[SPEAKER_06]: Mira lo que hicieron anoche para nuestra noche de estudiantes. Se ve increíble. Mi papá, Avi Fagan. Bromeo que sale de la jubilación por esto, así que realmente lo apreciamos. A nuestros voluntarios y personal, Reese y Eli allá arriba. Ya están vendiendo algunos libros.
[SPEAKER_00]: Y mi compañera Shayla, por supuesto, con quien no pude hacer todo esto.
[SPEAKER_06]: Galel, que está sentado en los escalones ayudando con el sonido, aquí mismo. Y, por supuesto, Terry Carter, quien es realmente la razón por la que todo esto está sucediendo aquí en el West Medford Community Center. Es un elemento fijo en la comunidad, un poeta increíble. Está bien. Ah, y ¿a quién más me estoy olvidando? Jim y Oh, Bruce allí ha estado ayudando a todo el fin de semana también con algunos de los trabajos de la cámara. Entonces, incluso con todas estas personas, todavía requiere muchas contribuciones financieras diferentes para que todo esto suceda. Si miras nuestro estandarte, deberíamos tener la mayoría de nuestros patrocinadores allí. Medford Community Media, por supuesto, el West Medford Community Center, el Medford Arts Council y el Mass Cultural Council, junto con la Fundación Arts Alive Medford. Este es nuestro primer año con vendedores de alimentos también.
[SPEAKER_00]: Casa de pastelería danesa adentro.
[SPEAKER_06]: Han establecido una propagación increíble y totalmente impresionado todas las expectativas allí. Entre melodías, entre grupos, ve a verlos. También hay baños adentro para cualquier persona que pueda necesitar aprovecharlos. Sí, y también Triangle Manor, que es una compañía de camisetas local que ha hecho algunas camisas increíbles para todos, y EXP Realty. También hay varios patrocinadores individuales, incluidas personas que se han inscrito en nuestra página de Patreon. Esa es una suscripción mensual y realmente marca la diferencia en hacer cosas como sesiones de mermelada y otros conciertos durante todo el año. Hay códigos QR en todas partes para aquellos de ustedes que se sienten inspirados para donar, tanto a nuestro Venmo, que solo van en el Festival de Jazz Medford, y también a esa página de Patreon en particular, que ha sido un gran apoyo. Muy bien, así que creo que eso es todo. Siempre siento que me estoy olvidando de alguien con esto, pero sí, por favor vuelva más tarde, y Terry Carter te contará un poco sobre este primer grupo y sobre el espacio.
[Terry Carter]: Muy bien, gracias, gracias. Jonathan Fagan es un coordinador y fundador del Festival de Jazz Medford, y es un compositor y pianista increíble y todo lo musical, por lo que pronto escucharás de él. Este es el West Medford Community Center. Hemos estado en el negocio durante 90 años. Somos el corazón del La histórica comunidad afroamericana de Medford y ya sabes, estamos justo en el río Mystic. Hay una larga historia de nosotros en el río y las tres calles y todas esas cosas de las que escuchará un poco más más tarde. Pero queremos llegar a ser directamente al negocio y queremos asegurarnos de que no reduzcamos el tiempo para nuestro Nuestro primer acto del día dos. Y para cualquiera de ustedes que estuvieron con nosotros anoche, pasamos un tiempo increíble con los dos grupos que tocaron anoche, con las estrellas de Morningside Jazz de la Escuela de Música Morningside, que fueron fantásticas. Y luego con Anita Wood y su grupo, AJ y el grupo, quiero decir, solo, lo pasamos bien. Me hicieron bailar antes de que terminara la noche, así que todo estaba bien. Así que gracias. Debbie, quien cantó con los All-Stars de Morningside Jazz anoche, y fue fabulosa. Bien, entonces, nuestro primer acto del sábado es Recita de Samba, tomado del coral del mismo nombre de Jacob de Bandolim. Significa en portugués, y acabo de descubrir esto, ya sabes, de la fuente, Receta para Samba, una aplicación llamada así por un grupo cuyo enfoque es mostrar muchos sabores de la música brasileña en su forma más pura, sin aditivos artificiales, me encanta, como máquinas de batería o muestreo eléctrico. Los chefs, su cocina, un esposo y esposa, Ana Borges y Bill Ward, y se basan en la vibrante escena musical brasileña de Boston para cocinar solo a los mejores,
[Unidentified]: Solo el mejor.
