Love’s In Need Of Love Today: The Wonderful World Of A Stevie Future

Not too long ago I was on a bus on my way to my destination, when a lady in her l Not ate 70’s sat beside me. As we were leaving the terminal, the bus had to make a series of sharp turns and stops in order for us to get out onto the busy street. As we hit the first sharp turn it is routine for passengers to be thrown sideways as the bus leans towards the turn. It is wise to hold on to your bags or else they will end up on the other side of the bus. This time was no different. As I dug my foot into the floor of the bus, the woman beside me grabbed my hand in fear. I turned and looked in this woman’s eyes and saw that she was completely terrified. All of a sudden I was no longer a stranger, but now a protector for her. She held on to my hand and squeezed it harder as we took the next turn, and that time I used my other hand to pat some calm into her fearful fingers. She turned to me with a relieved look on her face and spoke to me in an unfamiliar tongue. To my ears, musically it sounded like she was thankful for the warmth that I offered. I could read it in her eyes, that she was grateful for the closeness. I had never met this old woman before, but I held her hand tightly and cradled it with my other one, taking time to rub her hand between mine. She continued to whisper to me in her language, smiling and squeezing. I smiled, saying in mine “It’s okay, it’s gonna be alright”. All of a sudden the big city that I lived in seemed smaller. When her stop came she gently pulled her hand from the cradle of mine and smiled once more before she left the bus, slowly being swallowed by the din of the intersection. I did not know this woman, and probably would never meet her again, but we had shared one of those moments that are special. A linking of people, for a brief moment in a time of need, that reflects the human need for togetherness. 

I had heard about the Wonderfull party several years ago, by a musically astute friend of mine who was responsible for performing musical surgery on my opening musical brain. She introduced me to the compilations of DJ Bobbito and Spinna who unearthed the remakes of Mr Stevie Wonder by obscure artists. She enchanted me with stories of these Wonderfull parties, in which the DJ’s only played Stevie’s tunes, Stevie’s tunes done by other artists and Stevie produced material. The party in NYC at the time and were legendary. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to move and groove with a bunch of strangers to music from an artist that meant so much to me. She then put on a remake of Pastime Paradise by Ray Barretto I was mesmerized. I couldn’t believe that it was possible for someone to take a Stevie Wonder song a actually build another masterpiece out of it. That song stuck in my head for a long time, as did the desire for me to attend a Wonderfull event. So when I heard that there was going to be a Wonderfull party in Toronto, I bought my ticket in a hurry.

The event was held at The Revival, a former Baptist Church in the city. People seemed to speak in hushed voices as we walked into Reviva,l acting as if they were going to attend a sermon. Whispers of 500 tickets already being sold, wafted over our heads as we headed into the lounge. Bobbito and Spinna where up on stage, milling about with the vinyl they had brought as we were treated a remix of Stevie written song “It’s A Shame” and then “Tears Of A Clown”. I jumped up and down like a kid when I heard this song played as it brought back memories of having my hair combed in the morning before school when I was 6 years old by my Mother. I would always hear this song being played on the oldies stations as my hair was being braided and my “kitchen back” was being tidied up. As I moved to the music I could swear I could smell the Afro Sheen in my hair. 

I looked at Bobbito and Spinna up on stage in the throes of pure joy as they flipped on Stevie tune after tune, and watching the crowd as we sang out the lines of our familiar songs in unison. They seemed like two friends crammed in their bedrooms trying to impress each other with the vinyl that they had accumulated. Song after song you could see each them looking at each other with approval as if they were discovering the songs for the first time. When Pastime Paradise came on I danced as if it was the first time that I heard that song as well, I became more excited as they mixed it with the Ray Barretto version. Song after song became a manifesto: We are here to unite in the Wonderfull world of Stevie. When “As” came on I looked around at the crowd on the floor. Here was the face of Toronto. The different faces, and colours, ages, all moving and singing the song that spoke of a pledge of an eternity of love. In that moment if felt as if were all one entity, singing about the simple truth of the human need for understanding and love. We were all encased in the universal soothing hand of each other’s strangeness, the comforting strength in reaching out and having that hand being answered with a reassuring squeeze. The city once again became small. I thought of that old woman and how I needed her hand just as much as she needed mine. I thought of the problems that are plaguing our city and how much we all needed to be the universal hand to try and solve the problems. I felt lifted with the potential of the soothing salve of the musical heart of our city and how much I hoped for a wonderfull-like solution in the twisting turns of the human struggle.

