[SPEAKER_06]: look at what they did last night for our student night. It looks awesome. My dad, Avi Fagan. I joke that he comes out of retirement for this, so we really appreciate it. To our volunteers and staff, Reese and Eli up there. They're selling some books already.
[SPEAKER_00]: And my partner Shayla, of course, who I couldn't do this whole thing without.
[SPEAKER_06]: Galel, who's sitting on the steps helping out with sound, right here. And of course, Terry Carter, who is really the reason that this whole thing is happening here at the West Medford Community Center. He's a fixture in the community, an amazing poet. All right. Oh, and who else am I forgetting? Jim and oh, Bruce over there has been helping out the whole weekend as well with some of the camera work. So, even with all of these folks, it still takes a lot of different financial contributions for this all to happen. If you look up at our banner, we should have most of our sponsors there. Medford Community Media, of course the West Medford Community Center, Medford Arts Council, and the Mass Cultural Council, along with the Arts Alive Medford Foundation. This is our first year with food vendors as well.
[SPEAKER_00]: Danish Pastry House inside.
[SPEAKER_06]: They've set up an amazing spread and totally blown away all expectations there. In between tunes, in between groups, go check them out. There are also restrooms inside for anyone who might need to take advantage of those. Yeah, and also Triangle Manor, which is a local t-shirt company that's made some awesome shirts for everybody, and EXP Realty. There are a number of individual sponsors as well, including people that have signed up for our Patreon page. That's a monthly subscription and it really makes a difference in doing things like jam sessions and other concerts throughout the year. There are QR codes everywhere for those of you who feel inspired to donate, both to our Venmo, which just goes to at Medford Jazz Festival, and also to that particular Patreon page, which has been a huge support. Alright, so I think that's everything. I always feel like I'm forgetting somebody with this, but yeah, please check back in later, and Terry Carter's going to tell you a little bit about this first group and about the space.
[Terry Carter]: All right, thank you, thank you. Jonathan Fagan is a convener and founder of the Medford Jazz Festival, and he's an amazing composer and pianist and all things musical, so you'll be hearing from him soon. This is the West Medford Community Center. We've been in business for 90 years now. We are the heart of the historic African-American community of Medford and you know, we're right by the Mystic River. There's a long history of us in the river and the three streets and all of that stuff that you'll hear about a little bit more later. But we want to get right to the business and we want to make sure that we don't cut into the time for our our first act of day two. And for any of you who were with us last night, we had an amazing time with the two groups that played last night, with the Morningside Jazz All-Stars from Morningside Music School, who were fantastic. And then with Anita Wood and her group, AJ and the group, I mean, we just, we had a good time. They had me dancing before the night was over, so it was all good. So thank you. Debbie, who sang with the Morningside Jazz All-Stars last night, and she was fabulous. Okay, so, our first act of Saturday is Recita de Samba, taken from Jacob de Bandolim's choral of the same name. It means in Portuguese, and I just found this out, you know, from the source, Recipe for Samba, an app named for a group whose focus is to showcase many flavors of Brazilian music in their purest form, with no artificial additives, I love that, like drum machines or electric sampling. The chefs, their cuisine, a husband and wife, Ana Borges and Bill Ward, and they draw on Boston's vibrant Brazilian music scene to cook up only the finest,
[Unidentified]: Only the finest.
[Terry Carter]: Finest bossa nova and samba as well as regional specialties such as fordo, ihecha, and coco.
[Clayton]: I hope I got that right.
[Terry Carter]: My Brazilian isn't, you know. Okay, Anna Borges, originally from Recife, Pernambuco, began her career in Brasilia singing in local nightclubs and theaters.
[Unidentified]: Eventually she learned to play guitar and enrolled in a escola de musica de Brasilia where she studied voice with Jane DuBose Shinseng in a choral group studying both classical and popular techniques.
[Terry Carter]: After many years working closely with Brazilian guitarist Aljoson Alcantara, I'm in a move to Boston where she began a musical collaboration with Bill Ward, Bill Ward, Bill Ward. He's a pianist, guitarist, and singer who has explored in depth many musical universes. I love that. That's poetic. He began as a jazz pianist, winning downbeat polls as a high school student, and later studying at Oberlin Conservatory with Dan Wall and Sam from Margolis. He got his first Giorgio Berto record when he was 13, but it wasn't until college that he fell deeper and deeper into the, this is really poetic, into the vortex of Brazilian music. Lately, he has immersed himself in the universe of classical piano, pursuing a master's degree in piano performance at Boston University, where he studies with Goya Charon and Gilda Goldstein. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, Recita de Samba.
[Clayton]: Cheguei na tia, cheguei na tia Cheguei à toa C'est la tarde, me perdoa Través de tantos e amores tantos Pela madrugada C'est la tarde, me perdoa Eu vinha só dançar City, forgive me. I didn't know you knew such a good life. City, forgive me. I thought I was going to leave, I thought I was going to die. City, forgive me. foreign Forgive me, but I didn't know that you knew That life is so good if it's without me We love you guys! Good luck!
[SPEAKER_02]: Thank you so much. This first song was by Carlos Vira, one of the, you know, God of Bossa Nova. So if it's too late, forgive me. That's the title. I'll try to translate.
[SPEAKER_05]: I'm not very good at that, but I think you're gonna get a little bit of, you know, about what I'm singing.
[SPEAKER_02]: So this next piece is like influence of the jazz. So jazz influence. So it's about like a song that also like I was reading about like the influence of jazz and solo. So it's kind of like when you're talking about solo has this but jazz has that. And you know, you're gonna see how it goes.
[SPEAKER_05]: foreign foreign Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go,
[Unidentified]: do do
[Clayton]: foreign foreign Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go,
[SPEAKER_05]: Thank you. I think this next piece is, you might know, it's a wave.