[Terry Carter]: La mejor Bossa Nova y Samba, así como especialidades regionales como Fordo, Ihecha y Coco.
[Clayton]: Espero haberlo hecho bien.
[Terry Carter]: Mi brasileño no es, ya sabes. De acuerdo, Anna Borges, originaria de Recife, Pernambuco, comenzó su carrera en Brasilia cantando en clubes y teatros locales.
[Unidentified]: Finalmente, aprendió a tocar la guitarra y se inscribió en un Escola de Musica de Brasilia donde estudió la voz con Jane Dubose Shinseng en un grupo coral que estudia técnicas clásicas y populares.
[Terry Carter]: Después de muchos años trabajando estrechamente con el guitarrista brasileño Aljoson Alcantara, estoy en un traslado a Boston, donde comenzó una colaboración musical con Bill Ward, Bill Ward, Bill Ward. Es pianista, guitarrista y cantante que ha explorado en profundidad muchos universos musicales. Amo eso. Eso es poético. Comenzó como pianista de jazz, ganando encuestas de downbeat como estudiante de secundaria, y luego estudiando en el Conservatorio de Oberlin con Dan Wall y Sam de Margolis. Obtuvo su primer récord de Giorgio Berto cuando tenía 13 años, pero no fue hasta la universidad que cayó Más profundo y profundo en el, esto es realmente poético, en el vórtice de la música brasileña. Últimamente, se ha sumergido en el universo del piano clásico, buscando una maestría en interpretación de piano en la Universidad de Boston, donde estudia con Goya Charon y Gilda Goldstein. Damas y caballeros, sin más 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 Ciudad, perdóname. No sabía que conocías una vida tan buena. Ciudad, perdóname. Pensé que iba a irme, pensé que iba a morir. Ciudad, perdóname. extranjero Perdóname, pero no sabía que sabías que la vida es tan buena si es sin mi ¡Los amamos chicos! ¡Buena suerte!
[SPEAKER_02]: Muchas gracias. Esta primera canción fue de Carlos Vira, uno de los, ya sabes, Dios de Bossa Nova. Entonces, si es demasiado tarde, perdóname. Ese es el título. Intentaré traducir.
[SPEAKER_05]: No soy muy bueno en eso, pero creo que vas a conseguir un poco de lo que estoy cantando.
[SPEAKER_02]: Así que esta siguiente pieza es como la influencia del jazz. Entonces la influencia del jazz. Entonces, es como una canción que también me gustaba como la influencia del jazz y el solo. Así que es como cuando estás hablando de que solo tiene esto, pero el jazz tiene eso. Y sabes, verás cómo va.
[SPEAKER_05]: extranjero extranjero 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,
[Clayton]: extranjero extranjero 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]: Gracias. Creo que esta siguiente pieza es, es posible que sepas, es una ola.
[Clayton]: Pero creo que es solo una acción que puedes tener.
[SPEAKER_05]: Cuando estás enamorado, es imposible ser feliz solo.
[Clayton]: No puedo acostumbrarme a eso, porque no sé cómo decirlo. Son pequeñas cosas que van y vienen. Bendiciones, meditaciones, es imposible ser feliz solo. Es una ciudad. Es una ciudad. Es una ciudad. Es una ciudad. No se pueden ver cosas que solo se pueden ver. Voy a volver a la playa. Es imposible estar aquí solo. Lo que no sé cómo usar son cosas de paz que no tengo que tomar. Verde y azul, verde y azul. Es imposible estar aquí solo.
[Unidentified]: No conozco la letra. Música .
