The Joy Of Small Things

• The Joy Of Small Things
• Life Is Sweet
• A Soundtrack of Small Things

Happiness is noticing blinking lights on your answering machine just past midnight in your hot apartment, bleary eyed as you try to open a window to let out that bee that somehow made it past the nets or alternatively dodge mosquitos to avoid the West Nile Blues.

Happiness occurs when you check your messages and hear that your favourite aunt has given birth to a new cousin, a baby girl.

Happiness is forgetting all about the bees and mosquitos and screaming to wake your neighbours up.

Happiness is the 3 hour conversation you then have with your parents back home about life, family, change and everything else.

Happiness is hearing about your grandma so overjoyed that she broke out in voluminous prayer. Your symptoms are genetic.

Happiness is going to sleep with a smile on your face.

Happiness is the dream you have of blowing off work the next day to catch the Fung Wah bus to head to New York.

Akua Abigail has arrived a few weeks early but is wonderfully healthy and her mum is similarly content.

Although we are thoroughly modern, having your first child in your forties is still extraordinary and there had been some trepidation all around.

Happiness will be the mad rush to New Jersey to welcome mother and daughter when they are discharged from the hospital over the weekend.

Happiness is being in England, Germany, France or Ghana (in addition to being thoroughly modern, we are a thoroughly dispersed family) and hearing said news and joyfully negotiating with travel agents to change flight plans handwaving away the prospect of paying several thousand of dollars for tickets to see your daughter or niece.

I first heard about my aunt's "loaded condition" a few months ago on the day I made my own modest proposal and a dear cousin stepped into matrimony. Thus the entire family has been smiling ever since and anticipating a wonderful end of July. Thank goodness I caught a few glimpses of her pregnancy and we all have bits to add for the historical record when I went to visit her. But back to happiness...

Happiness is remembering the various churches you passed in Brooklyn on that same day. New York's finest on display.

Happiness is recalling the name of the church you passed on your way to help a fellow bachelor out in Ikea and that confusing place we call the modern department store:

The Institutional Church of God in Christ. inc.

Happiness is trying to be a personal shopper and attempting to convince someone whose apartment has only a bed, computer, iPod, and beer in the fridge that it's worth it to spruce up since The Parents would be landing in just a few weeks to stay with him.

Happiness is your chutzpah when you, who are only a couple of weeks removed from confirmed bachelorhood,

have the gall to expound to your cousin on "thread counts" and explain that "some people" (you don't qualify who) may feel better in the morning if they slept on 450 thread count sheets rather than utilitarian prison-ware.

Happiness is recalling when you asked that young black woman in Target if "there were any deals on sets", her subsequent laugh and response that

"This is a family store!"

since she mistook your enthusiasm for sets of bedsheets with garden-variety sexual propositions.

Happiness was the spontaneous laughter you all shared. She had just herself propositioned Mr Bachelor with a Target credit card with "An additional 15% off today's purchase" that finally tipped the deal and would ensure the success of your home decorating campaign.

Happiness is knowing that she lost the pen that you offered her for the credit card application your cousin and her filled out.

Happiness has been writing for the past few months with the replacement Target pen she gave you.

Happiness is the decor of furniture in Pierre Deux, which reminded you of the most awful florid French and English houses.

Happiness is the curious looks you exchanged with your cousin as you walked into Pierre Deux as you saw the bright colours and the knowledge that in future you'll be able to crack him up with that codeword.

Happiness is making phone calls to your other cousin now ensconced in Richmond Virginia for her to launch her browser and reserve a car at Newark Airport since both of you guys were not air travelers and apparently you can no longer just walk up to those rental locations and pick a car.

Happiness is remotely directing the web transaction from New Jersey and discussing car options knowing that you were at the mercy of this babe in Virginia, sweet talking her to make sure she picked a large sedan.

Happiness is her astute interior decorating advice about which shops to attack in your bachelor intervention.

"Door Store, Ikea, Secaucus outlets and Target".

She pronounces Target as if it was some french word, that soft "g".

Happiness is leaving Ikea having only persuaded your cousin to buy a third of the things on his list

"I don't want to buy anything too permanent if I'll just be moving soon"

and seeing some normally unemployed guys on the roadside wearing signs promising a

Closing Down Furniture Sale!!!
Everything Must Go!