The Sound Of Your Walk: What Is Your Personal Theme Song?

Most people don’t know what people think in their heads when they walk down the street. For some people walking is a simple heel toe gait, on a sidewalk from point A to point B. For other’s, a walk can seem like a ceremony. Everyone has their own way of making specific movements to get them where they are going. As cliché as it sounds everyone technically marches to their own drum, in their head, whether they are aware of it or not. A personal theme song that propels them forward to their destination.

I can always relate someone’s walking to a certain song or an instrument. Some people you can see walk into a room and I swear I can hear Rod Stewarts “Do You Think I’m Sexy” in my head. For other’s it’s the sound of a flat tuba playing, for other’s chimes, and maybe still ODB’s “Shimmy Shimmy”. 

Dave Brubeck said that when he asked Paul Desmond what the inspiration for the famous sax solo in the song Take Five. Desmond said he imagined Audrey Hepburn walking across a room and that was the sound he could hear playing. For me, I have always had my own personal theme song in my head that contributed to how I walked. As a child I loved “Ease On Down The Road” from the Wiz, and I’m sure that this song contributed to the gliding nature of my walk as a kid. As I became a metal head it was “Enter Sandman”, the glide turned into what I feel was a steely walk on a carpet of velvet. Right about now, my personal theme song is “ A Walk On The Wild Side” Elmer Bernstein’s jazz instrumental. In my mind’s eye, I always see myself dressed in a slinky black dress, heels, and that song playing in my head, when I walk into a room. For me it is important to be certain of the sound that you are transmitting to the earth. Walking is like laying on the earth and feeling it’s vibrations. Are you listening to how you are moving? Who are you and what are you leaving behind?



When I was in grade 2 (7 years old) I recall my teacher ,Mrs. Gabbidon, my first and only Black teacher, which was a big deal for me. For me this beautiful brown woman emanated style, glamour and coolness that you can’t buy. Always draped in earthy fabrics and African jewellery, Mrs. Gabbidon oozed cool. Her personal theme song: Miles Davis’ So What. Growing up at a time where Black role models were few, Mrs. Gabbidon made it her mandate to make sure that the Black students were always “upright” by following her example. A noble gesture but it ran into problems when she came up against a school mate of mine, named Jeremy Dick (yes, that was his real name). 

Now, Jeremy with the unfortunate last name, was a Rasta. His Father was one of the first Rasta’s I had encountered at the time. I was fascinated by Jeremy’s locs and the colourful woolly tams that he always wore to school. When his Father, who raised him on his own, picked him up at school he would always pick him up on a funky 10 speed bike, all fat black and grey locs flying free, Redd from the weed, and the map of Africa on his back. He’s very essence was Jamaica, and he left the scent of it like a perfume long after he had rode away. Elder Mr. Dick’s personal theme song: Bob Marley’s Concrete Jungle.

So when young Mr. Dick with his strong sense of his Jamaican and African roots met with polished Mrs. Gabbidon, well, it was a battle of wills. It started with his name. As she had to call attendance every day the thought of calling out the name Jeremy Dick was a difficult task for her. I can remember it, she was fine calling out everyone’s name, names slipped out of her mouth like butter, except when she came to Jeremy’s. She literally spat out his name like a rotten piece of fruit, and the displeasure showed on her face just as much. Since she couldn’t get rid of the Dick, she decided that she would call him by his seemingly more “respectable” middle name Albert. We all called him Jeremy, she called him Albert, leaving poor Jeremy with the red, gold, and green tams and the rest of us confused. What was so bad about who he was?

Now, Mrs. G frowned upon the use of slang in her classroom, especially from the Black students. Whenever Jeremy would use a Patois term, she would correct him and look disapprovingly. “Speak properly Albert!” Jeremy would look at her and when her back was turned, he would quietly suck his teeth, and continue to speak as he pleased.

When it came to his walk, that’s where she drew the line. Every time Jeremy would walk in her presence, she would say “Albert! Would you stop walking like that! You and that Be Bop walk!!”

