total time: 8.0 minutes
total words: 153
[Clerk]: Hey Jonathan, how do we help out people who are trying to donate money?
[Fagan]: Huh? How do we help out people who are trying to donate money? Um, there's a jar inside actually. Yeah, or if it's easier you can go to the vendor. Yeah, no, that's fine. Yeah, so there's a jar, there's a jar for cash donation inside.
[Clerk]: Oh, okay, thanks.
[Fagan]: Yeah. We'll probably be another five minutes or so. You've got a little bit of time. Do you want a snack, Dad? What do we have for snacks? Pretzels, chips, popcorn.
[SPEAKER_02]: So if we do have to do it.
[Clerk]: The cool kids hang out on the ramp there. I'm picking up.
[SPEAKER_02]: It looks like everything's fine until it starts. It's like when you're playing short stuff and the pitcher hasn't pitched yet, hasn't thrown anything yet. The first note, all power goes out. The band swung so hard, it ruined the entire concert. The jam was too smooth, so they went personal again.
[SPEAKER_05]: Blue is the jazz club.
[SPEAKER_02]: When I first started, I used to get gel.
[SPEAKER_06]: Here, here. You press a color, you know. It's like, even a songwriter can do it.
[SPEAKER_02]: Honestly, yeah, like the mic, it's kind of like, it's fine, because it's like roughly where, in between the keys and the drums. At the end of the day, like I said, like, the sound stuff, more concert sound.
[Carter]: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Terry Cotter. I manage elder services here at the West Medford Community Center. I'm also the Poet Laureate of Medford, Massachusetts. I won't get into the whole story because we'll talk again when we come up to play, but I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, a kindred spirit, a guy who's musical abilities I appreciate so much and someone who has, you know, kind of taught me some things about how we can collaborate and cooperate and get together and do things that are meaningful without looking at each other suspiciously or as if we have ulterior motives or anything like that. So the convener, one of the original conveners of the Medford Jazz Festival, And we're hosting it for the first time outside. My friend, Jonathan Fagan.
[Ruseau]: Thank you so much, Terry.
[Fagan]: It's always a blast to get introduced by a poet laureate. I don't know how many of you have had that experience. Maybe not very many. But anyways, yes. My name is Jonathan Fagan. I'm the producer of the Medford Jazz Festival, which has actually been going on for quite some time. I joke with my friends that it started in Peter Cobb's laundromat about four years ago. It was a place called Wash Vault Lab. It's on Boston Avenue in Medford. That was my first collaboration with, here, let me just, get this out of the way. Medford Arts Council, and then that in turn led us to collaborate with Arts Alive Foundation, who's one of our primary sponsors this year. We launched a Patreon page three years ago, and of course, we were planning on doing the first festival in 2020, but well, 2020 was an interesting year for many reasons. So we streamed the whole thing from Bopstop Studios near Medford Center. Thank you so much to George Tresk and all of our tech people that helped us with that, including Nathan Montgomery, who's running cameras tonight. Yes, please. And so this is, you know, this has been going on for some time, but it's so exciting to finally have a live event. So I really appreciate all of you coming and braving the cold weather to, you know, just really have a live audience tonight. And thank you also to those on the stream, which has been put together generously by Medford Community Media over there with Kevin Harrington. Oh, she's okay. Thank you also to my father Avi Fagan for providing the sound. I've been joking with people earlier today that I'm kind of bringing him out of retirement here. Yeah. Which, that's the plus of having your dad be a sound engineer, is you can, yes, you have the secret weapon. Really. So, a couple of other people to thank. Of course, Terry Carter, for putting together this partnership with the West Medford Community Center. It's been amazing to just have his support at pretty much every juncture of this. And to the executive director, Lisa, who I believe will be... Oh, she's on the run. Okay. Busy person. Executive director. And finally to our sponsors themselves. Starting with the people that are in our Patreon subscription who pay a couple dollars each month and they really do help raise money for events like this and also our monthly jam sessions which we've been doing quite a few of actually over the past year. We've had between five and six over the past year. It's a great opportunity for a lot of adult students to get to play with professionals and for local musicians to network. There is so much talent here in the Medford area. It's still surprising to me every single month that we do it and someone shows up and great players. Thank you also to the Arts Alive Foundation, which is run by Mae Marbeck. which has donated quite a bit to help make this possible and expand this into a two-day festival, to the Medford Arts Council for their continued support, to CACHE, which is a really wonderful organization here in Medford that connects a lot of artistic people to each other, and to the Mystic River Watershed Association, which really stepped in and also made this possible. So I hope I'm not forgetting anybody. I don't think I am. We have had a lot of support this year, which is amazing. Last, just a couple housekeeping things. Bathrooms are inside, obviously, along with a donation. A donation jar if you feel moved by what you see and hear today. Please consider donating to us. Really everything does matter. I know it's a cliche, but a couple dollars at a time is how we've gotten to where we are. There are CDs for sale and books for sale inside by both Terry and I. And there are snacks available for purchase for just a couple dollars each. And I believe there will be some hot chocolate and coffee out there later. So without further ado, I will introduce this first group, which is actually an ensemble of adult students that I've had the pleasure of working with over the past couple years over at Morningside Music Studio in Arlington, calling this the Beacon Blue Jazz Quintet. So why don't you guys come on up and we'll get started. One, two, one, two, three, four.