Happiness is following the signs and gesticulating to the 5 or 6 "Breadcrumb Guys" and being directed to the back of a furniture warehouse, it turns out that it was Corts Rental Furniture. Oh joy: bargain-basement rates on items that literally fell off the back of a truck.

Happiness is avoiding that business of making eye contact with the clientele of fellow desperados that had similarly been drawn by the flashy (fleshy?) advertisements. It reminds you of teenage expeditions to some "special shops" in Soho in the Red Light district of London when a bunch of you managed to get away from chaperones during school trips. You both feel a little dirty about being titillated by this "product".

Happiness is the sight of the gruesome furniture therein and the jokes you exchanged with one of the brothers who worked there when you enquired about a dining room table.

"It's seen better days".

Happiness is cracking up and quipping that

It's been to war... It's just come back from Iraq or Afghanistan.

Happiness is all the people in that dank warehouse breaking up and beginning to comment on the forthcoming draft, and Dubya's grudge match with evildoers who "tried to kill his dad".

Someone started calling the furniture Weapons of Mass Destruction.

At that we had to leave, those verbal Scud missiles hit too close to home, passing right by our Patriot (Act) defenses and Star Wars shields.

Happiness is getting lost in the twilight zone of New Jersey on the way to visit your aunt. Did you know that there were 4 adjoining towns within a 2 mile radius that all have streets with the same name - and not just one street but 5 or 6 streets with the same name and layout and all near the same rail tracks? Did you know that neither Google Maps nor Mapquest had cottoned on to the strange archeology of the Garden State?

Happiness is the increasingly frantic phone calls as you were lost and drove right to her address only to not recognize the house that was there.

Hmm... Everything sure looked familiar.

Happiness is your pregnant aunt, after an hour of this business, heading to the Bank of America parking lots of the wrong 3 of the 4 towns in a bid to rescue both of you hapless bachelors from your Garden State misery in the streets of Teaneck, Bogota and the like.

Stay where you are. I'll find you.

Really?

Happiness is your cousin's cell phone. Both you and your aunt don't have one so of course you can't call her up while she's looking for you in the wrong towns.

Happiness is the huge plate of jollof rice and chichinga (suya the Nigerians would call it, and others more generally kebab) that you wolfed down when you somehow finally made it to her house. Google Maps had suggested 30 minutes for your 2 1/2 hour expedition. Home cooking made up for the difference and your aunt dotes on you.

Happiness is hearing your aunt arrange for your cousins in France to join you and gatecrash a wedding in London that you just mentioned you were about to attend next weekend.

Happiness is remembering the conversation you'd had just weeks earlier with your friend Kweku in which you told him to expect that Ghanaians would "always gatecrash weddings" and commiserating about the madness of wedding preparation, something you've just begun thinking about.

Happiness is realizing that, after a mere 5 minutes of trans-Atlantic conversation, it looks as if you will be leading a party of French gatecrashers to said wedding and imagining Kweku and Zai hyperventilating.

Happiness is your aunt asking for Kweku's mum's phone number.

"I don't want to talk to Kweku, he'll be too busy with the wedding. I want to talk to his mum."

Indeed.

Happiness is going to a bus stop to wait for a New Jersey transit bus to return to New York's Port Authority.

Happiness is realizing that she had looked at the wrong column on the schedule for Bus 168 so that you will have an hour to wait on this Sunday evening.

Happiness is the pair of you sitting at the bus stop and simply chatting about whatever comes to mind. That waiting hour becomes one of your fondest memories of your aunt in retrospect.

Happiness is discovering that you have a copy of your musings on Inauguration à L'Africaine and laughing with her as she reads it and you recount on the even more absurd items you didn't write about.

Happiness is seeing your aunt's permanent outrage and also when she encourages you to continue doing what you do:

"You should send it to the president. He should sack all of them. And you've written it in the nicest way."

Thus I'll modify Arundhati Roy's formulation and write a short piece about

The Joy Of Small Things

Life is Sweet

My favourite movie on this theme is of course Life is Sweet, Mike Leigh's brilliant exercise in celebrating small things from 1990. Delusions of restaurant grandeur, a slice of family life, dance classes, encounters with spoons and broken limbs, chocolate fetishes, eating disorders, sexual confusion, teenage angst, and most of all inimitable and life-affirming laughs. The decor of some of the rooms in this British middle class nirvana seemed to have come straight from Pierre Deux. It's a real pity it hasn't yet been released on DVD.