Be Bop is a jazz. Fast tempos, improvisation, and a steady beat. Now, if Mrs. G thought she was insulting Jeremy by using this term to describe a unique, self possessed, roots and culture raised, 7 year old, she was dead wrong. The more that she criticize the more Jeremy dipped and walked. Swaggering to annoy. A battle silently being won by the child who refused to give in to conformity. Be Bop walking to his own drum. Be Bop like Parker flexing his shoulders as he blew. Be Bop skipping over the pretence to announce his coming into the room. Be Bop, the rhtyhm of Marley, and Selassi jangling down his legs and shifting his weight to the earth below, a affirmative exclamation point. 

Mrs. G gave up after a while, as she realized that she was fighting a losing battle. This wasn’t one of the kids that she was going to remodel to fit her mould of what a good student was. She eventually left him alone, but not after putting a lot of energy into getting him to stop the Be Bopping. Funny enough when at the playground Jeremy’s Be Bop walk was non-existent. But his point was made, for someone to make a bold point, you must make an improvisation on what appears to be the single direction. 

I challenge you to take a moment and listen to your movements. What is your personal theme song? Are you a comma to your next movement or are you like Jeremy, the affirmative exclamation point?

The Gospel Of JIM: Catching The Spirit With Jamie Lidell

The first time I had seen someone catching the holy spirit was when I visited my great Aunt’s church in Yonkers. Me, not being child that was raised in the church, expected a dry sermon, as I had seen on television, delivered by a sweaty pastor, who huffed and puffed his way through a long drawn out sermon, being cheered on by a gleeful amen corner. I anticipated boredom on a very empty stomach. Lunch wouldn’t come until after the parting of the red sea. As I sat in the church, I saw something that both amused me and entranced me. As the sermon went on, I watched as a very proper looking woman jump suddenly out of her seat, fall on the floor and shake like a hot egg in a frying pan. To my eyes she seemed as if she had been shot through by a bolt of electricity. My Mother elbowed me in the side, as my Brother, Sister, and I laughed at the sight of this woman, skirt up to her waist, griddle and slip showing, speaking in tongues and shaking like bacon. But in my laughter I was also intrigued by the fact that words had the power to move people, beyond their present state of mind. Something working on some subconscious place in the mind. Good music can be like that. An electric shock to the system. 

So how does this relate to Jamie Lidell? Well, his concert seemed to be like a shock to the sometimes comatose Toronto audience’s system. A musical sermon in almost religious cantor. 

Jamie Lidell is a strange character in the music scene. It’s hard to categorize him. He does equal parts soul, funk, pop, electronica, and experimental house music. Jamie is in a sense doing what Jamie does, which is to confuse the hell out of everyone, and still make good music while doing it. 

It’s a challenge, for many white artists who chose to do soul music. The over used title of “blue eyed soul” embodies the old archetype of the white singer who can “get down” just like the black singers do. He/she will always know how to ad lib like it’s revival time. They usually have to have the seal of approval from some top black singer/producer, and can throw down and dance the latest dance, just as good as the black singers. As tired and dated as the archetype is, it is always present in the industry’s pushing of a white soul singer. The singer always seems to be pushed into this constant struggle of trying to be accepted by the dominant popular, trying to be accepted by the black populas as the real deal, and not looking like they are doing black face in a minstrel show. I think that Lidell’s oddness is what makes him work against type. He is in a sense a new vision of a soul singer, erasing the racial element, and focusing on just being the guy with the voice and the funky.

The opening act for this show was a quite forgettable, performer, who performed the typical sad, lonely girl tunes that where in rapid rotation in the 90’s. I’ve grown weary of this sort of music. Must a woman with a guitar always stare blankly through messy bangs, rock a beat up old rock Tee, and sing about unrequited love? As she strummed her guitar I had the urge to drown myself in a river of Soya Chai Latte. Gulp..Gulp..Gulp… Can we please move on from this tired form of music?

There was room at the inn, when Lidell arrived on stage. In a funky pair of MC Hammer style pants and jacket, that only he could pull off. He opened up his sermon with the track “Another Day” from his latest album “JIM” From the moment he stepped onto the stage the usually laid back Toronto parishioners became the Amen corner. Hooting and hollering like it was revival time in the Opera House. 

