[Clayton]: 很多巴萨诺瓦，所以如果来晚了，请原谅我，这是我要尝试翻译的标题，不 非常好，但我想你会明白一点，你知道，我在唱什么。 所以下一首作品就像是爵士乐的影响。 所以说，爵士乐的影响，就像汤姆的队长写的那首歌，也是受到了爵士乐和桑巴的影响。 所以这就好像你说桑巴有这个，但爵士乐有那个，你知道，你会看到会发生什么。 外国人 死者已经快要死了，快要死了，却没有意识到这一点。 赞巴舞从一侧到另一侧。 爵士乐则不同，前后不同。 赞巴有点傻，有点傻，他精通爵士乐。 世界还在继续，变得更加复杂，世界还在继续。 它一直在旋转，它一直在不知疲倦地前进，它一直在前进，它一直在前进。 外国人 外国人 他死了，最后也死了。 他回到家，不知不觉就去世了。 这是从一侧到另一侧的摆动。 爵士乐因地而异。 这也是受到爵士乐影响如此之大的世界。 世界不断转动，不断变得复杂，不断转动，不断转动，不断休息。 从上面摇摆，桑巴我 回到蛋糕上，在它诞生的地方打拳 这样它就不会是一个有太多音符的桑巴 它不会是一个从前到后弯曲的桑巴 你必须转身才能使自己自由 你必须转身才能使自己摆脱...的影响 我认为下一件作品，你可能知道，是一波浪潮。 我不知道该怎么办。 第一次是城市 第二次是永恒 现在我知道了 追随大海的波浪 和我们忘记数的星星 让我们停止痛苦 当黑夜笼罩我们时 我会告诉你 我再也看不到了 那些只有心灵才能理解的事情。 一个人想要快乐是不可能的。 剩下的我就不能说了。 这是疯狂的事情。 它来自一个迹象，告诉我独自一人是不可能幸福的。 第一次是在城里。 第二次是在永恒里。 这是一个我已经知道的故事。 月亮始终是月亮。 还有忘记去向的明星。 我第一次进城。 我出生在一个永恒的地方。 这是我出生的地方。 这是我出生的地方。 这是我出生的地方。 这是我出生的地方。 这是我出生的地方。 这是我出生的地方。 这是我出生的地方。
[Unidentified]: 谢谢。
[Clayton]: 我想继续下一篇。
[Unidentified]: 有时我们会争论。 我想唱这首歌。
[Clayton]: 我不想播放这首歌。 但没关系。 桑巴，耶稣的土地。 晚上喝。 喝运动鞋。 哦，导弹的魔力。 我的心向巴伊亚敞开。 我的心碎了 我会让你说话，我会让你下来你可以来到你的参议院，我会成为你的黑板我会再次鼓掌，我的脚放在我的心上我会弹吉他，我会找到痛苦的现实。 我是，我是，我是，我是。 我要去巴伊亚桑巴，我要去那里。 我要去跳充满耶稣的桑巴舞。 我要去看月亮，去看潘帕斯草原，这是耶稣的魔法。 我的心溢满了。 我要去巴伊亚，我要去月球，我要去月球小酒馆。 我来自南方 我来自南方 我来自南方 我来自南方 我来自南方 我来自南方 苏 我怀念自己是白人。 第二天，12 月 2 日。 我要去 塞尔瓦湾 。 我会去那里。 第二天，12 月 2 日。 我要去 塞尔瓦湾 。 去。 João Bosto 的音乐总是很疯狂。 这就是 Perreiro de Jesus，他来自哪里。 这是巴伊亚的一个地方，巴伊亚有很多，我们有很多非洲的输入，你知道，这就像，他在描述他来自哪里，这是一首非常有力和美丽的歌曲。 周六早上唱歌很难。 歌手喜欢在晚上唱歌。 让我们回到另一个，那就是桑帕。 桑帕就像圣保罗的郊区。 这是来自 Caetano Veloso，他还描述了第一次来到桑帕的感觉。 他说圣保罗就像纽约。 圣保罗有美丽而富有诗意的事物。 那不止一个。 我心里发生了一些事情，只有当我穿过伊皮兰加大道和圣若昂大道时，当我到达这里时，我什么都不懂。 外国外国人 当我面对面看着你时，我看不到自己的脸。 我用一个丑陋的名字呼唤你，我用一个丑陋的名字见到你。 我不知道。 不。 在贫民窟的队伍中，被压迫者强迫谷物建造和摧毁美丽的事物。 我懂了 存在的金钱力量摧毁了所有的蜡烛，升起的冷烟熄灭了星星。 今天我看到了他的田野和空间诗，他的林业工作室，他的雨神。 新巴伊亚妇女走在街上。 新的巴伊亚人出来了。 我想如果你想跳舞的话你应该了解这一点并且感到舒服。 黑色桑巴，黑色老桑巴，你 外国人 老黑桑巴，黑桑巴。 最重要的是，像这样的桑巴舞，很酷的东西，你不会想要的。 哇！ 因为桑巴是热闹的，我想要的就是桑巴。 但是这个桑巴舞是马拉卡图、古老的黑色桑巴舞的混合体 哦 更多可供跳舞的歌曲。 这是我最喜欢的作品之一 Shigbo Aki 的作品。 太不可思议了。 翻译过来就是让女孩跳舞。 任何时候都不要阻止她。 他不是一个好丈夫，不是。 所以就让她去跳舞吧。 外国外国人 扔五彩纸屑 但有话要说 它正在碎裂 它很痛苦 而且它将保持生锈 有了丈夫的外表 女孩有能力被憎恨 在一个悲伤的男人背后 总是有一个幸福的女人 那个女人回来了 十点了，桑巴舞很热。 外国人 我的宝贝儿子，只有当你在场的时候，你才配得上你所拥有的力量。 我不知道该说什么。 你正在伤害自己。 你正在伤害自己。 现在是三点钟。 阳光温暖。 让女孩幸福吧。 让女孩安静地跳舞。 一个悲伤的女人，总会有一个幸福的女人。 这个女人的背后，是一个男人。 所以为了你，我愿意为了你爱的这个女孩而砍下我的头。 如果你想成功，我的宝贝儿子，这里没有其他人了。 我只是想再次感谢你们，感谢大家邀请我来到这里，与比尔·沃德、格雷格一起，这是我第一次，我很高兴你们和雷纳托来到这里。 我叫安娜·博尔赫斯，如果你想参加会议，请随意听一个小时， 我推广活动，我也是音乐会推广人。 我们也来自哈特福德。 而且在家玩也很棒。 非常可爱，非常可爱。 好吧，让我们这样做吧。 你可能也知道这个。 这就是这部分。 你看我从来没有见过这样的事情。你没有经过，也没有停留，只是为了我。你回去然后转身。你说爱是幸福的付出 看，正如你所看到的，你会爱你的心。 当我看到那个女孩走过来时，我突然跳了起来。 她总是这样看着我。 它会来，它必须来。 她从来不需要爱。 今天她说是的。 我厌倦了等待。 我没有停下来，我什至没有睡觉。 我正在考虑离开。 我过去了，你却不来。 来。 那么让我谈谈吧，如果你来就告诉我。 瞧，亲爱的，我从来没有见过这样的事情。 它过去了，它没有停下来，而是看着我。 如果你回来，我就会回来，我会再次索要爱。 我承认爱是一个放屁的给予。 瞧，这就像夏天的一颗温暖的心。 当他看到下一个女孩时，他突然跳了起来。 她一定是装的。 你会发现，我必须如此，没有人可以爱。 今天我知道，我忘记了，我厌倦了等待。 我没有停下，我没有睡觉，我只是思考人生。 我问你，你却不来。 来。 我放开自己，我说话，我只想你，但你不来。 而你看到你胜利的女孩没有过去，也没有停下来，只是看着我。 如果我回来，我回来，我回来，我会告诉你，爱情是一个小小的诱惑。 你看，就像夏天，本来有一颗心，却突然停止了。 ♪ 别管它，我只是在说话，我正在告诉天堂，但你来了 ♪ ♪ 随它去吧，我正在对天堂说话，但你来了 ♪ ♪ 别管它，我正在告诉天堂，但你来了 ♪ 我们来跳波莱罗舞吧。 是的，他喜欢波莱罗舞曲。 让我们这样做吧。 这是多里瓦尔·卡米 (Dorival Caymmi) 发来的。 还有一首关于爱情的歌。
[Unidentified]: 我们来跳波莱罗舞吧。