A Soundtrack of Small Things

As usual a playlist for this joint

• Anita Baker - Sweet Love
  There you have it.
• Incognito - Step Into My Life
  Positivity is the thing.
• Price Nico Mbarga - Sweet Mother
  Ever since 1976, this has been the quintessential Highlife joint. Afrobeat was never more danceable or happy. Its lyrics are a celebration of African motherhood.

  Sweet Mother I No Go Forget You
  For The Suffer Wey You Suffer For Me.

• Cameo - Attack Me With Your Love

  Baby

• Curtis Mayfield - Sweet Exorcist
  Soul music's premier falsetto.
• Bunny Mack - Let Me Love You

  My Sweetie, My Sugar

  My long search for a good copy of this continues...
• Chaka Khan - Sweet Thing
  How to start everyone singing in 4 bars.
• Finlay Quaye - Your Love Gets Sweeter

  Love gets sweeter every day
  Love gets sweeter every way

• Prince & The New Power Generation - Sweet Baby
  Like a lullaby
• Mary J. Blige - Sweet Thing
  Puffed up hip-hop soul
• Loose Ends - Mr Bachelor

  You should have told me

  From The Real Chuckeeboo, I need to do a Loose Ends appreciation at some point; they are truly London's finest.
• U2 - Where The Streets Have No Name
  a.k.a. New Jersey

See also: New York Trip

File under: life, happiness, children, babies, cousins, aunts, family, scramble, conversation, airlines, buses, plans, Small Things, New York, New Jersey, whimsy, funny, travel, journalism, storytelling, shopping, joy, food, jollof, toli

Vibing with Abbey Lincoln

A night with the Abbey Lincoln Quintet at the Blue Note, September 4, 2004

So my cousin, Tei, and I were vibing with Abbey Lincoln Saturday night - so blissed out afterwards that the both of us didn't seek out any additional after-midnight New York joints and capped the night with a couple of shwarmas topped with pepper sauce, going out on a high as it were. It was a three part epic:

1. Serendipity

It was a spur of the moment thing, really: heading to the Blue Note in the Village to hear Abbey Lincoln. The long lines at PS-1 - the dance show at the MOMA earlier that night didn't augur well for much fun but when in New York, you have options. It seemed a little late for the US Open so we took the long shot and headed to the East Village. No line at the Blue Note - a good sign. We'd timed it well, arriving just as they were seating the second show. We forked out our $20 for bar seats, ordered our drinks and got ready for some jazz from the living legend.

Now mind you there was a little trepidation: when you start calling someone 'living legend', you are subconsciously wondering just how much longer she'll be living. We saw Nina Simone (Tei's favourite) on her last tour the year before she died and that was prime Diva-in-twilight stuff: raucous and rousing but sadly short. Abbey Lincoln is not that old but she was one of the great jazz voices in the fifties and that says a lot - do the math.

I've seen her twice before at Scullers in Cambridge over the years and have most of her albums. She always puts on a good show. There really should have been a third time but that turned out to be the abortive Valentine's Day date - months before "The Girlfriend" became "The Girlfriend". The first time was simply perfect. The second time was good but you begun to worry - she was forgetting a few lyrics...

She now has a quintet. James Spauling is a welcome addition on saxophone and flute - fiery stuff. Marc Cary lays down the sensitive accompaniments on the piano. Michael Bowie lays down hard bop bass and Jaz Sawyer is the drum wizard. What I like about them is that they aren't overly respectful of her; they learn from her but also challenge her every night.

She comes on to the stage with her trademark porkpie hat (echoes of Lester Young) and starts messing with the beat - a habit she shares with Billie Holiday. She works around the beat, slowing down or picking up the pace as her fancy takes her. She's never on the beat like these metronomic nouveau singers. If overdone it would be jarring, instead her artful manner excites your ear and keeps you alert. By the end she brings you back to where you expect and you're elated.

