Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
Odetta, Miriam Makeba, Freddie Hubbard
and Isaac Hayes
Thank You!
Odetta, Miriam Makeba, Freddie Hubbard
and Isaac Hayes
Thank You!
Dear Lord, please bless Odetta, Miriam Makeba, Isaac Hayes and Freddie Hubbard — in whatever realm they now occupy — and bestow on them the same
joy and depth of feeling that they imparted to the inhabitants of this planet for the short time they were here. Their music spanned five decades, to my limited
awareness, and some may think that the sweet notes that emanated from their voices and other instruments encompassed four genres. But I am beginning to
believe and know that the source is one and the same: The original vibration that set this world in motion. The common chord that resonates with all people of
all colors of all languages of all physical configurations even before the first attempt at recorded history was made. Eternal peace. That’s what their music calls
upon us to remember. Anything less is antithetical to our presence here. We are moving in that direction. Slowly. But we are moving in that direction. How silly,
and necessary, to think in terms of children and grandchildren and grandchildren’s grandchildren. Our perception of time is as limited as believing that one drop
of water represents all that is to be known about all fathoms of all oceans of the world and all the creatures that dwell in these realms. But we are moving towards
peace the way we marvel at a star in the black winter night sky. A star that died thousands of years ago whose light is only recently reaching our line of sight in
the atmosphere. Odetta, Miriam Makeba, Freddie Hubbard and Isaac Hayes are stars in the night sky. Their music will glow in our hearts until the 12th of forever.
The mere mention of their names will conjure up different memories in different people. Here are some of the things I remember:
Odetta
December 31, 1930 to December 2, 2008
An integral part of the Civil Rights Movement. A powerful figure in the rebirth of American folk music although many may be more familiar with people she
profoundly influenced, like Joan Baez, Mavis Staples, Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan. Martin Luther King, Jr. named her the Queen of American folk music. Odetta
sang “O Freedom” at the March on Washington.
I first heard and became aware of Odetta sometime in the ‘60s when I was hanging out in New York and watching the West Village change character as it
slowly crept over Avenues A, B and C to become the East Village. I was a little conflicted in those days. I wore dashikis with bell-bottom pants. Didn’t know if I was
a hippie or revolutionary. I lived one block away from the Fillmore East in those days. Jimi Hendrix played there. So did the Chambers Brothers who sang “Time
Has Come Today.” Nina Simone performed there once even though it was not her kind of venue. I remember that performance. She mesmerized the rowdy, drug-
crazed crowd with mere presence before she even sang one note. That’s real power. The kind of power that Odetta had. The kind of power that is underneath the
power of those who may be more popular or familiar. Odetta was something else. She may be best known for songs like “Gonna Let it Shine” because my guess is
that she knew we couldn’t handle much more of her depth. I picked up a CD of hers a few days after her passing and listened to her in a new way. I don’t know
much about music theory but it seemed that she sang some songs slightly and deliberately off key as a way to get us to vibrate at a slightly different frequency.
And it is perhaps this slightly different, off the beaten path, vibration that helped to materialize Barack Obama as president of the United States. Too bad Odetta
wasn’t around (visibly anyway) for the inauguration of Barack Obama. But she knew it would happen. Just didn’t think anyone would believe her in 1963.
Miriam Makeba
March 4, 1932 to November 10, 2008
Born in Johannesburg. Friend of Harry Belafonte who helped her access the United States and minds like mine that had previously experienced mostly
negative and erroneous pictures of Africa through television shows like Tarzan and Rama King of the Jungle.
I remember the first time I saw one of Miriam Makeba’s albums. It had a brown background and right in the center of it was this marvelous, beautiful, strong
woman in African garb. I remember being captivated by the song “Pata Pata” and even more taken with the “Click Song” that introduced me to the idea that
there were sounds that some cultures could make easily that other people found it virtually impossible to reproduce. I think I got it. The world is larger than the
United States of America.
I was very fond of the music of Hugh Masekela, too, who was once married to Miriam Makeba. And I once heard Stokely Carmichael give a speech in front of
the United Nations back when he was president of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee. The speech was given at a rally to end the war in Vietnam.
Carmichael and Makeba married and moved to Africa where Carmichael became Kwame Touré. Too bad she wasn’t around (visibly anyway) for the inauguration
of Barack Obama. But she opened our hearts to the possibility over 40 years ago as we took our first foray into the Xhosa language with poorly executed clicks as
we tried to sing along with the “Click Song.”
