The book i am working on (long awaited)

The movie, New Orleans, directed by Arthur Lubin, can help segueing to the gist of this book.
Nick, the protagonist, walks us through the birth of a culture. He is the proprietor of a joint in Basin Street, an inspired place of refuge for African-American musicians who jammed with lateral thinking their jazz tunes. Of heterotelic value, the movie cast includes: Arturo de Cordova, Dorothy Patrick, Louis Armstrong and his band, Billie Holiday, Woody Herman and his orchestra, Original New Orleans Ragtime Band (Louis Armstrong, Zutty Singleton, Barney Bigard, Kid Ory, Bud Scott, Red Callendar, Charlie Beal and Meade Lux Lewis).
When Nick, “the King of Basin Street,” lost his gambling venue and a trained opera-singer who is a girl of finesse and erudition falls in love with him and the music, deliberately, it was the influential, well-cultured mother who decided to intervene. To the mother, her elegant, cultivated, distinguished, little girl would do a great disservice to her class taking a listen to such cacophony or bracketing together with one who finds gratification in such composition. She declares that such music should peter out.
Notwithstanding her time-honored declaration, which is even in its own right mind-boggling, jazz has evolved to be the American-classical music and will persist on being indestructible.
The story portrays quite an inaccurate recital of occurrences that gave birth to Jazz. Despite the repercussions in carrying out an extent of inexactness, the movie has not failed to bottle some controversies along the way in elucidating perspectives and various takes on the different vehicles that made Jazz possible. New Orleans’ Storyville, where the story took place, was a notorious Red Light district, home to the brothels and bars that provided the only venues for jazz, since African American performers were banned from performing at White clubs. In 1917, terrified by licentiousness and violence among sailors, the level of indecency, and the threat to “cultured” ladies and their society, Storyville was shut down, dispersing jazz musicians who became members of riverboat bands or traveled to cities such as Memphis, Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City, where local styles were developing. What is important about the movie, New Orleans, is that it leads us to a rather disappointing but a well-accepted view on how the music gained appreciation among the highbrow gentiles.
Anyone who has seen the movie, DreamGirls, understands that when Curtis Taylor Jr. (Jamie Foxx), car salesman-turned-record producer, and his songwriter put together a brand new song, as it was often the case, it was a small White band that would bring the music to public awareness. New Orleans fails to fall short of conveying the same distorted view on jazz. Indisputably, there is some truth to the history of these genres of music. Yet, the truth lies within the zeitgeist. One has to take an interest in the society as a whole to understand the birth of any pop-culture.
Some would argue that the possibility of Jazz in becoming an appreciated art form was inevitable. For Jazz represents what America is all about. It is central in understanding American history. It becomes the quintessence of freedom, of speech, expression, of being different and still being appreciated, of love, of class, of sophistication, of power, of pain, angst, and hanger, of Art, the highest form of Art. Jazz becomes democracy. Hence, a substratum position on the principles of John Locke, Voltaire, Montesquieu, Rousseau, and Beccaria would undoubtedly clutched on such free-expressive form of High Art and inescapably embrace it. If so, why have African-Americans failed to circulate their music to the wider world until a person like Nick, a White band, or a White producer decides to sell it? On a broader scale, whether it is Jazz, Ragtime, Spiritual, Blues, R&B, Rock & Roll, or Rap, African-American people have failed to be entrepreneurs, sales-men, or promoters. Why is that?
Because I am an instrumentalist – living in the substratum aforementioned – who happens to coddle with jazz (one of the “free-expressive” forms of art on the substratum) more often then most gospel instrumentalists, I first went on a search for lovers of Jazz around the world visiting France, China, Germany, Morocco, Japan, Spain, South Korea, Haiti, Jamaica, Dominican Republic, Cuba, and so on. I certainly did not venture on a restless quest for Jazz.
However, while I was in France, visiting Jazz venues along Saint Michel in Paris, I decided to conduct some interviews on the importance of Jazz on a global scale. Not that this was intended to bring forth any empirical evidence on anything but, for my own benefit. Hence, one comment stands out.
It reads as followed, “La musique jazz est un ensemble à la fois sonore et corporel. C'est la parodie, la gaieté, la fête, les joyeux échanges, elle caractérise la liberté de l'individu. Cependant elle exprime aussi ; la douleur, l'oppression, elle est chargée de plaintes et de moqueries, d'ironie, de révolte et de revendications, elle ouvre le droit au solo, à l'improvisation et à la liberté d'échanges. Cette philosophie du jazz qui a façonné les grandes danses vernaculaires noires américaines a été reprise par la communauté blanche et diffusée dans le monde.”
In many aspects, this quote and the movie New Orleans work so congruently, I find myself recapitulating on the facts, with puzzling questions directed toward someone who might be able to enlighten me on the true significance of Black music particularly jazz and Rap and their naissance. That person is my grandpa. Throughout this book, my grandpa keeps pushing the envelop, dragging me to question the authenticity of jazz, the hip-hop culture, and Black people as their creator.
Clearly, the observation defines Jazz splendidly. Yet, at the end, it says that such lovely music has been embraced by the Whites and then spread throughout the world. Not putting into account that as jazz’s popularity grew, the liberating and sensuous music was ridiculed by prominent people of the time like Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, and widespread publications like the Ladies Home Journal and The New York Times. Hence, people will be inclined to neglect that there were mothers winning injunction from the judicial system to legally stop jazz from spreading around their neighborhood on account that it was dangerous to mothers’ womb and the baby, obliging localities all over the country to ratify laws eradicating jazz in public dance venues.
I question, was it just jazz synchronization, discordance, syncopation, improvisation, and styles that people were rebuffing, was it its creators that they loathed, was it a little bit of both like we are experiencing in hip hop music of today, or perhaps none of the above?
Would Jazz really have gained widespread appreciation without the help of the Whites? In New Orleans, it is discernible that without the help of Nick and its likes, African-Americans would not have been as equipped to keep the music going and combat the opposing side. And, without the help of the Socialite Opera singer (Dorothy Patrick) and symphony conductor Henry Ferber (Richard Hageman) and several more like them who persisted on bringing light to the music, would Jazz have gathered the respect it deserves? What was it about the music that affronted so many people? Does this significant exertion for admiration that jazz has surpassed to be where it is today reverberate with the unresponsiveness that modern musical rappers face today?
Throughout our conversation, my grandpa helped me tackle just that.
In New Orleans, Colonel MCardle states vehemently that “young ladies of quality don’t visit Basin Street!” as if one would get contaminated with an incurable virus just by listening to such music. Or maybe, it is not the virus in the music that the highbrow socialites were afraid of but the devil in such music. What devil was Mrs. Smith referring to when she asserted that there was more devil in the music than angel in response to the comment that Billie Holiday sounded like an angel?
Some, like Mrs. Smith, examined that jazz was originally the accompaniment of the voodoo dance, aroused from the barbarians to express the dirtiest, wildest form of unmanageable immorality and iniquity. Inevitably, with the widespread belief that jazz stimulated dissipated sexual deportments, the brand new style of physical expression coupled with the outlawed racial integration would cause critics of jazz to step up in eradicating the music. Nonetheless, Mr. Ferber invokes so superbly: “That’s the trouble! It leaks through everywhere; it’s as though I have thought I have caught some virus, except that, a virus makes one ill, this music doesn’t make me ill, but, makes me feel very well; but,…! …Maybe, it’s to come back to something!”
As equally accurate as today, with the disagreement over gangster rap, unambiguous profanities, and offensiveness conveyed in rap lyrics insinuate that much apprehension still subsists a-propos the influence that some African American popular music may have on its audience.
My quest, throughout the conversation my grandpa and I have engaged in, is to unearth how those two genres of music – rap & jazz -- have shaped the understanding and acceptance or the lack there of, of Black people throughout the twentieth and the twenty-first century and around the world; and, whether there are additional constituents at play.