There's a grit to her voice these days. It's there even when she laughs at, or with, the overawed audience. If it was painful for some to contemplate Lady Day in her late period - with the damage of hard living showing in her voice, Abbey in autumn is a different affair. She has aged gracefully (like Sarah Vaughan) and the timbre of her voice suits the personal and almost political songs she writes. When she began writing the essential soundtrack to the civil rights movement in the 60s, she was pigeon-holed as a 'difficult' artist and her career suffered accordingly. These days though, her blues are comforting; we pretend all those issues have been resolved and are nostalgic for the good old days.

A diva at peace with her legacy, she sings the numerous standards that she wrote for herself and others, including Hey Lordy Mama which she gave to Nina Simone.

Hey Lordy Mama
I Heard You Wasn't Feeling' Good
They're Spreadin' Dirty Rumors
All Around The Neighborhood
They Say You're Mean And Evil
And Don't Know What To Do
That's The Reason That He's Gone
And Left You Black And Blue
Hey Yeah
Tell Me What You Gonna Do Now

Looking back, it is clear that she and other artists 'made' joints like the Blue Note and the Village Vanguard famous, not to mention all of these prestigious record labels they spawned. It is clear that the club owners and audiences owe her the reverence that we see. At the same time, places like the Blue Note were the proving grounds for jazz musicians - the places that made her the artist she is. And so there is this fondness flowing in both directions and a sense of playfulness and looseness with the band. But there is also a sense of electricity because she feels the need to be at her best at the Blue Note, she and the band have put on their game face.

2. The Let-down

After an hour though, the hinges start coming off.

First she forgets a lyric, looks around furtively and asks the pianist to remind her where she was. She recovers quickly though. For the next song, the band begins to build a furious groove. She begins to join in, a little tentative at first, but then says out loud: "That didn't work!" and calls for another song.

Two songs later she seems to be getting back into it but something isn't quite right, she isn't feeling it like the rest of us. And so:

"Thank you folks. I'm tired."

And she walks off the stage.

And so that was that: the temperamental diva syndrome again. Still, it was a good hour of solid if not great jazz by someone we love.

3. Redemption and Ecstasy

Or so we thought...

Ten minutes later, who should come up to the bar and sit next to us but Miss Abbey Lincoln. And that's when the vibing began as we drank and chatted for the next hour (cognac for her). With hindsight I think we were a great combination of drinking partners. I was the music lover who would pose obscure questions trying to show I had taste and knew the musicians' musicians. Tei was his usual argumentative self, prodding, teasing and flirting without commitment - crucially he made it clear upfront that Nina Simone was his thing so there was no question of adulation - something stars get too much of anyway.

Now let me tell you a few things about our close friend, Abbey Lincoln.

• She was the 10th of 12 children.
• Her father midwived the last 6 children at home
• Her "real name is Anna Marie" (Woodridge). Abbey Lincoln is a stage name.
• She was raised on a farm in Michigan. They "didn't have much growing up.. It was a hard life" (read: the family was dirt poor).
• Her parents didn't get on towards the end. "Maybe they shouldn't have married"

And then there was the fierce discussion of marriage and human relationships.

• "A man should have his own house."
• "So should a woman."
• She's not a big fan of marriage.

  "We don't need marriage."

• She didn't think she'd take any more lovers.

  "I don't need the jealousy... Why should I be worrying about you? asking 'Where have you been? I want you to do this or do that'... Have your own place! You'll be better off."

And then there was the musical discussion:

• I teased her that the last time I saw her, she was talking down Lena Horne. She bristled that Lena Horne was a shining star on the stage and that she would never speak ill of her. Shirley Horn on the other hand...
• Nina Simone didn't look like a pin-up but was an outsized talent and good friend.
• The Sarah Vaughan and Clifford Brown album was indeed a vocal milestone, like I alluded to earlier. However she thought Abbey Is Blue was better

  "And it had the same musicians!"