[Clayton]: But I think it's just an action that you can have.
[SPEAKER_05]: When you're in love, it's impossible to be happy alone.
[Clayton]: I can't get used to it, because I don't know how to tell. They're little things that come and go. Blessings, meditations, it's impossible to be happy alone. It's a city. It's a city. It's a city. It's a city. Things that can only be seen can't be seen. I'm going to go back to the beach. It's impossible to be here alone. What I don't know how to use are things of peace that I don't have to take. Green and blue, green and blue. It's impossible to be here alone.
[Unidentified]: I don't know the lyrics. Music .
[SPEAKER_02]: I wanna switch for the next one instead of.
[SPEAKER_05]: Sometimes we argue about like, I wanna sing this song. I was like, I don't wanna play this song. I was like, what? But it's fine. We always. I go to the samba of the land of Jesus, to drink the light and see the bambas. A magic seduces me. My heart pours out. I'm in Bahia, street party. In the Cantina da Lua there's samba. Beber a luz, rever os bambas, uma magia me seduz. Meu coração se derrama. Tô na Bahia, eu tô. Festa de lua, eu vou. Na cantina da lua, tem que descer. Pode chegar sossegado que essa mesa é branca. Vou bater palma de mão com fé no coração. I'm from Saúde, I'm from there. Oh, oh, oh. is Okay. I'm from Escorregal, I'm from Izu de Noé, I have a little bit of guava and a banana peel. I'm, I'm from Saúde, I'm from there. I'm from Gamboa, Praça Mauá, I'm the samba. I'm, I'm, I'm from Saúde, I'm from there. From the time that Bobo was Bobo and Mamba Bamba. ♪ Sou do Estácio, eu sou de lá ♪ ♪ Chapéu, Panamá, bicolor no pé, linho branco ♪ ♪ Sou, sou, sou do Ter, eu vim de lá e tô com saudade de lá para ser branco ♪ ♪ Dia dois, dois de dezembro, eu vou pra Bahia salvar, eu vou pra lá ♪ ♪ Dia dois, dois de dezembro, eu vou pra Bahia salvar, eu vou pra lá ♪ Thank you. João Bosco's songs is always like crazy. So this is a Terreiro de Jesus, where he's from.
[SPEAKER_02]: It's a place in Bahia, where Bahia has a lot of, we have a lot of African contribution. And this is like, he's describing where he's from, and it's a very powerful song, beautiful. Hard to sing on Saturday morning. Singers like to sing at night. Ah, I'm tired. So let's go back to the other one, which is sampa. Sampa is like that's an abbreviation of Sao Paulo. So this is by Caetano Veloso, who also described how it was like being sampa for the first time. Because it's a, Sao Paulo is like New York. So, and he's, he says like beautiful and poetic things about Sao Paulo. This is more quiet.
[SPEAKER_05]: Something happens in my heart, that only when I cross the Epiranga and Avenida São João, is that when I got here, I didn't understand anything. Natura, poesia concreta de tuas esquinas, da deselegância discreta de duas meninas. Ainda não havia para me retaliar a tua mais completa tradução. Alguma coisa acontece no meu coração. ♪ E só quando cruza Ipiranga e Avenida São João ♪ ♪ Quando eu te carei frente a frente e não vi o meu rosto ♪ ♪ Chamei de mau gosto que vi de mau gosto, mau rosto ♪ ♪ É que nascis o achapé e que não é que não ♪ Ainda não é mesmo velho Nada do que não era antes Quando não somos mutantes E fosse um difícil começo Afasta o que não conheço E que vem de outro sonho e feliz de cidade Aprende depressa a chamar-te De realidade Porque és o avesso do avesso do avesso do avesso do povo oprimido nas filas, nas filas favelas. Da força da grana que ergue e destrói coisas belas. Da feia fumaça que soa. I see your poets come from fields and spaces, your forest workshops, your rain gods. Pan-America, Africa, the utopias, the tumulus of samba, the most possible new zombie quilombo, and the new Bahians And the new boyars can enjoy it. ♪ Eu vejo surgir teus poetas de campos e espaços ♪ ♪ Tuas oficinas de florestas, teus deuses da chuva, vai! ♪ ♪ Panamericas de africas utópicas, tumulo do samba mais possível, novo quilombo de zumbis ♪ ♪ E os novos baianos passeiam na tua garoa ♪ ♪ E novos baianos te podem... ♪ Thank you. I think you might know this one, and feel free if you want to dance.
[SPEAKER_02]: I'm not going to say anything.
[SPEAKER_05]: Samba. is But this samba, which is mixed with maracanã, is Mais que nada sai da minha frente que eu quero passar Pois o samba está animado e o que eu quero é sambar Mas esse samba que é misto de maracatu Samba de preto velho, samba de preto tu Mais que nada um samba como esse tão legal Você não vai querer Thank you so much.
[SPEAKER_02]: All right. More songs to dance. This is by Chico Buarque, one of my favorites. He's amazing. So translation for this one is like, let the girl dance. Do not stop her any time. Not a good husband, not. So just let her go and dance.
