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Reports
& Reviews
of Kalamu
ya Salaam in Baltimore
at Enoch Pratt Central Library kalamu in baltimore (24 November 2005)
4 November, Baltimore The next night I’m in Baltimore at the
Enoch Pratt Free Library. The program kicks off with music by
the Lionel Lyles Quartet, a young, swinging modern jazz group
who played 70s classics like Wayne Shorter’s “Footprints,”
Freddie Hubbard’s “Little Sunflower,” and a gorgeous “In
A Sentimental Mood” a la Duke & Trane, the piano solo was
really killing on that one. The band opened the program and
played in between the poetry sets. Jerome Harris, one of the
behind-the-scenes organizers, formally opened the program
reading off a list of libraries wiped out by Katrina. He ended
with the sobering note that all but 19 out of over 200 New
Orleans public library employees were laid off. The purpose of
this program is to raise funds to support public libraries
affected by Katrina.
There were three sets of three poets reading representing a
broad range of the Baltimore literary scene. I liked much of
what I heard, the three who most delighted my ear were native
New Orleanian, Lena Ampadu, space priestess Olu Butterfly Woods,
and Ellis Marsalis, III.
Lena’s poem was a nostalgic treading of New Orleans streets,
some famous (such as Desire Street—immortalized by Tennessee
Williams—A Streetcar Named Desire—and other streets well
known to New Orleanians. Although Lana does not now live in New
Orleans, she wrote as one who has walked the streets and
conversed with the folk.
Olu writes and recites out of the Bob Kaufman bag, full of deep
cultural references in a semi-surrealistic style that is often
simultaneously hilarious and profound. At one point, as she
raised the question of maybe not being from here, I hollered out
a Sun Ra quote: suppose we came not from Africa, but “to”
Africa? A willowy, sprite of a black woman smile, when her deep,
dark locks get wet, they must account for maybe a quarter of her
body weight, she is nevertheless, a heavy hitter and definitely
someone to watch.
Ellis is into documentary photography. His debut book, Da
Block, is a combination of photographs, poetry and creative
non-fiction. The photographs were taken in his immediate
neighborhood. He read from his book. It was his elegy for New
Orleans that really touched me; heartfelt, contradictory,
frankly full of love as well as colored by admissions of
failings, a self-challenge of sorts. A damn good piece.
People like to give extensive introductions, citing my
accomplishments over the years; I prefer folk just say Kalamu ya
Salaam. But I’ve come to realize and accept that folk respect
my work and want to let those who don’t know me know what it
is they have missed. Even so I get impatient. Part of it is I be
hyped up ready to do my thing, especially when it’s mainly a
reading. Plus, in this case, there was a good sound system,
someone was videoing the proceedings, and a full house.
I started off with “Who Let The Dogs Out,” wailing away on
my Muddy Waters inspired air guitar, had my best preacher voice
amped up to ten. The audience was a mix of all kinds of folk,
the commonality being—well, really there wasn’t much of a
commonality other than a love of literature, even though it was
clear that there were a myriad of literary preferences. From
jump street, I could feel the audience was with me and as I bent
imaginary strings, and bellowed about brimstone and floodwaters,
the intensity started high and just went plain old out of
sight.
By midpoint, the joint was rocking, even though we were in a large
open space on the main floor of the library, up in there started
feeling something like a juke joint (or at least a small
neighborhood Baptist church). By the time I finished the first
piece, the audience was up on their feet, giving me a standing
ovation. It was almost embarrassing. I was just getting started.
There is a bond when artist and audience click, an ecstatic
synergetic back and forth quite unlike any other experience,
comparable to sex, or drugs, or excelling at sports and other
physical activity, but at the same time different from that
because this is an intimacy of strangers, one feeding
off/getting off on the other. The more accomplished the artist,
the longer and deeper the experience can be. This night I made
the dogs howl.
Earlier, one of the readers had said something about jazz being
born in the brothels of Storyville New Orleans as if brass band
played in those venues. Weren’t nothing but piano players up
in those parlors, certainly no Buddy Bolden, Bunk Johnson,
Freddie Keppard, King Oliver or Louis Armstrong. Naw the music
was actually made up in the streets and parks of old New
Orleans, and only a small sliver of it displayed in Storyville.