• Clifford Brown died too young and Max Roach (her first husband) with whom Cliffie made legendary albums was completely devastated by the loss of his friend
• Mal Waldron, Billie Holiday's accompanist, was one of the most sensitive men she knew. And she treasured the time they spent together and the musical lessons learned
• Duke Ellington's encouragment was a source of strength for her.
• Ben Webster played the most lyrical saxophone although she dug Pres more (Lester Young). Not to mention that Pres was the sharper dresser and wore the same hat as her
• "I wasn't a peer of some of these guys [Duke, Ella, Sassy, Count Basie], but I knew them, played with them and carry their legacy... We made a joyful sound you know"
• She identified a Stan Getz tune playing on the club sound system after barely 2 bars. "Stan Getz was a true friend. We were that close..." She later added, "We didn't screw you know... that was a good thing - a pure friendship"

We talked of the hard times for jazz artists and black artists in general and those who were forced to leave the US: Bud Powell, Sidney Bechet, Ben Webster, Dexter Gordon, Josephine Baker, Nina Simone.

"And Abbey Lincoln, you know.

It was hard. My patrons were French. They're the only ones who ask you 'What do you feel like doing this time, Abbey?'"

On aging, and seeing her friends pass away one after the other:

"I don't want to be the last one... It's getting lonely, you know."

It turns out that the reason she cut the set short was that it had been too cold. They hadn't turned the air conditionning off a half hour before she came on and so she was uncomfortable and couldn't give it her all.

We also saw the perils of celebrity: the star-struck fans coming up periodically, the guys wanting advice on how to get a record deal and clasping cameraphones for the obligatory photo, the tourist: "We came all the way from France to see you. We love you Abbey. Je t'aime".

The woman from Boston who wrote a song after hearing her in Boston three years ago and who insisted on singing her vapid tune for three unbearably long minutes. Not to mention the obsequious and sycophantic club owners next to her trying to pump her up so that she would return the next night. "You're the greatest. Everything you do is success and pleasure enough. You're so wonderful". I guess the reason she liked us was that we weren't yes-men stroking her ego.

She wanted to talk about how new artists were being led astray, especially this one, Alexis something-or-other, who had been around her house and whose manager was this dirty old man. It took me almost an hour to figure out that she meant Alicia Keys.

"Oh yes, Alicia Keys. With that old man! her manager or something... He's a dinosaur! Why's he making her sing about A Woman's Worth. What does she know about struggle? When has she ever experienced loss? She's so pretty you know. Beautiful even. That man is ruining her. Let her sing what she knows".

Alicia are you listening?

But then she concluded by leaning forward conspiratorially and said "I think she (Alicia) did her hair in braids after meeting me".

Anyway, we had our drinks and got 'drunk as a skunk' over the hour, having ourselves a good old time. As we left, she hugged both of us tightly and whispered:

"Go give it to them. Go kick 'em in the ass. You guys. Really... Be strong, and go give it to them... Kick 'em in the ass"

With pleasure, Abbey. With pleasure.

File under: jazz, music, concert, review, live, Abbey Lincoln, vocals, singers, greats, cool, New York, legend, appreciation, obsession, toli

Amel Larrieux Breaking Through

All roads to good music seem to run through Philadelphia these days. This summer has seen The Roots give us The Tipping Point - virtuosic performances and the strongest album of the year (all genres), Jill Scott just dropped Beautifully Human - I'm taking a little time to fully digest that one but from my first few listens it feels like a blanket of Maze featuring Frankie Beverly and Al Green before he became a Reverend. Of late too, Bilal's album from a couple of years ago has been making a strong comeback into the playlist.

Last year's best albums, Les Nubians' One Step Forward and Roy Hargrove's The RH Factor were both soaked in Phillydom. Strictly speaking Amel Larrieux is a New Yorker but I'll argue that she does have a strong Philly connection and, in any case, her sensibility is at one with all the aforementioned artists with whom she has collaborated and toured with.

Last Thursday, Amel gave what Art Blakey used to call a "cooking session" at the Regattabar - the kind that gets your juices flowing or, to mix my metaphors, a shot across the bow, as it were. I had to travel the next day so couldn't get a repeat performance, but "The Girlfriend" reports that Friday's show was indeed all that I knew it would be and even more as word of mouth had done its duty.

It isn't often that you want to fork out your own money for two concerts in a row from the same artist. That is the measure of an inspired act, or put another way, of a cult artist, of a musician's musician like Prince. Amel Larrieux is someone who makes you want to join the street team and start handing out leaflets and posters to anyone you meet. That, I think, is a tribute to the kind of scary talent she displayed and the devastating empathy of her rhythm section.

