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+intro |
On Thursday, Mar. 30th, Portia Simpson Miller was sworn in as the island of Jamaica’s 7th Prime Minister. Elected President of the governing People’s National Party by an internal vote, Miller became the first female Prime Minister in the nation’s history. The fact that a woman had earned the top spot in Jamaica was shocking news to some onlookers but a closer look at contemporary Jamaican society would have revealed that a shift in gender dynamics was bound to take place. According to Jamaica’s Bureau of Women’s Affairs, women comprise 70% of the nation’s university students and between 80 to 90% of its law school students. Furthermore, nearly 50% of the workforce is female. In the face of these statistics, it stands to reason that the time for women to step into the corner offices soon come.
But of course, not everyone has received Miller’s ascendancy with grace.
So distraught was Foreign Affairs Minister KD Knight at the notion of Miller’s rise to power that he resigned his post, citing the new Prime Minister’s lack of leadership, not her gender, as his reason. But though critics may hate on her supposed “lack of intelligence capacity,” no one can knock her hustle- or her experience. Miller has spent over 3 decades in Jamaican politics and has completed an unlikely rise to the top of a large and powerful political party from an entry level position. When former Prime Minister Michael Manley retired from office in 1992, Miller ran a spirited campaign for the position before conceding to PJ Paterson who went on to rule the island nation for 14 years. Undaunted by her loss, Miller simply landed the position of Minister for Local Government, Community Development and Sport in Patterson’s cabinet and waited her turn.
And now it is her turn. Miller joins Michelle Bachelet in Chile and Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf in Liberia (and possibly Lourdes Flores in Peru) as the new faces of political power. But beyond the fact that Miller is part of a growing coterie of female leaders, she is also part of a larger trend in the region. After 34 years of holding office in the Peoples National Party, Miller has built a reputation for being responsive to the needs of people without. As such, her rise to power can be seen as part of a grassroots sentiment that is steadily taking hold in the Americas. People across the hemisphere that are frustrated with the ever-widening economic gap are using the ballot box to voice their concerns. And increasingly, it is the women who are listening.
welcome to nat creole. you're right on time. |
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+ questions. answers. a. van jordan |
+ questions. answers. sy smith |
| Poetry is the highest form of language and I needed a medium that would allow me to toggle between many voices, seamlessly. I thought this would be simply a few poems in a series, but it distended into a full-length book once I delved deeper into the research. more |
...but I produce music too. Most guys just don't see chicks as producers, unless they actually are in the studio when we're laying the tracks. more
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+ snapshot. dj center |
+ questions. answers. james adolphus |
| I think there was a mutual respect given and received from everyone in the room, and it did not take us a long time to map out exactly what we needed to get done. May 1st deadline to submit 3 tracks for a collaborative 12” release. more |
Its a disservice to the people you're there to serve, if you decide to stay back for fear of becoming part of the story or struggle. Once you are there, you're part of the story. You don't have to be in the film, but recognizing that you too are having a sometimes long and lasting effect on the people is important to remember more |
+ travel essay. bahia. brazil |
+ travel essay. france. spain |
| The parades started at 6pm and ran until 6am Thursday through Tuesday. My internal clock was all messed up. I knew when I was tired, when it was daytime and when it was night. But what time it actually was, I had no clue more |
Equally obvious was that we would go by motorcycle. Seth loved to ride bikes, and renting a motorcycle would be significantly cheaper than renting a car to get to semi-remote Portbou, Spain, and anyway why do things halfway? more |
+ timeline. ali farka toure |
 
+ memoir. kenji jasper |
| 1939 Ali Farka Touré is born in the Timbuktu (Tombouctou) region on the banks of the Niger River in northwestern Mali. The exact date of his birth is never known. He is born the 10th son out of 10 sons but is the only one to live past infancy. more |
His bedroom was not a masterpiece of interior design: a twin bed without sheets, an antique dresser filled with broken watches, a cluttered rack of suits, slacks and shoes that spilled out onto the carpeted floor. more |
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| And, as always, find where to see it all, hear it all, and watch it all with the nat creole. Events Calendar. Concerts. Art Openings. Book Signings. Festivals. Symposiums. Dance Performances. Museum Exhibitions and Programs. DJ Shows. Its all in there. Check it out and then bookmark it.. It'll be there every night of the week. |
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+questions. answers / excerpt.
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a. van jordan
writer. poet |
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Somewhere along the way, A Van Jordan learned how to make a page sing. Perhaps it was the time he put in developing his voice in the DC literary community. Or maybe it was during his preparation for Rise, his first book of poetry which won the PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Award. Or perhaps it was through practice and attention to detail. Or perhaps, simple as it may sound, he was just born to do this. Or maybe, perhaps maybe, is it some combination of all of the above.
However he came about this particular skill, the cat can write and his recent book M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, which was awarded the 2005 Anisfield-Wolf Book Award for Fiction, is proof positive. A drum-tight conception that merges lyricism and historical perspective into a cohesive narrative, M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A is the work of a man in full authority of his creative powers. Nat Creole had the chance to talk with Van and get his ideas on the subject of language, music, developing as a writer and creating things of value. |
w.w. norton |
Nat Creole: Tell us a little about your background. What helped crystallize in your mind that you wanted to be a writer?
A. Van Jordan: I wanted to be a filmmaker, but film schools don’t offer much financial assistance. I was nearly 30 when I made the commitment to writing. By then, I had paid all of my student loans off; I wasn’t ready to go back into debt. And during this time, I was living in DC. I started attending open mikes at local coffee shops, It’s Your Mug in Georgetown run by Toni Asante Lightfoot, mainly. And this brought me into an entirely new community, a community of writers. Later, November 15, 1994, I attended a reading by Cornelius Eady at the Folger Shakespeare Theater. When Cornelius read his poem Gratitude, everything came together for me. I heard a voice that validated my own. E. Ethelbert Miller introduced him that night. Both of these guys became mentors and inspiration for me. I spent many days at the edge of Ethelbert’s desk in his office, and I would send him work that he would mark up and send back to me. He read a lot of bad poems.
In 1996, I attended a workshop with Joy Harjo that really opened up my voice; she’s an amazing poet and an amazing spirit. From there, I was ready to enter the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College and took an MFA from there in 1998. There I had the chance to work with Claudia Rankine, Agha Shahid Ali, Eleanor Wilner and Carl Phillips. I’ve had a lot of mentors along the way.
NC: In M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, you literally recreate the life of MacNolia Cox, the first Black American to reach the final round of the national spelling bee competition. What attracted you to this woman's story and lead you to express it through narrative poetry?
AVJ: Her story is one we hear all the time: some black person was the first to do something; then they’re forgotten. So I was attracted to the dynamic of historical erasure and the artistic problem of trying to recreate it. Poetry is the highest form of language and I needed a medium that would allow me to toggle between many voices, seamlessly. I thought this would be simply a few poems in a series, but it distended into a full-length book once I delved deeper into the research.
NC: I find it interesting that you have flushed out the backdrop of the story, in part, by incorporating historical figures such as Jesse Owens, Josephine Baker and Richard Pryor. What led you to include these three figures in particular?
AVJ: These figures factor in as time markers. That is to say, they become emblematic of their time. Richard Pryor is the 70s, for instance; Josephine Baker and Asa Phillip Randolph, 1936, etc. I didn’t want to simply throw dates on the page; I wanted people to understand what else was going on in the country at that moment within MacNolia’s narrative.
NC: There is a strong musical element to M-A-C-N-O-L-IA that goes beyond the undeniably lyrical quality to the writing. Have you spent some time with an instrument? If so, how has that affected your use of language?
AVJ: I like how you phrased that: “Spent some time with an instrument,” which is more accurate than did I play one. I did play trombone, seriously, from age 12 to 22 when I graduated college. Since then, I don’t play frequently enough to say I still “play” it. Nonetheless, the time I’ve spent with it has informed my sense of meter in the formal poems within M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, and the sprung rhythm, which is likened to modal music, in my free verse.
NC: In addition to its lyrical quality, M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A suggests a certain command of structure in the way that you shift and move from form to form to suit your needs. Does this ability come from hard work, intuitive feel or both?
AVJ: I think this relates back to your previous question about the musical instrument. I can’t say I play trombone anymore because I don’t practice the trombone. I’m a poet because I practice it daily. If you don’t practice, you can’t play. I move between forms—sonnets, sestinas, haiku, blues, etc.—because I practice my forms like a musician practices scales and arpeggios, daily. Reading and writing, even if I’m just editing, is practice. It all builds muscle memory, even when I write bad poems; it all comes back to me when I allow myself to listen to the poem. Often, the poem is smarter than the poet, you realize that if you write long enough and keep the mind open to the discovery that comes from it, you’ll be led to moments of transcendence in the work, moments you couldn’t have planned when you sat down to write. It’s in your blood. If you’re not discovering anything in the process of writing the poem, the reader won’t either.