The mythic story of brothel birth was undoubtedly because of
Jelly Roll Morton, the fabled pianist and sometimes pimp who
boasted off having started jazz,. I, of course, respond
vigorously to the assertion that jazz is a bastard music. Jazz
is a communal music that too often was commodified and used for
other purposes.
I have a long multi-part piece I’ve written called “Jazz
101” that attempts to spell out the beginnings of jazz and
respond to its total manifestation and not just focus on one
small part of its early existence. I pulled out the section on
Jelly Roll Morton and read that—which I could easily do
because I read from my mac i-book. I’m sure some folk find it
amusing and/or a bit odd that I would be whooping and hollering
while reading from a computer, but hey, that’s kalamu doing
his thing.
The reason I use a computer is two-fold. One, because I write on
a computer. I almost never use paper and pen. And it’s been
that way for a long, long time. Going back to the 8th grade when
I first got into creative writing, I preferred to use a machine
rather than to write manually. I was a typing fiend. My mother
had sent me to touch typing classes with one of her teacher
friends. This was the summer before 7th grade. I am forever
grateful for that gift she gave me.
From typewriter to computer was but one small step—and now with
the 12-inch laptop, I am not only mobile but I also carry a ton
of work with me at all times. Which is the second reason I read
from a laptop—I am able to respond to specific situations by
calling up more work that it is practical to carry in terms of
books and papers. Plus, with a computer I can get to each piece
in a flash.
I remember after one reading, someone asked me how could I read
like that from a computer? How could I switch the pages that
fast, move the cursor, go from screen to screen? I smiled.
It’s really easy once you figure it out.
For me the computer is a machine I use to make my art, a machine
I am adept at using. A machine I practice on and get better and
better at. Some say, machines are cold, impersonal. They don’t
have a natural feel. Etc. etc. A drum kit is a machine with its
levers, screws, bolts. The kit works because it is a machine
that the drummer controls.
A saxophone is a machine—try playing one when the keys are
broken, and the saxophone is cold metal to boot, warmed only by
the breath of the player. No one thinks of those machines as
un-natural, yet they are. And I suppose my computer is sort of
like a synthesizer. Trane played sax. Pops played trumpet.
Kalamu plays computer. They are all just machines that the
artist uses to articulate thoughts and feelings.
After the Jellyroll piece, I read a new poem “I don’t want
to live anywhere they are killing me” and it was very, very
well received. That was only my second time reading the long,
four-part exploration about what does home mean. It is so
different from the other pieces. I don’t use any obvious music
with it—I say “obvious” because there is a lot of music in
its structure and in the way I craft the lines and use the
images but it’s what I call deep structure.
It’s not about how it sounds as much as it is about how it
is put together. So far, it is becoming a favorite to read and
audiences respond in a very positive way to it, perhaps because
it touches them, nudging introspection rather than harangues
them pushing toward action, and in that way it is unexpected
when addressing an issue like how our people were treated in
Katrina’s aftermath. Rudy Lewis, the publisher of Chicken
Bones, liked it the best of everything I did that night.
I closed with “System of Thot,” which is a sound piece and
cannot be written down on paper. It’s indebtedness to the
music is obvious from the get go, especially Trane and Pharoah
Sanders. I have re-fashioned the lyrics to make it a Katrina
piece. When I perform it, it is usually the last thing that I
do, as it requires a great deal of energy to do effectively and
an emotional commitment that will cause one to cry when I get
into it full out. I be almost delirious, in a good sense, when I
finish. usually unable to say anything more other than pause for
a minute or so, to catch my breath. On that night in Baltimore,
"System" was good, not quite as good as in Madison,
Wisconsin, but very, very good. But on the other hand, this
reading overall was the best one so far on the tour. Fortunately
it was recorded. Maybe some of it will be released. We'll see.