[Clayton]: 你喜欢某人并不是在帮我一个忙。不是我，不是我，不是我。爱情不是我发明的，不是我。 亲爱的，在我们的生活中，一个重要的巧合，你的玩具也到了。 位于里约河沿岸。 你没有准备好 碰巧我也准备好了 碰巧我们生命中重要而亲爱的人 他也做了你的玩具 你不会因为喜欢一个人而给任何人带来任何好处不是我，不是我，不是我是谁发明了爱 和 爱的发明者。 不是我。 不是我。 不是我。 这不是我，也不是其他任何人。 谢谢。 这是我们可以同时唱一整天的歌，对吗？ 太好了。 我喜欢那个。 再次？ 一切都好。 很高兴再次来到梅德福。 和你在一起的还有大量特殊的观众。 非常感谢所有邀请我们的人。 抱歉，我不记得每个人的名字。 还太早了。 但再次感谢您邀请我们。 我们来唱最后一首歌吧。 来来来，最后一首歌有什么更好听的？ 醉。 是的，我们就这么做吧。 或者你知道这个吗？
[Unidentified]: 醉。
[Clayton]: 好吧，这是另一首 João Bosco 的歌曲，所以我们开始吧。 能量充沛，音符高亢。 你还好吗？ 哦，哇 巴西，我的巴西。 我梦想着我的兄弟、我的儿子以及那么多离开的人回来。 口交哭了。 我们甜蜜的祖国。 我哭了玛丽亚和津加雷 外国人 格雷格·托雷尔（Greg Torell），简单说几句话，关于我的音乐就够了，我的名字是琳达·戈登（Linda Gordon）。 我们在哈佛广场的西峰演出。 如果你问我，我无法告诉你更多。 谢谢。
[Terry Carter]: All right, this is West Medford, don't be stingy. Resheta De Samba, Villabuda on piano. A lot of gorgeous on vocals. Greg Torell on bass. All right. Very, very good. Okay, so we're going to take a little pause for the pause while we get set up for our act two. All right. All right. Hello, everybody. All right. So we had a beautiful first step. They said that the ensemble 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 gonna 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 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, and 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 Hard 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. Gangs 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. us in our place in this mystic valley space where slaves and rams and shepherds 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 found 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 Georgia shore, we baptized and blessed our brothers and sisters in Christ. We popped the little fishes to go with our loaves of bread, and became the TV multitude who our Lord Jesus fed, inspired 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 will turn and our fortune grows. A few more streets become our home. Houses on Sharon join Kin on Jerome. From Duggar Park to the railroad tracks, the landings won't make more room for blacks. The color line recedes a bit. Church and school and center sits. The bill becomes the heart of it. Hired by the Mr. Cho. Now the worm has surely turned And folks who left have surely learned Things couldn't stay the same That money 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 wear it in. The only place where one could be found 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. Okay, there was of course Duggar Park, there was the Hervey School Yard 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 and 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 rundown and rough around the edges. And Mr. Henry seemed so old to us, even then, with a lot of whiskers, impatient, and a little scary. One would suspect that he didn't even like kids, but he really must have loved us, or else. Where did all that penny candy come from? He had all of it, no serious stuff. We'd bust in there with a few nipples or a handful of pennies, all loud and unruly. 