NC: In reading reactions to M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, I've noticed that Rita Dove's Thomas and Beluah is often cited. The piece that comes to my mind is Jean Toomer's Cane. Who do you see as some of the writers and works that have influenced your approach to your writing?
AVJ: I kept Thomas and Beulah and Cane close at hand while I wrote M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A. I also had Sergie Eisenstein’s Film Form; Edward Hirsch’s Lay Back the Darkness and Earthly Measures; Michael Collier’s The Ledge; Marilyn Nelson’s Carver--all of her work, really; and Tim Seibles’ Hurdy Gurdy at hand, to name a few. I’m influenced by many writers, man, and I don’t have a problem acknowledging that. It’s all a part of the community; even a recluse doesn’t write in a vacuum if she or he’s a reader.
NC: I would have to agree with that. What are some of the projects that you are currently working on? Do you feel any pressure to top the success you've already met in terms of awards and accolades?
AVJ : My new book is Quantum Lyrics. It uses quantum physics as its unifying theme. The book explores personal relationships and politics and tries to explain these tough scenarios through some of the theories and philosophies of physics. My journey through physics has been slow going, though, because it's an autodidactic process; I don't really have time with my teaching to take a class. Fortunately, I've been able to share some of the poems with Dr. Jim Kakalios at the University of Minnesota, and he has "checked," so to speak, some of the physics in the poems. It also explores Albert Einstein's work in human rights, and, particularly, American civil rights. Few people talk about his contributions, but he worked tirelessly for these causes. He was also good friends with Paul Robeson and Marian Anderson. This book has been challenging, but the muscle memory of each project helps me grow in my craft. Every attempt to write another book is a new learning experience for me, which is what keeps me so attracted to the process. The experience trumps the awards. |
+ excerpt. m-a-c-n-o-l-i-a
a. van jordan
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“from”
from prep. 1. Starting at (a particular place or time): As in, John was from Chicago, but he played guitar straight from the Delta; he wore a blue suit from Robert Hall's; his hair smelled like coconut; his breath, like mint and bourbon; his hands felt like they were from slave times when he touched me—hungry, stealthy, trembling. 2. Out of: He pulled a knot of bills from his pocket, paid the man and we went upstairs. 3. Not near to or in contact with: He smoked the weed, but, surprisingly, he kept it from me. He said it would make me too self-conscious, and he wanted those feelings as far away from us as possible; he said a good part of my beauty was that I wasn't conscious of my beauty. Isn't that funny? So we drank Bloody Mothers (Hennessey and tomato juice), which was hard to keep from him—he always did like to drink. 4. Out of the control or authority of: I was released from my mama's house, from dreams of hands holding me down, from the threat of hands not pulling me up, from the man that knew me, but of whom I did not know; released from the dimming of twilight, from the brightness of morning; from the love I thought had to look like love; from the love I thought had to taste like love, from the love I thought I had to love like love. 5. Out of the totality of: I came from a family full of women; I came from a family full of believers; I came from a pack of witches—I'm just waiting to conjure my powers; I came from a legacy of lovers—I'm just waiting to seduce my seducer; I came from a pride of proud women, and we take good care of our young. 6. As being other or another than: He couldn't tell me from his mother; he couldn't tell me from his sister; he couldn't tell me from the last woman he had before me, and why should he—we're all the same woman. 7. With (some person, place, or thing) as the instrument, maker, or source: Here's a note from my mother, and you can take it as advice from me: A weak lover is more dangerous than a strong enemy; if you're going to love someone, make sure you know where they're coming from. 8. Because of: Becoming an alcoholic, learning to walk away, being a good speller, being good in bed, falling in love—they all come from practice. 9. Outside or beyond the possibility of: In the room, he kept me from leaving by keeping me curious; he kept me from drowning by holding my breath in his mouth; yes, he kept me from leaving till the next day when he said Leave. Then, he couldn't keep me from coming back. |
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| +travel essay. france+spain
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pilgrimage to portbou
+ellia bisker |
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The unique value of the "authentic" work of art has its basis in ritual.
—Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction
Why visit Walter Benjamin’s grave? It was a pilgrimage. Benjamin had near-cult status where I did my undergraduate work—so much so that long before I ever read Art in the Age I could refer to it with the comfortable ease of an insider. At Vassar the art history professors referred to him with the Germanic "Ben-ya-meen" (much to the disgust of an actually German classmate of mine), except for a few holdouts who called him the even more pretentious "Ben-ha-meen" or, splitting the difference, just "Ben-a-meen." (To this day it just feels wrong to me to pronounce his name as it is spelled.)
Near-cult status; practically sainthood. Partly it was his compelling story—the unfinished masterwork, the failed attempt to escape from Nazi-occupied France, the suicide on the Spanish border, the permission for his companions to cross over, granted the very next day—it had all the makings of a classic tragedy. Plus his work was applicable to virtually any discipline in the humanities. Art? Literary criticism? Culture studies? History? You name it, he was relevant. By the time I was taking a senior seminar on Benjamin, particularly on his last, incomplete work, the Arcades Project, a running question had become: What Would Benjamin Do—or more precisely, What Would Benjamin Think? My seminar class went to Paris over spring break and walked through the streets and arcades, trying to see them through Benjamin's eyes. |
| The pilgrimage was a sincere act that began more or less in jest. A few years after we graduated, my friend Seth was reading Benjamin in his Master’s program and was making vague noises of going to Paris to see if that would help him figure out what the hell the man had actually been talking about (still kicking himself for not applying to take the seminar with the free trip). I frequently daydreamed about returning to Paris, where I had lived for a semester in college; I told Seth that if he went I would go along as his translator. This was pure escapist fantasy, a pleasant distraction from the daily grind of my day job and his thesis—until, almost without realizing it, we had purchased nonrefundable plane tickets to France. Then I learned about the monument to Benjamin’s memory in the town where he ended his life, and it was immediately obvious that this was the true purpose of our going. Equally obvious was that we would go by motorcycle. Seth loved to ride bikes, and renting a motorcycle would be significantly cheaper than renting a car to get to semi-remote Portbou, Spain, and anyway why do things halfway? As it turned out there was virtually no way to get there without a vehicle of some kind, not unless we wanted to emulate the great man himself and walk through the mountains, and in retrospect I can’t think of a better way to go. |
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The idea of the journey itself was almost like an academic in-joke, a contradiction in terms. To take a complicated journey to physically go to the actual gravesite of a man whose most famous idea had to do with the increasing dislocation of meaning from original objects was ridiculous, to say the least—even more so when one considered the fact that the grave might or might not even be where he was really buried. What did authenticity even mean under the circumstances? What did it matter? We rented a motorcycle in Nîmes and made our way around the Mediterranean coast, the sea an impossibly turquoise glow to our left as we passed sights of astonishing beauty in unrecordable instants.
We couldn't hear or speak in the deafening wind of our passage. All we could do was point: pale rows of trees lining the road like long stately columns; leaf-green irrigation canals mirroring the trees that hung over them; brilliant expanses of wild poppies growing untended in empty fields. The wind stripped the heat from our bodies and muscled against us like a living thing. Bushes of fragrant golden flowers grew along the side of the road and filled our helmets with the scent of fresh honey. This was not a reproducible experience.
When we hit the Pyrenees I was surprised to find myself suddenly gripped by gut-dropping fear. Here the road pitched steeply as it wound around the mountains, becoming a series of swooping blind curves around a cliff face that offered us the most magnificent view yet: the mountainsides covered with perfectly spaced rows of crooked grapevines, and the heart-stopping drop to the rocky sea below. |
| Seth pulled over to rest. “You doing okay?” he asked. I nodded wordlessly, my mouth as dry as paper, allowing my bloodless fingers to slowly unclench from the seat they gripped. “If you’re thinking that we might die, you could be right,” he said cheerfully. “But I feel pretty comfortable.” Somehow his equanimity made me feel better. It was true. I could be right. We could die. It would be too bad, of course, but all things considered, there were worse ways to go. I gritted my teeth and white-knuckled it through the rest of the turns, and we crossed the Spanish border without incident. |
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| Portbou was a bright, quiet fishing town on a serene blue harbor that seemed to be populated entirely by old men and their dogs. A pair of them showed us the way to the Benjamin memorial, and we climbed up to it on stairs cut into the living rock. The monument was lonely and ineffable, a mute object. An angular metal tunnel, it led down from the clifftop toward the sea, where it dead-ended at a wall of glass pocked with a couple of what appeared to be bullet holes and inscribed with a Benjamin quotation: “It is more arduous to honor the memory of the nameless than that of the renowned. Historical construction is devoted to the memory of the nameless.” It is an ironic statement for a memorial to a figure as renowned as Benjamin, but even in death he continues to assert his strenuous conviction that a traditionally linear historical narrative oppresses the masses. The marker of what may or may not be his grave bears a similar message: “There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.” |
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In The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, Benjamin describes “the desire of contemporary masses to bring things ‘closer’ spatially and humanly, which is just as ardent as their bent toward overcoming the uniqueness of everyday reality by accepting its reproduction.” Seth and I could have been satisfied with the images of Benjamin’s grave and memorial that are easily available online. But it seemed particularly inappropriate to try to “overcome the uniqueness” of this specific reality, to relegate the physical objects commemorating of the end of Walter Benjamin’s life to the realm of virtual replication. In spite of the age in which we live, it is still sometimes possible to experience authenticity.
