ME AND JOHN BROWN
What, pray tell, could be a more fitting topic for this 4th of July celebration that the one and only John Brown?  Well, for me, talking about him (limited though my present knowledge of him is) is indeed quite fitting.  Like most folks I grew up singing the song about his body lying “a mould’ring” in his/its grave.

[Encarta: Brown, John (1800-1859), called Old Brown of Osawatomie, American abolitionist, whose attempt to end slavery by force greatly increased tension between North and South in the period before the American Civil War.

"Brown, John," Microsoft(R) Encarta(R) 98 Encyclopedia. (c) 1993-1997 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.]

It was about a month ago and I flipped the radio dial to NPR’s “Book worm” with nerd nerd Michael Rosenblatt - I think that’s his name.  For my money, the dude is brilliant and is the best read person in this large reading city.  He doesn’t simply read books and prepares excellent questions for his author/guests...Mad Man Michael seemingly devours them.  To listen to the Thursday afternoon program is any book lovers total delight.  Anyway on this occasion he interviewed an author about whom I knew absolutely nothing up to that point.  As I said the name meant nothing.  It was Russell Banks.  It turns out that Banks is part of a Princeton writing triumvirate: Banks, Joyce Carol Oates and Toni Morrison.  That sounded like pretty good company to me and I got more drawn into the conversation.  The book being reviewed/discussed was Banks’ “Cloudsplitter.”  It is the “novelistic” story of John Brown as told by one of his sons, Owen.  Owen was at Harpers Ferry but escapes and settled in Altadena, California.  So here we have Torrington, Connecticut-born Brown, a much more than usual abolitionist [that all by itself put him in good stead with me!]; he walked the talk in a manner America fully understands, respects, fears, hates and makes every effort to destroy!  He had a number of sons and he was a (fearless) man of God.  I couldn’t have flipped to another station if I had tried. 

What else intrigued me was Banks’ statement to the effect that he “works at” keeping himself from becoming all too American.  He characterized this society as inherently racist (among other things) and said if one is not (consciously) careful, one will unwittingly support that terrible cause.  Racism and American history past and present are inseparable.  He addresses the issue because he thinks he has something to say.  [Having read Morrison and looking up Oates in Encarta, my handy CD encyclopedia, I can better understand the underlying glue that forms the Princeton Threesome.]

A few weeks after the program I did
the Barnes and Noble thing: made the purchase of what is a 700+ page book.  Like I really need another book to read!  Well, it’s slow going, this first 100 pages or so.   Owen’s feelings about, fear of and need to distance himself from the Old Man is at times labored.  But there is movement all the same. 

There are some rather peculiar elements introduced in the book; but since it is not touted as non-fiction, the reader must raise eyebrows or questions about veracity now and then.   I’m going to move along further with the reading before lowering my traditional critical boom.  My primary interest is in what accounted for John Brown’s fierce anti-slavery position and getting as much detail as the book will offer on what happened at Harpers Ferry.  This, for me, promises to be a literary adventure.

Whatever may have happened to his body, this particular story of John Brown will not lie a-dust collectin’ on my desk.

WYNTON THE WONDERFUL - WHY I DON’T LIKE WYNTON MARSALIS
James Moody was interviewed on Dr. Billy Taylor’s Sunday morning jazz show recently.  Taylor asked a question about the venue in which jazz was and is heard.   Taylor alluded to the late night, smoke-filled (glasses tinkling) nightclubs of yesteryear.  Moody’s response (for me) for surprisingly politically appropriate.   He said jazz should be played in clean (smoke FREE) environments without distractions so listeners could enjoy it.  Well well.  That was enough to make it abundantly clear to me how much attached I remain to the old school of not only jazz listening but a lot of other stuff as well.  Moody’s clean air remark sparked (oops) a more than modest applause from the audience.  No surprise there since the show came from New York’s Lincoln Center.

To my knowledge Mr. Marsalis has never made such a remark; but I can certainly picture him doing just that.  He is Mr. Clean of the new world of capable jazz musicians...equally versed in the classics and music history.  He was the first person I ever heard use the phrase “jazz music.”  I find it to be somewhat condescending since one doesn’t say “spirituals music” or “punk rock music” or “opera music.”  So be it.

My bias comes from exposure to musicians who spoke almost exclusively through their sound(s).  They kept their chatter to: a)  introducing members of the group, b) announcing the last or the next tune or c) noting that it was time to take a break and “We’ll be right back.”  I recall Erroll Garner’s album, “Concert By the Sea.”  Someone else coaxes Garner to speak up and Erroll basically makes a semi-humorous mess of the few sentences he spouts.  That was O.K. with me because I hadn’t played the album literally dozens of time to hear him talk in the first place.  