[Ruseau]: do
[Fagan]: Oh, great. There we go. Thank you so much. That was a Grant Green composition called Flood in Franklin Park. Let me just take a second to introduce this band. So we have Jeff Hopwood on the trumpet over there. Steven Weber on the saxophone. David Sands on the bass. Bill Kuklinski on guitar. And Mike Chen is all the way over there, hidden a little bit by the lights, but holding it down on drums. And I'm still Jonathan Fagan, and I play piano. We're going to do one of my favorite things to do as both an educator and just as an all-around musician is to have my students write things. And I feel like our trumpet player, Jeff, has definitely taken up that challenge to a different level this year. And so he calls this one One Beer Blues. Because as he explained it to me, when you have one beer, you're not feeling so great. It's only when you get past that point that things tend to improve. Is that a correct paraphrase? OK, yeah, there we go. So this is the, I mean, well, we'll see where it goes. Maybe it'll evolve into two-beer territory, but we'll see. So the one-beer blues, here we go.
[Ruseau]: One, two, one, two, three, four. Mm hmm.
[Fagan]: All right, The One Beer Blues by Jeff Hopwood. We're going to play one of mine now. When I can, I love giving my groups some of my compositions just to think about. This one is called The Dreamcatcher. It was written right after, well, a couple days after I saw Kenny Garrett. It's a great alto saxophone player who's inspired me in a number of ways. So it has some hints of Kenny Garrett in it, but probably a number of other things, too.
[Ruseau]: Music playing
[Fagan]: All right, we're going to do, well, all of the tunes that we've been working on recently are totally different in some ways. As a matter of fact, yes. As a matter of fact, yes. This next one actually was brought in by our guitar player, Bill Kuklinski.
[Ruseau]: You were there, too.
[Fagan]: I was there, too. That is true. I was going to say, Bill and I a couple of years ago went on one of Morningside Music Studios basically music tours and we ended up in Venice with an amazing vocalist named Sheila Jordan but along the way we also met a bass player named Alvise Seiji who wrote this tune and Well, Bill was the one that still had the music, somehow. Because he liked the song, and he remembers to keep things on, like me, sometimes. So we're going to play it for you. This one's called African Colors. And then after that, we're going to do a Hoagy Carmichael ballad, which is one of my favorites. That one's called The Nearness of You.
[Fagan]: All right that one again featured David Sands on the bass. And also, I guess, Jeff Hopwood on the trumpet with the melody. What the heck? I'll just introduce the whole band one more time. They're great. No, truly, this is a highlight of my week every time we get together. Bill Kuklinski on the guitar, again. And Mike Channis on the drums. We're going to do one more tune for you. This one was suggested by our bass player, but some of you may recognize it as well. This is a Miles Davis composition called Walking. And then after that, please stick around to hear the Ally Project. Warm up inside if you have to. The rumor goes that there's hot chocolate and coffee and maybe some other things in there, including books and CDs. Shameless personal plug there. Yeah, please consider, again, if you like what you hear, please consider joining our Patreon page or donating to the Medford Jazz Festival, which is on Venmo, and also we accept cash donations. All right, so here we go. We'll see how fast we can play this, given how cold our hands are at this particular moment.
[Ruseau]: do do
[Fagan]: All right, again, thank you so much. The Beacon Blue Jazz Quintet. Featuring Stephen Webber, Jeff Hopwood, David Sands, Phil Clinton. Why did I just realize this at the very, very end? Great, all right. Musicians can only count up to four, that's the saying. So anyways, please stick around, warm up, get a snack, explore the inside of the iconic West Bedford Community Center, and be back in about 10 to 15 minutes for the Ally Project.
[Ruseau]: You know, that's me because I've never done that. I was following instructions. You did. You told me and I still didn't respond. Good to see you. Glad you made it.
[o9F0qYH9Geo_SPEAKER_05]: Very good. Go inside and get a little heat.
[Cruz]: How you doing?
[Ruseau]: You guys want to go inside and get warm for a few minutes?
[SPEAKER_05]: Thank you.
[Clerk]: Hey, hey.
[SPEAKER_05]: Hey, hey, one, two, two. So you're Jonathan's father? I am, yeah. Wow. You look like you're his older brother or something. Go on. Hey, hey, one, two, two. I am 70, so I guess I could be your father. If you're not getting paid, you're retired.
[Clerk]: Hey, hey, one, two, two, two, two, two.
[Ruseau]: Thank you. On that song, I don't do much. I just kind of throw it out there. How are you kids? Oh, it's a wild card, right?
[SPEAKER_03]: I finally came and bought a stand light. It's funny, I played with this guy, just, you know, like folk music, but he's like, you know, it's all arranged. It's like, you're playing like the Rhymes, you know? It's like, you can't see any of the charts. It's like, I'm like, okay, I gotta finally get one of these. I managed to avoid it for however many years I've been playing Rhymes.
[SPEAKER_03]: My bass has been through worse than this.
[SPEAKER_04]: The seam is starting to open up a little bit But the back is just coming slightly unglued. And it's like, you know, it's not getting any worse, but that's the kind of thing they could like, you know, south quickly. So I'd rather just get it taken care of. You know, luckily I only have one upright piece. Yeah, man.
[SPEAKER_03]: That's like, that's like, yeah, that's like, you know, it's bad. It's bad.
[SPEAKER_04]: It's like, it's just like, it's in a word. Yeah, I dig it.
[SPEAKER_06]: It looks like, it looks like I look over here and out of it. The lights. Yeah, cool. Yeah.
[Ruseau]: Hi, are you Linda? Yes. What happened? I need a stand.
[SPEAKER_12]: I thought we were in the lobby. This is your monitor. Oh, OK.
[SPEAKER_06]: So I'll be on this side?
[SPEAKER_12]: I guess so.
[SPEAKER_04]: OK.
[SPEAKER_12]: Do you have another stand for me?
[SPEAKER_04]: Let me check with Jonathan. That one might be available. The one sitting downstairs there. Hey, Jonathan.