Her first public outing in the mid-nineties was with Mantronix's Bryce Wilson on Groove Theory, a cool collaboration borne of a superb demo and the ensuing serendipity. There was a summer where "Tell Me" was played in all the clubs and house parties I attended (similarly to the way Zhane's Hey Mr DJ took off). I suspect that she got a little frustrated with the sandbox that record companies were trying to place her in and truth be told, Bryce tended towards the metronomic. Amel's vision is much wider and she's one who wants full control of the direction of her art; she has to write her own songs, do her own arrangments and put her personal stamp on the whole package.

Infinite Possibilities (2000) was her solo debut, a soulful and low-key album (think Sade meets Bjork) that probably got lost in the mix for more earthy and commercial R&B of the time. Again that's the problem: she isn't just R&B, she's more like soul by way of jazz, folk, rock and classical music. Her musical influences are diverse and her material resists easy categorization. "Get Up" was the big club hit but it was the more personal songs I kept returning to like Sweet Misery and especially the title track. I think Infinite Possiblilities sold a fair amount but nothing near what Mary J Blige, India Arie or Macy Gray sold, and she is far more talented than any of those singers. For that reason, Sony seemed to want to cut their losses. Another example of how record companies don't actually serve the artists they claim to represent and serve.

Last year she changed her record label and the label, Bliss Life, is doing a smart thing in promoting the new album, Bravebird. They recognize that she's an outsized talent who needs nurturing and they are making sure that she gets the grooming by going out on tour. That's why she's playing in the small jazz club scene. The folks who normally come out in support of artists like Cassandra Wilson will immediately see the point and start spreading the word from the grassroots. Some might see it as a shame that she isn't filling arenas, but I see it differently: the hits will undoubtedly come, spending the time to garner the "live" reputation will mean serious dollars long after Britney Spears is forgotten. Again think of Maze who never had a number one in the pop charts but will fill out the biggest theatres in DC for weeks on end.

On to the show... It was a small and intimate audience and felt like a jam session with friends and family. It was also one of the most exciting concerts I've attended all year (second only to Prince, but then who can top Prince?). The band came out and locked into a groove immediately, playing a few of her first hits. Simple arrangements: funky hip-hop drum, some Bill Evans stylings on the grand piano and a Stanley Clarke bass. After 15 or so minutes she sidled up quietly, hit the first note and never looked back. Her new songs are hypnotic and ethereal (made me regret not having snapped it up when it came out) and she re-imagined the songs from her first two albums. The live renderings give a full picture of Amel Larrieux's varied world.

Her voice is not an earthy voice, it's slight and higher-pitched, perhaps reaching towards the Minnie Riperton range. It's finely controlled and she has great technique; she wouldn't be out of place in a Jazz Academy. But the music is soul, she's just a soul singer. Her vocal approach reminds me of Abbey Lincoln, Rachelle Ferrelle when she lets her hair down, Betty Carter, and even Sarah Vaughn - yes I mean it. She swoops, scats and takes you on excursions. The song, as you remember it from the album, is only a prelude to an extended jam that deconstructs the beat ala Sun Ra. She jokingly recalled that a critic had called her "The Queen of Long Endings" but she revelled in it. And I appreciated it, I went along with her. That's what a live show should be like: we don't want the studio vinyl or just the radio-friendly jam.

And the band. What a band. Three guys who listen closely to her and each other: the essence of a jazz, hip-hop, funk, soulful, classical, basically-nasty rhythm section. Think The Roots meet the Ahmad Jamal Trio by way of Earth Wind and Fire and Debussy. They are just in a zone right now; no fat, no preservatives and just great empathy bringing out the best in her.

On the basis of last night, even Jill Scott, Angie Stone and Erykah Badu aren't quite cutting it. And as for the Alicia Keys or India Aries out there, well they're not even on the same planet as Amel Larrieux. Buy her album tomorrow or, better yet, run to see her live, she's that good.

[A year later]

Sunday Night with Amel Larrieux

File under: music, soul, jazz, concert, live, review, cool, fun, appreciation, enthusiasm, Philadelphia, New York, Amel Larrieux, Philly, The Roots, virtuosity, toli