If I wanted to know about the history of jazz, its evolution, its likenesses to other musical forms, its uniqueness, blah blah blah, I’d buy a book on the history of this music.  Nope, I’m sorry but Marsalis is just a little too cute, too polished for me.  His snobbery is easy enough to deal with.  That may come from being caught up with his obvious competence.  It could be a family trait or a “personality flaw.”  Either way, it’s no big deal.  Indeed, one of my jazz favorites, no less a giant than Miles Davis was certainly not known for his public or private humility.  It is more along the lines of too much (formal?) education, too much spit polish with a clear emphasis on the polish. 

It is certainly not that jazz need be confined to life’s seamy side.  But jazz does have a unique cultural component that is not to be overlooked.  And I am not really sure how this can be done - I am not a jazz musician.  I just have this “thing” about jazz pontification - whatever in the world that means.  Perhaps drawing a parallel might help.
I am biased about it and rather strongly convinced that Gospel music belongs in the same place where (the) Gospel is read, namely, the church.  The latter is that form of music’s natural setting or home.  Sure, there can be and there are gospel concerts: large concert halls, public arenas, outdoor stadia.  Drawing a (fine?) line, though, I don’t think gospel champagne brunches are acceptable.  Period.   There are two issues here.

One is the broad opposing stroke on my part whereas the other is more open.   Delightful though champagne may be, it is not the right liquid for public gospel music listeners.  Secondly, gospel music is more inspirational than entertaining.   Now this point can easily be seen as a stretch because the two (inspiration and entertainment) often overlap.  But I am admittedly a reluctant prude on this one.   The other cultural comparative component {now there’s a mouthful] point is this: What other ethnic group places the bubbly and their sacred balladeers in the same setting?  Case closed.

Jazz is as much life as it is lifestyle.  The beat, the selection of instruments, the sensitivity of the musicians, the “feel” of the audience and the setting are all an integral part of the delivery and the reception of the music.  The true masters will play it and not say it.

A DOG’S DOMESTIC LIFE
I have always loved.  Since days or rather years of yore my life has been that much more joyful because of the presence of dogs.  And in this fine and upbeat year of 1998, there are two of them “in my life.”  The 12 year old veteran is TiTi.  Her younger, more agile nemesis is Buster.  Since Buster’s sudden, unannounced appearance at the side door about 2 years ago, “things” have not been the same for TiTi.  Leisurely naps have been interrupted with a demand for playfulness.  Running, chasing a ball, illogical barking.  Buster has never ceased from call the activity shots. 

Her worst habit was the one which caused the still monitored rift between them.  In the morning at dog breakfast time, I would put food in both dishes.  Buster, being greedier and decidedly faster would chomp down her portion and and then trot her arrogant self over to TiTi’s dish and without so much as a “Pardon me, old girl”, she’d literally stick her nose into TiTi’s breakfast business and continue to chow down!  Up to The Thrilluh in the Backyard, TiTi’s wizened experience urged her to move aside and let the young lioness have her way.  On that occasion, however, it was on!

There are two large dogs in the yard next door; so when I heard the fuss, I assumed they were settling their differences.  But it sounded different this time.  It was more up front and person so to speak.  And so it was.  When I went back, Buster was straddled across TiTi’s back; but it wasn’t clear who had the advantage.  I shouted at Buster and when she got down, TiTi literally tore into her..and it was really on.  They both went for the respective jugular.  I took a large summer umbrella and started swinging, hoping that pain would separate them.   The umbrella broke.  The gate to the yard was open and the tussled past me into that area.  I grabbed each one by the collar with the same luck as swinging the errant umbrella.  Finally, after being bitten on the right hand and left forefinger, I used my knee to pry their jaws apart.  That worked.  Buster went back into the original “rink” and TiTi stayed in the larger part of the yard.  I eventually went into the house slightly bleeding, exhausted and quite upset.  I just couldn’t believe how vicious the encounter had been.  My simple statement was “They tried to kill each other.”
Their imposed separation lasted around three days.  With water hose at the ready (and after having earlier said a prayer for their “reconciliation, I decided to reacquaint them.  And there’s something about the best laid plans of mice, men...and dogs...”  For the first few minutes they sniffed at each other cautiously.   Then all was well.  I kept vigilant, either staying in the yard with them; and later I checked on them regularly from the window.  All was well.  THEN...POW!   I came to the door and they both rush toward me at the same instant with (you guessed it, Buster nudging out TiTi. It was on!!  The old reliable water hose might just as well been a bucket full of rose petals.  I finally took the hose and actually put it into TiTi’s mouth causing her to grasp and release Buster at whom I then pointed the hose directly.  She scurried.

Several days later the Maginot Gate was accidentally left open and...the rest is domestic canine history.  They tore into each other quite seriously.  Buster had the clear advantage this time and senior citizen TiTi was wounded pretty bad.  That is, bad enough to have to be hospitalized.  I took her to the vet early in the morning and, with anesthesia and multiple sutures, it was an all day experience for her. 