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 over one of those small brown craft paper bags and get to stuffing while we were pooing and ahhing and huffing and puffing. See, Mr. Henry had all the 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. Jar breakers 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 B.J. 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 nickel wafers, liquor made in Boston they feel. Gold rocks, nuggets of gum in a bag, a kid's idea, sweet tooth swag. Before the days of Laffy Taffys, we were gobbling 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. We grab those bags like potty, baby. chuckles were a favorite choice and milk studs 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 January to chilly December. More kinds of candy than I can remember at the Phil storefront on Upper Jerome. I know I have to write this poem saying Mr. Henry had all the treats. All of our favorites. A hundred great sweets. Alright. Alright, alright. Yeah, yeah. You love it. Okay, so there's the band. Jonathan Fagan on the keys. 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. My man Gordon Engelkau on the traps here. Okay, we are the Allied Project. We're gonna move this thing along. Oh boy, where am I? Yeah, okay, here we go. So I'm not gonna 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 rollerblades. 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 rollerblades. We used to bust ourselves up pretty good on those rickety metal skates with funky 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 apart the rome tennis court the herby schoolyard and a hundred addresses on arlington lincoln and rome a host of our remembered places so few of our original faces Meanwhile, back at 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 Cornelot, 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 Duggar 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. 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 pennies, pugs, and poos to chase them off. 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 bowling chair, because his spindly legs were too weak to let him run. I can't imagine that I'm still here. But Bonnie and Otis, and Darryl King, and Frank the French, Aaron McDaniel, and Murphy Davis are all Everyone had a nickname back then. Daryl was super fast, so we called him Road Runner and Jack Rabbit. 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 the school. across the corner lot now. A little more land and perhaps a new perspective that angles create. I wonder if that meant anything to Ronnie and Otis, or Jed and Miles and Gibbs, 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. 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 have the 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 folks can't afford two more dismissals of the blessings of his word one more holy stone rejected and So, all right, we're gonna switch it up a little bit. If you're familiar with the Jazz Canon, you know a couple of the players, you know, Duke Ellington and Miles Davis and you know, 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 episcophy, or