JOHN COLTRANE / “Africa”

Africa.

Just the name conjures images: a romantic, ancestral motherland; a teeming jungle of hardship and bad government; a black, heart-shaped continent, the deepest of darknesses. Africa.

More Negroes trip over to Europe than have returned to Africa. More Negroes go to Europe than…except, in our music. In our music, we journey there all the time. And guess what? That Africa we journey to, is also that Africa that is deep inside so many of us. And, it is this Africa—not the land mass per se, but rather the Africa of our innards, the spirit sound of our heartbeats—that is the Africa, the singing Africa, the dancing Africa, that Africa is the Africa the music unleashes. The Africa we can never leave. The Africa that will never leave us. That DNA Africa is articulated by our music.

And guess what? It is not our writers, educators and intellectuals who keep Africa alive in us. No. It is our music that feeds Africa and is fed by Africa. Our music. Our Africa. And the jazz artists most of all, are the ones who consciously connected us to Africa even when most of us thought that a Tarzan yodel was the most familiar sound of Africa.

Which brings me, brings us, all of us, to John Coltrane’s great composition: “Africa.” I remember when it came out. Remember listening to it on the radio. Not a low-powered college station or an end-of-the-dial community station, but rather on the main popular station of the Sixties in New Orleans: WYLD. The show was “This Is Jazz,” every Saturday from 3pm to 7pm. So important to me that I bought a little portable radio and used to carry it with me listening as I walked the picket lines during the Civil Rights movement. I can distinctly remember hearing Cecil Taylor while I walked up and down Basin Street outside the side entrance of Krauss department store. What I am getting at is that back then we could hear the full spectrum of ourselves on the popular radio station of the day. Today if it ain’t sexy, it ain’t shit, and you ain’t going to hear nothing on the main station other than perfect bullshit.

Africa is a raw sound. An urgent sound. It sounded huge, like elephants on the loose, when I first heard it back then, and it still sounds huge today.
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The SFJazz Collective version, featuring artistic director Joshua Redman on tenor and Eric Harland on drums, is wonderful as a recreation. I am especially enthralled by Bobby Hutcherson making merry on marimba. His infectious, witty accompaniment has all the sly humor of Brer Rabbit frolicking in a briar patch. Don’t get me wrong, Redman is blowing mightily on that tenor sax and Harland is beating up a storm, but still Hutcherson makes the composition something to listen to again and again.
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From the Bay Area, we head southward to LaLa land, where vocalist Dwight Tribble holds court. We are in Angel-hood, Leimert Park, location of The World Stage, the performance center put together by deceased drummer Billy Higgins and poet maximus Kamau Daaood. Indeed, Tribble and Daaood are cut buddies, frequently, as on this cut, appearing together. Although this is from Tribble’s CD, Living Waters, for me Kamau’s cameo steals the show in how smooth he runs the voodoo down, how he casually tosses off astounding metaphors, like, “if the earth had breasts.”

What’s also interesting about this version is rather than lean on the melody, they spring loose the rhythm and use the harmonics as a bed over which they blow improvised lines. In fact, you have to listen closely to discern the shape of the song, but that’s good because this is not an attempt to re-create what Trane wrought, but rather a successful use of a classic song as a springboard for a very personal investigation and articulation of what Africa means. The personalities of the players become singularly important in this context, so much so, it does not even sound like a Trane song. In fact, it could be an Olatunji song with new world lyrics, by which I mean that the African poly-rhythms and the story becomes the core of this version. Rather than a vehicle for horn and trap drummer, it’s now about percussion and griot, which, if you check it for what it is, you will peep that this is a very African orientation. Right?
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Speaking of the lyrics, they are composed by vocalist Abbey Lincoln who does manage to sound like a horn, a horn that hollers with the intensity of a million Negroes demanding their freedom. She had that strength—the strength of field Negroes—all up in her throat. Ironically, she is working with members of Miles’ working band who were in Japan on tour at the same time Lincoln was there in the summer of 1973. “Ironically” because the absence of Trane left a hole in Miles that all subsequent saxophonists only partially filled, Wayne Shorter undoubtedly more than most of the others combined, and even though Wayne offered up unparalleled composing skills, nevertheless, he was not Trane, his playing did not have that fierceness. So here’s Miles in Japan: he lends his band to Abbey Lincoln and Abbey chooses to record her version of Trane’s masterpiece.