Lidell, didn’t spend a lot time talking to the audience, but rather lead the audience through a performance art piece. Backed by a band of unusual characters of a normal looking drummer, a guitarist dressed as a no name superhero, and a horn section that looked like refugees from a Star Wars cult, he laid down one of the most soul filled evenings I have been privy to in a while. Using visuals, and his music, Lidell proved that you can do performance art that draws people in rather than leaves them on the outskirts wondering why they are there. When it works, the audience becomes part of the show, setting the vibe in the room, along with the artist. At times I felt like I was in the bedroom of some cool art student watching as he showed me what projects he was working on and feeling lucky to be let in on his secrets. 

At times his visuals and on stage mixing was like jazz improvisation. It was so fascinating to see the creating of new music and rhythms and the reaction of the crowd to the sounds. At times I was mesmerized and hypnotized by the sounds that I heard, moving my body and humming along to sounds that seemed like they would go on forever. In a trance I moved, electrified by the sound, and the voice.

At one point the disappeared off stage only to reappear with a television on his head as he crooned a simple love song. His songs sometimes seem so deceptively simple, but yet his voice and creative visuals give them an edge. As silly as the image seems it works for Lidell because it’s what you would expect from Lidell.

Lidell’s likeability is in that he doesn’t have any swagger. In fact, at times in the concert he seemed as enthusiastic as everyone else. Looking like a little boy, who just found out that he could melt crayons on the radiator. It’s the geekish element that makes Lidell much more enjoyable than most soul artists. It’s evident that he is influenced by soul of old, but he doesn’t wear his influences on his sleeve, but rather uses his experimentations to mix and match and interpolate them into a new vision of soul. One that demands the devotion of the body, mind and soul. One that invites the listener to think outside the box, and listen to the music. Moving, as constant as the rhythm that he sets out. 

As I walked out of the Opera House, I wondered what happened to my body, why did I feel so refreshed? Why was my dress pulled up so high? What happened in there that made me smile on the streetcar as I went home? I lay back in my seat and hummed the rhythms I had in my head. Pulled down my dress, closed my eyes, and listened to my soul dance.

Badu, who are you? The Death of the Earth Mother Of Neo Soul

Bowie talks about changes and turning to face the world. Facing the a world that has pegged you as the Earth Mama of Neo Soul, can’t be hard for Erykah Badu. She gave birth to Baduizm, nursed in a Live album, set down maternal foundations of love and loss in Mama’s Gun, let the child of Neo Soul leave the nest in Worldwide Underground, and to some is dealing with an identity crisis with New Amerykah Part One (4th World War).
Soul music loves it’s time machine and I wondered about this as I sat in my seat for the 
Badu concert.

Opening for Zaki Ibrahim, a young, artist from Toronto. Zaki has been getting a lot of hype in Toronto, which is quite unusual for a Canadian artist, as Canadians only hype an artist after the rest of the world has told us that they are cool. Zaki took the stage and impressed me with her stage presence and material. Watching her travel across the stage I saw a confidence in her that was engaging and promising. Where she suffered was from a very bad job done by the sound engineer. Her voice was drowned out and most of her vocals were lost in the upper recesses of Massey Hall. I think that she will find her audience, but unfortunately I don’t think the Canadian music industry knows what to do with Zaki. I have this feeling that this Northern bird will fly off to greener more successful pastures.

After a long wait, the lights when down and the Badu began with darkness and the opening music from New Amerykah, a collage of sound bits and skits. Badu made her entrance in a Black amoeba style black dress that looked straight out of the film Mahogany and topped it off with a rather dainty black hat. Erykah and her backup singers started grooving in time to the funked up beat. The energy was high. This began a night of performance art. Badu fashioned herself as an sometimes aloof funked out fashionista from galaxy #9 with a message. The high point of the evening for me, was an amazing version of “Other side Of The Game” and “Time’s A Wasting”. Badu jumping into the audience and singing in the aisle was a treat, and the attempt at theatre of the absurd for the song “Green Eyes” was unusual and at times entertaining. I should have been jumping for joy and most of the time I was. Cheering for the chances that Badu seemed to have been taking. Proud of her for going against the grain to break away from the categorization of the Black female singer in Soul music today. There was no doubt that Badu wants to change what it means to be a Black female artist in music today. But I felt this uneasy feeling after the end of the show that I there was something lacking in the show that I was treated to.

The band were obviously well rehearsed, although The Roots play on dates in the US, but there seemed to be something lacking in their connection with the Badu on stage. They almost seemed so rehearsed that they didn’t seemed to know what to do when it seemed as if Erykah was throwing them curve ball. As for Badu, sometimes it seemed as if she was in her own bedroom, having fun with her computer samples. She attempted to stay in character as she played around with the laptop, but then after a while it seemed as if these gaps in the show kind of left space where I felt bored of watching her find what she was looking for. 