[SPEAKER_05]: Seguro está na sua presença, meu trezado rapaz, mas você vai mal, mas vai mal demais. São dez horas, o samba tá quente, deixa a morena contente, deixa a menina dançar em paz. I didn't want to throw confetti, but I have to say it. You're chipping away. You're hurting. And if you continue to rush with that face of a husband, the girl is capable of getting bored. ♪ Atrás de um homem triste há sempre uma mulher feliz ♪ ♪ E atrás dessa mulher mil homens sempre tão gentis ♪ ♪ Por isso, para o seu bem, oh, tira-la da cabeça ♪ ♪ Oh, mereça a moça que você tem ♪ ♪ Não sei se é pra ficar exultante, meu querido rapaz ♪ ♪ O aguenta mais ♪ São dez horas, o samba tá quente ♪ Deixa a morena contente ♪ Deixa a menina sambar em paz ♪ Por trás de um homem triste há sempre uma mulher feliz ♪ ♪ E atrás dessa mulher mil homens sempre tão gentis ♪ ♪ Por isso, para o seu bem, oh, tira ela da cabeça ♪ ♪ Oh, mereça a moça que você tem ♪ ♪ Se é por estar na sua presença, meu prezado rapaz, mas você vai mal ♪ ♪ Mas vai mal demais ♪ ♪ São dez horas e o samba tá quente ♪ ♪ Deixa a morena contente ♪ ♪ Deixa a menina sambar em paz ♪ ♪ Eu não queria jogar confete, mas tenho que dizer ♪ ♪ Cê tá de lascar, você tá de doer ♪ It's three o'clock, the samba is hot, make the brunette happy, let the girl samba in peace. Behind a sad man, there is always a happy woman. And behind this woman, a man always comes. ♪ Por isso, para o seu bem, oh, tira ela da cabeça ♪ ♪ Oh, mereça a moça que você tem ♪ ♪ Não sei se é pra ficar exultante, meu prezado rapaz ♪ ♪ Mas é que ninguém o aguenta mais ♪ ♪ São três horas, o sonho é o que faz ♪ Thank you. Just want to thank you one more time for everybody for the invitation to be here with Be Worried, with Greg.
[SPEAKER_02]: That's our first time. So happy we're here. Renato Malavati. My name is Ana Borges. Feel free if you wanna join the Medford mailing list in our Receita de Samba mailing list as well. I promote events. I'm also a concert promoter. And we also from Medford. And it's so nice to play at home. So nice, really nice. All right, so let's do... You might know this one too.
[SPEAKER_05]: ♪ Você viu só que amor Nunca vi coisa assim ♪ ♪ E passou, nem parou Mas olha só pra mim ♪ ♪ Se voltar, vou atrás Vou pedir, vou falar ♪ ♪ Vou contar que o amor Foi feitinho pra dar ♪ ♪ Olha, é como o verão Quente o coração ♪ ♪ Salta de repente para ver a menina que vem ♪ ♪ Ela vem, sempre tem esse mal do olhar ♪ ♪ E vai ver, tem que ser, nunca tem que amar ♪ ♪ Hoje sem, diz que sim, já cansei de esperar ♪ ♪ Não parei, nem dormi, só pensando em me dar ♪ ♪ Casso, mas você não vem, vem ♪ ♪ Deixa então, fala só, digo ao céu, mas você vem ♪ [♪ singing in Portuguese ♪♪ ♪♪♪ Peço, mas você não vem ♪ Você viu só que amor, nunca vi coisa assim ♪ ♪ E passou, nem parou, mas olhou só pra mim ♪ ♪ Se voltar, vou atrás, vou pedir, vou falar ♪ ♪ Vou contar que o amor foi feitinho pra dar ♪ ♪ Olha, é como o verão, quente o coração ♪ ♪ Salta de repente para ver a menina que vem ♪ ♪ Ela vem, sempre tem esse mano no olhar ♪ ♪ E vai ver, tem que ser, nunca tem quem ama ♪ ♪ Hoje sem, diz que sim, já cansei de esperar ♪ ♪ Nem parei, nem dormi, só pensando em me dar, peço ♪ ♪ Mas você não vem, vem ♪ ♪ Deixo então, falo só, digo céu, mas você vem ♪ Thank you.
[SPEAKER_02]: Let's do the bolero one. Yeah, he likes the bolero one. Let's do that. This is by Dorival Caymmi. It's another song about love. Let's do the bolero one.
[SPEAKER_05]: ♪ Não fazes favor nenhum em gostar de alguém ♪ ♪ Nem eu, nem eu, nem eu ♪ ♪ Quem inventou o amor não fui eu ♪ ♪ Não fui eu, não fui eu ♪ O amor acontece na vida. Estavas desprevenida. E por acaso eu também. E como a casa importante e querida de nossas vidas, a vida fez seu brinquedo também. Não fazes favor nenhum em gostar de alguém. No fui eu nem ninguém. O amor acontece na vida. Estavas desprevisto. And how important it is, dear, from our lives to life, make your toy too. ♪ Não fazes favor nenhum em gostar de alguém ♪ ♪ Nem eu, nem eu, nem eu ♪ ♪ Quem inventou o amor não fui eu, não fui eu ♪ When love happens in life, you were unprepared, and so was I. And how important it is, dear, from our lives to life, Favor nenhum em gostar de alguém Nem eu, nem eu, nem eu Quem inventou o amor não fui eu Não fui eu, não fui eu Thank you. This is the song that we can spend the whole day singing, the same song, right? It's so good. Love that. One more? All right.
[SPEAKER_02]: Again, such a pleasure to be here in Medford. And with you guys, such a great audience, special. And thank you a lot for everyone who invited us. Sorry, I can't remember everyone's name.
[SPEAKER_05]: It's too early. But thank you again for inviting us. We're going to do the last song. What's the best for the last song?
[SPEAKER_02]: Bêbado? Yeah, let's do it. Do you know this one? Bêbado, Equilibris? All right. So this is another João Bosco song. So here we go. A lot of energy, high notes.
[SPEAKER_05]: guys E de a cada estrela fria um brilho de aluguel. E nuvens lá no mata-bolão do céu chupavam manchas torturadas. I'm foreign foreign In cada passo dessa linha Pode se machucar A esperança equilibrista Sabe que o show de todo artista Thank you. Thank you so much. Bill Ward, Greg Toro, and Renata Malavazza. My name is Anna Borges. We'll be playing next week in Harvard Square. I can tell you more if you ask. Thank you. All right.