Before we left the memorial site to begin our return journey, we paid our respects according to Jewish tradition, and this might be the action that best embodies what we were seeking with our visit. We each placed a small stone on the grave. This marked our having been there. |
| Ellia Bisker's poetry and prose have appeared in Pif magazine, 20 Pounds of Headlights, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Toasted Cheese, ReadyMade, the Utne Reader, and Graphic Poetry, a project of the design studio WIG-01. She is a graduate student living in New York City, where she works with a small circus, proofreads teen novels, and writes and performs songs on the ukulele. She is still not licensed to operate a motorcycle. Visit her Web site at www.elliabisker.com. |
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+ snapshot. dj center
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days in the life of dj center
brooklyn, new york
+photos copyright 2006, n. corren conway |
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A short time ago, the minds of Nat Creole decided to start a recurring column where we would peek into the lives of people either on the go, on the grind, on the mend, on the low, on the edge, on the money or on the way back (or any combination thereof). Not full blown voyeurism mind you. Just a glimpse. Just enough to get a small idea of what it looks like from alternate sides of the sun.
Given this, the next question was who should jump off the column. The answer came while listening to DJ Center spin at the Belmont Lounge near Union Square. It hit me in that infetisimely small space between what I remember to be Dennis Brown and what I remember to be Barrington Levy. It was then solidified by the un-self conscious stare of the cat sitting at a table across from the DJ booth, staring at Center’s hands while trying to take mental notes on what he had just heard. The answer was Center. It hit me just like that. |
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And just like that, here is days in the life of DJ Center. Listen closely because when Center makes a sound, you hear music.
Saturday 3.18
11AM
Waking up from a serious feast with my homegirl the night before. I never knew garlic melted on toast when you rub it against a freshly toasted piece of bread. That’s one to grow on right there. Take notes yall!
Than, it was back to business and organizing before my session with Brook (Nat Creole Fam) later this afternoon. Had to record my radio show for Giant Step, start this journal, handle a mass of emails, etc. Didn’t get nearly enough done, but sometimes you have to stop and pause for the cause. The challenge of working for yourself is knowing when to say when.
2PM
Caught up with my man Brook, journalist extraordinaire/hustler of cultuuuuuure….
When you work for yourself, and you love what you do, it’s not often that you get down time. Until you leave NY…so I made it a point to cool out for the afternoon, and just build properly. We have many mutual friends, so it was good to make the time to drink tea, and build on the finer things in life. Plus, my man had just got back from Brazil so a slideshow session was only right.
Next December I will be in Brazil.
10PM
Setting up for my monthly Walk Into the Sun night with my man DJ Samir. Triple Crown, Brooklyn’s finest, is a venue that has always booked quality DJs and has put the music in the forefront of everything they do. It was an uphill battle for them in the beginning, but they’ve weathered the storm nicely, and now have a dedicated fan base. My party has really grown into a beautiful thing. People say they have mixed crowds, but they’re not hip to the Walk Into the Sun audience- from the nerd, hipster, thug, hiphop head, bboy (talking bout getting down on the dance floor), international ( this particular night had a Nigerian crew loving Mr. Kuti’s music when I dropped “Zombie”.) BK audience. Walk Into the Sun is every third Saturday of the month. It’s that shining sound.
Monday3.20
9AM
No Sleep for the weary.
Today. Monday mornings are all about organizing and executing. The grind takes full course on Monday and you have no choice but to get on. The train doesn’t stop. Spent the early part of the afternoon organizing for an upcoming European run this Fall. When you see me on the set, especially overseas, folks don’t realize the amount of planning that went into the nights. Months in the making…
The Music Lounge launch @ Movida, a lounge in the West Village, was a success, but there is still lot of work to be done to create awareness about the party and the vibe we’re trying to bring. The highs were so great from the music. Now, I’m just trying to let folks know about what we’re doing. It’s always hard building a movement in the beginning and asking for support from folks. There has to be some learning curve time for folks to really understanding what you’re trying to do, when it’s outside the box. However, the email responses and phone calls were enough to fuel the fire. Nuff thanks to the lovely talents of J.Rawls (supaproducer!), MiddleChild (Isn’t she lovely?), and Erro (freestyle singing?!?!).
You remember the days in the trenches, when you’re basking in the son. Word.
7PM: Met with Qool Dj Marv, DJ Obah, and DJ Small Change, for a building session organized at Obah’s crib. I feel good running in the circles that I run in, because folks are about their business, motivated, and ready to create. I think there was a mutual respect given and received from everyone in the room, and it did not take us a long time to map out exactly what we needed to get done. May 1 st deadline to submit 3 tracks for a collaborative 12” release.
We’re each submitting three, and one from each DJ will make the record. The criteria is -one for the dancefloor, one headnodder, and as my man Qool Marv would say, “one for the chin scratchers.”
10PM
Ended the day with some red wine and catch-up with some friends at a local wine bar. We built on the range of things. The line of the night came when my man described how he proposed to his wife. He’s an Algerian cat, who was living in Paris at the time and was doing the long distance thing with his lady, so he decided to go on a vacation to Guatalope (French speaking) to seal the deal. He’s sitting on some rocks by the ocean, and proposes to his lady by asking her if she’d like to build a house with him on these rocks. That was it. Incredibly poetical, my man’s game is off the hook. |
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Wednesday 3.22
9AM
Key Span has got me. I moved into this apartment last July and the gas was already on. A couple days ago, I received a notice that unless I put the gas in my name it’ll be shut off. I called and try to set it up, but because I’ve been using the gas for over 7 months, I had an outstanding bill. I think its part of the plan to let you ride it out and than hit you with the back invoices.
This morning was spent running to Key Span, the bank, UPS, the health food store, and middle eastern grocery store (best HUMMUS is in downtown BK. Believe that!).
3PM
Just getting back to the pad, and I’m over an hour late for a session with my man L.E, a cat I often get up with to work on music. The pace of NY and the running never seems to let up, but I get to the studio, make my tea and get in my work zone.
I don’t know about how others work on music, but I specifically have to get into a zone and shut out the world when I’m creating. The phone is off. Emails/Myspace is not accessed. It’s labtime.
8PM
Building on the phone with my man J.Rawls about how to get the Music Lounge night off the ground. He’s gonna reach to Kweli and see if he’ll come down to rock with us. Once heads are in the door and see what we’re doing, I have no doubt that the night will go into autopilot, but it’s getting over the hump in the beginning.
This night is a long time coming, and I have a list of artists that I will be reaching out for. I want to bring other artists together that may have never collaborated, but are open to feeding off the vibe and creating on the spot. My tastes in music range so I’d like to reflect that in the night. Look out!
Saturday 3.25
9AM
Getting ready to spin in the Adidas store in SOHO. Many folks I know and work with are in Miami this week for the Winter Music Conference/M3 Summit, but I couldn’t afford to leave NY with launching this new Music Lounge night. I think I’ve been carrying the weight of wanting to be @ South Beach the entire week, but I keep it moving.
11AM
Start my set @ the Adidas store. I know they are constantly booking DJs to spin while folks get their shopping on. It’s kinda cool and awkward at the same time to play for shoppers, but I love the music I play so it’s all good. The staff is very appreciative of my set. My man Josh, who is living in New Hampshire right now working on his dissertation, passes through, so we have an exchange for a moment. Do my thing, and the DJ after me gets into the straight radio/club set. I’m clueless to these joints, and after sticking around to hear his set for a minute, I’m not wanting to get up on these tunes at all.
My 3:45 meeting is cancelled so it’s back to the borough.
8PM
Some homies come through the pad for a scheduled listening/relaxing session. I’ve been better about scheduling these downtime sessions once a week. I feel they make the grind more productive when you get to chill out a bit before going back to work. This night is nothing but comedy, and it feels good to build with some friends I rarely get to kick it with. Nights like these are essential! |
| For more on the life of DJ Center, check him out. He is a busy man but he can be found at the Music Lounge every 2nd Sunday of the month @ Movida ( 28 7th Ave. South @ Leroy St.), Walk Into the Sun every 3rd Saturday of the month @ Triple Crown (108 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn) and on the Music Lounge Radio w/ DJ Center on the Giant Step Juke Box. If you're in Europe, stay tuned for his upcoming European tour. |
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| +questions. answers |
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+ click image to enlarge +photography copyright 2006, james adolphus |
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james adolphus.
photojournalist. cinematographer
+ shannon cook |
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For James Adolphus, traveling the globe is the only time he feels most at peace with himself. Raised all over Long Island, New York, Adolphus and his family moved a total of twenty times before his 18 th birthday. ” As a result, “ Adolphus explains, “I have to be in perpetual motion. No place on earth feels like home.”