For the song Green eyes, Badu used large pink exercise spheres as props and had the back up singers rather clumsily roll the balls back and forth on the small stage, and had others waving large swatches of fabric like waves behind. While I think her use of the balls communicated the meaning of the song, in some ways it seemed to be a bit gimmicky, and too obvious. Badu’s strength lies in her voice and there was no denying she has a wonderful voice and presence. But her need to experiment with performance art techniques seemed to take away from the music itself. 

There is no need for her to stay stagnant in the earth mother persona to please her audience but for an artist to be successful in an artistic performance there is a need to constantly engage the audience in the performance itself. Even retired earth mothers know the importance of the call and response from the earth’s loins and how it is important in the function of the earth‘s growth. 

I think that Badu is going somewhere with her constant changes of persona, and it does seem that she is having fun with it, but I wonder if she even knows what she wishes to accomplish with it. If The New AmErykah does not put an ending to the Earth Mama memories, then I think her next step should be to burn a head wrap during one of her concerts and put it on youtube. Then maybe the last of the cult of the Neo soul Bohos will move on and leave her alone. 

*special thanks to Samuel Godfrey for the elevation ;)

Falling Into Jose Gonzalez: The Enviromusic of Jose Gonzalez

My fondest memories of peace and solitude came during camping trips in school. I remember riding in the school bus and feeling the heavy city lifting off me like articles of clothing being removed from my body. I felt naked. My first memory of being stripped naked by nature was when on one of these trips I sat alone in a wide, open field and watched the big orange ball of sun, slip it’s lips, slowly into the horizon. I felt as if I had heard the sound of the sun heaving a sigh of pleasure. The second time, we had gone on a hike in the gorgeous Algonquin Park of Northern Ontario. When we reached an old abandoned logging camp. With the sound of the powerful falls bellowing in our ears we looked down realized that we were at the top of the falls looking down at the old logs and water below. My feet inched closer to the edge of the slippery edge to see the magnificent mist of the falls, thrusting itself into the water below. I got that feeling again. Feeling, stripped free, and on the edge of something great. It’s not a feeling I expected to feel at a concert, but that’s exactly the way that I felt at the Jose Gonzalez’s show, watching on the edge of something great. 

I didn’t have high hopes for this concert as it was at the Phoenix Concert Theatre, which is a venue that is notorious for having a bad sound. As I walked into the cavernous mouth of the venue, I was met with the low sweet voice of opener Mia Doi Todd. Back lit by red light, her voice lent a coffeehouse air to the heavy atmosphere. Very Joni Mitchell like in her delivery and chord choices. What I saw of her I liked but perhaps the putrid Phoenix is not the venue for this artist. Something smaller that brings the audience in would have been more appropriate.

At 7:30 pm the lights went down and the sound of Jose’s light strumming could be heard. The white lights came up and projected Gonzalez’s smoky, shadowy image against the curtain. As he begun to play the driving chords of the song “Down The Line” I was transfixed. Gonzalez played the first few songs by himself. Barely, speaking to the audience, except to introduce himself, and his collaborators. Just, Gonzalez, bent over on a chair, his voice sometimes a whisper, for the first few songs. The effect was akin to sitting in a room alone with him. He was able to hold the attention of the audience with the urgency of his playing and the sparseness of his environment. For those few songs the audience was quiet and it was like everyone was holding their breath. For the remainder of show he brought out a percussionist and a background singer. Which changed the direction of the show. 

What began as a pacifist like, whisper began to build into a raging fire. His guitar playing took on a more flamenco style, and became more frenzied. His voice at times turned into a growl. With these turns he proved how versatile he is as an artist. He cannot be pigeonholed into just being seen as a folk artist. I think he could different genres and put his trademark style of playing on it. I was amazed with the tactile way that he took on Massive Attack’s “Teardrop”. 