[Terry Carter]: All right, this is West Medford. Don't be stingy. Resheta De Samba, Bill Ward on pianos. Anna Borges on vocals. Greg Toro on bass. And tell me again. And Renato on the drums. All right. Very, very good. Okay, so we're gonna take a little pause for the cause while we get set up for our act two. My strong suggestion is to go in and patronize Danish Pastry House because they're doing it big. There's lots of good deliciousness inside. All the sugar, all the butter on the pastry side and lots of tasty on the savory side. So, you know, go on and make yourself. And they've got lemonade and they've got cold water. So, all right. All right. We'll see you in a few minutes.
[SPEAKER_03]: I never knew what they could do. I can't believe that you're in love with me. You're telling everyone I know, I'm on your mind each place you go. I can't believe that you're And after all is said and done, to think that I'm the lucky one. I can't believe what they could do. And I can't believe that you're in love with me. You're telling everyone I know, I'm on your mind each place you go. Is said and done To think that I'm the lucky one
[Terry Carter]: All right. All right. Hello everybody. All right. So we had a beautiful first set. They said that they samba was marvelous. Really really good. And hopefully we will at least meet if not exceed your expectations for the second part of our program today. For those of you who don't know me or who I haven't had a chance to meet yet, my name is Terry Carter, Terry E. My mother says use the initial, that's why I gave it to you. So it's Terry E. Carter, E stands for Eugene. And I direct elder services here at the community center. I'm not going to talk a lot, but I do want you to know just a little bit about We've been in business for 90 years representing the historic African American community of West Medford and this is the second building on the site. The first building was little more than an old army Quonset hut that was brought here from the defunct army base in East Boston going way back, World War II. And it was set on the site and it remained our home from like 1945 to the early 2000s. And then it basically collapsed under its own weight. And we were fortunate enough over the next several years thereafter to build this building. And this is the current home of an organization that really, really is very near and dear to my heart. I grew up in West Medford. I'm born and raised on Jerome and Monument Streets, not too far from here. And so the community center, Duggar Park, where all the basketball players are, well, you know, another story for another day. And, let's see, Duggar Park. the Hervey School, Shiloh Baptist Church, a couple other places. If our parents didn't know where we were, they knew where to find us, okay? Because we were at one of those three or four places. But in any case, Jonathan and I, Jonathan Fagan here, who convened and founded the Jazz Fest, yeah, absolutely. We got together, it's going on six years ago, we decided that we wanted to do something project-wise, him as a musician, me as a poet, that would bring those two worlds together under the banner of jazz, because he's a splendid jazz composer, arranger, and poetry, and I'm turning into more of a lyricist as time goes by. I just started out as a garden variety poet, but now I can add lyricist and poet laureate to my name. Okay, so we're gonna start off with where we think, as a community, we start off. So we're gonna do a tune called Hired by the Mystic, okay? All right, now, everything that we do is this intersection of jazz and social justice, okay? Some of it might not fit your ears real easily, but I ask you to open your hearts because I speak the truth in love. Is that cool? All right, all right, very good. All right, let's do this. They gave my people the lowlands, and not much of it. Just a few streets high by the river. Banks turned to fly and die 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 the 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 and claimed it and made it our own. Even in the heat of summer, when the shores were parched 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 and became the TV multitude who our Lord Jesus fed, hired by the mystic. 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 tides would 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 folk make more room for blacks. The color line recedes a bit. Church and school and center sit. The ville becomes the heart of it, hired by the mystic shore. Now the worm has surely turned, and folks who left have surely learned things couldn't stay the same. That muddy mystic most days is clean. The banks are freshly cut and green. Faces once distinctly brown are not the only ones in town. These streets that once were our confines must now embrace what gentry defines, condominium culture, bedroom convenience, university sprawl, access, egress, excess, and largesse. 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 ground in this ancient Middlesex County town where we named it and claimed it and made it our own. All right. All right, okay, now, okay, we're into it now, okay? We're into it. So this is a cool segue because... There were, in that ancient Middlesex County town where we named it and claimed it and made it our own, there were a few institutions, especially for us kids. There was, of course, Duggar Park. There was the Hervey Schoolyard where we grew up and played on that side of town. There was the West Medford Community Center where all of us kids came for Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. playing pool and bumper pool and ping pong and so on and so forth. And one of the other institutions that was particularly near and dear to our heart was right around the corner, a few streets down on Jerome Street, and it was called The Little Store. It was a tiny red hovel on Upper Jerome. a bit run down 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, 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 stuffin' while we were oohin' and ahin' and huffin' and puffin'. See, Mr. Henry had all the treats, all of our favorites, a hundred 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 bubblegum and a tiny sucker called a dum-dum. Jawbreakers and Tootsie Rolls, sugary love for little kids souls. Candy necklaces to wear and bite, and waxy red lips was such a sight. Fat gum cigars and kid cigarettes, right beside the crunchy six legs. Mary Jane chewies and BB bats, hot fireballs and Mexican hats. Just the genuine Hershey's Kisses, all of the hits and none of the misses. Like kid taffy squares and Necco wafers, liquor made in Boston baked beans. Gold rocks, nuggets of gum in a bag, a kid's idea, sweet tooth swag. Before the days of Laffy Taffys, we would gobble up peppermint patties. Before we knew about gummy bears, Twizzlers always came in pairs. Chewy