Afterwards, I fielded a few questions and then sat at a desk to
sign copies of A Revolution of Black Poets, an anthology I
co-edited with Kwame Alexander, who had donated copies to the
library to support the event.
Rudy, Reggie Harris, and Herbert Rogers, accompanied me the
short walk to my hotel. They had beers and coffee while I ate a
crab cake sandwich and a glass of orange juice. we talked for
about an hour. it was an enjoyable encounter, and then back to
the room, where I prepared the next day’s e-drum. I had to be
up at 5a.m. to catch a flight to Dallas for a presentation at
the Third Eye conference.
* * *
* *
To Kalamu: I've received your new poem
"I don’t want to live anywhere where they are killing
me." Of course, I will not publish it. Nevertheless, it is
the most moving and touching piece (prose and poetry) I
have read that deals with the tragedy of New Orleans.
Last evening, with your
"performance," we experienced something quite
extraordinary so much so that I tossed and turned through the
night—my sleep filled with all kinds of thoughts and images of
New Orleans. I got up early, couldn’t rest. Actually, like all
who were there, I am not able to find words to describe what we
experienced. There is nothing to which it can be compared. My
mind cannot get around it.
The only way that it can be analyzed is to
see it again. You know, it's like asking someone who has
returned from church and asking several people how was the
sermon and none can tell you anything. Maybe a few snippets,
here and there, they can only say, "you should have been
there." Of course we recall the shocking portrait of the
duplicity of Mayor Nagin. What we experienced was some
force of nature, or the cosmos, which seems quite appropriate
for the horrors people of New Orleans experienced, that we
endured in the safety of our homes, high and dry.
I hope Pratt has the performance on tape. But
I do not expect that even that can replicate what we experienced
in our body, mind, and soul—what you did there on the stage.
There was such immediacy, surprises, shocking news— we
experiencing all over again, what we saw in film, on TV, in
photos, the empathy we all endured with those who had been left
behind, but, of course, in an all new light.
And then there was your music, your blues,
imaginary guitar-playing (the sounds), the imaginary horn
playing (the sounds), the reverberations from the speakers, the
sounds—it was Robert Johnson, Coltrane, Rashaan, Pharoah—
all in tune, the whole range and scale of sounds from the
tiniest to the grandest—the honks, wails, screams.
Interspersed with appropriate humor. In moments, we went from
laughter, to the deepest drama, and tears.
My body has yet to recover its balance, its
own composure. I'm not sure there will ever be any turning back
to how things used to be, again. Of course, we will all go on
living. But our lives will never be quite the same, again. We
were all seized by whatever spirit it was that possessed you. It
was a sacred drama that cannot be captured in one setting, or
even in memory, or reflection. Even you, I suspect, cannot
replicate what occurred in that grand hall at Pratt. But, of
course, we will give it a try.
We want a copy of the film, or recording
tape of the performance. It is difficult to believe that all
what you did was on paper (the computer screen). We are
curious how it was all accomplished.
Is there anything from your presentation that can be
published? – Rudy
* * * *
* On
Hurricane Relief Program: Hi All--I just wanted
to thank all of you for a wonderful evening last night. I thought that Kalamu was exceptional—the sort of
poet that we need to hear and have in our society. For
some of the more moderate in the audience he was a
stretch--Rosemary fended some comments about his
"interpretation" of events.
MSP&LS thought he was GREAT! In
fact I woke today thinking about what he said.
This is not to ignore the quality of the rest of the poets and
the Lionel Lyles group. What a wonderful event—providing
not only hurricane relief, but reaching out and including the
artistic community in a most positive way. --Barbara M.
Simon, President, Maryland State Poetry
& Literary Society
* * * *
*
To Reggie: Again, I wish to applaud you for the program
you pulled together for Hurricane Relief. It was quite
excellent: the array of poets and the diversity of the audience.
Though most of the poets live in Baltimore and its environs, I
had not heard them speak, though I might have heard of them. So
that in itself was special. I regret I was not able to introduce
myself to all of them. The music too was quite
excellent. Of course, it is sad that it took the destruction of
New Orleans for this kind of thing to come into being.