Freddie Hubbard
April 7, 1938 to December 29, 2008
I never had the pleasure of hearing and seeing Freddie Hubbard live and that is because of the incorrect assumption that he would be around forever so I
could experience him somewhere else down the line. I was wrong. He’d been around for a long time and played very close to several of the places I lived. He’s a
good reminder that it behooves us to fully experience the incredible people around us because we will not have the luxury of their physical proximity forever.
And I’m talking about famous, infamous and ordinary people with the understanding that there is no such thing as an ordinary person because we are all
extraordinary in one way or other. It’s just that some are in the spotlights and others are in the shadows.
Although I never saw or heard Freddie Hubbard in person, his music and persona were very familiar to me. I was captivated by his album, “Red Clay,” that
came out in 1970. The world seemed wide open then. I was still living in New York. Had a friend named Fred who had a Honda motorcycle with an electronic
starter. He gave me a ride one evening and I thought that I was in a dream. I can count, on one hand, the number of people I knew who had motorized
transportation back then. Stereo record players were still popular and headphones were the high-tech musical innovations of the day. Too bad he wasn’t around
(visibly anyway) for the inauguration of Barack Obama. But he knew it would happen. He blew about it in 1970.
Isaac Hayes
August 20, 1942 to August 10, 2008
I was at a girlfriend’s apartment on Valentine Avenue in the Bronx just off of the Grand Concourse the first time I heard “Hot Buttered Soul.” The woman who
lived in the apartment directly below made her living in untraditional and possibly illegal ways. She seemed like a very nice person and she dressed and spoke
impeccably. It was 1969. I had spent a good part of the day inhaling the substance that former President Clinton claimed not to have inhaled. I was 20 years old
and thought that I knew just about everything there was to know. Part of my anatomy was as hard as a leg on an oak dining room table. I had a decent-sized Afro
if I picked it out just right. To this day it is beyond me how anyone could arrange and perform “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” in a way that transformed it into
powerful erotica and the way Isaac Hayes sang “Walk on By” made me feel like someone had extended their fingers through the flesh, skin and bones of my chest
to massage my heart. That was my introduction to Isaac Hayes, Black Moses. Too bad he wasn’t around (visibly anyway) for the inauguration of Barack Obama.
But maybe that’s what he had in mind when he sang “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.”
joy and depth of feeling that they imparted to the inhabitants of this planet for the short time they were here. Their music spanned five decades, to my limited
awareness, and some may think that the sweet notes that emanated from their voices and other instruments encompassed four genres. But I am beginning to
believe and know that the source is one and the same: The original vibration that set this world in motion. The common chord that resonates with all people of
all colors of all languages of all physical configurations even before the first attempt at recorded history was made. Eternal peace. That’s what their music calls
upon us to remember. Anything less is antithetical to our presence here. We are moving in that direction. Slowly. But we are moving in that direction. How silly,
and necessary, to think in terms of children and grandchildren and grandchildren’s grandchildren. Our perception of time is as limited as believing that one drop
of water represents all that is to be known about all fathoms of all oceans of the world and all the creatures that dwell in these realms. But we are moving towards
peace the way we marvel at a star in the black winter night sky. A star that died thousands of years ago whose light is only recently reaching our line of sight in
the atmosphere. Odetta, Miriam Makeba, Freddie Hubbard and Isaac Hayes are stars in the night sky. Their music will glow in our hearts until the 12th of forever.
The mere mention of their names will conjure up different memories in different people. Here are some of the things I remember:
Odetta
December 31, 1930 to December 2, 2008
An integral part of the Civil Rights Movement. A powerful figure in the rebirth of American folk music although many may be more familiar with people she
profoundly influenced, like Joan Baez, Mavis Staples, Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan. Martin Luther King, Jr. named her the Queen of American folk music. Odetta
sang “O Freedom” at the March on Washington.