[SPEAKER_05]: Es Gracias.
[SPEAKER_02]: Quiero cambiar para el siguiente en lugar de.
[SPEAKER_05]: A veces discutimos como, quiero cantar esta canción. Pensé, no quiero tocar esta canción. Yo estaba como, ¿qué? Pero está bien. Siempre. Voy a la samba de la tierra de Jesús, para beber la luz y ver los bambas. La magia me seduce. Mi corazón sale. Estoy en Bahía, fiesta callejera. En la cantina de la luna está samba. Bebe la luz, revise el Bambas, una magia me seduce. Mi corazón se derrama. Estoy en Bahía, estoy. Fiesta de la Luna, lo haré. En la cantina de la luna, tienes que bajar. Puede ser tranquilo que esta mesa sea blanca. Aplaudiré mi mano con fe en mi corazón. Soy de salud, soy de allí. Oh, oh, oh. es Bueno. Soy de Slippeg, soy de Izu de Noah, tengo un poco de guayaba y una cáscara de plátano. Soy, soy de salud, soy de allí. Soy de Gamboa, Mauá Square, soy la samba. Soy, soy, soy de salud, soy de allí. Desde el momento en que tonta fue tonta y Mamba Bamba. ♪ I'm from Estácio, I'm from there ♪ ♪ hat, panama, bicolor in the foot, white linen ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ I am, I am, I came from there and I miss there to be white ♪ ♪ day two, two of December, I go to Bahia, I go there ♪ ♪ day two, I go to Bahia save, I go there ♪ Gracias. Las canciones de João Bosco siempre son locas. Así que este es un terreiro de Jesús, de donde es.
[SPEAKER_02]: Es un lugar en Bahía, donde Bahía tiene mucho, tenemos mucha contribución africana. Y esto es como, está describiendo de dónde es, y es una canción muy poderosa, hermosa. Difícil de cantar el sábado por la mañana. A los cantantes les gusta cantar por la noche. Ah, estoy cansado. Así que volvamos al otro, que es Sampa. Sampa es como si fuera una abreviatura de Sao Paulo. Así que esto es de Caetano Veloso, quien también describió cómo fue como ser Sampa por primera vez. Porque es A, Sao Paulo es como Nueva York. Entonces, y él es, dice como cosas hermosas y poéticas sobre Sao Paulo. Esto es más tranquilo.
[SPEAKER_05]: Algo sucede en mi corazón, que solo cuando cruzo el Epiranga y Avenue St. John, es que cuando llegué aquí, no subrayé nada. Natura, poesía concreta de tus esquinas, del discreto deseo de dos niñas. No había que tomar represalias su traducción más completa. Algo pasa en mi corazón. ♪ y solo cuando cruzo Ipiranga y São João Avenue ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪. ♪ Aún no es viejo, nada que no fuera antes cuando no somos mutantes y fue difícil comenzar a impulsar lo que no sé y que proviene de otro sueño y feliz ciudad aprende a llamarte realidad porque estás adentro de adentro hacia afuera. de las personas oprimidas en las líneas, en las líneas. Por la fuerza del dinero que recauda y destruye cosas hermosas. Del feo humo que suena. Veo que tus poetas provienen de campos y espacios, tus talleres de bosques, tus dioses de la lluvia. Pan American, África, las utopías, el túmulo de la samba, el quilombo zombie más posible y los nuevos bahianos Y los nuevos boyares pueden disfrutarlo. ♪ Veo que tus poetas de campos y espacios surgen ♪ ♪ Tus talleres de bosques, tus dioses de la lluvia, ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ ♪ ♪ ♪ Panaméricos de África utópica, la mayoría de la tumba de samba posible, el nuevo quilombo de zombis ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Gracias. Creo que podrías conocer este y siéntete libre si quieres bailar.
[SPEAKER_02]: No voy a decir nada.