cow tails with creamy filling, but sugar babies had top filling. Reese's peanut butter cups had us squealing like newborn pups. mica nights and orange slices, salt water taffy and tiny prices. Lifesavers and charms and fruity flavors. We grab those bags like potty favors. Uncles were a favorite choice, and milk duds made us all rejoice. Jolly ranchers and bitter honey, we always got a lot for our money. Talk about kids getting excited. Our greedy fingers could barely wait. You can't imagine the flame he ignited to take that candy like fish take bait. from cold January to chilly December. More kinds of candy than I can remember at the Phil storefront on Upper Jerome. I knew I had to write this poem. See, Mr. Henry had all the treats, all of our favorites, a hundred great sweets. All right. All right, all right. Yeah, yeah. We love it. Okay, so here's the band. Jonathan Fagan on the keys. All right. Greg Toro on the little sexy. This is not the big sexy. The big sexy is the really big bass. This is the little sexy. It's still very sexy, but it's a smaller bass. And my man, Gordon Engelgau on the traps here. Okay, we are the Ally Project. We're going to move this thing along. Boy, where am I? Yeah. OK, here we go. So I'm not going to lie or front as we say in the hood. The neighborhood has changed pretty dramatically, all right? So I'm gonna talk a little bit about how I remember it and what it's become, okay? So this piece is called Corner Lot. All right. standing at the apex of Arlington and Jerome, trying to remember the black and the brown and the tan. Ronnie and Otis used to live in the big house on the corner lot. It's probably changed a half a dozen times since then. Current owner's been there for a minute. He's good with his hands and he knows his way around wood and tools. Place has been gussied up quite a bit. Picket fence is not quite white, but if you know, you know. Asian kid in a Tufts hoodie just whipped by in a helmet and roller blades. Didn't see much of that back in the day. The university sort of hit on the hell side, trying its best to be a baby Ivy. But the co-eds come here all the time now. Basketball, tennis rackets, pickleball paddles in tow, on bikes, in Benzos and roller blades. We used to bust ourselves up pretty good on those rickety metal skates with clunky keys and leather straps. Nothing a little Vaseline and Mercurochrome couldn't handle. How did Henley put it in Invictus? Oh yeah, bloody but unbowed. Not too many white and off-white kids hanging out here back there then. It was as if the invisible lines once drawn to keep us in sometimes kept other folks out too. Now they've pretty much taken over. Dug a park, the Rhone tennis courts, the Hervey schoolyard, and a hundred addresses on Arlington, Lincoln, and Jerome. A host of our remembered places, so few of our original faces. Meanwhile, back in Ronnie and Otis' old place, I'm still standing like that centurion, knowing that Jesus doesn't have to go in to heal his servant. He just has to speak a word. I guess I keep hoping that he'll speak a word to the corner lot, too, and bring back the black and the brown and the tan. Across the river, it's low tide. The smell is gone and the grass is greener than I recall. That was our little park, away from dugger and a lot less hectic. We had makeshift bases or discarded cones for football and softball. We lost a few in the river, but nobody was going in that muck to retrieve anything. We'd probably wait in that water today. They planted some trees there many years ago. They're all pretty big now. Maple and ash, I think. Nobody plays baseball or football there anymore. But there are lots of dogs frolicking off leash and gaggles of fat Canadian geese daring pitties, pugs, and poodles to chase them all. I can't imagine my childhood without losing a few softballs there. I can't imagine not hearing Mrs. Allen call little James Michael to come and eat, or little Charlie to watch us play from his folding chair, because his spindly legs were too weak to let him run. I can't imagine that I'm still here. But Ronnie and Otis, Darryl King and Frankie French, Aaron McDaniel and Marky Davis are all gone. Mark was as thick as a big tree trunk, so we came up with Oak for him. Aaron was Spud, Frankie was Fruit Man, and I was Top Cat. Too cool, ran to school. Everyone wants the corner lot now. A little more land and perhaps the new perspectives that angles create. I wonder if that meant anything to Ronnie and Otis, or Jed and Miles and Gib, Barry, Coco, Keith Wing, and Kenny Byfield. Certainly meant something to the white folks looking to displace, transplant, and uproot the local color. Black folks built homes here, only place where they were allowed to be, where they could color inside the lines Medford once drew against the perceived discomforts of darker skin. We were here first. First firefighters, police officers, war heroes, shop owners, tradesmen, postal chiefs, teachers, artists, and preachers. We were the human bedrock of the only neighborhood they'd let us build. The old church is gone now. Nelson even changed the street number as if to erase the fact that the original Shiloh Baptist ever existed. But if you know, you know. That corner still has a cornerstone. 1900, and Nelson couldn't do nothing about it without a more draconian demolition. Two more condos in the house of the Lord. Two more houses that us first folk can't afford. Two more dismissals of the blessings of his word. One more holy stone rejected and ignored. Thank you. Thank you. All right, we're going to switch it up a little bit. You're familiar with the jazz canon. You know a couple of the players. You know Duke Ellington and Miles Davis and maybe Herbie Hancock and a few others. And then maybe you know John Coltrane. All right, so Coltrane, some of the best of the jazz standards were his compositions with that beautiful horn of his. And one of them was about one of his loves. Her name was Naima. And so if you know Coltrane and you know jazz a little bit, you probably have heard Naima before. So this is a riff, a take on Naima. It's 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 or Flanagan's peace at the end of the day. Syncopated in 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 heartmen crooning or 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. Melody's hand to the harmony wed. Piano's lullaby fresh in the bed. Rhythm rocks where the drummer led. Rhythm rolls where the bass man sped. Rhythm birthed what the saxophone bred. Rhythm heard what the master said. How could he make the bitter taste sweeter? How could a tortured mind deleter? How could the mellowed scotch be neater? How could the smoke from each cigarette create blue beads that cast a net, create blue beads of cascading sweat, create blue haze that confounds regret, create blue nights that we can't Coltrane's notes are a