While attending Hunter College, Adolphus viewed the cinematography documentary Visions of Light which changed his life. “This film led me to the realization that life behind the camera suits me best.” Adolphus resides in New York, for now, where he operates his New York based Motion and Still Photography Production Company Season of Light. Season of Light offers a full range production services: documentary shooting to feature narratives, still photography, and photojournalism to editorial layouts. James explains, “We conceptualize, produce and deliver all the way through production, from pre to post. We choose projects that are socially responsible, and do our best to adhere to the principal that, ‘Respect for ourselves and human kind’, outweighs the need and desire for monetary fulfillment.”
Shannon Cook: What prompted your excursion to Swaziland?
A few years ago, I worked on a feature film called On the Outs. It was co-directed by Michael Skonic and Lori Silverbush. Over the next couple years I began to develop my relationship with Michael. I always had an interest in working with him again, but the opportunity didn't arise for about two years. Last summer in late July he called to ask if I wanted to shoot a documentary in the Kingdom of Swaziland. To be honest, I'd never heard of the country. When he said it was in Africa I was sold. I've been there three times in last six months.
What was your initial response to the conditions in Africa?
I was never afforded the time to think about my initial response. I thought there would be down time after the sixteen-hour flight. My sound recordist and I were only in Africa ten minutes when our director told us that we were headed to a location to shoot. Forty-five minutes later I was at one of the Royal residences shooting 65,000 girls singing and dancing for their King outside his palace. It was late August, and the annual weeklong Reed Dance festival was just getting into full swing. The Reed Dance was my first experience in Africa, and it lasts for a full week. Once a year, all the eligible girls in the kingdom (virgins) ages six thru eighteen come out to cut reeds to give to the Queen mother. She's actually the King’s mother. She uses the reeds to rebuild the traditional fence that surrounds her palace. When the reeds are dropped off, the girls meet in a field, where they sing and dance for the King and his family for two days. Its quite impressive with the colorful and beautiful attire the girls wear. I should mention that all the girls are topless. I leave to last, but its usually the first thing people mention.
How would you describe the overall morale amongst the people of Swaziland?
Swaziland ranks no.1 in the world as having the highest per capita infectious rate of HIV/AIDS in the world. Unfortunately with this particular virus, no one can physically see AIDS. On occasion you come across someone on the street or in a village that is obviously infected with the disease. On the whole you just can't see it. I know from the research that has been done and continues to be conducted that some 40% of the population is infected. For the population at large, it almost seems as if the virus goes largely unnoticed. This I think is the case for the population at large and the government.
Did your interactions with the people in Swaziland, allow you to identify
with their struggles more?
Interacting with people is essential to understanding their struggles, their plight. As both a cinematographer and photographer, I know in order to do justice to the people I'm photographing, I generally have to get close to them without causing the reaction of them closing themselves off. I'm acting as a silent witness, the fly on the wall that must be able to see everything, and then faithfully capture it on film. Its a disservice to the people you're there to serve, if you decide to stay back for fear of becoming part of the story or struggle. Once you are there, you're part of the story. You don't have to be in the film, but recognizing that you too are having a sometimes long and lasting effect on the people is important to remember.
Did you have any misconceptions about Swaziland’s conditions, or did they meet your expectations?
I try not to travel with expectations. The only thing I expect is that the experience will be new and quite different than the American experience.
Poverty is terrible. 70 percent of the population in Swaziland lives on less than a dollar a day. Americans don't know how to imagine this. I've been to a few places in the world where a large portion of the population lives on a dollar a day or less. And I'm surprised in the way poverty shows its face, always differently, everywhere in the world.
If you were to make a mental picture (a needs assessment) in Swaziland, What
would this list consist of?
Swaziland needs a long list of things. But since the country is fast approaching the 'tipping point', that point where an entire nation risks real extinction, I think ARV's are most appropriate. One might want to ask why Swaziland is not included in George Bush's AIDS initiative in Africa.
What were your living arrangements while you were there?
Contrary to popular belief, I lived in a nice hotel in Mbabane, Swaziland. I didn't stay in a mud hut.
What type of projects (films/documentaries etc..) are you currently working on?
Currently Season of Light is editing a feature documentary called 'Kung-fu in the South China Seas'. Its a film that documents what is left of the great traditional Chinese martial arts, searching for tradition in an increasingly untraditional world, while also looking for practical examples of nontraditional means of preserving the glories of Kung-Fu. |
| Author and Free lance Journalist Shannon Cook interviewed James Adolphus for Nat Creole. She currently resides in Brooklyn where she operates a multimedia company SMDM MEDIA GROUP. Her articles have appeared in: Chronic Magazine, Black Elegance, BELLE, Michigan Citizen, Harmony Park News, SOURCE, YSB, Rootz Reggae & Kulcha, Black Womens Web, METRO TIMES, Michigan Chronicle and Everybody's Magazine, and SPICE. |
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+profile. this is art exhibition.
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+ click image to enlarge
+art copyright 2006, Lillian Samdal, Gillian Carson,
Siri Berqvam, and Oysten Dahlström (heading)
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this is art. group exhibition
norway
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With seventeen artists from eight nations participating, This is Art, the exhibition currently on display at Bergen Kunsthall in Norway, is a study in artistic diversity. And that is just the way the Bergen National Academy of the Arts wants it. This is Art represents the artists of the first class to graduate from the MFA program at the Academy of the Arts, a program bent on forging a more diverse world within the global professional artistic community.
The work of students from Brazil, Denmark, England, Finland, Ghana, Mexico, Norway, and Portugal will be presented in what many hope will be a long and successful program for the Academy, one of only two independent institutions of higher learning in the visual arts and design in Norway. So if you happen to be in the neighborhood, drop in and check it out. The world is getting smaller everyday. Enjoy the benefits. |
| For more information on the exhibit, please visit Bergen Kunsthall at http://www.kunsthall.no, and the Bergen National Academy of the Arts at http://www1.khib.no/index.php/khib_en/in_english |
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| +playlist |
HeadKnot by CD
And the beat goes… |
J Dilla
Donuts
2006 Stones Throw Records
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Gum Drop
Hi Falutin
2006 Altered Vibes
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The Best of Studio One
2006
Heartbeat Records
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| RIP Dilla. Thank you for everything. |
Gum Drop (AKA Rob Mac) beats shine bright on this one! Futuristic funk vibe. |
Know Jah. |
New Tokyo International Jazz Airport
2006 WhatMusic Label |
Grupo X
Food For Your Latin Soul
2006 Loft Recordings
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Djinji Brown
Uncle Junior's Friday Fish Fry
2003 7 Heads Enterprises
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| A compilation of Jazz from the WhatMusic Label compiled and mixed by DJ/producer Masanori Morita. Rich and smooth. |
Hot off the stove. All the spices you need. Come and get it. |
Electronica/Vibes/Glass Bong. Diamond-in-the-back feel from producer Che (aka Alexandre Caparroz). |
CD is the single parent of HeadKnot and you can reach him at cd@natcreole.com |
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| +questions. answers |
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sy smith.
singer. songwriter. producer
+ alia jones
+photos copyright 2006, mike quain
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Sy Smith, the beautiful soul songstress hailing from L.A. by way of D.C. is celebrated for her voice, her songwriting, her music, and her drive to excel. The Emmy-nominated singer/ songwriter has written for or performed with many legends of the music world. With the 2005 release of her second solo effort, “The Syberspace Social,” Sy is ascending into legend status herself. Written up in the press for her smash birthday jam at Temple Bar in Santa Monica last month, it seems that everything is coming full circle for Sy. With Sy’s current theatre production, Body Language, coming to the Warner Theatre in D.C. next weekend, Nat Creole has got the 411 on what’s next for this humble superstar entrepreneur/ producer/ singer/ songwriter/ musician/ actor.
Alia Jones: How did you make the transition from classical piano, honors chorus and gospel choir to an all girl go-go band?
Sy Smith: That's a good question... I think the transition was in the timing. I joined the go-go band when I finished high school, so it sort of went along with the road to independence - the road to growing up.
AJ: What drove you to make the abrupt “drop everything and go” move to L.A. in 1997?
SY: It's kind of a long story... But I'll try to give you the abridged version. Back in Jan 97, I auditioned for a play. I never heard back from the director, so I figured I just didn't get the part. No biggie. Then in March I ran into this same director. He told me they had never found their "Angel" (the leading lady in the play) and asked if I'd be interested in doing it. He said I'd have to leave D.C. in a week! LOL. I said "sure, I can go"... I didn't think it was gonna happen, but about a week later there was a plane ticket in my name to LAX. My friend Lysette was also cast so she and I flew together... Our tickets were on Southwest, seemed like we had a layover every 300 miles!
AJ: Since that pivotal point...back-up to Whitney, Usher, Me’Shell, Macy, Eric Benet, Ginuwine, Brandy and now Jamie Foxx; television shows like FOX’s Ally McBeal, BET’s Lyric Café, and now American Idol; Gap commercials; acclaimed musicals including “If You Don’t Believe" and Body Language; and then there is the songwriting for Macy Gray, Mya, Ronny Jordan, The Brand New Heavies; How have you been able to move through so many performance vehicles and stay balanced?