[SPEAKER_05]: Samba. es Pero esta samba, que se mezcla con Maracanã, es Más que nada sale de mi frente que quiero pasar porque la samba está emocionada y lo que quiero es samba, pero esta samba que se mezcla con maracatu samba en negro viejo, samba en negro, más que nada una samba como esta genial Muchas gracias.
[SPEAKER_02]: Está bien. Más canciones para bailar. Este es de Chico Buarque, uno de mis favoritos. Es asombroso. Así que la traducción para este es como, deja que la niña baile. No la detengas en ningún momento. No es un buen marido, no. Así que déjala ir y bailar.
[SPEAKER_05]: Safe está en tu presencia, mi niño triel, pero lo harás, pero va demasiado. Son diez horas, la samba está caliente, deja a la morena complacida, deja que la niña baile en paz. No quería lanzar confeti, pero tengo que decirlo. Estás atacando. Te duele. Y si continúas corriendo con esa cara de un esposo, la niña es capaz de aburrirse. ♪ Behind a sad man there is always a happy woman ♪ ♪ and behind this woman a thousand men always so kind ♪ ♪ So, for her good, oh, take her out of her head ♪ ♪ Oh, deserve the girl you have ♪ ♪ I don't know if it's to be exultant, my dear boy ♪ ♪ El mango más ♪ Son diez horas, la samba está caliente ♪ deja a la morena complacida ♪ deja que la niña samba en paz ♪ por trás de um homem triSte Há Semper Uma Mulher Feliz ♪ ♪ ♪ E Atrás Dessa Mulher Mil Homens Semper Tão gentis ♪ ♪ ♪ por Isso, Para o Seu Bem, oh, Tira ela da Cabeça ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪, Preza Rapaz, Mas Você Vai Mal ♪ ♪ Pero va demasiado mal ♪ ♪ ♪ son diez horas y la samba está caliente ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ¡Deja que la samba en paz ♪ ♪ no quería jugar confeti, pero tengo que decir ♪ ♪ estás rompiendo, estás doliendo ♪ ♪ ♪ Son las tres en punto, la samba está caliente, hace feliz a la morena, deja que la niña samba en paz. Detrás al hombre triste, siempre es una mujer feliz. Y detrás de esta mujer, un hombre siempre viene. ♪ Entonces, por tu bien, oh, sácalo de la cabeza ♪ ♪ ♪ Oh, merece a la chica que tienes ♪ ♪ No sé si es exultante, mi querido chico ♪ pero nadie puede manejarlo más ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Gracias. Solo quiero agradecerles una vez más por todos por la invitación a estar aquí con Beugh, con Greg.
[SPEAKER_02]: Esa es nuestra primera vez. Tan feliz de estar aquí. Renato Malavati. Mi nombre es Ana Borges. Siéntase libre si desea unirse a la lista de correo de Medford en nuestra lista de correo de Regita de Samba también. Promociono eventos. También soy un promotor de conciertos. Y también de Medford. Y es muy agradable jugar en casa. Tan agradable, muy agradable. Muy bien, así que hagamos ... Puede que también sepas este.
[SPEAKER_05]: ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Usted vio que el amor nunca vio algo como esto ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪. ♪ Suddenly jump to see the girl who comes ♪ ♪ she comes, always has this evil of the look ♪ ♪ and will see, has to be, never have to love ♪ ♪ today without, says yes, already got tired of waiting ♪ ♪ I did not stop, even thinking of giving me ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Let, say, I say, I say to heaven, but you come to heaven [♪ Cantando en portugués ♪♪ ♪♪♪ Pregunto, pero no vienes ♪ ♪ Viste solo amor, nunca he visto algo como esto ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ th eléctrico eléctrico. ♪ De repente salta para ver a la chica que viene ♪ ♪ ♪ Ella viene, siempre tiene este hermano ♪ ♪ ♪ y verá, tiene que ser, nunca hay quienes aman ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Digo que sí, me cansé de esperar ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ — Gracias.