[Clerk]: Jonathan, Linda needs a music stand.
[Fagan]: Another music stand? Yeah. Yeah, we got this one over here.
[Ruseau]: That's perfect. Do it.
[Fagan]: Do it. Do it. Yeah, they should only need one.
[SPEAKER_07]: So, I think that's good.
[SPEAKER_06]: I know it's not a good one. It's a little louder. It's a little louder. One more monitor? Yeah. I always like to, if you're going to pray, to pray. That's right, I forgot that that one. Try that. Right, right, right.
[Ruseau]: That's good, nice.
[SPEAKER_06]: Hey Tyler, come here.
[Ruseau]: As you can hear, Terry and all, do you want to look at Terry and yours?
[SPEAKER_07]: I should be able to hear him beside me, right?
[SPEAKER_06]: No, he's talking and then I'm just singing with him. Yeah, we're in the same time. Yeah, a little background. We'll be singing a few lines together. Yeah, it'll be a vibe.
[o9F0qYH9Geo_SPEAKER_05]: Yeah. Yeah.
[Carter]: So we'll bring you up to reprise, okay? Okay, and then we'll do a couple other pieces, and then we'll go up to legacy, okay? And then toward the back. Okay, you got it all? Okay, okay, well you can.
[SPEAKER_03]: Yeah, I finally got it, man. Yeah, I got it just this month. Good to go? I figured. Yeah, it's all good. I'm way ahead of you.
[SPEAKER_06]: So Nathan, just all me the whole night.
[Cruz]: You got it? Perfect. I got to post it on Instagram. Yeah, I'm going to zoom in on your right hand.
[Ruseau]: I've been painting my apartment all day, man.
[SPEAKER_04]: My hand is like... I didn't realize how tired my hand was cramping up earlier.
[o9F0qYH9Geo_SPEAKER_05]: We won't protect it anymore.
[Ruseau]: That's how you know the intermission is over. You don't want to miss this.
[o9F0qYH9Geo_SPEAKER_05]: So
[Carter]: Thanks for hanging in with us. We're back here trying to talk about being a little bit chilly, but it's cold. I mean, it's cold. But it's been a warm night, and the Beacon Blues Band was real nice. They got us started out well, and we really appreciate that. I want to just remember to thank our sponsors once again. the host and the provider of this lovely venue, the West Medford Community Center Incorporated, my home. I also want to thank the Arts Alive Medford Foundation, the Mystic River Watershed Association, Cache Medford Arts Council, and a special thank you to Kevin Harrington, from Method Community Media and Kyle Douglas who is here working and Kat Darnell who all came over to make sure that we could do a live stream and a YouTube. So for those of you that are out there watching this on your computers, your laptops, your television on 3 or 47, we appreciate, we appreciate you being with us. As Jonathan said earlier, Medford Jazz Festival also has a Patreon account, so if you want to contribute to Patreon, we have information about that inside. When we finish up, Jonathan and I both have some product, as they call it, in the trade. He has some CDs. I have some of my fifth book. I'm working on my sixth now. Jonathan and I basically met at the intersection of jazz and social justice. So that's what we call this music. Music is, to a great extent, that intersection where jazz, which has always been a progressive thing in the United States, meets social justice, which is really becoming a a thing all over again. So we're happy to be working together under any circumstances, but we think it's necessary for us to work together under these particular circumstances. So by his definition and in my agreement, this is the Ally Project. And I want to introduce the players. Over here on the traps, on the drums, John Dalton. And John's got like six, seven different groups that he plays with, right? He's got a great, great group called Spheres of Influence. Spheres of Influence, okay? S-P-H-E-R-E-S, Spheres of Influence. And they do some real, real good edgy stuff. We got my man Greg Turow on what I call the big sexy, okay? That stand up bass with the hourglass figure. It's real cool. And then my friend, and really Jonathan found me. I think he had seen something that I did maybe at Martin Luther King. Was it Martin Luther King Day? And he sought me out, and we just started talking about how we could again integrate this theme of jazz, him as a musician, a composer, an arranger, a teacher, a man of many talents, and me as a humble poet. And before you know it, this thing just started to evolve. So a little over a month ago, We were in the studio recording our first CD. And we brought together this group, but also a very talented woman, who you'll hear some from a little bit later. Her name is Linda. Call her Lady Morose. And I found her. based on another friend who's also a musician and a poet named Max Heinig. And Max teaches at Medford High School and she was one of his students and when he recorded his recent CD, which I actually contributed a song to, Linda was his singer. And I heard her at the Medford Public Library and I was done. I was completely done. I said, you know, when Jonathan and I were talking, we said, well, you know, maybe we could get a singer to add some layers, a little bit of subtext to this thing. And I said, I got just the person. Hence, Linda will be singing with us in a little while. So we're going to get to it. This first piece really defines the relationship of this community, West Medford, with greater Medford. And it's a historical but somewhat fragmented relationship. And again, it began probably 15, 20 years after the Civil War, and has evolved to a very different West Medford than the West Medford that I grew up with, but that's another story for another poem. This piece is called Hired by the Mystic. They gave my people the lowlands, and not much of it. Just a few streets high by the river. Banks turned a blind eye behind the red lines, and it wasn't about the money. Class was an irresistible force. Race was an immovable object. Perhaps it wasn't a written rule, but white folks knew the legal tool to keep us in our place in this mystic valley space, where slaves and rum and chips had built some mansions, made some millionaires, and hid some old money. So it was hard by the mystic we went. Muddy and a bit turned down. The only place where one could be brown in this ancient Middlesex County town. But we named it. We claimed it. We made it our own. Even in the heat of summer when the shores were pipes and the soil