SY: I don't know really. I guess I don't really think about my resume everyday. I'm always looking to do more and improve within my craft. It's like when you're in school, maybe the 11th grade... you don't necessarily look BACK at K thru 10th - you look FORWARD to senior year. I'm always looking forward to what's next for me in this crazy game - always wondering "who will I work with next?"
AJ: Beyond performing, you’ve been able to manage a successful production company, Psyko, Inc. What benefits and challenges have you faced in moving from a major label with your first solo project, Psykosoul (2002), to independent with your latest release, The Syberspace Social (2005)?
SY: Hmmmm? Benefits and challenges...Well, some of the obvious challenges involve money... Money makes everything easier and not having a budget to do certain things has certainly made me more resourceful. However, the main benefits for me have been an acquired freedom. Under Hollywood Records, you wouldn't believe the sort of things they'd ask of me! They wanted me to change lyrics so that my songs wouldn't be so politically-charged! They told my manager they didn't know how to write an "Urban" bio so she'd have to hire someone outside the company to do that... All kinds of really whack things! But as an indie artist, I have the freedom to simply be and become - which is important to me. I'm not confined or obliged to stay within a certain parameter.
I've decided to shoot a music video next month, of course this will be coming out of my pockets. But I'm finding that I have so many great friends who are willing to help me do this kind of stuff. So everyone from the director, production coordinator, editor, wardrobe stylist, make-up artist - they're all giving me the hook up! It was the same while making my CD. Lots of my musician/producer friends chipped in and really helped me out. |
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AJ: You've been able to build and maintain a strong network of musicians and supporters going all the way back to your D.C. days (including yours truly). L.A. Citybeat just gave you praise for bringing a live go-go show out to L.A. You've stayed connected to high school and college classmates in the business. It is not surprising that everyone you have worked with wants to pitch in to help spread your positive vibe. Is your development bringing you back to your roots?
SY: Yes, I think you hit the nail on the head. As I continue to grow and develop - and mature - I'm finding my roots to be more and more important. And I want to share those roots with everybody. I've always been somewhat of a sucker for antiquities, classics, history, etc... So that love for history also involves my music. I want folks to know what/where I come from so that they can get a better understanding of me and hopefully a better appreciation of the fruits of Chocolate City.
AJ: Your live show is a treat for anyone that loves music. You are understandably in demand all over the world, performing in Ghana, Hong Kong, Bermuda and on stage with DJ Quik, Frank McComb, Mike Phillips. What has been most memorable from your concert appearances?
SY: Hmmm... Most memorable? It's funny, because you know how if you ask a songwriter what's the best song they've ever written, they'll answer with the most recent song? It's the same with me and performing... It feels like my most memorable performance was the last big show I did which was with DJ Quik. He's such an amazing artist! He would show up to sound check and go straight to the mixing board and set the sound to his preferences. Then come to the stage and check out each person on his/her instrument and make sure the sound was right on stage... Then during the show, he was ALL performer! I've never seen someone go from engineer to performer in under a couple of hours! He really allowed me to stretch too; he had me on vocoder/additional keys and back-up vocals. It was truly a show I'll remember for the rest of my life!
AJ: Next up you are working with Mike Ajakwe again in Body Language featuring the songs of Patti LaBelle. Tell us about your experiences working with the plays and their muses Deniece Williams and Patti LaBelle.
SY: Aaah, the wonderful world of theatre... Well, working with Michael Ajakwe, Jr has been great. This is my third production with him and he's really helped me grow as an actress. He's such a great director with great vision. In the last two plays I've done with him - If You Don't Believe and Body Language - I received a nod as Best Supporting Actress from the NAACP Theatre Awards. That was cool! Deniece Williams' music was the backdrop for the former and she also served as a producer for that production. She is an amazing gift from God! A true angel. She really helped each of us with our songs and gave us tips... Wow...
Theatre is a lot of work though. Anyone who does it full time - my hat goes off to them. I've become spoiled by TV and music because the process is shorter. But I absolutely love the stage and hope to do more theatre in the future. I should mention that Body Language will be coming to D.C. on April 7-9 at the Warner Theatre... I'm excited about that too! Taking the show on the road!!
AJ: Last question... With your long string of successes to this point, what are you reaching for next? I have heard rumors of video game work?
SY: Yes, I've written/produced some music for a video game. I won't say which one just yet because I'm still awaiting approval. I'm hoping this will be the first in a long string of commissioned songs involving me as the writer AND producer. It's been really hard to get folks to remember that I'm not only a singer, but I produce music too. Most guys just don't see chicks as producers, unless they actually are in the studio when we're laying the tracks. So I'd like to help change that perception by doing more production and getting those songs out there in places where music is heard all the time but sort of taken for granted (video games, film scores, TV shows/themes, etc)
AJ: Congratulations on all of your success and much love from Nat Creole to one of the hardest working women in show business and a true inspiration!
SY: THANKS SO MUCH! I really appreciate your kind words! |
| Alia Jones has contributed a travel essay and images to Nat Creole in the past but wanted to bring you a friend and musical phenom this issue. The play is April 7-9 in D.C.; here is the info… Body Language. To learn more about Sy Smith, see her website, sysmith.com or Sy’s myspace page. |
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ali farka touré
tribute. |
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“I don’t know what a Grammy means but if someone has something to give me, they can come and give it to me here in Niafunke, where I was singing when nobody knew me.”
- ali farka touré |
1939 Ali Farka Touré is born in the Timbuktu (Tombouctou) region on the banks of the Niger River in northwestern Mali. The exact date of his birth is never known. He is born the 10 th son out of 10 sons but is the only one to live past infancy.
1950 Touré begins playing the gurkel - a single string African guitar which is believed to have the power to draw out the spirits. He also taught himself the n'jarka, a single string fiddle which he would continue to include into his performances for the length of his career
1956 Touré attends a performance of the National Ballet of Guinea featuring the great Malinke guitarist Fodeba Keita. Inspired, Touré teaches himself the guitar (as well as the drums and the accordion), but would go years before owning his own guitar.
Touré begins transposing traditional Malian songs to the guitar, including the adaptation of the Sonrhai, Peuhl and Tamascheq styles, but would not own a guitar for years.
1962 Touré joins the Niafunke village district troupe, a cultural troupe of over a hundred singers and dancers dedicated to preserving local culture.
1968 After being introduced to American artists such as James Brown, Jimmy Smith, Albert King and John Lee Hooker, Touré decides that music forms created by Black American artists were descendents of traditional Malian music. The direct tie between the cultures through music becomes a consistent theme in Toure’s philosophy.
Touré attends the International Arts Festival of Sofia in Bulgaria. It his first trip beyond the borders of Africa.
Touré buys his first guitar in Bulgaria
1970 Touré moves to Bamako, the capital of Mali. He becomes an engineer at Radio Mali where he receives the opportunity to play his own music. Years later Touré would honor the radio station by naming an album after it.
1972 Touré joins the Radio Mali Orchestra. Marrying his playing to his sound engineering work would help him develop his mastery of studio techniques.
1976 Touré moves to France to begin his recording career |
   
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1987 Touré travels outside of Africa for the first time since the Festival of Sofia in 1968. Audiences around the world fall in love with Touré and what is dubbed “Mali Blues.” The term “World Music” buzzes louder.
1990 Touré leaves the music business and retires to his rice farm in Niafunké
1994 Tourécomes out of retirement torecordTalking Timbuktu with American Blues man Ry Cooder. The album receives critical and commercial success and winsTouré his first Grammy.
Touré refuses to travel to the United States to accept his Grammy award, explaining that:
1997 At the height of his commercial success and visibility, Touré announces his retirement from the music business and devotes himself to his farm in Niafunké
1999 Touré returns to the recording studio and releases Niafunké. A personal and reflective work, the album represents a return to Touré’s musical roots
2002 Touré appears in two feature films: Ali Farka Touré - Le Miel n'est jamais bon dans une seule bouche and Et je chanterai pour toi
2003 Touré closes the Festival in the Desert in Mali. His powerful performance cements his legendary status
2004 Touré becomes mayor of Niafunké and spends his own money improving roads, putting in sewer canals and fuelling a generator that provided the impoverished town with electricity.
Touré appears in Martin Scorsese’s Du Mai au Mississippi the legendary director’s Blues documentary.
2005 Nonesuch Records releases Red & Green, a two CD set culled from albums Touré recorded in 1979 and 1988.
Touré releases Heart of the Moon, collaboration with fellow Malian music legend Toumani Diabate, the album re-establishes his position in the international music scene
2006 In February of 2006, Heart of the Moon wins a Grammy, earning Touré his second award.
Mali President Amadou Toumani Toure holds a special reception for Toure and Diabate. Fighting bone cancer Toure is unable to attend, leaving Diabate to go alone.