Miles' tone poem in a silent way, or Flanagan's piece at the end of the day. Syncopated in sharp, bright tone, a countdown decides us, a twilight zone, like a blue train running against the night, setting the pace and out of sight. With heartland 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 bar for Harlem street cred. Melodies hand to the harmony wed. Pianos lullaby fresh in the bed. Rhythm rocks with a drum of lead. Rhythm rolls in the bass man's bed. Rhythm burns with the saxophone bread. Rhythm heard what the master said. How could he make the bitter taste sweeter? How could a tortured mind deleter? How could the mellow scotch be neater? How could the smoke from each cigarette create blue beads that cast an edge? 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 of laughter. Coltrane's notes are a sample divine, like gold in a can of gemstone mine, the sparkling glow of a hopeful dream, hot black coffins with a hint of green. Coltrane's notes are Naima's reprieve, like madness that brings a man to his knees, or sadness that comes from lover's pride, the gladness The harmonious spirit engulfs the room. The bride says yes to her lyrical groom. The groove and the beat is in just the broom. The tip drum resounds with a sonic boom. Musical mythology, a twisted path, a hero walk. With shield and sword, the hero starts. The different shapes are twisted locks. Medusa's snake, his vision chopped. The poles of the mirror in stony blocks. The harp and the horn melt icy rocks. Coltrane's notes are a rollercoaster, a hallelujah and a kalinosa, a glorious note from the maestro's hand. The saxophone titan is in command. Coltrane's notes are a crazy rhythm, a swap of chords in place of 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 gemstones mined, the sparkling glow of a lover's dream, hot black coffee with a hint of cream. Coltrane's notes are naive as reprieve, like madness that brings a man to his knees, or sadness that comes when lovers part, in the balladeer's heart. Thank you. Thank you very much. All right, all right. So we're going to stay, we're going to stay on the jazz frontier for a minute. And Herbie Hancock and later Quincy Jones, they did a tune, Quincy covered it. Herbie Hancock did it first 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, OK? 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 ever seen. For the sweet tale that sugars and creams, with flashes of stardust and shining moonbeams. 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. Tell me a fable of Arabian nights Spread on a table of earthly delights Free from the label of anger and spite Willing and able to scale higher heights The baby rocks in the maple bough As the blue ox puts his nose to the plough And the sweaty farmer wipes his brow As each green seedling happily bows 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. This is the time when the sandman whispers and seven brooms 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. Jonathan Bacon on the keys. Ray Carroll on the bass.