was rank with the decay of aquatic alchemy, we were one with the river. We followed its flow to the lakes and the sandy beachfront. Like our own Jordan Shore, we baptized and blessed our brothers and sisters in Christ. We caught the little fishes to go with our loaves of bread and became the teaming multitude who our Lord Jesus fed, hired by the mission. We became community. We commanded unity. We embraced the village and raised up our children in the way they should go. As the river ebbs and flows, the tide will turn and our fortune grows. A few more streets become our home. Houses on Sharon join Kin on Jerome. From Duggar Park to the railroad tracks, the landed folks make more room for blacks. The color line recedes a bit. Church and school and center sit. The Ville becomes the heart of it, hard by the mystic shore. Now the worm has surely turned, and folks who left have surely learned things couldn't stay the same. The muddy mystic most days is clean. The banks are freshly cut and green. Faces once distinctly brown are not the only ones in town. The streets that once were our confines must now embrace what gentry defined. Condominium culture, bedroom convenience, university sprawl, access, e-graph, access, Now those lowlands have become the highlights of a trending city and sometimes that success isn't pretty when it's at the expense of your black and brown and tan family. And yet, the river still turns and bends from where it begins to where it ends. the only place where one could be brown in this ancient Middlesex County town where we named it and claimed it and made it our own. Thank you. Thank you. So now that you have a bit of the history, I want to talk institutionally. And in West Medford, when I was growing up, there were three, maybe four institutions that were really, really important to us. Now you're sitting in the patio of one of them, West Medford Community Center. This is the second building on the site, but this organization goes back 1945-ish. Okay, when a group of men from West Medford determined that they needed a place to be somebody. So they actually carted up from temporary military installation in Charlestown, what's called a Quonset hut, or military barracks in pieces. They brought it to this site, they poured a foundation, and they built the original West Medford Community Center. This is the second iteration of that building, and so this is one of the great institutions of the West Medford Community Center, West Medford Community. The other great institution was called Shiloh Baptist Church, and it's on the corner of Holton and Bower Streets. It's still there, it's still ministering to the needs of a predominantly African American congregation. And then the third institution was not as, not what you think it would be. It's not a school, it's not a university, it's not, let me just read the poem. The Little Store. It was a tiny red hovel on upper Jerome, a bit rundown and rough around the edges. And Mr. Henry seemed so old to us, even then, with a lot of whiskers, impatient and a little scary. One would suspect that he didn't even like kids. But he really must have loved us. Or else, where did all that penny candy come from? He had all of it. No, no, seriously. We'd bust in there with a few nickels or a handful of pennies, all loud and unruly. He'd hush us up while he finished with grown folks' business. Then he'd be back like a black Willy Wonka up in that old shack. He'd peer over those old horn rimmed glasses and tell us he didn't have all day. Then he'd blow open one of those small brown craft paper bags and get to stuffing while we were oohing and aahing. Muffin and Puffin. See, Mr. Henry had all the treats. All of our favorites. 100 great sweets. Root beer barrels and pixie sticks. Squirrel nut zippers and banana splits. Green mint juleps and button strips. Red licorice ropes and bottle nips. He had bazooka Joe bubble gum. And a tiny sucker called a dum-dum. Yaw breakers and Tootsie Rolls. Sugary love for little kids sold. Candy necklaces to wear and fight, and waxy red lips were such a sight. Fat gum cigars and kid cigarettes right beside the crunchy sticks. Hot fireballs and Mexican hats. Just the genuine Percy's kisses. All of the hits and none of the misses. Like kids' taffy squares and Necco wafers. Liquor made in Boston may be. Gold rocks, nuggets of gum in a bag. from cold January to chilly December. More kinds of candy than I can remember at the Mill storefront on Upper Jerome. I knew I had to write this poem. See, Mr. Henry had all of the treats, all of our favorites, a hundred great sweets. So now I have the distinct pleasure of welcoming to the stage our collaborator, our friend, a muse of sorts, Linda Lady Moreau. We're gonna do an old tune, a takeoff on an old tune by Nat Simon, popularized by the pianist Ahmed Jamal. That tune was called Poinciana, and this riff on Poinciana is called Reprise for Poinciana. Perfect a fantasy in black and tan. Between the Savoy ballroom and a Paris can-can. The kind of blue that doesn't get you down. It rather has you twirling round and round and round. Kind of blue, but not really. Like a conversation between Miles and Q in a smoke-filled corner, just those two talking about the music round midnight. Miles and that miraculous horn, all gravel-voicing, full of scorn, asking Q, what made you feel like doing stuff like that? Jazz finds justice in the majesty of the blues. Take five to wonder, and you'll know that this is true. Deep and delicious all over. Pondered passionately in pianissimo, keeping standard time. Duke's mood indigo, Joe Sample's rainbow seeker, Errol Garner's misty worship in the style of G. You know the melody, songs you just can't get out of your head. Kind of blue, but not really. just like the woman whose name you call as autumn leaves begin to fall. Or maybe like that melody by Ahmad Jamal. Po-en-ci-a-na. Last days of sun and sand and sea. You and your love and the music made three. A lyric so familiar, a song so free, so sweet. Ebony notes on an ivory sheet. New tear stains on every page. A bit of your heart in a crystal cage. Kind of blue, but not really. You'll remember her most round midnight. Poesiana, fragrant, fresh wind recollections, a song reprise.
[SPEAKER_12]: Summer breeze makes me feel fine. Oh, through the jazz winds of my mind.
