to the tracks again. Especially the
Coltrane tune. Of course, I have the Crescent CD
and I’ve heard "Drum Thing" many times. I’ve never
really focused in on what Elvin is doing on the drums
though. (Funny, right? Especially given that the song is
named "The Drum Thing.") Usually, I hear Elvin’s solo as
a bridge between Trane’s two brief statements. Coltrane
is such a commanding, brilliant presence—it’s hard not
to focus on him. Anyhow, I may not have grown up
idolizing jazz musicians like Trane and Elvin, but I did
grow up standing under overhangs, watching the lightning
and listening to the thunder while I waited for one of
our many storms to pass. That’s a very good description
of what Elvin’s drums sound like. He has the charged-up,
crackling intensity of atmospheric electricity; the
gut-pounding power of thunder; and he has the ability to
completely engulf you in his playing, like the tender
yet unrelenting rain. Wow.
I can hear what
Kalamu describes in the Blakey tune too. It’s not my
favorite—for some reason, "A
Night In Tunisia" has always made me think of cruise
ships and cocktails—but I hear both the power and the
precision.
And then there’s
"Speak, Brother, Speak." Talk about a jazz tune. Man!
Not long ago we did an entire week where we focused on
the classic Miles Davis album Kind Of Blue. I remember
writing then that
Kind Of Blue was the jazz album. Well, "Speak,
Brother, Speak" may not have the notoriety of
Kind Of Blue , but I sat there listening to it,
thinking, "This is an entire jazz album in one song!"
Then the twenty-five minutes was over, I hit back-skip
and listened to the whole thing again. Damn.
—Mtume ya Salaam
* *
* * *
Sunnyland Slim "Baby How Long”
Do a little investigating
and you’ll find that trains are a consistent metaphor
throughout Black American literature, storytelling and
song, particularly pre-Civil Rights era. Why? Think
about it: we’re talking about times when blacks were
living with the painful combination of lots of reasons
to run yet very few ways to do so. One of those few ways
was to hop a train.
Usually, as in the case of
Jimi Hendrix’ “Hear
My Train A Comin’” or Muddy Waters’ “Train
Fare Home,” the train is a positive element
of the overall imagery.
The train is either a means to get away from something
bad (Waters’ “blues and trouble”) or it’s a way to get
going towards something good (Hendrix says the train is
going to take him someplace where he’ll make enough
money to come back and buy the whole town). But in other
cases, as in the case of this week’s feature track,
Sunnyland Slim’s “Baby How Long,” the train isn’t
a means of escape, not for the narrator at least.
Instead it symbolizes the distance (either real or
metaphorical) between the singer and his used-to-be
lover.
Pianist and singer Albert
‘Sunnyland Slim’ Luandrew was born in Mississippi and
played the blues in Memphis before making his way first
to Chicago and then New Jersey where he finally recorded
his first album as a leader,
Slim’s Shout.
Slim’s 1960 recording “Baby
How Long” is from that debut album and it
features Slim’s New Orleans-style piano playing along
with sax work from the legendary ‘King’ Curtis Ousley.
The song tells the story of a guy who finds himself at
the train station trying to figure out how long has the
evening train been gone because that’s the train his
baby caught after she left him. Despite the somber tone
of the lyrics, Slim and Curtis play the song with a
rollicking feel and at a jaunty pace, both more
suggestive of a Saturday night at a juke joint than an
evening spent alone, pining for an absent woman.
Despite the different titles, Slim’s “Baby How Long”
is a virtually word-for-word cover of Leroy Carr’s much
older “How
Long, How Long Blues.”
In Carr’s hands, the train metaphor isn’t just in the
lyrics, it’s in the music too. Guitarist Scrapper
Blackwell’s deliberate and low-toned strumming mixes
with Carr’s left hand (playing the bass notes) to sound
like the rhythmic rumbling of engine roaring up the
tracks. Meanwhile, Carr’s right hand plays high notes
that have the same tone and feel of a train’s air
whistle. Carr’s pace is much slower than Slim’s too;
overall the original sounds more like what the song is
actually about. Despite that, I have to admit I still
prefer the rocking and rolling of Slim’s uptempo cover.
Kalamu hit me with a few
more covers of “Baby How Long”/”How Long Blues.” Of the
ones he sent me, my favorites were Ray Charles’ ballad
treatment (although I never would’ve known that was Ray
– the voice sounds like someone else) and Estelle ‘Mama’
Yancey’s version (which preserves the melody and rhythm
of the original, but with completely different lyrics).
—Mtume ya Salaam
* *
* * *
Water from a
common well
There was a time when it was popular for damn near every
blues singer of note to draw upon a common well of
material. “How Long Blues” is a prime
example of one of them well water songs. Most everybody
sang it, sometimes mostly like Leroy Carr first
recorded, other times in some idiosyncratic way that
reflect the performer’s tastes and proclivities.