“They almost make the instrument talk; why don’t we hear more of this kind of music; but why because it’s new? All, the wonderful music I’ve been singing, so traditional now, it was once new too; it sprang up in so many places and I’ve been learning to make it mine; but, this music is mine already!” – Ms. Miralee

The book runs with the conversation taking a jab at every conceivable point respective to the topic. My grandpa as a well educated, experienced, and wise man ventures on a roller-coaster ride despite my sporadic comments along racial line expressing my defiance and disappoint toward a race that has been long unsettled to claim its achievement. The book also examines the Zeitgeist of this new era with president Obama in power and the incarceration and unemployment rates at record high in the African-American milieu. One thing I know for certain, the acceptance or repudiation of jazz and rap has less to do with a new art form. The problem is in the Black race. .

A conversation with my grandpa

I have planned my lessons for tomorrow on the geography of Africa.
I have meticulously assembled the parts (the skills) in the hope that it connects with the students.
You know, …innovative teaching, making teaching more meaningful and relevant.
Now, slightly inebriated, I ask: What is going on with Black people?
Okay, let me refrain from articulating such a blunt statement.
Let me simply state that I love teaching. I love learning the behavioral processes, mechanical phenomena, and the societal clichés that encompass real learning. But, why don't we care about Africa, our culture, our roots; rather, why attempting in every way to embrace a eurocentric take on everything except on education?
I started writing a book on African Americans’ creative processes interconnected with the zeitgeist of the time. Half way through the book, I stopped.
I stopped because I know not when and where to end.
The vicious cycle is devouring my sense of creativity.
Here is a small section that I care to share with you (a conversation with my grandpa):