That evening she was pretty much out of it.  Groggy, frightened and sporting a plastic drain in her chest put there so that the fluid from her internal inflammation could drain.  Pitiful personified.
But the good news is that TiTi is now fully recovered having her stitches removed a few days ago.  She has lost some weight but overall “looks good” for an old timer.  She and Buster sniff at each other at the gate but reconciliation is not a present consideration.  They are taken on separate walks and still have their own food and water bowls.  It really too bad.  I think Buster is the lonelier of the two.  TiTi had spent years being the only child.  And I feel bad, thinking that I could/should have handled the morning meal scenario differently.  A number of times I had waited until they were finished.  On the fateful morning I didn’t.

The other morning, TiTi wandered into the kitchen, peed on the floor, drifted into the family room and, sticking her nose into the candy container, proceeded to chomp a few of my (hands and noses off!) orange slices.  Yep.  She’s recovering quite well.  Dog gone it!

THE NEA AND A TASTE OF TASTE
Oh, I do indeed believe in and support this wildly popular tenet called free speech, aka freedom of expression.  I think we all grow - if we are but willing to do so - as a direct result of our exposure to that broad range of human phenomena which we label “different” or even “unusual.”  The latter is, in fact, the stuff that art is made of.  And art is important, crucial, indispensable.  But with a tinge of the facetious I could add a “blah blah blah” or a “yada yada yada.”  Why?  Because I cannot for the life of me get myself to totally disregard “taste” in my consideration of constitutional entitlements.   We’ve all learned since childhood - well, junior high school anyway - that free speech does not “allow” one to shout “Fire!” in a crowded theater.  So we accept and respect that restriction.  We live with it and would consider the person who would dare to violate it to be nutty. 

And yes we allow others to violate our sense of propriety, of common sense, of good taste.   Now I agree with my traditional adversaries that there is good reason to keep government out of so much of the broad range of human affairs as to be a veritable “menace to society.”  I also know that sometimes “the people” act consciously and insanely at the same time; and in the absence of government involvement and, though I am reluctant to say it, regulation.  It may be a stretch to say that in the case of art the people need to be protected from themselves.  Rather the people deserve to not involuntarily support what can only be described as gut bucket trash!  And trash is trash no matter who tries to pretty it up.  But even beyond what might subjectively be called non-art, there is ample evidence that sensibilities are “attacked” by some publicly supported “stuff.”  Quite as it’s no longer let, there are still “standards and codes” that are needed...not so much for the noble preservation of civilization [that’s another DOWN FRONT!] but so that the regular folks of this world can feel some semblance of “good” about what they see, what they hear and (goodness knows!) what they look at.            

THE MAGIC SMILE
In an earlier DOWN FRONT! I addressed the concept of handling Black males by making them little - literally.  The example cited were Rodney Allen Ripey and Emmanuel Lewis.  I had forgotten Gary Coleman but his name can be added.  These dudes were physically small and, as such, manageable.  And each of these diminutive persons was accountable to whites. 

Then there has been the the other, awesome and overpowering extreme - suggesting something rather interesting and not devoid of sexual innuendo.  Enter Shaq, the menacing Black man who, as a bottled genie is controlled by a (diminutive) white boy!   Imagine that.  Advance the tape at a moderate speed and we have the weekday evening televised mistake called “The Magic Hour.”  [Why that long?]   A show with a(nother) physically abundant Black man who...grins.  Yeah, I know.  It’s billed as a smile, but      prefer the g-word.   Magic Johnson is tamed in two distinct ways: 1) he is intellectually less than challenging and 2) he does not do anything physical (threatening?).  So, that makes this ex-basketball great - and he was precisely that - a controlled and entertaining nuthin’!And life goes on.  As it turns out, the show has been - who would have predicted it - canceled.  And if ever there ws a show that not only never should have gotten started; and once that error was made, was quickly plug-pulled, this was it.   My admiration for the man continues.  I will continue to patronize - let’s make that spend money at the Magic Theaters.  But tv is already junked up and this new late night void really isn’t one at at.

ME AND TONI MORRISON
With my home library still in chaotic order(?) I couldn’t possibly put my hands on the Toni Morrison books I have, but I know I have at least half of what she has written.  And I mention that here because of my present efforts to understand her latest, “Paradise.” 

It was a natural to go from Banks’ “Cloudsplitter” to Morrison.  From a white man to a Black woman.  Princeton colleagues.  The threesome I mentioned earlier include Morrison, Banks and Joyce Carol Oates.  I guess she’s next on the reading list.  Anyway, as so often happens, as soon as my interest in a particular idea or person gets prodded, “things” happen.  And there was a piece on Morrison on this past Sunday’s 60 Minutes.  Ed Bradley conducted the interview.  Among the most telling/interesting points were Morrison’s comment that her father felt that he was superior to white people.  Morrison didn’t dismiss his conviction nor accept it totally for herself but added the caveat that she thinks most whites would watch her being placed on the trucks - presumably alluding to the loading of Jews onto camp-bound Nazi trucks.  There are a few (no exact number given) who would not and Morrison sees herself as reciprocating. When asked by Bradley why there are no white characters in her books, the measured response was: Because they (whites) are not interesting enough.


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