This common well of source material actually helped
blues singers develop their own style. People wanted to
hear the familiar only done in a different way, so a
singer had to find their own way into a song if they
hoped to make any noise to which folks would pay
attention.
In addition to the Ray Charles and the Mama Yancy
versions, I’m adding the Count Basie featuring “Mr.
Five-by-Five” (so named for his short statue and ample
girth) aka Jimmy Rushing. It is noteworthy that “How
Long Blues” was not only a favorite of acoustic
country blues artists but the swing orchestras dug it
too and no orchestra did it better than Count Basie.
Well, maybe Jay McShan and the gang could have given
them a run for it but I’m not aware of a recording of
“How Long” by Jay’s band.
Although we are mindful that this is the age of bottled
water, we obviously believe that water from an ancient
well is good for what ails us, thus we’ll keep on giving
short sips from the deep, deep well of blues classics.
—Kalamu ya Salaam
* * *
* *
* * * * *
 |
Super Rich: A Guide to Having it All
By Russell Simmons
Russell Simmons knows firsthand that
wealth is rooted in much more than the
stock
market. True wealth has more to do with
what's in your heart than what's in your
wallet. Using this knowledge, Simmons
became one of America's shrewdest
entrepreneurs, achieving a level of
success that most investors only dream
about. No matter how much material gain
he accumulated, he never stopped lending
a hand to those less fortunate. In
Super Rich, Simmons uses his rare
blend of spiritual savvy and
street-smart wisdom to offer a new
definition of wealth-and share timeless
principles for developing an unshakable
sense of self that can weather any
financial storm. As Simmons says, "Happy
can make you money, but money can't make
you happy." |
* * * * *
|
The New Jim Crow
Mass Incarceration in the Age of
Colorblindness
By Michele Alexander
Contrary to the
rosy picture of race embodied in Barack
Obama's political success and Oprah
Winfrey's financial success, legal
scholar Alexander argues vigorously and
persuasively that [w]e have not ended
racial caste in America; we have merely
redesigned it. Jim Crow and legal racial
segregation has been replaced by mass
incarceration as a system of social
control (More African Americans are
under correctional control today... than
were enslaved in 1850). Alexander
reviews American racial history from the
colonies to the Clinton administration,
delineating its transformation into the
war on drugs. She offers an acute
analysis of the effect of this mass
incarceration upon former inmates who
will be discriminated against, legally,
for the rest of their lives, denied
employment, housing, education, and
public benefits. Most provocatively, she
reveals how both the move toward
colorblindness and affirmative action
may blur our vision of injustice: most
Americans know and don't know the truth
about mass incarceration—but her
carefully researched, deeply engaging,
and thoroughly readable book should
change that.—Publishers
Weekly |
 |
*
* * * *
 |
Blacks in Hispanic Literature: Critical Essays
Edited by
Miriam DeCosta-Willis
Blacks in Hispanic Literature is a
collection of fourteen essays by scholars and
creative writers from Africa and the Americas.
Called one of two significant critical works on
Afro-Hispanic literature to appear in the late
1970s, it includes the pioneering studies of
Carter G. Woodson and
Valaurez B. Spratlin, published in the 1930s, as
well as the essays of scholars whose interpretations
were shaped by the Black aesthetic. The early
essays, primarily of the Black-as-subject in Spanish
medieval and Golden Age literature, provide an
historical context for understanding 20th-century
creative works by African-descended, Hispanophone
writers, such as Cuban
Nicolás Guillén and Ecuadorean poet, novelist,
and scholar
Adalberto Ortiz, whose essay analyzes the
significance of Negritude in Latin America. This
collaborative text set the tone for later
conferences in which writers and scholars worked
together to promote, disseminate, and critique the
literature of Spanish-speaking people of African
descent. . . .
Cited by a
literary critic in 2004 as "the seminal study in the
field of Afro-Hispanic Literature . . . on which
most scholars in the field 'cut their teeth'."
|
* * * * *
The White Masters of the
World
From
The World and Africa, 1965
By W. E. B. Du Bois
W. E. B. Du Bois’
Arraignment and Indictment of White Civilization
(Fletcher)
* *
* * *
Ancient African Nations
* * * * *
If you like this page consider making a donation
* * * * *
Negro Digest /
Black World
Browse all issues
1950
1960
1965
1970
1975
1980
1985
1990
1995
2000
____ 2005
Enjoy!
* * * * *
The Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
/
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
/
Only a Pawn in Their Game
Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for
Slavery /
George Jackson /
Hurricane Carter
* *
* * *
The Journal of Negro History issues at Project Gutenberg
The
Haitian Declaration of Independence 1804
/
January 1, 1804 -- The Founding of
Haiti
* * * * *
* *
* * *
posted 4 November 2007
|