Touré passes on March 7 from bone cancer |
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+memoir. kenji jasper
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The House on Childress Street
+ story copyright 2006, Kenji Jasper |
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“I’m the Lone Ranger,” he had said to me on one of the last nights I saw him, Christmas Day 2002. Seated in the cushioned metal chair in his bedroom, he faced himself in a mirror older than he was. His bedroom was not a masterpiece of interior design: a twin bed without sheets, an antique dresser filled with broken watches, a cluttered rack of suits, slacks and shoes that spilled out onto the carpeted floor.
He wore a bright red v-neck sweater over a striped dressed shirt, with a pair of gray double-knit pants. The toes of his suede loafers were cut away, to give them the comfort of slippers. Needless to say, he was not a fashion plate of any kind. But he was determined to remain where he was then, up in that room, despite the fact that his entire family was preparing for Christmas dinner a level below. |
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“Granddaddy loves you Ken,” he would always say, releasing the words into any moment of silence where it might fit. He would say the same to my young cousin, Jesse III, but rarely to any of his own children, at least not where I ever heard it. And I had never ever heard him say it to his wife.
I stood in the entrance to his room on that Christmas night, having given him the hug and kiss on the cheek he always demanded from me since I was a little boy. Back then, the stubble on his cheeks had been a frightening abrasion to one ignorant about the nature of facial hair.
“You doin' alright?” he’d ask me. Then I’d tell him that I was fine. Then he’d give me a dollar bill, which after a few years became a five, and eventually a ten. And then Mom and I would leave for home. But I always knew, for certain, that I would see Granddaddy Jesse again, even if his presence kind of frightened me. His self-enforced isolation from everyone was too strange for a young boy to comprehend.
But I was a grown man when we had our last real talk on that last Christmas. By then I had begun and finished school. I had written two books and lived in five different cities. There were no more ten dollar bills, no more requests for help with the $500 I needed for the red hot laptop I wanted to buy, or the trip to Mexico, or the rent money my shaky career as a freelance scribe made me short on every once in awhile. That last time we talked about life, and family, and how those who love a drug addict often suffer more than the addict himself.
The addict himself was seated a level below, somewhere between sleep and consciousness due to the chemical crawling through his veins. We spoke of another of his sons as well, the one who was watching his chickens home and roosting in the living room, as the mother of his first born scowled at his first wife, while he did his best to remain emotionless.
“I can’t be in there with that,” my grandfather had said of the various tensions just below us. “Cause that ain’t right.”
Christmas was the one time of year that we all had something to smile about, the one time we all tried to put our differences aside and just be together as a family. And yet more often than not Granddad did not sit among us, choosing instead to dine after we were finished, or to take his meal at the tiny table in the kitchen, alone
But that night I was determined to have things go down the right way. I wanted to see him and that red sweater of his at the head of the table, with my Grandma at the other end, and grace being said, and all of us being together as a family. For some reason it mattered more to me then than it had in my entire little life.
“You need to be down there,” I told him, still standing in the doorway. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as if the silvered glass were the gateway to anotherdimension.
“You’re the head of the family,” I continued. “We can’t do it if you’re not down there.”
My mother called for me from the level below with a question. And I promised him that I’d return to continue our convo. But in the midst of aunts and uncles, my first cousin, Jesse III, and Mom and Grandma, I never made it back up to see him. But when the time came to eat, when all of us were situated at the family table, Jesse James Langley, Sr. was at the head of it, saying grace and asking for a bigger helping of the best stuffing in the world.
My wish, the first of two that evening, had been granted. The second, for him to helpme with a book I wanted to write, help that required the two of us to travel to his hometown of Greenville, was not. I saw him one last time two days later, kissed him, hugged him, and told him how much I was looking forward to the trip we’d scheduled in March of ‘03. Then I was off, back to Brooklyn, and the struggling writer’s life that awaited me there. I got the call less than 48 hours later.
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Fingers to numbered buttons to the satellite up in space that sent a signal back down through the heavens and into my Bed-Stuy living room. The receiving device, however, was in the “‘off”’ position, and the cords had been removed from the land line. I had promised the lady in my life a night without interruption, a night where she could have me all to herself, away from work, family and friends, parts of my life withwhich she always felt the need to compete.
I didn’t get the digital envelope until the sun was high in the sky the next morning, while I was on my way to cash a check, the last bit of dough I had in the world. Now that cash was needed for a purpose, to return to the place I’d just come back from less than two days before.
“We’re droppin’ like flies,” the man said to my mother, grandmother and me. He was in his 80’s, if not older, his eyes magnified by thick lenses in frames of a style that came and went long before I was born. He had worked alongside my grandfather, Jesse James Langley, Sr., at Washington, DC’s Embassy Dairy more than 40 years earlier. So, like the rest of us, he was there to pay his respects, to send a friend home theright way.
I wasn’t going to cry. I didn’t even feel the urge as the body sat a few feet before me. I was too focused on my mother’s tears, on the blank expression I hadn’t expected from the wife of the deceased, on my father as he sat in a pew on the other aisle. I had to be in control. I had to be a man while the people passed to view the body. But the woman I loved then stopped before she got to the casket. The woman I then called mine turned toward me, offering the most compassionate smile I’d ever seen, her understanding absolute in a single action. She put her lips to my hand and the tears came forth, rescuing me from the most evil of my enemies: pride.
Michelle Clark, a friend of the family, sang her rendition of “I Got a New Home” thatreached the heavens, stirring the hundreds of mourners into a cyclone of the Holy Spirit. Scriptures were read, as were letters and cards from those who held the deceased dear. Prayers were said and the eulogy, the minister’s warranted excuse for impromptu sermon, was delivered. And finally, before the pallbearers loaded the body into the cab of the hearse, before the gathered multitudes left the church to become regular people again, the floor was opened for final words. And I stood.
Being before crowds had become an occupational hazard. My writing had by then brought me to bookstores and universities, churches and street festivals. So when they asked for those who had words for the departed to speak, I felt the urge to express myself, to relay what he had meant to his second eldest grandchild. |
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I wasn’t nervous, not even with the drying tears on my face. Those gathered needed to hear what I had to say. Deep down I thought that it would somehow make a difference in how the man in the casket would be perceived after this, his final day in church, was over.
I talked about how much he loved his grandchildren, my cousin Jay and me, and Jeanette, the daughter my Uncle Gary didn’t know he had for almost 30 years. I reminded everyone of the image most had of the man in their minds, of him seated on the porch of his house on Childress Street on afternoons and evenings, smoking a Lucky Strike and overlooking the property that he held the deed to, with the playground, the center of the neighborhood, just across the street. I said that he was a man who expressed his love through work, through providing for his wife and children, but not necessarily through the tender words that most human beings in a family need to feel like they belong.
The words weren’t as much for myself as they were for those seated around me, for his wife and children, and the former son-in-law in the other pew. My voice was the conduit for what they couldn’t articulate, a summary of the thoughts and feelings recounted in the five days leading up to his final farewell. Had it been up to me, up to my own point of view, I would have barely offered two sentences. Because within me, there was only a composite sketch of the man, a gray outline with little color for clarity.
I looked out at all the faces, eyes that knew him, each contributing a shiny penny to the bank of his memory. They agreed that he was a man of few words, that he was a soul the larger world might have overlooked though his presence had been so crucial in making our worlds complete. Somewhere within those sentences I came to a very important realization: that I did not know enough about the man without whom I would not be. I did not know enough about blood that ran through my own veins.
Within an hour the casket was lain atop its proper plot, adorned with colored carnations placed between its handles by the hands of loved ones. Then we turned to walk away from he who days before had been among us, trying to assess the hollow feeling in our souls as we headed back to the church for the repast.
“They killin’ me with this,” my Uncle Gary smiled as he took in a mouthful of someone’s homemade corn pudding, tiny pieces of the dessert stuck to the corners of his trap. With Black folks and food comes smiles and words. We took seats at folding tables adorned with plastic cutlery and pitchers of fruit punch. The widow sat at the head, dressed in the purest black I’d ever seen.
“So when you gon’ get you a new boyfriend Sally?” my Cousin Cordelia inquired. The widow exploded into laughter and the family followed suit.
My grandmother always joked about getting a new man whenever she and the Lone Ranger were fighting. We all laughed so easily because we know how much of a joke her joke really was. She is and always will be dedicated to the man whose ring she donned for the first time more than 60 years ago.
There were collard greens and baked chicken, turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes and choices between the many cakes that were delivered to the family house as an offering for our grief. It didn’t feel like he was dead, because we did nothing but remember him when he was alive, continuing the sum of his memories through our own mouths and words, spreading the energy that was once only his across the family name, further fertilizing its still rich soil.
I’ve come to learn that grief is protean, ever-evolving as it winds through one’s heart and head. It creates and destroys all in its path as it moves toward the crux of acceptance. I fully embrace it three days later, back in Brooklyn. I’ve returned through snow, sleet and the same ten pop songs played on 30 different stations in an economy class rental car with the handling of a child’s tricycle.