[SPEAKER_02]: Hagamos el Bolero. Sí, le gusta el Bolero. Hagamos eso. Esto es de Dorival Caymmi. Es otra canción sobre el amor. Hagamos el Bolero.
[SPEAKER_05]: ♪ No por favor, como alguien ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ni yo ni yo, ni yo ♪ ♪ ♪ No inventé el amor, no era yo ♪ ♪ ♪ No era yo, no era yo ♪ El amor sucede en la vida. Te eras desprevenido. Y por casualidad yo también. Y al igual que la importante y querida casa de nuestras vidas, la vida también hizo tu juguete. No le das favor a alguien. Yo no era yo ni nadie. El amor sucede en la vida. No eras apto. Y lo importante que es, querido, de nuestras vidas a la vida, haz tu también la tu también. ♪ Do not favor any of liking someone ♪ ♪ neither me nor me nor me ♪ ♪ Who invented love was not me, I was not me ♪ Cuando el amor sucede en la vida, no estabas preparado, y yo también. y lo importante que es, querido, de nuestras vidas a la vida, Ninguno en gustarle a alguien ni a mí ni a mí ni a mí ni inventé el amor, no era yo, no era yo Gracias. Esta es la canción que podemos pasar todo el día cantando, la misma canción, ¿verdad? Es tan bueno. Amo eso. ¿Una vez más? Está bien.
[SPEAKER_02]: De nuevo, es un placer estar aquí en Medford. Y con ustedes, una gran audiencia, especial. Y muchas gracias por todos los que nos invitaron. Lo siento, no recuerdo el nombre de todos.
[SPEAKER_05]: Es demasiado temprano. Pero gracias de nuevo por invitarnos. Vamos a hacer la última canción. ¿Qué es lo mejor para la última canción?
[SPEAKER_02]: Bêbado? Sí, hagámoslo. ¿Sabes este? Bêbado, equilibris? Está bien. Así que esta es otra canción de João Bosco. Así que aquí vamos. Mucha energía, notas altas.
[SPEAKER_05]: Tipo Y con cada estrella fría un brillo de alquiler. Y las nubes allí en el cielo nota chuparon manchas torturadas. Soy Extranjero extranjero En cada paso de esta línea puede dañar la esperanza equilibrada que sabe que el espectáculo de cada artista Gracias. Muchas gracias. Bill Ward, Greg Toro y Renata Malavazza. Mi nombre es Anna Borges. Jugaremos la próxima semana en Harvard Square. Puedo decirte más si preguntas. Gracias. Está bien.
[Terry Carter]: Muy bien, este es West Medford. No seas tacaño. Resheta de Samba, Bill Ward en pianos. Anna Borges sobre la voz. Greg Toro en el bajo. Y dime de nuevo. Y Renato en la batería. Está bien. Muy, muy bien. Bien, entonces vamos a tomar una pequeña pausa por la causa mientras nos preparamos para nuestro acto dos. Mi fuerte sugerencia es entrar y patrocinar la casa de pastelería danesa porque lo están haciendo en grande. Hay mucha buena delicia en el interior. Todo el azúcar, toda la mantequilla en el lado de la masa y mucho sabroso en el lado salado. Entonces, ya sabes, sigue y hazte. Y tienen limonada y tienen agua fría. Entonces, está bien. Está bien. Nos vemos en unos minutos.