[Carter]: Miles in queue in that smoke-filled corner, talking about taking the A train, going up to Smalls Paradise. Sassy's going to be scatting, and Hawk's band is in town, doing jazz some real justice. Marvelous, majestic, and kind of blue, but not really. You'll remember her most round midnight. Po-en-ci-a-na. Pungent rose petal pictures, a song reprise.
[SPEAKER_12]: The first time ever I saw your face.
[Carter]: fantasy perfected in cocoa and cream, Harlem nights in a Moulin Rouge daydream, the kind of blue that fills your soul, engulfs your spirit, and makes you whole. My Poinciana, I'll remember you most round midnight, frail fragments of love's fulfillment, kind of blue, but not really. Your song, reprise.
[SPEAKER_12]: ♪ Till you come back to me ♪ ♪ That's what I'm gonna do ♪ Poinciana, my Poinciana.
[Carter]: Linda Morales. John Dalton on the drums. Rafe Toro on the stand up, Jonathan Fagan on the keys, and I'm Terry Cotter. So, Linda, you just know, right? All right. So. I mean, at the intersection of jazz and social justice, there's some real nice music, but there's also some dangerous stuff that's taking place, some dangerous stuff that we have to take into account and play about. So we're gonna play a piece called Microaggressions. You'll never know what this feels like. 24-7, 365, 366 in the leap year, and it's definitely a black thing. Why? I'm so glad you asked. You call the police on us like you're calling a building manager to come unclog your toilet. Why? Because you can. The skin you're in says, I win. We can't ever be too loud. We can't ever be too educated. We can't ever be too proud. We can't ever be too dedicated. Nobody follows you around in Nordstrom just because. Nobody asks you for your ID on campus just because. Nobody sprints and cuffs you without provocation just because, just because of the skin you're in. You can never be too loud. You can never be too educated. You can never be too proud. You can never be too dedicated. We live with this every day. We deal with this every day. We're mindful of this every day. We're stressed by this every day. never walked a mile in my shoes. You can't feel how much these shoes pinch my toes. You can't feel the tightness and discomfort in every step I have to take in a whitewashed world. But why? Why does it take 26 bullets to subdue a black boy with his back turned and no weapon save a cell phone? Why do major corporations like Unilever, H&M, and Heineken perpetuate racial stereotypes with tone-deaf advertising on the regular? Why does the sitting potent think it's okay to call the country where my people came from, home? Why does a black child in grade school get put out of class for the same type of force play, or youthful obstinance, or mild assertiveness that gets his white classmate a simple, Johnny, behave yourself. You don't know how it feels to see the smiling faces of rednecks and Klansmen, Klanswomen and Klanskids standing hundreds deep in a field where the charred body of a black boy is dangling from a noose on the bow of an ancient oak tree. Perhaps the Jew does when he sees the image of naked bodies piled in the rigor of death at Auschwitz or Dachau. Perhaps the native Apache or Cherokee does when she sees the grainy illustrations of the forced death marches of her ancestors across the Trail of Tears. Perhaps the Japanese immigrant does when he remembers the barbed wire perimeters and horse stables converted to living quarters for the forced internment of potential enemy agents. But you, heir to Anglo-Euro spoils of colonial conquest and systemic privilege do not have radar for this, do not have a frame of reference for this, do not have an appreciation of this. You do not have the emotional intelligence for these little hurts of the heart, bee stings to the brain, sucker punches to the soul, spilled milk of the spirit. You say, It's nothing we think you should cry over, even as you watch us sometimes die over. These microaggressions, these race-fueled transgressions, this constant procession of slings and arrows that seldom miss the target when the bullseye is black like me. So people ask sometimes, why are you so angry? And I try to tell them I'm a loving and compassionate person. I'm a man of faith. I'm not angry. I'm resolute. I think it's important that we tell the truth and shame the devil. I think it's important that We talk about the things that are issues between us because if we can't bridge the gulfs, and there are many between us, we're in for a long and bumpy ride. But the neighborhood that I grew up in, West Medford, has changed an awful lot. It was at one time a very nuclear African-American neighborhood that took up about eight or 10 streets, right around where we are now. But things are changing. Part of the change is actually going up. I don't know if you can see it right beside us. It's a multi-unit dwelling in front of a house that, in all honesty, we used to own, but that's another story for another day. But I wanna play, we wanna play a little tune for you called Gentrified. They talk about renovating, reimagining, and rehabilitating. They rave about new visions, new horizons, and new perspectives. They revel in bistros, boutiques, and boulangeries. They fairly skip to the subway stations. They bike on the painted pathways. They Uber and Lyft religiously. Everything's on trend and on point and au pair. They've codified the way they speak about what used to be urban blight, eyesores, drug dens, crack houses, tenements, and slums, the ghetto. They've modified the way they speak about what we now see, makeovers, investment properties, B&Bs, brownstones, townhouses, condos, and co-ops. Everything's vintage, bohemian, artsy, and retro, with creative green spaces and lofted open places. Speculators bought lower than low, patiently waiting for the change, waiting for the junkies to move on, waiting for the squatters to give up, waiting for the blacks and the browns and the tans to fade. They waited for the graffiti to erode. They waited for the chain link to corrode. They waited for the family to implode. They waited for the prices to explode. They waited, and they calculated. They waited as folks capitulated. They waited as folks evacuated. They waited as folks migrated. Then the realtors came and dispelled white folks' fears. The architects came and re-engineered. The designers came and changed the veneers. The builders came and the new folk cheered. Now they've moved closer to work in the city, to quartz countertops that made kitchens pretty, to chowder schools, nannies, and drivers, and bite frames made with carbon fibers, to Starbucks lattes and artisanal breads, and articulated sleep number beds, to million dollar urban show places, and