The A train to the Uptown 4 to Union Square, for a Monday movie to clear my mind. I walked from the last car to the first, scanning the faces of night crawlers like myself. A Latin couple canoodled in an orange double-seat. A thirty-something postal worker snored like a grizzly, his body limp against the side of the rustling train.
The train itself was an elderly arthritic, rickety and trembling as it crawled through the city’s digestive tract. But it got me where I needed to go, though at the time, I felt as if I was going nowhere. Too little money for too much work that there wasn’t enough of to go around. I had spent four years in a New York that was not the one I dreamed of, that was no longer a creative haven for anything.
I had chased rappers and actors, penned meaningless articles on records and films that went straight to the can at the curb. A third of my expected life had melted away and that was all I had to show for it. I could’ve been hit by a car the very next day, or had my brain skewered by a stray bullet, or been stabbed for the Guess brand watch my then lady gave me for my 26 th birthday. So little time on this earth and yet nothing was guaranteed. My grandfather had climbed the stairs to take his nightly bath and came out with a sheet over his face. Still, at almost 84, he’d lived a long life. But at least he had something solid to show for it. |
This is just the beginning. To really get to know Kenji, visit www.kenjijasper.com and get the real deal on the quality this man is putting out. |
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| +travel essay.brazil |
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carnaval in bahia
+brook stephenson
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Printer-friendly version
+photos copyright 2006, Brook Stephenson
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It was crazy.
The weather was 90 degrees and it was the middle of summer. The city I stayed in was the old heart in cidade alta (upper city). Old Bahia mixed with the new, complete with cobblestone streets, wooden, stucco and concrete buildings, steep hills and winding narrow roads. That’s where I was staying in Brasil on the East side of South America off the Atlantic Ocean.
Most men wonder how the women look. Whatever you have heard, it’s true.
Are they as beautiful as they say? Yep. No joke, no lie dem femmes are incredible. |
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Obrigado Brasil.
The average, homey, nerdish women are hot and the hot women are stunning. Maybe it’s the way the sun kisses them. Maybe it’s all the plastic surgery. I know a whole lot of it is genetics, African, Portuguese and native South American blood lines entwined with each others’ cultural contributions topping it off. One aspect of being African-American and going to another Afro seasoned country is you can peep real quick where the similarities and differences are. We each got our pros and cons with our national cultures but we got a whole lot in common.
Of course, this is just the tip of the iceberg. The caramelized sun-toned population celebrates together with very few incidents of violence, if any altercations at all, and that observation resonated with me. Granted Brasil used to be a dictatorship until the 70’s and the military police are no, I repeat no, joke. Granted cats might just not show up to work that week and still have a job. “Hey, it’s Carnaval,” and a shrug is the response. But what else can I say when I spent a week in Bahia during Carnaval? I was swept up in it and living on the smaller one of the main parade routes. The parades started at 6pm and ran until 6am Thursday through Tuesday. My internal clock was all messed up. I knew when I was tired, when it was daytime and when it was night. But what time it actually was, I had no clue. I couldn’t even tell you and had to ask. No one brought a watch.
Que horas sao (what time is it)?
Carnaval time. Six nights of a well orchestrated mix of music, culture and religious celebration with blocos that travel on parade routes. A bloco is a trio of electricios (Semi trailers loaded with major electronics), one will be hooked up with a monster sound system, one with a bar, food and first aid, and another for dancers. Outside of the blocos but inside the blue rope (cordao), are those who purchase shirts (abadas) to participate in the bloco- because blocos are all inclusive and a whole lot can go down inside of one. Remember this festival is conducted to get out all the ill impulses you’ve had all year so you can start lent right. I saw a few blocos- Timbalada, Ghandys, Ile Aiye and Olodum plus a few I didn’t know, not Fat Boy Slims although he did have his own electricio. |
| They have two major and one minor bloco routes, the Campo Grande to Praça Castro Alves (Avenidas circuit), streets that ran through downtown, and from Barra to Ondina (Dodo circuit) near the beach. The minor and more recently added route is through Pelourinho (Batatinha) and it is for smaller bands. That’s where I was staying, Pelourinho. My hotel room sat bird’s eye off the Batatinha route. Bands would parade up the cobblestone hill with their dancers or performers in front and supporters and participants in the back. And they were loud but nowhere near as loud as those on the main circuits. Pelourinho is 100% Old Bahia architecture- narrow winding cobblestone streets and four story buildings. The sound resonance is nasty. But they are nothing compared to the blocos. |
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This is how it goes down. Thursday, the blocos start off slow. It’s the first crowd. People are dancing, drinking and groping in the street but it ain’t quite poppin yet. It’s real hype no doubt but poppin? No. We caught the Dodo circuit and sat up on the steep grassy hill with the Jesus statue fifty yards off the street and about one hundred and fifty yards up a steep incline. The statue of Jesus is a smaller version of the one in Rio that overlooks the city and most people associate with Brasil.
The side we were on faced inland. The other side showed what the Atlantic Ocean looked like crashing in. You could hear it under the blocos' clear full sound. One float was a good half-mile away blasting clear vocals, bass and treble to where we sat. It just crept along like an ant to where we were. After we got through watching, we went back through the Dodo and the Barra area back to Pelourinho and the old heart of the city in Upper Bahia.
Somehow I slept that first night in the heat the ceiling fan was doing nothing to keep in check. All it did was provide a weak breeze because all the festivities and drums below were wrecking the room wrestling with humidity.
Then it was morning. |
Friday
Almost missed my first Brasilian breakfast. Two vats of fresh squeezed juice, wedges of other fruit, cakes, dry cereal, tea, coffee rolls, ham and provolone slices were a delicious way to start the day.
Breakfast was the part of the day where we just reviewed whatever happened last night, what we would be doing today and where we were going tonight. It was our small community time. It was my favorite time of day because of the view and the breeze. The group I went with was my boy Vince, his business partner Oshibi, Oshibi’s wife Toya, their boy Art who went to Florida A & M with them, this cat Will who manages a club in Tallahassee, Maconda from DC and four other people I think I saw only twice. I stopped wearing shoes to breakfast after the first day. It was nothing but t-shirts and pajama bottoms thereafter. It was the middle of summer and about 87 degrees everyday and 80 degrees every night.
The rest of the time it was shorts and a t-shirt and an occasional backpack but that was only for the beach. And you bet I went to the beach. |
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Barra (pronounced baha) is the beach neighborhood along the Dodo circuit. During the day, they would sound check electricios while people ate at restaurants, drank at bars, used Internet cafes and went to the beach. The curved coastline made beautiful beached coves. The beach is walled with wide ledges and stairways stretching down to the sand from the street. On the beach, there are a number of beach chairs and umbrellas that you can rent for a small fee. Vendors push earrings, prawns on a stick and cheese on a stick. The beach chair vendors also hustle cold beers and mixed drinks. I went to the beach four days out of seven. I had a lot of beer, did a lot of swimming and got really dark. |
I had a routine.
First, get up for breakfast, socialize and plan the day, then go back to the room and take a nap. Second, go out to the square, to lower Bahia, to the beach and to another neighborhood to get the t-shirts for the camarote. Wait. I didn’t tell you what that is yet. It’s bloco related. There is a two-part participation in the blocos. First is the abada so you can be in the parade itself and second is the abada for the camarote so you can go to the bandstand and watch your bloco when it comes thru. Today we linked up with a gallery owner and local connector Carlos. Carlos knows everybody. We linked up with him through my home girl KC. KC is the type of person who might show up anywhere anytime globally. This time she showed up to Brasil two months ago and has been the hook up ever since. We walked down the hill, flagged a cab and followed Carlos’ car to the Abridade ( Liberty) neighborhood. It’s one of the lower class areas and home to the only publicly funded school run by one of the African blocos and one of the oldest and most respected music groups, Ile Aiye. They do not allow white people into their bloco or perform with them.
Think about that for a second. Now think about anyone in the states doing the same thing. Now think about why I’m going back. |
We went there and when we got out in the middle of the hood I was sho’ hoping the few Portuguese phrases I knew were going to help me out. We stood out. One, we were rolling through two cars deep and two, we speak English. Granted we look just like everybody else but we were strangers and the neighbors outside being social could easily tell. I saw two cats working on a car down the way, up from them on the opposite side of the street, a woman is chit chatting with her neighbor, while walking up a hill were two junior high school looking girls. Across from the school, a few folks huddled in the shade of the awning from the bodega.
A few of us hit the bodega for some refreshments. I grabbed a bottle of water from a fridge and asked the cat behind the |
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| counter, “Quanto custa?” with a damn good bit of Brasilian diction, paid him the one reahas it cost and thanked him, “obrigado”. Even KC was like, ‘Damn Brook, you said that really well.’ |
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I have been studying the language the whole time I been here. It’s bad when you just have no idea what people are saying. But more than that, I was scrutinizing their cadences. That’s where I grabbed the heartbeat of their diction. It’s cool that I can say it somewhat with a local’s tongue but I still don’t have a vocabulary. Nothing hurts or hinders more than that.