There is a warmth in his music, and an almost “enviromusical” like nature to it. I’m going to tackle this, theory of the “enviromusics” in a future journal. This is one of the reasons why I feel that this show relates to my experiences in nature. I think there is music that is directly tied to our environmental experiences. Songs that bring us back to our sensations that are felt in nature. There were times in show when I closed my eyes and could think about how I feel when I hear rain on my windows, the feeling of hot sunshine, dry on my cheeks, and or the way that the wind drives up the dust in an empty field. Music that evokes our relationship with our physical environment, and the sensory memories that comes with that. Gonzalez’s music makes me think about this movement that I think is going on in some music today, a more creative way of recording the movement of the environment and our place in it. Listening to him I could once again hear the sound of the falls below the rock that I stood on. Daring myself to come closer to the edge, and bathing my ears in nature’s sonic booms. Standing on the edge of something great.

Can You Hear That Young Lion Roar? The Hip Hype of Jazz and Mr. Jose James

I view most hype with suspicion. Maybe it’s because I’m from a generation that wears its love of conspiracy theories permanently emblazoned on its trendy sleeve. There is a hypocrisy in my generation, we like to believe we are far from the popular consensus, constantly vocalizing our distaste for all things popular by rebelling and reading only alternative press (online of course, got to save those trees!) while sipping on our Starbucks coffee, and sporting our purposefully low key but overpriced hipster clothing. 

Yes, I hate the hipster in me. I try to run as far away from it. At least, as far as my retro Nike’s will take me. Sometimes, just sometimes, I realize that there might be something in the hype that I should pay attention to. In the case of Jose James, there is truth behind the hype.

Every few years the jazz industry hype machine starts to churn out the next coming of the latest young lions. A new artist who is brought forward in an effort to breath life into the supposed dying form of jazz. Since I’ve been alive I’m quite sure that jazz has died over 150 times, pronounced dead on arrival with no hopes of resuscitation. But yet, it’s still here, and the seminal birth of the new young lions continues. A few years ago the throne of young lion hood was given to Jamie Cullum. This young enthusiastic artist with supposed jazz like tendencies popped on the scene and the jazz world went crazy with delight. Cullum, a pint sized piano virtuoso with Backstreet Boy like looks, and a penchant for climbing on top of his piano bench and popping around the stage, was just what the jazz world was looking for; the young performer who would be capable of bringing the next generation of jazz lovers to the table. A virtual Blue Note wet dream. There was no way that jazz would die. Let the resurrection begin.

But, for all his hipness. There was something very contrived about Cullum. I bought his album, of course I thought him doing Pharrell’s “Frontin” was very cool, but I felt that the album was all hype, and hot air. I’ve listened to it a few times but I didn’t buy the notion that he was a “jazz” artist. To me he’s a construct. Somehow, the industry seduces people into believing that a musician has the credibility to be called a jazz artist solely because they play a baby grand piano and throw in some predictable jazz improvisations. It was hip that Cullum dressed like the young dude most likely to being chilling with some hot girl, at his loft, burning one down, and playing Coltrane LP’s on his turntable. But, that was the specific reason why the young lion craze is so maddening, it’s built on what people think should be cool instead of what is real and uncontrived.

Then comes an artist, like Jose James, that has some buzz and I look over with a jaundiced eye and wonder, if it could be the real deal. Alas, the hipster may be on to something this time. 

Over the last few months there has been some buzz building for Jose James. Those who have been lucky to hear tracks on Gilles Peterson’s show (the hipster show for those who don’t think they are hipsters) knew that James had been signed to Peterson’s Brownswood label. I heard of him from a close musical guru who tutors me in all music that I should know. If it isn’t good, he won’t spin it. I happened to hear the track blackeyedsusan and was impressed. I wondered who this person with Heron and Withers, so clearly ancestors in his voice. They seemed to walk together in his phrasing. Then I happened to catch a video of him performing this song, and what a delight. A true jazz artist: the guy who looked like he was most likely to have, J Dilla and Dinah Washington in his iPod. The guy, who most likely would thump a fist in a hello, and ask if you heard the latest Rza while checking out the local jazz spot, There was nothing contrived about his image because his image was anything but contrived. James seemed like an artists artist. Not willing to change his image to become the next poster child for the young lion throne. 