[SPEAKER_03]: Nunca supe lo que podían hacer. No puedo creer que estés enamorado de mí. Estás diciendo a todos los que conozco, estoy en tu mente en cada lugar donde vas. No puedo creer que estés Y después de todo, se dice y hace, para pensar que soy el afortunado. No puedo creer lo que podrían hacer. Y no puedo creer que estés enamorado de mí. Estás diciendo a todos los que conozco, estoy en tu mente en cada lugar donde vas. Se dice y se hace para pensar que soy el afortunado
[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]: Si Barbie tuviera una opción, creo que desde el primer día, ella lo habría hecho algo negro. Ella habría abandonado la piel de la crema y se había ido con un tono de ébano brillante. Ella habría hablado en un dialecto de Igbo con una verdadera actitud de la reina y ha dicho, al infierno contigo, colonizadores. Empaca en una caja rosa con letras blancas y un montón de palmeras y arena playera en el fondo. Pienso que no. No puedes obtener estos amplios senos y estas caderas curvilíneas en ese mini psicodélico Goldie Hawn. Necesito algo más sustancial. Necesito abundantes yardas de algodón senegalés con tótems brillantes de batik y todos los colores de la patria. Necesito una costurera de Wakanda directamente de la escuela Ruth Carter para enganchar la cosa bien y mostrarle al mundo con qué estoy trabajando. Necesito un hecho en Dahomey, no de Mattel y Disney. En serio, si Bobby tuviera una opción, Ken se parecería más a Ali o Denzel o a ese gato británico de chocolate negro de fin Idris Elba. Hubiera sido melanado, no apenas sentado, y de ninguna manera habría visto más envoltura de tejido navideño que el papel de lija de grano 150. Habría estado en buceando como Marvel's T'Challa, despertado como Tupac y pararse en negocios como el hermano Malcolm. Ella habría besado a ese hombre con labios negros de niña negros sin retroceso, exuberantes, exuberantes y llenos como una selva tropical tropical. Ella habría envuelto a su hombre en cada pulgada temblorosa de los muslos negros del último poeta. Si no lo sabes, youtube. Ella no necesitaría un trasero brasileño, un trabajo de tetas de Beverly Hills o una sesión de Adobe Photoshop. Madre África en un genoma generoso se ocupó de todo eso, ¿me sientes?
[SPEAKER_07]: Si Barbie tuviera una opción, nunca hubieras podido comprarla en Toys R Us, F.A.O.
[Terry Carter]: Schwartz, o Mary Arnold. Ella no habría sido una novia de trofeos falsos, una chica a un lado o un Bonnie para Clyde. Ella no habría sido una chica estadounidense Addie, una Hotliner Baddie o Dance Moms Maddie. Ella no habría sido la chica Margot Robbie, o Barbie de Cherry Pie, o un P. Diddy Harvey. Estoy cerrando el flujo con algunas rimas más, solo unas pocas barras de bronce para terminar con esto a tiempo. Un nuevo novato en Bobby no representaría tonterías. La persecución de un hermano no pudo sentarse en la cerca. Sus wows femeninos realmente serían inmensos. Un jugador solo encontraría su juego demasiado intenso, con nunca un verdadero tiro en la recompensa del amor. Aunque podría detenerse en un Bentley o rollos, perdería por un deslizamiento de tierra en un verdadero poste de Queens. Una nueva Barbie Nubian exigiría un loco respeto. Ella no sufriría en el blues ni la negligencia. Ella lucharía por la suya como una Elite Goji. Ella no sería manso, recatado o pequeño. Sería diferente en esto, hago apuesta. Un proxeneta o un estafador no sería una amenaza. Tan bien como la impresión de la deuda nacional, su belleza y sabiduría no se sudarían. Esa deslumbrante Barbie blanca podría tener un jet de juguete, pero aún no ha aterrizado un avión del alma. Mi reina africana hace que los verdaderos torceduras olviden, aunque podría querer mantener ese Corvette rosa mosca. Es posible que quieras mantener eso. Sí, es posible que quieras mantener eso. Está bien. De acuerdo, vamos a terminar donde comenzamos y eso es con la familia porque todos los que están aquí, todos los que están aquí, ya sabes, y lo aprecio, apreciamos tanto a todos los que han desafiado el calor porque sabemos que está ahí fuera para estar aquí con nosotros. Así que veamos si con suerte puedo encontrarlo.
[SPEAKER_07]: ¿Quieres un poema de mesa de cocina? Bueno. Bueno. Bien. Bueno.