That’s James Mtume on percussion (this is, of course, some years before Mtume became famous with “Juicy Fruit”). Dave Liebman bearing down on the horn, manages to come out of a Trane bag without sounding like a Trane clone, or Trane wanna-be. Here we can easily hear why Miles wanted him. Al Foster is on drums. I have always like the sensitivity of his swing, he plays like a tap dancer with a suave surge of rhythm that is never clumsy, always classy. The rhythm section is rounded out by Japanese pianist Hiromasa Suzuki and bassist Kunimitsu Inaba, two stalwarts of the Japanese jazz scene of that era.

When Abbey screams “all my life,” no doubt we are listening to a naked confession as powerful as Trane’s celebrated “cry,” i.e. Trane’s most personal and most instantly identifiable sound, the blue sound of saturated sadness flavoring every emotion, the sadness of a people in sorrow, a people suffering, but a people who choose to be happy and optimistic when all logic suggests we should be just the opposite.
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From the opening whoop of the brass to those early moments when Trane unleashes a monumental gush of tenor saxophone, we are confronted with something so musically massive that even over 40 years later it still sounds like tomorrow, like something new barreling towards us rather than something old fading in the rearview of our lives.

Compared to the original, SF Jazz Collective sounds like a college band at best. This is alchemy. You can not duplicate this version of “Africa” because back then, they were playing more than just their own life experiences, they were reflecting a whole continent in motion, they were reflecting America on fire, the torch light in the eyes of Blacks who were refusing any longer to be Negroes. So in their playing, you can hear echoes of King and Malcolm, of Birmingham and Watts; today, we have no such immediate events to stuff into the horns (or more likely the keyboards) of young musicians, thus the thickness of contemporary music sounds thin compared to what was happening then, not because the musicians are any less musicians but rather because the social experiences are not of the same depth, and as always the meaning and weight of the music comes from the world within which the music is made, the world that shapes the music and the way the music in turn helps us to shape the world.
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Some of us actually went to Africa after hearing this, we.… Before I go too far off, let me call attention to the non-bombastic complexity of Elvin Jones earthquaking drum solo. Whereas Harland was pounding full out like a man possessed, Elvin Jones was like a god riding the drums, completely in control and offering up a clinic of polyrhythmic syncopation. Even if I had four hands, I (nor anyone else I’ve heard) could do half as much as Elvin does on this piece. Stories about Jones are legend, especially the witnessing of him literally nailing his drums down on the bandstand to keep them in place as a he applied his high-octane beating of the hides. He was known to be so loud that even when horn players put a microphone into the bells of their horns, Elvin would still drown them out, except, of course, for Trane who would stare Elvin down like an elephant trampling on the king of the jungle.

I know that many of our younger listeners might not hear all of this in Trane’s version (or, for that matter, in any of the versions) of “Africa” and I understand why. When I listen to Africa I don’t just hear a song, I hear a whole world that many of us struggled to give birth to, a world that gave us meaning, gave us great joy in embracing. I hear liberation movements and cultural awakening but, alas, that was a different time, a time that even though now long gone, a time I nevertheless still hear pulsing inside me, a sound I am reminded of every time Trane wails or Abbey screams “Africa.”