In some sense you know in the larger sense
this session was about the importance and necessity of having a
social consciousness about giving our minds and souls over to
disasters occurring right under our noses. Our art (our
poetry-making) has to encompass more than just the personal, but
all the persons of our world and the misery and suffering under
which they endure. As you probably understand, most of the
cities in which we live are disasters waiting to happen because
of callous neglect. I suppose you have read the papers for the
last few days about what is happening in Paris and what is now
happening in Argentina. Young people have had it up to their
chins and they are fighting back.
Of course, your featuring Kalamu made the event
exceedingly special. He is a veteran of struggle. A master of
drama and the arts. I cannot imagine anyone who could have
pulled it altogether—the other poets and speakers—to have
made it indeed an exceptional event that none of us will forget.
Thanks for sending me the piece by Barbara M. Simon. If you get
other feedback, please send me copies. I'd like to add them to
Kalamu's files. -- Rudy
From
Miriam: Rudy,
you have captured the significance and the terrible beauty and
terror in Kalamu's performance. It was truly a
mind-altering, life-changing experience, communicated through
music, images, and movements, but I, too, could only remember
pieces of that "sacred drama": beneath the
water, the Atlantic crossing, cries of pain, images of home,
blues wails, the first kiss, people on roof tops, train
whistles, jazz riffs, field hollers, thinks/stinks, stomps, and
so on.
To
Miriam: Yes, I walked Kalamu back to the Tremont on
St. Paul near Saratoga, after he finished signing books. Reggie,
the librarian who organized the event, and Herbert joined
us. We talked about his performance. Kalamu wanted feedback. Of
course, we had only superlatives. We could not be specific. We
like everybody were bowled over. It was nothing that we
could have anticipated or expected. There was nothing we could
say worthwhile as a critique.
He asked which one I liked. It was clear that
one of the pieces was a poem. And I suppose it was that piece
that convinced us all that we were dealing with a master poet,
not just a talented, satirical dramatist, that what we had
before us was an extraordinarily talented, and sensitive poet.
It was clear to all of us that he was reading a poem. Still we
did not know what that was that came before and after. He
had that computer there. We could not know whether he was
reading it or whether he was making all of that as he went.
Nobody knew what he was up to; maybe he was some being possessed
or something. A god that people felt a bit uncomfortable with,
even approaching. Floyd, I believe, did not even go up to him to
shake his hand or say anything to him.
We went to the restaurant. Kalamu wanted to
treat all of us to dinner. We declined. I had a beer, and so did
Reggie; Herbert had a coffee, I believe. Kalamu ordered crab
soup and crab cake and a ginger ale. We talked about this and
that. Kalamu's daughter did not show up. At the restaurant, he
buzzed her. She went to the wrong library, she explained. Kalamu
said she was in Hopkins masters program; maybe it was
international studies.
We talked about Hopkins' rule here in
Baltimore and Floyd's work for Hopkins and whether he had
influence to invite Kalamu to Hopkins. We talked about how
conservative students were at Hopkins and the difficulties his
daughter had with a racist professor and her request for another
examiner. She accused the one she had of racism. She got another
and passed. And Herbert mentioned your study at Hopkins and how
extraordinary you were, even with four children and a husband at
the time.
Our discussion went on and on from one topic
to the next. It was almost 11 pm and I knew that it was time to
split because Kalamu had to be in Dallas and he had a 7am plane
and I knew he would have to leave about five. But he was not
anxious. Finally, we got out of the restaurant and I expected we
would walk him to the elevator and leave him there. But he
invited us to his room. It was more like an apartment, maybe it
was the 34th floor, an extraordinary view if you like heights.
It made me a bit dizzy. He had a huge bed and an extraordinary
headboard shaped like a fan. Kalamu noted that the furniture was
real wood. It was quite luxurious. And I said that he deserved
to be treated like a king.
In the living room, he sat down and we took a
seat. And we began to talk politics. I asked him about his
remarks about Nagin and whether New Orleans and its officials,
whether it was a success or failure, the tragedy that happened.