[SPEAKER_00]: 你听到了吗？ 你听说过，对吧？
[Terry Carter]: All right, let's go with the angle down on the drums. All right. Woo! 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. okay all right so we ain't playing okay this is called alienation 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 hold refugees at our door you're not the soul we're looking for take good note we stay on guard we don't want you in our 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 filthy crime. We don't want fear at this time. We don't care what the neighbors say. They won't do more than hope and pray. Our stance is clear. You saw that statue in the bank. It stood for liberty until today. It welcomed tired and huddled masses, not criminals from your underclass. 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 yourself in the sights There are no streets here lined with old. Our eyes are closed, our hearts are old. 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 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 and 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 church. and black boys hunts for folks and virgins. We'll give you a taste of incarceration in prison.com, the corporate plantation. We're taking this country back to the day when white men write in every way, when men are privileged to 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 of swamp and bog. where confederate flags were both raised and crosses in the darkest place 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 cap 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 people embrace the hate their voice provides. His Twitter rants and soundbites 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 powers. And yet, the season is fully revealing the stain of hatred we've 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 island. 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. Hard truth, admittedly, but truth 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 mane. Family wonders why and brings 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. Well, it's a hard road to hoe. You're making strange bed pillows. You're casting your white pearls in full 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. The right and wrong side of time. Our kind and their kind. Your people and those folks. It's gonna kill your mother and your daddy. 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 kick 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. 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, yeah. All right, all right. Once again, the Allied Carpet. Jonathan Fagan, Greg Toro, Dwayne Englegar, and 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? Alright. I know it's warm out there. But you're braving the elements and enjoying the day, hopefully. Very, very good. that is the burden of your children. They must shoulder this yoke with love and loyalty. And yet, you have not gathered them up and bid them sit before the campfires of their elders. You have not seasoned their meals with the spice of their identity and the savor of their name. How will they learn to walk the walk and talk the talk? How will they learn to tell your stories even as they live out 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 girthy 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 flame, you don't know. And until the lion cub knows how to tell the pride story, the hunters will always tell them first. 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 journeys? the wonders of Wakanda. And San Pololo grew 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 scene? Measures the roads, sites 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 tree? Or will they hunger for the wisdom of the saints? We must put them on this page, where hard work turns a man his wage, where power is measured by God's own gauge, with miracles scarfed at the wand of a maid. that is loyal and fierce like Naomi and Ruth, that doesn't wait for the confessional boot, that has the bite of the panther's tooth. This is the gift of legacy, where a glorious past sets the captors free, and the candle's light beckons liberty. I think you sit before the campfires of your elders, hear their stories, gather up their stones, and build up your strength. They will show you a Nazi's clever ways, hopeful and contagious journeys, for Pharaoh's beautiful daughters, the people who could fly the wonders of Lusanda, and Sanga Lolo's new tactics, 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 tales will always be your children's prayers. You will never abandon the community of faith. Though you build a thousand cities on a hill, fills your clay jars with his grace. Thank you. Alright, so 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 Allied 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 CD player. 