crystal scale, a velvet scream in the urban travail, the heavenly riff of a love supreme, the pungent riff of a lover's dream. Coltrane's notes are a cozy romance, the breezy bounce of a bop and a dance, the languid lilt of stray's lush life, the cakes cut by the artist's knife. Coltrane's notes are a standard 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 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 says that love's in bloom. The harmony spirit engulfs the room. The bride says yes to her lyrical groom. The groove and the beat then jump the broom. The kip 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 shield and sword the hero stalks. The temperance shakes her twisted locks. Medusa's snakes, his vision shocks. Holds up the mirror to stony blocks. The harp and the horn melt icy rocks. Serpents retreat and symphony talks. Coltrane's notes are a roller coaster, 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. P.C., the coolest round midnight will ever be. Coltrane's notes are genius refined, like gold in a pan or a gemstone's mine. The sparkling glow of a lover's 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, then gladness revived in the balladeer's heart. Thank you. Thank you very much. All right, all right. So we're going to stay on the jazz frontier for a minute. Herbie Hancock, and later Quincy Jones, they did a tune, Quincy covered it, Herbie Hancock did it for us, and it's called Tell Me a Bedtime Story. So we do a little riff on Tell Me a Bedtime Story, it's called Tell Me Another Bedtime Story, all right? It's just a sweet little jazz ditty, okay? Cool. Is this where the sandman picks up each grain, restoring the beauty and reducing the pain? Is this where we fly to never never land, like the troop of lost boys with Peter Pan? All of the mystery of hidden dreams. Nothing now is as it seems. Tell a sweet tale that sugars and creams with flashes of sardines and shining moonbeams. As I lay down to my slumber, paint a landscape of ochre and umber. Let there be a hint of romance. Turn up the quiet. Love wants to dance. Tell me a bedtime story, please, of secret gardens and pecan trees, of babbling brooks and waterfalls, of gentle breezes that summer calls, of hidden havens and wondrous spaces, of astral planes and mystical places. Let it be a melody that sings in four-part harmony. Let it resound in symphony that folds into dreamland's reverie. Tell me a fable of Arabian nights spread on a table of earthly delights, free from the label of anger and fights, willing and able to scale higher heights. Tell me a bedtime story now, as the baby rocks in the maple bough, as the blue ox puts his nose to the plow, and the sweaty farmer wipes his brow, as each green seedling happily vows to yield each fruit the ground allows, and seven dwarfs whistle a happy tune, and sleeping beauty awakens soon. Let there be a melody that sings in four-part harmony. Let it resound in symphony, then fold into dreamland's reverie. This is the time when the sandman whispers and seven grooms meet seven sisters. And the prairie sings an ode to love as the angels release the turtle dove. For now, I lay me down to sleep and pray to God, my soul to keep. All right. Jonathan Fagan on the keys. Greg Toro on the bass. Did you hear that? You heard that, right? All right, that's Gordon Yango, guy on the drums. All right. All right, so listen, we're going to the intersection of jazz and social justice, all right? All right, and when I say we ain't playing, we ain't playing, but we're playing. Is that okay? All right, all right. So we ain't playing, but we're playing. Okay, this is called alienation. Good? Okay. All right. Here is a fence without a gate. You can't get in, you have to wait. You can't be foreign or somehow strange. This isn't your home, home on the range. You can't arrive in a rickety boat. Our castle has a treacherous moat. We won't host refugees at our door. You're not the sort we're looking for. Take good note, we stay on guard. We don't want you in our backyard. Despite the danger you seek to avoid, our best deterrents have been deployed. You say our country's full of peril. But like stray cats, we think you're feral. We think you're prone to filth and crime. We don't want either at this time. We don't care what the nations say. They won't do more than hope and pray. Our stance is clear on human rights. Lock the door. Turn off the lights. You saw that statue in the bay. It stood for liberty until today. It welcomed tired and huddled masses, not criminals from your underclasses. We've got militias on the border. They own big guns to keep the order. Law enforcement lets them stay to help them keep your kind at bay. Why do we feel that this is good? Why can't we share the neighborhood? Is it because you're black and brown? No, we just choose to stand our ground. Stay in your place. Deal with your issues. We'll send lots of coal and tissues. Don't form caravans and run. You'll find yourselves in the sight of a gun. There are no streets here lined with gold. Our eyes are closed, our hearts are cold. There is no flowing milk and honey. American skies are not that sunny. The fences we build keep aliens out. They serve to keep our faith devout. This land we scheme to make our own is ours, you see, and ours alone. As long as you stay on the other side, we can maintain our national pride. Please don't show us your anguished faces. We're cutting back on other races. We've had enough of global inclusion. We're ridding this country of race confusion. We know how to win these fights and limit all these civil rights. safety nets and the welfare state will have to stop for the lost and late a rising tide that favors the rich that's our famous favorite campaign pitch me too movements and black lives matter in all due time your ranks will scatter you think that you shall overcome just cross this line we'll give you some We'll give you a taste of burning churches and black boys hung from oaks and birches. We'll give you a taste of incarceration in prisons.com, the corporate plantation. We're taking this country back to the time when a brown life wasn't worth a dime, except for the way it worked in the field, except for a bushel of crops to yield. We're taking this country back to the day when white meant right in every way, when men of privilege could rape and beat and kill for spite, then lie and cheat. We're taking this homeland back to the season when hooded marauders needed no reason to hunt folks down with rifles and dogs through the lonely woods, the swamps, and bogs. When confederate flags were boldly raised, and crosses in the darkness blazed, and the land was full of racial hate, served with grits on a breakfast plate. You thought this worm had surely turned, and young black bodies no longer burned. Yet here you are again today, with the specter of prejudice winning the day. The MAGA caps