fewer and fewer black and brown faces. They showed us their heels when they took the white flight. Then they crept back in in the dead of night. With fat bank accounts, they were IPO wealthy. Their move to this place was measured and stealthy. All of the potholes now smoothly paved over. Brown folks got schooled like a Curry crossover. White folks doing a long-term sleepover. Exclusive, obtrusive, extreme home makeover. full of sugar, they took all the clover. Changing the context of neighborhood with subway tile and exotic wood. Harlem, Detroit, and Chicago's South Side. Boston's South End surely gentrified. Empty the church. Emptied the steeple, now it's a spot for the chai-drinking people. Took down the poles and the basketball hoops, now it's a park for the dog-walking troops. No more rec and community center, but a new parking lot for the monthly renters. Some folks hang on, but the die is cast. The fire consumes and the torch is passed. Invisible lines are drawn again, and the folks can't buy when the banks won't lend. Some folks keep their roots in the ground, but the waiting game is deep and profound. They tour the streets noting history, yet what they want is no mystery. Holland, Detroit, and Chicago's South Side, a reoccupation is being applied to model cities that trickle down, no longer suited to black and brown. The urban sprawl that used to be the only homes that we got to see is now the place for growing infusion, is now the space that the gentry is choosing. low-rise projects slowly yield to equity building leases sealed to folks who came from far afield who won the fight when the poor folk appealed to lawyers and doctors and high-tech heroes with Trust Fund One and Hedge Fund Zero. No preserving community, no real thought of legacy, a small flag here, a street sign there, nothing that bronzes the atmosphere. Oakland, Brooklyn, and New Orleans, all made targets by whites with means. Even in venerable chocolate cities, the news in the district inspires some pity. killing the concept of neighborhood in ways they've never understood. And now we witness the slow, painful slide as the village we built becomes gentrified. My mother used to say, life is hard, but fair. You had a good home, but you didn't stay there. So I want to bring back our friend, our muse, Linda Moreau, and she's going to join me for a tune we call Legacy. How you folks holding up? Good, good, good. You enjoying yourselves? Yes. All right, all right. When we do this the next time, we've got to definitely make sure that we do it in warmer weather. And the forecast tomorrow suggests rain, suggested very dramatically. So we are assuming that we will be inside tomorrow as opposed to outside. So hopefully if you come back tomorrow, you won't have to suffer through the chill. You good to go? It's not for you to tell your own story. That is the burden of your children. They must shoulder this yoke with love and loyalty. And yet, you have not gathered them up and bid them sit before the campfires of their elders. You have not seasoned their meals with the spice of their identity and the savor of their name. How will they learn to walk the walk and talk the talk? How will they learn to tell your story even as they live out their own? Sons and daughters and heirs, if you didn't smell the burning ash or feel the warmth of the flame on your neck, you don't know. If you didn't revel in the growl of the griot's earthly reply or the trill of the mockingbird's cry, you don't know. If mama was too tired and daddy too long gone to carry the wood, light the spark, and stoke the flames, you don't know. And until the lion cub knows how to tell the pride story, the hunters will always tell them first. The good book says, train up the child in the way they should go. Will we let them depart from the community of faith and the city on a hill without the master's touch, without the oil of his anointing and his full measure of grace? Will we not show them Anansi's clever ways, Popo and Fafina's journey, Muparo's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly, the wonders of Wakanda, and Song Kololo's news hacky. The prophet says he will encourage fathers and their children to return. But how will they know the way home if no map charts the seas, measures the roads, cites the peaks and valleys, and names each forest despite the thickening stream? Will the burden of the elder stories be too heavy for the children? Will they care to carry? Will they dare to tarry? Will they linger at the foot of the griot? Will they hunger for the wisdom of the sage? We must put them on the page, where hard work earns the man his wage, where power is measured by God's own gauge, where miracles scarf at the wand of a maid. We must share with them the truth that is loyal and fierce like Naomi and Ruth, that doesn't wait for the confessional boot, that has the bite of the panther's tooth. This is a gift of legacy, where a glorious past sets the captives free, and a candle's light beckons liberty. sons and daughters and heir. I bid you sit before the campfires of your elders, hear their stories, gather up their stones, and build up your strength. They will show you Anansi's club away, Popo and Fafina's journey, Mufaro's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly, the wonders of Wakanda, and Sangololo's Tutaki. Soon you will be the herald. Write these things down on the tablets of your spirit. Let them put a running in your feet. With each quickening step, You repel the arrows of the hunter with the shield of abiding faith. You capture the flags of your enemies and gather up their spoils. You remain the lions of your pride and your children, your tales will always be your children's friends. You will never abandon the community of faith, though you build a thousand cities on a hill, drawing wondrous strength from the master's touch, as the oil of his anointing fills your clay jars with his grace. Linda Morales. So you're in what has been traditionally called The Ville, probably short for village, but I'm not 100% sure of that. And it's also called The Hood, short for The Neighborhood. So we're gonna do a piece called Neighborhood. Neighborhood is a place where mothers buy extra food for kids that aren't even their own, on the premise that they will eventually show up hungry. Neighborhood is grandmas and grandpas that raise their children's children long after they've raised their own, lovingly, carefully, happily, long after they've raised their own. Neighborhood is that corner bodega where the nice Spanish man always gave you 10 cents worth of penny candy when all you ever had was a nickel. Neighborhood is the homeowner that doesn't look down his nose at the frazzled rental with the Section 