With his sometimes delightfully fragile and vibrantly rich jazz inflected voice and rich jazz improvation, he is truly one of the most exciting artists to come to the jazz sphere. Most of the songs on his album The Dreamer are deliberately slow and gloriously downbeat. There is a hip-hop vibe in his sound, and it’s not in the most typical way, of jazz meets hip-hop project #556. It’s in a more cerebral way, in that you will hear melodies of samples in hip hop songs you used to bump back in the day. It’s music that hits you in the basement of your consciousness. The blue light that you turn on to set the mood for some slow languishing lovemaking. James dares you not to feel this beat below the belt, and he’s not afraid to hit you square in your chest to make sure you see how serious he is about the sound that he and his band are creating. Sure he comes with some pre hyped, hipsterness but it’s well earned. In his voice I feel as if we are finally reaching a long overdue period in jazz where jazz is once again opening itself up to artistry that is more removed from the contrived stifled jazz conventions that has turned off some of the younger generation, the need to stay within pre drawn lines. James is attempting to blur that line, and it’s a beautiful thing to hear. 

I’m curious to see how this album will take off. Will the old Jazz guard embrace him? And do we really care if they do? Maybe, it’s time that the hipsters start planning a coup to over thorough the old guard. Or maybe that’s a little but too 90’s of a thing too do. Oh, the quandary of the hipster.

Can A Sister Rock? The Primal Urge for Rockin and Rollin

I don’t wonder where I got my rock from. All of us are products of Rockin and Rollin. That’s basic conception. The seed is planted and we grew, but we were the product of the primal need for human beings to Rock and Roll ourselves in pleasure. Five days out of 7 I don’t question the primal urges of the human cycle. It is what it has been for many centuries. We exist to let out ya ya's out in the way that fits our need best at the time. Sexually, sonically, physically, or creatively. We live in order to feed the primal urge.

I’ve always been an equal opportunity hedonist when it comes to music. Anything can get me off. Ever since I discovered my Mother’s Nazareth 45 “Love Hurts” had a raunchy B-Side called “Hair Of The Dog” , I was hooked on rock music. As a little child hearing Dan McCafferty wailing in a threatening tone “Now your messing with a Son of a Bitch..” I was hooked. As a kid I didn’t completely get what it was that I liked about the song, besides the fact that he was swearing, but it touched me in a raw way. The stripped down way that the drums were being played and the screeching guitars, mixed with McCafferty’s threat to the unseen assailant, to me were better than watching a school yard fight. Every kid loved to see a good school yard fight, and in a way this song was kind of like listening to a good school yard fight, verbal threats mixed with the physicality of the rhythm section. Rock music was the sonic after school fight. 

But loving rock music and being a Black kid seemed to be an oddity to many. When some of my friends’ where dancing to the Double Dutch bus at recess. I jumped in the skipping rope singing both Dust In the Wind and The Freaks Come Out At Night. Sure it caused a lot of my playmates to drop the rope in question, but I didn’t care, because I liked Kansas just as much as I liked Whodini. Somehow the little Black girl in braids and black Clarks wasn’t supposed to like that kind of music.

As I got older I really was fascinated with Hendrix. I remember watching a show on Much Music about Classic rock, and it featured a story about Jimi Hendrix. I watched in awe as this afro crowned rock god did things to the guitar I had never heard before. The sounds that I heard hypnotized my ears. I promptly went out the next day and bought his greatest hits. I played Red House and Little Wing until I knew every change in the music by heart. Eventually I researched more and got deeper into more rock, and blues. From Hendrix to Living Colour. I always get a high off of finding Black musicians that weren’t afraid to rock. When listening to Willie Dixon, Robert Johnson, and Muddy Waters, I knew it wasn’t foreign for a Black musician to make a guitar moan and scream. 

Entered the Sandman Metal came and Danziged into my life. Glam rock and me were friends in front of the mirror but Grunge…now that was a turning point for me. When the song Alive came out I became obsessed with Pearl Jam and the Seattle scene. I remember when my group of friends raided the malls in search of checked shirts and long johns to wear under out cut offs. When I went to my first Pearl Jam concert and watched as Eddie Vedder climb around the balcony of The Concert Hall like a wild beast, I was mesmerized. When he climbed to where I was and began to fall into the crowd below, my hands were one of the many that reached out to grab a hold of his sweaty green shirt and ease him back to safety. The energy in that room was unmistakable. The walls of this old Masonic temple sweated with the raw power that Pearl Jam created in that space. I felt as if I wanted to climb the pillars too. I screamed the primal scream, and felt no shame. I’ll never forget that night. Or any of the days or nights that Rock has enabled me to scream the primal scream. May the internal rocking and rolling never cease to exist.

And yes a Sister can rock. Because I sure do and always will.