you wear with pride, they let us know who's on your side. The pointed hood and long white robe, fine clothes for the xenophobe. Perhaps this place that immigrants covet can somehow heal and rise above it. Until that day, our best advice to call this home, you'll pay a price. You'll pay a price as many misguided embrace the hate their voice provided. His Twitter rants and sound bites full of ethnocentric cock and bull. You'll pay a price as higher walls lead great climbers to greater falls, where fences are the new condition announcing the refugees' abolition. This isn't our nation's greatest hour, this flexing of white supremacist power. And yet the season is fully revealing the stain of hatred we've been concealing. So take good note and be on guard of deadly traps around the yard. Our agents are on high alert to keep you foreigners off this dirt. Tolerance is in short supply. We won't let your kind occupy this sacred land our forebears built. We don't subscribe to Anglo guilt. This fence was built without a gate to keep out all who come here late. To all you aliens, we don't like strange. No room at the inn in our home on the range. All right. Hard troops, admittedly, but troops nonetheless. All right, so we're gonna stay there for a minute, and then we'll try and ease up off of your feelings. This piece is called The Ally, and it's actually kind of the eponym for our project. So we're gonna do Ally for you. Friends become distant and strange as if you have some creeping mange. Family wonders why and rings their hands. How could you choose them over us? We're your blood, bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh. They're not like us. They're so different, less than, not equal to, beneath. Declarations have been made. Arrangements are in place. These are matters of our kin. Signs have been painted. You're going to be cast out. You're going to be shunned. You need to stick with your own kind. An ally? Is that what they're calling you? Well, it's a hard road to hoe. You're making strange bedfellows. You're casting your white pearls before swine. You weren't raised to behave like this. Our family is a proud and honored clan. We'll never be lower than any black man. There's no room for them at this table. There's always been two sides of the track, a right and wrong side of town, our kind and their kind, your people and those folks. It's going to kill your mother and your daddy's turning over in his grave. You want to shout out, Black Lives Matter. But the master plan is to make them scatter, to serve them pain on a silver platter. Our people own them. They worked this land for 200 years. They were our property, our Negroes. Hell, our Negroes to make it plain. You can't be out there with them. You can't be shoulder to shoulder with the ones we need to dominate, relegate, subjugate, eliminate. They want reparations. Well, we're making preparations to give them 40 acres of hell and a mule kit to the gut. You don't seem to get it, son. This is the way the races run. There's not enough room for everyone. The time for black and brown is done. Show your pride and pick up your gun. Pick the side that has always won. You can't be out there with them. You can't be shoulder to shoulder with the ones we need to dominate, relegate, subjugate, eliminate. All right. All right, all right. Yeah, yeah. All right, all right. Once again, the Allied Project. Jonathan Fagan, Greg Toro, Gordon Angle Guywin, I'm Terry Carter. Too cool, these bros got me sweating out here. Got me sweating. All right, okay, so we're at a couple of different spots and then we're gonna finish up. But let's do something nice and mellow. This is called Legacy, okay? Everybody enjoying themselves? All right. I know it's warm out there. I know. But you're braving the elements and enjoying the day, hopefully. Very, very good. 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 names. How will they learn to walk the walk and talk the talk? How will they learn to tell your stories 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 earthy 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 stories, 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 the 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, Mufaro's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly the wonders of Wakanda, and Songololo's new tacky. 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 trees? 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 this page, where hard work earns a 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 booth, that has the bite of the panther's tooth. This is the gift of legacy, where a glorious past sets the captives free, and a candle's light beckons liberty. Sons and daughters and heirs, 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 clever ways, Popo and Fafina's journey, Mufaro's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly the wonders of Wakanda, and Sanga Lolo's new tackies. 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 the pride and your tails will always be your children's bread. 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. Thank you. All right. Quite a while ago, it was either my first or my second book. Speaking of first and second books, I've got books up there. There's actually a Ally Project CD, for those of you who still have a CD player. And it's got a lot of our music on it. So if you're interested, it's up there. We also have a book. Jazz Festival t-shirts, which are lovely, and our food venue, the Danish Pastry House, will still be here after we leave. So if you didn't get a snack and you wanna get one, come back and sit out under the tent and talk, or however the move hits you, it's all there, still there for you. All right, okay, so I think we're gonna do two more, and then we're gonna be done. All right, so. I love that, I love that, I love that, I love that. If it's not fake, if you're faking it, don't do it. But if it's, oh, okay, I love it, okay. What are we doing? Oh, we're doing Bobby, okay. All right, so a while back, on one of my early books, I think it was the second one, I have a painting in my house. It's called, what's it called, T? Oh, it's called Bobby Doesn't Live Here. And basically what it is is my attempt, my humble painting attempt, to kind of depict black women in all shapes and sizes, because they come in all shapes and sizes. And there may be one or two of them who are very, very narrow and somewhat Barbie-like, somewhat Angel Reese-like. But for the most part, it runs the gamut. So I wrote this poem called Barbie Doesn't Live Here to go with that. piece of artwork. And every once in a while, you revisit a piece of poetry and you say, well, what could I have done differently? Or what could I have said differently? So I had this notion, and it came out like this. And it's called, If Barbie Had a Choice.
[Unidentified]: Ha ha ha.
