Playing At Carnegie Hall

This Saturday morning, while prepping a potato salad for a friend’s birthday picnic, halfway through dicing a green pepper I realized that (in a manner that’s doubtless common for many of us) I’d not taken the time to fully process the major event that had happened the night before.

Thanks to the invitation of the ridiculously gifted & kind Mike McGinnis, I got to be in the orchestra that played the music of Alice Coltrane at Carnegie Hall: a wonderful assemblage of musicians in service of honoring her legacy. It was a joy to experience their artistry as well as that of the incredible Ravi Coltrane, Jeff ‘Tain’ Watts, Robert Hurst, Brandee Younger and Brandon Waddles. The memories of music and camaraderie will linger for a long time.

Someday though, should Isla ask what this experience was like, aside from the music I shall say the following:

Unlike other work spaces where your Daddy was often singled out to present ID, all he had to do to walk through the artist entrance of Carnegie Hall was say his name.

Unlike those times your Daddy was patted down in front of you in North Carolina and Boston (and yes, even Flatbush), his instrument cases searched and upon noticing he was the only one this was being done to with wide, uncharacteristically perturbed eyes you asked ‘why’, unlike those times, no one did that to your Daddy at Carnegie.

Your head on your mother's lap, you fell asleep to the sounds of Flying Lotus ,awoke presumably during a David Virelles solo among an audience where there were so many people who looked like you as well as so many people who looked different but were no less beautiful.

At 5 years old, you made a tie dye dress of your own to go see your Daddy at work and one day, in the will of God, Daddy will put on the $21 Kangol hat he bought 9 months before you were born to come witness the wonderful work you will do: whether that be at Carnegie Hall or in whichever neighborhood that is blessed to be your home.

Article In New York Flute Club Newsletter

I was honored that the New York Flute Club shared the notes from my talk (Jam Session Survival Guide for Jazz Flutists) a few weeks ago in their newsletter.

TL;DR Iconic Trinidadian Rapso Artist Brother Resistance Passes Away

Coming of age in 90’s Trinidad had me processing a number of things –Thundercats and Star Trek on the same television that the military coup of 1990 was chillingly announced, the loss of my grandmother and the fact that, despite attending a ‘good school’ and being ‘well spoken’, the police would routinely ask about my character & intentions throughout my youth whenever I was going to Music Festival/ Globe Cinema/ a concert/church youth group/ home/ a rehearsal/ the mall/ a friend’s home/ the pharmacy for Ms. Gracie’s tablets…

I was hard-pressed to find a Trinidadian voice whose music acknowledged, without euphemism, the challenges that came with being Black and urban - A Tribe Called Quest made much more sense than most of the fare on homeland radio at the time. The ONE local voice whose work shifted that perspective was Brother Resistance, a man whose eloquence and wry dignity made him the T.S. Eliot to the experience of growing up in a neighborhood like mine.

He passed away last night and we should walk alongside his family in their grief. If you’re not familiar with his work, I invite you to listen to a few examples from his discography listed below. He dignified the collective worth of the Black Trinidadian experience by sealing it in lyric and inspired many of us to stand our ground whenever someone disbelieves us - whether that be about a knowledge of Shakespeare or that we’re not a person of interest when the patrol car slows down.

D

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rXVDNeP-hw&t=50s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtrIYBOAOPU

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3LGn50NYp10

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIr2MNBNo5o

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brother_Resistance

Hope & Fellowship

(Originally appeared in ‘First Take column’ of the September '20 issue of DownBeat Magazine)

This Juneteenth, I published my first blog post, which I titled “Black Sound, White Light.” It was a response to multiple claims of solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement from musician peers in Brooklyn—where the scene, as I have experienced it, is predominantly white and generally unwelcoming (with the exception of my inner circle of friends). To me, many of these claims rang hollow because there was no true introspection, no questioning of why the scene here is almost completely white and why this latest awakening did not stir collective discomfort about the state of our own community. After revisiting more than a decade of memories, I posted my thoughts and walked away from the laptop. I steeled myself for a rapid drop-off in friend count and an even chillier reception at jam sessions (whenever those become possible again).

When I logged back on, however, I saw that friends and contemporaries from around the world had reposted and commented with insightful sincerity. Publicly and privately, musician peers shared their own sense of alienation about being Black, immigrant or female while navigating toward the hope of fellowship within and beyond the music. Some peers offered apologies for any past offense or exclusion that may have occurred. It felt hopeful.

In the wider world, systemic racism establishes structures that limit possibilities for Black people and the jazz world is not immune. This often makes the way difficult for some but not others, and the path forward will remain a lawn of manicured euphemisms until we address and uproot entrenched imbalances.

Deftly protean, post-modern prejudice in the jazz milieu often masks itself under the pretext of skillfulness: A musician who plays well may be accepted, to a degree, but if not, he or she runs the risk of being scorned musically and reminded of their ‘otherness.’ If the Black musician is inducted but observes the lion’s share of opportunities mostly remain within the pre-existing cliques — often fostered by U.S. graduate programs only affordable to those with generational wealth — he or she must decide whether to continue supporting a scene that doesn’t reciprocate professionally or emotionally.

With so much of jazz life paused by the pandemic, we have ample time for deep rumination. I think the first collective step to anti-racist progress must be to assert the value of Black personhood independent of our contributions to the culture. If you’re only moved to claim that our lives matter because your favorite tenor player is Black, that does not help us; a commitment to work through your own biases or apathy to become a true friend and neighbor will.

The friends I’m blessed with have done this, one in particular. Ignoring rain clouds overhead, my family met him on the last Saturday in June in Brooklyn’s Dr. Ronald McNair Park. We wanted to spend some time together before he moved back to his home state. Six feet between us, we recounted how he helped us move apartments in March, right as the NYC lockdown began. As we reminisced, my wife and I watched our baby daughter expand her picnic blanket empire. 

At the other end of the park, a buoyant group of Black young people was conducting an informal photo shoot only to leave when an NYPD patrol car pulled up, slow and obvious. Despite the sobering reminder, I was in the company of a man who sees me as his equal, on and off the bandstand. If any unwarranted attention had been directed at me, he would have challenged it. The clouds finally broke and we all ran home, laughing, to have impromptu coffee and Trinidadian pastries.

Then, as our friend takes his leave—knowing that by his own recollection he has not touched another person since a handshake on March 19—we give him a parting hug, acknowledging that amidst his own journey he has chosen to be my brother. DB