I first heard and became aware of Odetta sometime in the ‘60s when I was hanging out in New York and watching the West Village change character as it
slowly crept over Avenues A, B and C to become the East Village. I was a little conflicted in those days. I wore dashikis with bell-bottom pants. Didn’t know if I was
a hippie or revolutionary. I lived one block away from the Fillmore East in those days. Jimi Hendrix played there. So did the Chambers Brothers who sang “Time
Has Come Today.” Nina Simone performed there once even though it was not her kind of venue. I remember that performance. She mesmerized the rowdy, drug-
crazed crowd with mere presence before she even sang one note. That’s real power. The kind of power that Odetta had. The kind of power that is underneath the
power of those who may be more popular or familiar. Odetta was something else. She may be best known for songs like “Gonna Let it Shine” because my guess is
that she knew we couldn’t handle much more of her depth. I picked up a CD of hers a few days after her passing and listened to her in a new way. I don’t know
much about music theory but it seemed that she sang some songs slightly and deliberately off key as a way to get us to vibrate at a slightly different frequency.
And it is perhaps this slightly different, off the beaten path, vibration that helped to materialize Barack Obama as president of the United States. Too bad Odetta
wasn’t around (visibly anyway) for the inauguration of Barack Obama. But she knew it would happen. Just didn’t think anyone would believe her in 1963.
Miriam Makeba
March 4, 1932 to November 10, 2008
Born in Johannesburg. Friend of Harry Belafonte who helped her access the United States and minds like mine that had previously experienced mostly
negative and erroneous pictures of Africa through television shows like Tarzan and Rama King of the Jungle.
I remember the first time I saw one of Miriam Makeba’s albums. It had a brown background and right in the center of it was this marvelous, beautiful, strong
woman in African garb. I remember being captivated by the song “Pata Pata” and even more taken with the “Click Song” that introduced me to the idea that
there were sounds that some cultures could make easily that other people found it virtually impossible to reproduce. I think I got it. The world is larger than the
United States of America.
I was very fond of the music of Hugh Masekela, too, who was once married to Miriam Makeba. And I once heard Stokely Carmichael give a speech in front of
the United Nations back when he was president of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee. The speech was given at a rally to end the war in Vietnam.
Carmichael and Makeba married and moved to Africa where Carmichael became Kwame Touré. Too bad she wasn’t around (visibly anyway) for the inauguration
of Barack Obama. But she opened our hearts to the possibility over 40 years ago as we took our first foray into the Xhosa language with poorly executed clicks as
we tried to sing along with the “Click Song.”
Freddie Hubbard
April 7, 1938 to December 29, 2008
I never had the pleasure of hearing and seeing Freddie Hubbard live and that is because of the incorrect assumption that he would be around forever so I
could experience him somewhere else down the line. I was wrong. He’d been around for a long time and played very close to several of the places I lived. He’s a
good reminder that it behooves us to fully experience the incredible people around us because we will not have the luxury of their physical proximity forever.
And I’m talking about famous, infamous and ordinary people with the understanding that there is no such thing as an ordinary person because we are all
extraordinary in one way or other. It’s just that some are in the spotlights and others are in the shadows.
Although I never saw or heard Freddie Hubbard in person, his music and persona were very familiar to me. I was captivated by his album, “Red Clay,” that
came out in 1970. The world seemed wide open then. I was still living in New York. Had a friend named Fred who had a Honda motorcycle with an electronic
starter. He gave me a ride one evening and I thought that I was in a dream. I can count, on one hand, the number of people I knew who had motorized
transportation back then. Stereo record players were still popular and headphones were the high-tech musical innovations of the day. Too bad he wasn’t around
(visibly anyway) for the inauguration of Barack Obama. But he knew it would happen. He blew about it in 1970.
Isaac Hayes
August 20, 1942 to August 10, 2008
I was at a girlfriend’s apartment on Valentine Avenue in the Bronx just off of the Grand Concourse the first time I heard “Hot Buttered Soul.” The woman who
lived in the apartment directly below made her living in untraditional and possibly illegal ways. She seemed like a very nice person and she dressed and spoke
impeccably. It was 1969. I had spent a good part of the day inhaling the substance that former President Clinton claimed not to have inhaled. I was 20 years old
and thought that I knew just about everything there was to know. Part of my anatomy was as hard as a leg on an oak dining room table. I had a decent-sized Afro
if I picked it out just right. To this day it is beyond me how anyone could arrange and perform “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” in a way that transformed it into
powerful erotica and the way Isaac Hayes sang “Walk on By” made me feel like someone had extended their fingers through the flesh, skin and bones of my chest
to massage my heart. That was my introduction to Isaac Hayes, Black Moses. Too bad he wasn’t around (visibly anyway) for the inauguration of Barack Obama.
But maybe that’s what he had in mind when he sang “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.”