[Terry Carter]: If Barbie had a choice, I believe that from day one, she would have made it a black thing. She would have ditched the creamsicle skin and gone with a lustrous ebony hue. She would have spoken in an Igbo dialect with a true queen's attitude and said, to hell with you colonizers. Package me up in a pink box with white lettering and a bunch of beachy palms and sand in the background. I think not. You can't get these ample breasts and these curvaceous hips into that Goldie Hawn psychedelic mini. I'ma need a little something more substantial. I'ma need copious yards of Senegalese cotton with shiny batik totems and all the colors of the motherland. I'ma need a Wakanda seamstress straight out of the Ruth Carter School to hook the thing up right and show the world what I'm working with. I'ma need a made in Dahomey, not by Mattel and Disney. Seriously, if Bobby had a choice, Ken would have looked more like Ali or Denzel or that fine-ass dark chocolate British cat Idris Elba. He would have been melanated, not barely suntanned, and by no means would he have seen more holiday tissue wrap than 150-grit sandpaper. He would have been swashbuckling like Marvel's T'Challa, woke like Tupac, and standing on business like Brother Malcolm. She would have kissed that man with un-retouched, un-botoxed black girl lips, lush and full as a tropic rainforest. She would have engulfed her man in every quaking inch of the last poet's black thighs. If you don't know it, YouTube it. She would have no need of a Brazilian butt lift, a Beverly Hills boob job, or an Adobe Photoshop session. Mother Africa in a generous genome took care of all of that, you feel me?
[SPEAKER_07]: If Barbie had a choice, you would never have been able to buy her at Toys R Us, F.A.O.
[Terry Carter]: Schwartz, or Mary Arnold's. She wouldn't have been a fake trophy bride, a chick on the side, or a Bonnie for Clyde. She wouldn't have been an American Girl Addie, a hotliner baddie, or Dance Moms Maddie. She wouldn't have been It Girl Margot Robbie, or Cherry Pie's Barbie, or a P. Diddy Harvey. I'ma close the flow with a few more rhymes, just a few bronze bars to end this on time. A new newbie in Bobby wouldn't stand for nonsense. A brother's pursuit couldn't sit on the fence. Her womanly wows would truly be immense. A player would just find her game too intense, with never a true shot at love's recompense. Though he might pull up in a Bentley or Rolls, he'd lose by a landslide at a real Queens pole. A new Nubian Barbie would demand mad respect. She wouldn't suffer in the blues or neglect. She'd fight for her own like a Goji elite. She wouldn't be tame, demure, or petite. would be different on this I make bet. A pimp or a hustler would not be a threat. As fine as the print on the national debt, her beauty and wisdom would not break a sweat. That glitzy white Barbie might have a toy jet, but she hasn't landed a soul plane yet. My African queen makes the real kinks forget, though she might want to keep that fly pink Corvette. You just might wanna keep that. Yeah, you might wanna keep that. All right. Okay, so we're gonna end where we began and that's with family because everybody here, everybody who's here, you know, and I so appreciate, we so appreciate everyone who has braved the heat because we know it's out there to be here with us. So let's see if I can hopefully find it.
[SPEAKER_07]: You want a kitchen table poem? Okay. Okay. Good. Okay.
[Terry Carter]: All right. I know that a lot of stuff that I've said today and that we've played today, you know, strikes different chords and resonates differently with everybody. But this particular poem, maybe like The Little Store, really, really is going to bring back an image of the way that your home looked at some point in time. I can almost guarantee it doesn't matter where you came from, what ethnicity, what background, at some point in time, my prayer, my hope is that your home looked like this at some point, and hopefully still does. This piece is called Kitchen Table Poem. 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. Oh my God, and girl, and are you serious right now? 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 door opens. You know there's gonna 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 to the city soon. 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 totes. Everyone will have a doggy bag and a story to tell. The men will be playing big. ♪ Slippin' on a little somethin' somethin' ♪ ♪ And talkin' big trash ♪ ♪ The smiles will be broad and the laughter will be contagious ♪ ♪ The women will be fanning and fussing ♪ ♪ Good Lord, she know she too big for that dress ♪ ♪ That ain't no Sunday saved outfit ♪ ♪ That's for Saturday night sinning ♪ ♪ You know I'm right, girl, you know I'm right ♪ Nobody ever wants to leave. They're like black Jesus's eyes on that old print, loving and insistent. Soul food has been shaved. My gene has prayed down heaven and the baby sang their song. Everyone's tickled and tranquil. This is that room. I really miss pap. Is baby boy's cancer in remission? Church. It's real talk. We're real people. Family. You know what I'm saying? We're family. The Ally Project, ladies and gentlemen. Jonathan Fagan on the keys. Greg Toro on the bass. He's on the run, man. He's actually got a wedding to play in a little while. Here's my man. All right. Check this out. He's a rogue warrior. He's going to get in his little whip, and he's going to go down to Connecticut to play a wedding. All right. And then my man. The one, the only, Gordon Angle guy on the drums. All right. We are the Ally Project. We'll be back tomorrow at the Medford Jazz Festival with two additional acts. We will have student masters from the Berkeley Institute of Jazz for Gender Justice, which is directed by Medford's own Terri-Lynn Carrington. She won't be here, but her students will, and they can go. One of her drummers, a young woman by the name of Ivana Cuesta, is gonna be leading that effort, and she's what Terri-Lynn Carrington was at 22, 23 years old, so you might wanna come out and check that out. And then we are going to have the inimitable, the indefatigable. Okay, and Donna McElroy, who was actually the chair of the voice department at Berkeley, and then we're gonna have the current chair of the harmony department at Berkeley, his name is George Russell Jr., and George on the keys, Poetry in Motion. So you really, really, if you can, if your Sunday will allow, you might wanna consider a return trip because it's gonna be Outstanding. All right, so we appreciate you being here with us and rocking with us throughout the day. Hope you're hydrated. If you're not, go on in, get some water, some iced tea. If you're feeling a little bit peckish, go on and get a little nosh. They still have a lot of good sweets and sandwiches and pizza croissants and all this different kind of stuff that they made. And we love them. That's the Danish Pastry House. They're down on Boston Avenue, on the corner of Boston and Winthrop.