—Kalamu ya Salaam


          Passion and energy         

Curiously enough, although Kalamu is an avowed, passionate and unapologetic Trane freak, I don’t remember hearing much Trane around the house. I should rephrase that. I don’t get that same intense feeling of ‘sound nostalgia’ that I get when I hear other music that used to play at the house: Bob Marley, Joan Armatrading, Teena Marie, P-Funk, War, Stevie Wonder. In my twenties, I gradually acquired the complete catalogs of all of these musicians, and eventually, I stopped being surprised when I’d find that I already knew their music. Actually, I don’t get that feeling about jazz musicians, period. The only exceptions that I can think of from the world of jazz are two albums: The Creator Has A Masterplan and Love Supreme. Not coincidentally, both of these albums feature vocals and therein, I think, lies the explanation: it’s not that I didn’t hear Trane (or other jazz musicians) when I was a kid, it’s that I didn’t understand what I was hearing and therefore I can’t remember it.

Years later, I bought the Africa/Brass CD and like other long and intense Trane compositions (think “Impressions,” “Blue Train” or “Out Of This World”), I quickly fell in love with the title tune. For me, it was particularly interesting to hear Trane, Elvin and McCoy doing their thing in front of a big band. Other than Blue Train and Kind Of Blue, I limited my Trane diet to his classic Impulse recordings, nearly all of which Trane recorded in the quartet format. (Most of the earlier stuff sounded too conventional; and as for the later stuff…. Well, if you’ve never heard any of it, nothing I can say will approximate it; and if you have heard some of it, you already know the point I’m trying to make.)

Despite how much I dig Joshua Redman, I’m not feeling the SFJazz Collective’s attempt. It is a bit freaky how similar Joshua’s tone sounds to Trane’s—particularly on the chorus—but overall, the SFJazz version sounds so similar to Trane’s version, both in arrangement and execution, that, if given the choice, I’ll just stick with the original.

The cover I most like is Dwight Tribble’s. Strange again, because I don’t usually like Dwight Tribble’s stuff. I’m not big on jazz vocalists in general, but Kalamu described this one well: Dwight and Kamau use the groove and chorus of “Africa” as a jumping-off point, then do their own thing. I especially like the background singers and the percussion. Good stuff.

As for Abbey Lincoln’s version—very, very intense. I’m still trying to decide if I like it and if so, how much, but there’s no questioning the passion and energy Abbey put into her performance.

—Mtume ya Salaam

 

          A couple of corrections         

Mtume, the Pharoah Sanders album that contains "The Creator Has A Master Plan" is actually Karma and features vocalist and co-composer Leon Thomas. Trane's classic album, A Love Supreme, does not have a vocalist on it, only Trane and band members chanting the lyric "a love supreme." Human memory is never a reliable witness, especially when it comes to something we love or hate, something that really attracted us or really repulsed us. We mis-remember all extremes and never accurately remember the ordinary except in the most general of terms. As for Trane in the house, y'all were usually in the front, if you had been in the back apartment where Mama and I stayed, you would have heard much more Trane (and other music) representing the sounds of angels wrestling with demons.

—Kalamu ya Salaam
 

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 15th, 2006 at 1:43 am and is filed under Classic. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.


6 Responses to “JOHN COLTRANE / “Africa””

Ms. Berry Says:
January 15th, 2006 at 1:02 pm

Sweet ‘Trane. I am in love with A Love Supreme and naturally Kind of Blue. I am still exploring this fascinating artist…would love to see more about him. Love the discussion…would like a little background about your personal connections.


spirit Says:
January 17th, 2006 at 5:07 pm

thank you for documenting our music. please save all of your blog entries in a safe place (read: get a portable extra hard drive). it seems to me you have the makings of an excellent book on black music and how it affects/affected members of two generations.


Jason Says:
January 18th, 2006 at 10:47 am

My favorite Trane track, this one has always been important for me because it was my first introduction to Eric Dolphy, and I think it is his presence (he was responsible for some of the arrangements) that give this piece its atmosphere (the elephants trumpeting for instance), and Elvin Jones work here sounds like a precursor of what Tony Allen later provided for Fela.