8 and a few kids without a daddy. Neighborhood is the block party that everyone comes to. And nobody calls the cops. No drugs, no guns, no drama. Cooling the gang, earth, wind, and fire, Rick James, Tina Marie, and Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan. Neighborhood knows everybody's name but isn't collecting big data on anyone. Keeps tabs on strangers but doesn't discriminate based on color or caste or custom. Neighborhood keeps pies and cookies ready to welcome newcomers, and always has something to invite folk to, and always has something good to eat when you get there. Neighborhood loves all of its children, watches out for all of the babies, disciplines fairly, drops dimes carefully, daps up consistently, and marches for justice dutifully. Neighborhood cares for its sick with homemade chicken soup, ginger tea, flowers, cards, and pastoral visits. Never lets you feel lonely, never leaves you alone. Neighborhood laments the loss of its kings and queens reverently, even while it celebrates their lives jubilantly and recollects their ways permanently. Neighborhood has well-worn welcome mats and four-way stop signs, a community gathering place as the hub of the wheels, and nicknames like The Port, The Coast, and The Ville. Neighborhood says yes more than it says no, chooses love over hate, never cries when it could laugh, and never laughs when it should cry. Neighborhood understands the importance of respect, covers everyone with an umbrella, shovels snow for its elders, pronounces your name right, and picks up the poop left by its dog. Small, medium, and large. And no matter where you go, neighborhood is always the place you call home. Once again, John Dalton on drums, Greg Toro on bass, Jonathan Fagan on the keys. So again, that intersection of jazz and social justice, I'm gonna take it back a little bit and forward at the same time with a piece we call Riding Up Front. can't do it don't even ask me black it's a bus but i ain't riding in the back young bloods ain't got no idea of how long we had to ride in the red in the lazy south american apothecary the law of the land was stratified seats up front unoccupied yet a pregnant brown girl can sit and ride Elders, toddlers, just didn't matter. And don't let them hear no race talk or chatter. Redneck drivers would put us out. But y'all don't know what I'm talking about. Then along came courageous Rosa Parks, tired and weary, but full of sparks. Took a seat in the first few rows, seeking not chaos, but simple repose. Think them whites heard what she was saying? Hell no, and them crackers for sure wasn't playing. She held up Miss Rosa without dignity, commending her acts to our history. You don't have no gratitude, no pride in self, just attitude. You make your way to the back of the bus. You drink and smoke and holler and cuss. You say it's your prerogative. You say it's just the way you live. You just don't get it. You just don't care. So cavalier, so unaware. But I can't do it. Don't even ask me, black. It's a bust. But I ain't riding in the back. Three seats up front. That's for me. I'm digging Miss Rose's legacy. Here it is. All right. We are getting to the good part. So as I said earlier, in the jazz canon, there are these signature tunes that if you know jazz, you can be anywhere and hear three or four notes and you can name that tune. This is one of those tunes written, composed, and played by the legendary John Coltrane. was called Naima. Our take on it is called Reprise for Naima. He would blow this note in the midnight air. Aloft in the ether, it floats out there. Staccato cadence sets a mood of bluesy lyrical attitude. Improvisational mystery like Monk's piano epistrophe, or Miles' tone poem in a silent way, and Flanagan's peace at the end of the day. Syncopated and sharp, bright tone, a countdown to stardust, a twilight zone, like a blue train running against the night, setting the pace then out of sight. With Hartman crooning of bags-on vibes. Trios, duets, quartets, and tribes. The blues, the ballads, the avant-garde. Incredibly gorgeous, impossibly hard. Giant steps move us miles ahead. Cooking up bop for Harlem street cred. Melodies hand to the harmony wed. Pianos lullaby fresh in the bed. Rhythm rocks with a drum of lead. Rhythm rolls with a bass man's fed. Rhythm burlesque. them heard what the master said. How could he make the bitter taste sweeter? How could a tortured mind delete her? How could the mellowed scotch be neater? How could the smoke from each cigarette create blue notes that cast a net, create blue beads of cascading sweat, create blue haze that compounds regret, create blue nights that we can't forget? Coltrane's notes are a crystal scale, a velvet scream in the urban travail, the heavenly riff of a love supreme, the pungent whip of his lover's theme. Coltrane's knots are a cozy romance, the breezy bounce of a bop and a dance, the languid lilt of stray's lush life, the cadence cut by the artist's knife. Coltrane's notes are a standard refine, like gold in a pan or gemstones mine, the sparkling glow of a hopeful dream, hot black coffee with a hint of cream. Coltrane's notes are Naima's reprise, like madness that brings a man to his knees, or sadness that comes when lovers part, the gladness removed from the balladeer's heart. A tight arrangement cuts the gloom. The melody sends that love's in bloom. The harmony spirit engulfs the room. The bride says yes to her lyrical broom. The groove and the beat then jumps the broom. The kick drum resounds with a sonic boom. As genius is birthed in a soul-filled room. Musical mythology mocks a twisted path the hero walks. With sealed and sword the hero stalks. The tempest shakes her twisted locks. Medusa snakes his vision shocks. Holds up the mirror to stony blocks. The harp and the horn melt icy rocks. Serpents retreat and symphony talks. Love's door opens as lyric. Coltrane's notes are a rollercoaster, a hallelujah and a paternoster, the glorious jolt of the maestro's hand, the saxophone titan is in command. Coltrane's notes are a crazy rhythm, the squawk of chords and playful schism, the frenetic pace of Mr. PC, the coolest round midnight will ever be. Coltrane's notes are genius refined, like gold in a pan or gemstones mined, the sparkling glow of a hopeful dream, hot black coffee with a hint of cream. Coltrane's notes are Naima's reprieve, like madness that brings a man to his knees, or sadness that comes when lovers part. Then, gladness revived by the balladeer's heart. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, yes, yes. See, these cats can play. So that's, you know, that's how that goes. All right. So we're going to bring Linda back up. We're going to do a piece called Kitchen Table Poem.