“ I am not disagreeing with you, my son.” He said. “Sapir makes an important point. The convoluted dynamics behind the linguistic industry in concocting the right mix of words to give shape to a particular group’s discernment of what is real is rather a very intriguing one.”
“Since language does not determine thought,” I said, “for they are separate entities, no matter the numerous negative connotations of the word black that have been plaguing the Black race, why don’t we give it a rest? Why don’t we start fixing it where we can?”
“Where is that, my son?” He asked. At this time, it was obvious to me, as it has always been, that Black people have been placed in the receiving end of an unfortunate history. Nevertheless, it became clearer that many of the problems that we are faced with today are a product of our own sluggishness. They have blamed prominent people during the Harlem Renaissance and thereafter for making such statement. I was ready to be crucified just as well.
With the number of African-American children being raised in single-family homes because their dad refused to assume responsibility as a man has no direct connection to slavery. So many other variables can be manipulated to change the current condition. Nonetheless, we remain inactive in that regard.
“Come one,” he said, “you can’t measure and will never be able to measure the factors that account for slavery with respect to the African-American problems! Slavery has been macabre and …”
“I was not disputing that slavery was not a horrible institution,” I quickly interrupted, “to claim a human being as one’s property is torturous enough, let along, the pain and anguish inflicted on slaves themselves through hard, forced labor and various exploitations of basic rights, and dignities. To refrain people from implementing anything to better their situation is certainly horrendous.”
“For sure!” He added.
“Black people’s problems at this juncture, however, are not a direct result of slavery.” I asserted.
“How can you know for certain?” He asked.
“They arose as Black people migrated from the southern region of the U.S. in the 20th century.”
“What prompted them to move?” He asked.
“I don’t know!” I answered puzzlingly. If I were not so stubborn, I would have conceded this argument for in the lives of African-Americans, all roads lead to the horror of slavery. “But, that is the problem!" I exclaimed, "We have used slavery in all aspects to justify any misfortune of the race; When will that be not the case?”
“It is sometime hard to fight such vicious cycle!” He said. “But, what was the argument you were making?” His face searched aimlessly.
“Well, the mass migration contributed to a sort of disconnect to significant cultural values.”
“Oh, I see! You are making a point as to why black kids are dwelling in single-family homes more and more?” he posed. “...But, marriage and family relations, respect for eldership, and general social harmony are characteristics that Black people strive on.”
“But, because of The Willy Lynch fairy tale about a White man who came from the Caribbean with his successful manual on how to turn an African to a slave…” This time was his turn. my grandpa abruptly interrupted me.
“Don’t bring this into the argument!” He stated firmly.
“Yet, many people ignore this fact of Black social harmony in the early- to mid-20th century in order to believe the Willie Lynch fairy tale.” I wanted to know what he really thought about Willie Lynch tale. The first time I have expanded a little on it," I posed, recollecting my conversation with an AP at a school in Williamsburg, "was with my supervisor who is from Jamaica who decided to let me in on the complexity behind the psychology of humiliation for a Black man."
“Okay…” He nodded, patiently waiting for me to finish my point.
“This fake speech is a serious distraction because instead of tackling the problem at its real sources we continue to falsely believe that ‘everything’ comes from slavery and that ‘Willie Lynch’ was a white god who gave a single speech with a single handbook that, ...somehow controls 40 million Black people 300 years later!" "They have been oppressed," He boasted, "through years of slavery. And, ...even if the Willy Linch theory…”
“I just don’t understand why you are angry, grandpa. It is what it is!” I was not sure that he was still on the topics he first walked in the room with or disenchanted with my blunt possible assertions on the Black race.
“Okay, my son, you are a jazz musician,”
I quickly inhaled and tilted my head to my left to correct him from articulating that I am a jazz musician. Though in theory everyone is a musician. If I play jazz, it is safe to say that I am a jazz musician.
“Okay, Okay,” he quickly modified the statement, “You are a jazz buff. You choose not to play jazz for money only for yourself. But, let’s take jazz for example.”
“What about it?” I asked defensively wishing that he tried noting as an attempt to dilute what I think of the music. “A genre of music cannot be compared to a race of such complexity. When we are referring to Black people, we are referring to the Hispanics, the Brazilians, the mulattoes, the people from the Caribbean, Latin America, Africa, Europe, and a great deal of people all around the world. As a matter of fact, there is no measurement for calling a person Black! Jazz, we know!”

Howlin' Wolf

I know not what this blog will serve anyone.
What I do know (nonetheless) is that I will exploit this to inculcate some sort of order, strict observance in keeping engagements in what has become a rather hectic, reckless debauchery of schedule.
I will attempt to make habitual, weekly visits to type; type whatever, however.
To anyone who starts taking an interest in this blog, I will be counting on you to keep me adhesively tuned.
Page 1, I have decided to revisit Howlin’ Wolf.
Wolf reminds me of my favorite jazz pianist (Art Tatum); maybe because of their size, their public eminence (or lack of it – particularly to the …, I'll leave it there!)
Art Tatum is to his fingers what Sidney Bechet is to his improvisation and Wolf to his voice.
Art Tatum, fingers; Wolf, voice.
Maybe I am not making much sense. Maybe I should rest this Vietti Barolo Rocche 2000 (Piedmont) to gather my thought. But, what sense would that make?
One needs to speak of jazz as one indulges in a rare bottle; it is only appropriate.
Now, back to Art Tatum and Howlin’ Wolf.
Bringing forth such parallel between these like features and talents does not neglect or devalue Sidney’s immeasurable contribution to jazz together with his unique, unmatched skills, but it is mentioned to convey something deeper than that.
I will get back to you when I get a hold of it myself.
Until then, cheers.