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 ya, 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 you doing? Oh, we're doing Bobby, okay. All right, so a while back, like 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 Barbie 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. Barbie had a choice. I believe that from day one, she would have made it a black thing. She would have ditched the cream-sickened skin and gone with a lustrous ebony hue. She would have spoken in an evil dialect with a true queen's attitude and said, to hell with you pollinators. Package me up in a pink box with white lettering and a bunch of beachy palms and sand in the background. Curvaceous hip into that goldie lawn, psychedelic mini. I'ma need a little something more substantial. I'ma need coach's yards of single-eased cotton with shiny petite totems and all the colors of the motherland. I'ma need a Wakanda seamstress straight out of the Ruth Potter school to hook the thing up right and show the world what I'm working for. I'ma need a mane in Dahomey, not by Mattel and Disney. If Bobby had a choice, Ken would've looked more like Ali or Denzel. Or that fine-ass, dark-chocolate British cat, Delirious Alba. He would've been melanated, not barely suntanned. And by no means would he have seen more holiday tissue wrap and 150-grit sandpaper. He would've been swashbuckling like Marv or T'Challa. Woke like Tupac and standing on business like Brother Malcolm. She would have kissed that man with unretouched, un-botoxed black girl lips, lush and full as a tropic rainforest. She would have engulfed her man in every quaking itch of the last poet's black thighs. If you don't know it, YouTube it. She would have no need of a Brazilian butler, a Beverly Hills school job, or an Adobe Photoshop session. Mother Africa in a generous genome took care of all of that, you feel me? If Barbie had a choice, you would never have been able to buy her at Toys R Us, F.A.O. Schwartz or Mary Arnold. She wouldn't have been a fake trophy bride, a chick on the side, or a Bonnie for five. She wouldn't have been American Girl Addie, It girl Margot Robbie, or Cherry Pie's Bobby, 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 Barbie wouldn't stand for nonsense. A brother's pursuit couldn't sit on the fence. Her womanly wiles would truly be immense. A player would just bind her game to a tense, but never a true shot that loves record pace. Though he might pull up in a Bentley or Rolls, he'd lose by a landslide at a Rio Queen's pole. A new Nubian Barbie would demand that mistake. She wouldn't suffer the guilt or neglect. She'd fight for her own like a Goji elite. She wouldn't be tamed, demure, or petite. Things would be different on this I may bet A pimp or a hustler would not be a threat As fine as the print on the national deck Her beauty and wisdom would not break a sweat That glitzy white Barbie might have the toy jet But she hasn't landed a soul plane yet My African queen makes the real king spaghetti Though she might wanna keep that fly pink Corvette I want to keep that. All right. OK, so we're going to end where we begin, 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. Okay, good All right, so 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 gonna 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 look like this at some point and hopefully still does this piece is called kitchen table home Nobody ever wants to leave there like the blueberry stains on mama's apron Settled, 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 center. 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 in ziplock totes. Everyone will have a doggie bag and a story to tell. down dominoes, sipping on a little something something and talking big trash. The smiles will be broad and the laughter will be contagious. The women will be fanning and fussing. 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 consistent. Soul food has been shared. Our gene has prayed down heaven and the baby sang their song. Everyone's tickled and tranquil. This is that room. I really miss pap. His baby boy's cancer and remission. And when you coming back to 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 Currow 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 road 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 going to be leading that effort, and she's what Terry Lynn Carrington was at 22, 23 years old. So you might want to 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 going to 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 want to consider a return trip because it's going to be outstanding all right so we appreciate you being here with us um and uh and rocking with us throughout the day hope you're hydrated if you're not going in get some water some iced tea if you're feeling a little bit uh peckish going and get a little nosh they still have a lot of good sweets and sandwiches and and pizza croissants and all this different kind of stuff that they make and um and we love them that's the danish pastry house they're real they're down they're down on boston they have on the corner of boston and winthrop and um you know we're going to actually figure out a way to get down there and do a couple of coffee shop poultry and jazz sessions they've got a bunch of different plans So stay tuned because there's more to come Jonathan's going to come and he's going to give some acknowledgments and talks and thanks some folks But you know on behalf of the West Medford Community Center Lisa Crossman our board of directors It's been a pleasure to be with you here today, and we hope you come back
[SPEAKER_00]: 是的，非常感谢特里·卡特和西贝德福德社区中心的团队接待我们。 谢谢大家的到来。 我们希望明天见到你，因为特里击败了你。 我们有一些非常令人难以置信的音乐家回来了。 所以，嗯，好吧。 非常感谢，明天见。