Lynn Says:
January 19th, 2006 at 10:27 am

As usual, every time I check in to BOL I get a music education and walk around for days afterward lamenting the lack of high school courses entitled “The Elephant and The Lion: Coltrane, Jones and Improvisational Dueling in Jazz Performance” or “Echoes of Africa: Music and Genetic Memory in the Black Diaspora.”

Keep on. And ditto what Spirit said about the book.


ekere Says:
January 19th, 2006 at 4:49 pm

This is one of my favorite Coltrane pieces. I actually like all of the interpretations. Each one does something different. Beautiful. Thanks! 🙂

one love,
Ekere


AumRa Says:
January 20th, 2006 at 6:21 pm

Some of us buy airline tickets, others buy a dashiki or a bean pie. But when focus swings internally and the African within is reborn, love grows deeper and more purposeful. Who am I? From where did I come? Why am I here? For some, these eternal questions precede the in-breath, the need to be touched and the craving for food.

In 1961, two years after kicking a heroin and alcohol addiction, two years after recording, what would later become, two distinct, groundbreaking recordings (one at Carnegie Hall with Monk and Kind of Blue with Miles), John Coltrane recorded the music for his first recording for the, still in it’s infancy, Impulse label.

Africa Brass is a stark contrast to the pastoral leisure and mint julep coolness of Porgy and Bess. There is a brass ensemble instead of strings. Eric Dolphy arrangements and not Gil Evans. This ain’t no homogenized interpretation of life on the plantation with a soundtrack of smiling sharecroppers singing. Metal is the element of Ogun and Africa Brass is a masculine sound. Africa Brass is a Black man’s oratory delivered without apology or compromise.

Everything about this recording is a celebration of triumph. The tempo of Song of the Underground Railroad is the engine that propels the recording. The rhythm section is the dynamo that sets the tempo. Elvin and McCoy playing with and off one another is almost like telepathic communication. Though stout in timbre the drum pulsates through the body of the song with an animation that is as vivacious as tradional dance in full tilt. The piano’s variation on the theme and deft use of chord placement displays a sophisticated econmy of expression. Wetting the appetite, McCoys’ comps fall delicately into the cracks of the piece as if from a great, all-knowing resevoir of awareness. Togehter, the duo compliment each other so completely, it’s like listening to one instrument. It is brilliantly clear that Jones (the tubman) and Tyner (the North Star) lead this ensemble with a fierce disregard for stragglers. The arrangement exudes strength and the joyous motion heard in the massive exodus of a strong people sure of victory in struggle. The trumpet is an heroic sound, the French horn is noble, the trombone and euphonium, muscular and the tuba is deep and supportive. No matter whether you are charging ahead or running away, the sound of Africa Brass is as urgent and groundbreaking as a stampeding rhinoceros. Moving with the precise dignity and sorrow of a dirge, The Damned Don’t Cry sings of tragedy. The track has a dense and complex chordal structure, which, on the surface, sounds dark but whose pulse hides an underlying brooding that compels us to check for vital signs of hope and strength in troubling situations. Listen to the composer’s and arranger’s use of voicing and cadences – especially at the end of phrases and definely the final chord. The damn don’t cry for they are far too strong and removed from such human frailties; they live to win wars not battles. On the title cut, Art Davis and Reggie Workman offer up a tandem pedal tone and bouncy call and response duet. McCoy follows with a rumbling tremolo in the lower register of the piano. The tension starts to build. Next – and this is where the true awareness of Eric Dolphy comes into play, the first note of the main theme is the fifth degree of the scale. The fifth degree is the sound of completion. Whereas, in the minor chord, the first degree is the tonic, the beginning or the foundation, next the minor third is the blue tone, the discord, that thing in the middle of the washing machine, finally fifth represents completion. To start on the fifth degree is sending a message; victory is assured. Africa Brass is a stron cultural statement, a Black code.

God asked Ogun to blaze a trail through the forest and Ogun responded by telling God, “It is already done.”


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