It seems he was not just doing art, or exaggeration. He seems
convinced that it was not all just a matter of negligence. And I
reminded Herbert how wrong he had been in his defense of Nagin
and our decades mistake of a "black united front" and
our avoidance of public criticism of black politicians. And how
much better Ibo journalists are in dealing with black corruption
and malfeasance and that we had much to learn from them.
It was getting late and we bid him goodbye.
He still had to post e-drum and I was tired. Each of us embraced
him and walked out the door. We had a long walk back to
Herbert's car. I asked Reggie did he think there were those
there who were offended by the things that Kalamu said. Reggie
said it didn’t matter. And I told him that was a good answer.
So there you are. And I don’t think any of us
have quite got a grip on things. I’m pleased you decided not
to take off today. These kinds of things need to be talked
about, or madness indeed may ensue. – Rudy
* * * *
* From
Miriam: Rudy, you have written the final chapter in
the narrative of an incredible night, and how I wish that I
could have been there to participate in the discussion and to
hear Kalamu elaborate on his experiences, insights, and
conclusions. The man is a phenomenon, a rare and precious
jewel to be treasured. I don't know him very well and have
seen him only a couple of times. He was a friend of
Roseann's (my sister-in-sin collaborator on Erotique Noire),
so she invited him to contribute some poems to our collection.
Then, I remember how upset he was, when he
heard of Roseann's death--a year after she'd passed--and called
me in tears. When Acklyn chaired the Af Am Dept. at UMBC,
he invited Kalamu to give a couple of poetry readings, and, as I
remember, he also attended one of Acklyn's "Wild
Women" productions; in fact, I have photos of him
with other friends.
I worry about Kalamu--the pace he's keeping,
the intensity of his work, the energy that that type of
performance demands, and the hazards of life on the road.
He's lost so much weight since I last saw him, but clearly he's
about survival and dissemination of knowledge--like a prophet
and a biblical scholar.
You were privileged to share, with Herbert
and Reggie, the afterglow with Kalamu, and it's too bad that
there's no tape or video recording to preserve that interchange.
It's wonderful, though, that you've captured something of the
experience--Kalamu's performance and the evening's refrain--in
these two narratives.
To Miriam: I asked Reggie to find out
whether the taped performance will be available to the public.
Pratt is so strange with all of its rules and restrictions. They
are not very good in promoting themselves to the populace. They
do better with the rich and well-off. In any event it would be
nice to have a cd of the program. I'm sure there are many who
desire it. The fellow with the little girl on the first row
stopped Kalamu as he was leaving the library, shook his hand,
and asked about the taped performance. . . . I got a note from
Floyd this performance. He too was "stunned" and his
"cynicism" was a bit drenched with a new reality. So
you see we are not all fully lost, maybe, just a bit wayward. --
Rudy
From Floyd: Dear Brother Kalamu,
Still stunned by your magnificent performance at Baltimore's
Pratt Library on Friday evening, I remain nearly
speechless. I want to say THANK YOU a million times a
million. I, like many others outside of Louisiana and
Mississippi, thought I had at least an elementary grasp of the
Katrina disaster. And as I listened to brothers and
sisters talk about the possibility of conspiracy, I thought that
historic and ongoing impoverishment easily justified their
attitudes.
However, your poetic and powerful
tale/song/message/lecture forced on me a deeper reality, and a
deeper consciousness, regarding Black suffering in New
Orleans and governmental indifference to it. To argue that
perhaps the horrendous outcomes—as Black people were
displaced and left starving—represented official desires was
shocking, even to my old and cynical mind.
Yet, the failure of local, state,
and national leadership to heed previous warnings about
disastrous hurricanes, and the failure to respond in the face of
Katrina, viciously punctuates the clarity of your argument.
Moreover, as in other urban areas of America's managerial
society, the trends, developments, and future challenges facing
New Orleans may mean the racial and class transformation of that
city.
Thank you again for gracing Baltimore with
your presence. It was such an honor for me finally to see
you in the flesh.
Sincerely,
Floyd
W. Hayes, III
(posted 8 November 2005)
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