[SPEAKER_08]: All righty. All right. Good? Bye-bye.
[Carter]: Nobody ever wants to leave. They're like the blueberry stains on mama's apron, settled and satisfied. Good food has been eaten. Fresh corn and collard greens, fried chicken and potato salad, bellies are fat and full. This is that room.
[SPEAKER_12]: Are you serious right now?
[Carter]: It's real talk. We're real people. Family. You know what I'm saying? We're family. You can smell the love long before the doors open. You know there's going to be pecan pie and the sweet tea will be ice cold. Southern folk will slip out of their northerness. Accents will thicken and the country shade will feel closer than the city sun. And they'll stay at that table long after the crumbs are cleared. The dishes will be all washed. The food will be put away or packed in Tupperware and Ziploc bags. Everyone will have a doggie bag and a story to tell. The men will be playing bids, slapping down some dominoes, sipping on a little something something, and talking big trash. The smiles will be broad and the laughter will be contagious. The women will be fanning and fussing.
[SPEAKER_07]: That ain't the dress for her, okay? That ain't no Sunday saved outfit. That ain't for Saturday night sinning. You know I'm right. Girl, you know I'm right.
[Carter]: Nobody ever wants to leave. They're like black Jesus's eyes on that old print. Loving and insistent. Soul food has been shared. My Jean prayed down heaven and the babies sang their song. Everyone's tickled and tranquil. This is that room. I really miss pap. Mom's holding her own. And baby boy's cancer's in remission. And when you coming back to church, it's real talk. We're real people. Family. You know what I'm saying?
[SPEAKER_12]: We're family.
[SPEAKER_08]: Family.
[Carter]: You better do that. Linda Morose, thank you so much. Okay, so we're gonna finish up with a piece called Beloved Country. And I always say this, you know, to preface this, if you're not, you know, native, native, native, native, Um, then you and your ancestors or your ancestors came here from someplace else, right? So this is about the folks who came from someplace else and who just want to be in with the in crowd. It's called Beloved Country. I can love this country, too. I didn't have to be born on these bonding shores. I didn't have to be a son of the Pentacook or Quinnipiac or Mohican. I didn't have to have a pilgrim pedigree or be a Connecticut Yankee from King Arthur's Court. I can be the Dahomian, the Pole, or the child of Caribbean suns in Amazon shade. I can love this country too. My green card was a welcome ticket to a new life in a new land. My passport was stamped with new hopes and new dreams. My suitcases were packed full of new aspirations and some apprehensions too. Perhaps I didn't see the harbor sign that said, give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuge of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door. Perhaps I didn't see the gleaming city on a hill that couldn't be hid, and my soul responded. I can love this country, too. I can love its rocky mountains and its rolling meadows. I can love its gospel songs and its crazy rhythms. I can love its asphalt highways and its born-to-run bars. I can love its teeming ghetto and its urban sprawl. I can love its old fires, new minarets, and golden menorahs. But can America love me too? Can she love my curry spices, roti, and oxtails? Can she love my hijab and henna tattoos? Can she love my Hajj, my Mecca, my Medina? Can she love my Cinco de Mayo, my Dia de los Muertos? Can she love my kente cloth, dreads, twists, and locks? Can she love the skin I'm in, be it ebony, ivory, dulce de leche, or cafe au lait? Can she love me by name? Shekinah Glory, Muhammad bin Saeed, Anastasia Kozoff, Cleophis Dorcio, Claudia Gonzalez, can she love me by name? And what if I am among those huddled masses and that wretched refuge or that homeless, tempest-tossed, will she continue to lift her lamp? or do war and rumors of war, IEDs, sleeper cells, and faith distortions make me a pariah to be eliminated, a scourge to be annihilated, and a plague to be exterminated. I come in peace. I love this country, too. I love its boundless opportunity. I love its generosity of spirit. I love the audacity of its hope. I love its rolling meadows and its joyful songs. I love its asphalt highways and its little red Corvettes. I love its teeming ghetto and its urban sprawl. I love its old spires, new minarets, and golden menorah. I come in peace and I love America too. I come in peace and I love America too. That's our time. Once again, John Dalton on the drums. Greg Toro on bass, Jonathan Fagan on the keys. I'm Terry E. Cotter, that's Linda Lady Morose, and we are the Ally Project. Thank you so much for joining us this evening. We appreciate you making it out to this first outdoor jazz festival. More to come, definitely, but I want to thank our congenial, convivial, loving host, the West Medford Community Center, Incorporated. I want to thank Arts Alive, Medford Foundation, the Mystic River Watershed Association. Again, thanks to Cache, the Medford Arts Council, an offshoot of the Massachusetts Cultural Council, Medford Community Media, Audie and Sound Company, out of retirement. Avi Fagan, Kevin Harrington, Kyle Douglas, Lisa Crossman, our executive director, one of our board members, Melinda is out in the back there. Thank you, Melinda. And my man, Nathan. Nathan Montgomery. on the cameras, and we've had a blast. We've had a really good time. It was a little bit chilly. There's still refreshments inside, so go in and avail yourself. Jonathan and I will come in if you want a CD of Jonathan's music. If you want a book, I've got some books. And make sure that you stay tuned for what we've got coming up next, okay? There's always something good happening at the West Medford Community Center. All right, God bless y'all.
[SPEAKER_03]: Oh, thank you so much. I was so nervous, and then it was cold. Oh, you're warm, too? Oh, yeah. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to have to carry me to the car.
[SPEAKER_07]: Thank you, it's chilly out, so I'm trying my best. Thank you, oh my gosh.
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total time: 8.0 minutes total words: 153 |
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