[Terry Carter]: Está bien. Sé que muchas cosas que he dicho hoy y que hemos jugado hoy, ya sabes, golpea diferentes acordes y resuena de manera diferente con todos. Pero este poema en particular, tal vez como la pequeña tienda, realmente, realmente traerá una imagen de la forma en que su hogar miró en algún momento. Casi puedo garantizar que no importa de dónde vengas, qué etnia, qué antecedentes, en algún momento, mi oración, mi esperanza es que tu hogar se vea así en algún momento, y con suerte todavía lo hace. Esta pieza se llama poema de mesa de cocina. Nadie quiere irse nunca. Son como las manchas de arándanos en el delantal de Mama, establecidas y satisfechas. Se ha comido una buena comida, maíz fresco y colección, pollo frito y ensalada de papa. Las vientres son gordas y llenas. Esta es esa habitación. Dios mío, y niña, ¿y hablas en serio ahora mismo? Es una verdadera charla. Somos personas reales. Familia, ¿sabes lo que estoy diciendo? Somos familia. Puedes oler el amor mucho antes de que se abra la puerta. Sabes que habrá pastel de nuez. Y el té dulce estará helado. La gente sureña se escapará de su norte, acentos se espesará y la sombra del país se sentirá más cerca de la ciudad pronto. Y permanecerán en esa mesa mucho después de que se despejen las migas, los platos se lavarán, los alimentos se guardarán o empaquetarán en Tupperware y Ziploc. Todos tendrán una bolsa para perros y una historia que contar. Los hombres jugarán en grande. Slippin 'en un poco de algo, algo ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪. Alguna vez quiere irse. Son como los ojos de Jesús negro en esa vieja impresión, amorosa e insistente. La comida del alma se ha afeitado. Mi gen ha rezado por el cielo y el bebé cantó su canción. Todos están cosquilleados y tranquilos. Esta es esa habitación. Realmente extraño PAP. ¿Está el cáncer de bebé en remisión? Iglesia. Es una verdadera charla. Somos personas reales. Familia. ¿Sabes lo que estoy diciendo? Somos familia. El proyecto aliado, damas y caballeros. Jonathan Fagan en las teclas. Greg Toro en el bajo. Está huyendo, hombre. En realidad tiene una boda para jugar en un tiempo. Aquí está mi hombre. Está bien. Mira esto. Es un guerrero deshonesto. Él va a entrar en su pequeño látigo, y va a ir a Connecticut para jugar una boda. Está bien. Y luego mi hombre. El único, el único, Gordon Angle Guy en la batería. Está bien. Somos el proyecto aliado. Volveremos mañana en el Festival de Jazz Medford con dos actos adicionales. Tendremos maestros de estudiantes del Berkeley Institute of Jazz for Gender Justice, dirigido por el propio Terri-Lynn Carrington de Medford. Ella no estará aquí, pero sus alumnos lo harán, y ellos pueden irse. Una de sus bateristas, una mujer joven llamado Ivana Cuesta, liderará ese esfuerzo, y ella es lo que Terri-Lynn Carrington era a los 22, 23 años, por lo que es posible que quieras salir y verlo. Y luego vamos a tener Lo inimitable, lo infatigable. De acuerdo, y Donna McElroy, quien en realidad era la presidenta del departamento de voz de Berkeley, y luego tendremos el actual Presidenta del Departamento de Armonía en Berkeley, su nombre es George Russell Jr. y George en las llaves, en movimiento la poesía. Así que realmente, realmente, si puedes, si tu domingo lo permite, es posible que quieras considerar un viaje de regreso porque será Pendiente. Muy bien, así que apreciamos que estés aquí con nosotros y rockeando con nosotros durante todo el día. Espero que estés hidratado. Si no lo está, continúe, obtenga un poco de agua, un poco de té helado. Si te sientes un poco picante, continúa y consigue un poco de loh. Todavía tienen muchos buenos dulces y sándwiches y croissants de pizza y todo este tipo diferente de cosas que hicieron. Y los amamos. Esa es la casa de pastelería danesa. Están en Boston Avenue, en la esquina de Boston y Winthrop.