Then we went in to the school.
The building was huge. What you see from the street is more like the middle level where the common school area and stage sit. The building is built on a hill so it stretches back, up and down with various levels. |
We bought our shirts and went back to the hotel. This was Friday. Friday night, we hit more of the Dodo circuit again in Barra. Another night and the energy was 60% higher than the night before, more drums, more popcorn (the people outside the blocos jumping up and down like popcorn popping) and more beer. We made it back to the hotel and then it was time for our morning breakfast commune again.
Saturday
We went to the beach in Barra for the first time today. To get there we would go downstairs and drop the room key off in the lobby and hike up the cobblestone hill to the Elevador Lacerda that takes you to Lower Bahia where you can catch the public bus to where ever you are going. They are exactly like the buses Knockout Ned was working on in City of God. The beaches there were thick with people, massage tables and vendors. Women and men were tanning, flirting and drinking. The children mostly played in the water or dived off the edge of a ledge into deeper waters. I just swam, drank and took a few photos mostly. We went from there back to the hotel because Saturday night was our first night in the camarote and I really wanted to see the bloco.
It was almost the best night. We almost missed the bloco when it came five hours earlier than expected. I would have been pissed but it’s Carnaval, things happen. Some times we were on time, sometimes we weren’t. |
Sunday
Breakfast and more beaches.
This time though, we didn’t miss Ile Aiye but they didn’t get there until sometime after 2:30pm. I was tired. I could hear they were tired. Their bloco rolled slow. First, the dancer electricios followed by the mega system electricios with the singers and horns on top. Ile Aiye’s forty-drum battery walked behind that and then the adamas. Everybody was tired at that point. The Camarote, that was thick earlier, was sprinkled with people like lint along the fringes of the curves of the space. |
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Monday
The damn drums never stop. Every night I try to get a nap in before heading out but then the drums come again and again, resounding and pounding in the window. After that, the horns blow in to intensify the fever pitch. I know the syncopation like I know my heartbeat now. I love it, breathe it and Brownian move to it. Eventually, I sleep through it. Daytime was slow- mall, eat, check email, beach, and eat again. The camarote on this night was the one. We walked past a few crowds up the hill, past the square down to Campo Grande. The sea of people that were off da chain last night are humming! This party isn’t over at all! Back in the camarote it’s business as usual- hit the ticket counter for a couple of strong drinks then up the stairs to the viewing area with people in the back, front, at the ledge, squatting on the steps or lounging on the sofas. Now the entire time I have been here I noticed one thing and I can’t talk about the camarote with out saying it. Carnaval is a family/community event. In the Camarote and out on the street are kids under ten, teenagers, young adults, adults, middle age adults, seniors, mothers nursing new borns and pregnant women in their second and third trimester. Everybody’s partying. Everybody’s dancing. Everybody’s united. It’s the weirdest most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And everybody’s black. We have nothing like this in the states, nothing. Not black history month. Not the fourth of July. Not even Juneteenth. This is really hot.
Tuesday
Last day of Carnaval and we did what… go to the beach. That night, we went back to the Camarote for what I call “putting an upstart in her place.” The way this camarote was set up, it sits at an X intersection on a hill. The Avenidas flows down one street and turns up another. If a bloco went straight, it would go in to a sea of people spilling over from the square. If it goes left, it heads down to where the military police are dragging offenders in choke holds. The Avenidas route actually makes a U shaped turn up another street. What happened was another bloco’s electricios was sitting still and pumping up the crowd with hits as Ile Aiye’s bloco approached the intersection. The Ghandy’s were grooving to the pop star’s music and since their bloco had just came through they just spilled into the crowd already there. With the Ghandy’s being the largest group, there were a lot of blue towel hats and abadas in view. Ile Aiye’s bloco was moving into position for the turn and pumping their music but the pop electricios didn’t stop. Next thing you knew, Ile Aiye pumped up the sound and sat their electricios at an angle for maximum reverb in the middle of the turn. With the height and narrowness of the angled road it was like a huge bass tube with the electricios in the middle. Ile Aiye cranked up their system and blasted the youngster into silence. The drummers just kept beating. The Ghandys moved away from the pop star towards Ile Aiye. Ile Aiye won this clash hands down. It was the African drum that did it. That African drum beat stronger and deeper than pop music syncopation. It just would not be out done. It was as if Africa came through
and
shamed
every
other
sound. To translate this feeling is beyond my ability. I just felt the link Afro-Brasilians have to Africa in that drum and it was unlike any music I’ve heard stateside. It is something that I have been trying to put into words ever since.
I could go on about the last two days and the beaches I went to but I won’t. It adds nothing to the story. Carnaval was over and with it, the fever pitch that held Bahia broke.
But what did I really see? It was weird, Brasil. There were things I saw I liked and things I didn’t like. I saw the racism I see in America but it was largely black on black crime, and it manifested in a different way. Think of segregation in America fifty years back but without Jim Crow. You can go anywhere without physical racism but there’s still social racism. If you have dark skin, you are black and if you are black, your opportunities are limited. Nobody wants to be black. If you are white or have light skin, you got the world ahead of you. For a country that received double the African slaves that the United States did, being somewhat African is what most everybody is, light or dark skin. They even say among themselves that everyone has to have a “connection” to Africa, so everybody, black or white, is still black in Afro-American terms. But Brasilian terms don’t put it that way. They acknowledge their African culture and blood yet still have a skin toned class system.
Nevertheless, Ile Aiye showed me that Afro-Brasilians have a stronger connection to Africa than Afro-Americans. Obviously Afro- Brasilians and Afro-Americans are kindred. But unlike America’s creators, African slaves in Brasil retained more of their own culture. I could tell in the drums of Ile Aiye that Africa wasn’t lost in Brasil but dissolved in with the native and Portuguese cultures to create something unique. I could see it in the mix of Portuguese, Native and African features. I could see that I was not lost there and felt that I would never be. I had fun, hung out, kicked it and talked that universal language- laughter. |
Brook Stephenson is the literary editor of Nat Creole.
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| +review. jorge franco |
rosario tijeras
jorge franco
(translated by gregory rabassa)
+ brook stephenson
Seven Stories Press / ISBN 1583226788
Printer-friendly version
It’s a twisted story wrought with Murphy’s law- what can go wrong, will go wrong - and centered around one woman, Rosario. She took the surname Tijeras after having avenged herself of a brutal violation. From there, her story gets worse, and better, then worse again. It entangles a pair of best friends, | |
Emilio and Antonio. They are rich boys from the right families who are not supposed to mix with lower class folks. But that’s neither here nor there. Rosario’s story ends at the beginning and her good friend Antonio agonizingly tells her tale and his story in first person.
She was shot in the head you know.
“Since they shot her at point-blank range while she was being kissed, she confused the pain of love with that of death."
Confusion.
There was a whole lot of that. This story’s angst focuses on a doomed love triangle between the best friends and Rosario. Rosario loved them both equally and for different reasons. One man, Emilio, had her body, the other, Antonio, snared her mind- or was it her soul? As hard as Antonio had fallen, you never quite know the answer to which portion of Rosario he possessed. He never knew it himself. All three had the others’ hearts unfortunately but that was just one problem among a million. The troubles the characters face in the book grow more layered and complex as the novel progresses.
The truth is, this book is filled with lean prose speckled with bursts of poetry. The characters are so real and so pained that it’s hard to tear away from it. But there is something that just isn’t sitting right. The book is obviously amazing in Spanish but it seems like the translation is a bit off for some reason. It seems the text exhibited an odd ebb and flow, in parts amazingly honest and raw but then dry and terse in others. It rides like a roller coaster. Is it a bad translation? Couldn’t be. Gregory Rabassa is an amazing translator. He is a professor of Romance Languages at Queens College and has translated the works of many writers including well-respected authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Octavio Paz, Julio Cortazar and Mario Vargas Llosa. Gabriel Garcia Marquez said Rabassa’s translation of One Hundred Years of Solitude was better than the Spanish original. So, if it is not the translation then, what is it?
The light began to shine after a few more chapters. What I suspected of being an odd translation was really the purposely stilted pace and flow of the narrator Antonio, a man tormented by the nature of his relationship with the woman he loves and the man she loves. While Emilio enjoys her carnally, Antonio is the cerebral cool side of the coin to his heat. Antonio’s unrequited love is beautiful and colorful at moments yet wracked with terseness, despair and pain. It’s the perfect voice and an excellent translation. Rosario Tijeras is a beautifully arranged storyline that denotes the life, times, choices and consequences of loving and being loved back by a woman who is both the symbiotic poison and antidote for you. Welcome to Antonio’s lament as he walks back through the life of the woman he loves as she lies in the hospital riddled with bullets, barely hanging on to what’s left of her life.
An excellent book, the paperback version is available now and it is also a film from the award winning producer of Before Night Falls. |
| Brook Stephenson is the literary editor of Nat Creole. |
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