1. |
Welcome
01:00
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2. |
Longings
04:03
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I want to slay all the things just things
That they tell me I must do.
I would drown them all in the tears I weep
When each breathless day is through.
I want to flee to a cool sand dune
On a wind-swept beach where the humming tune
Of the wind, and the waves, and the heart of me
Drums in my ears, and my lips are wet with the tang of the sea.
I want to feel the rain on my cheek,
The thrill that comes from a lark’s long note,
I want to see the sky at dawn through that lacy green of a willow tree.
I want to look deep in a pool at night, and see the stars
Flash flame like the fire in black opals.
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3. |
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Amid the Roses:
There is tropical warmth and languorous life
Where the roses lie
In a tempting drift
Of pink and red and golden light
Untouched as yet by the pruning knife.
And the still, warm life of the roses fair
That whisper "Come,"
With promises
Of sweet caresses, close and pure
Has a thorny whiff in the perfumed air.
There are thorns and love in the roses’ bed,
And Satan too
Must linger there;
So Satan’s wiles and the conscience stings,
Must now abide—the roses are dead.
Lonely Woman:
some horn whistling at you but you gone inside. gone girl gone. some horn tryna come inside you but you gone aside. cast your hairnet, so much bullshit in its meshes. call-in the coal to see. but you fine & slow like honey, like ole timer molasses, you got time.
you remind old men of some woman they couldn’t have. mind them of their mothers they didn’t know before they was born. you remind them of mary before christ & jodeci. of whitney before bobby. there is always a before haunting the lonely woman. somebody you used to be before you was really you.
you be swingin from your own breezes & then the storm hits, then the heatwave comes down. the world’s trouble at your back like an olympic sprinter, grill in her spine, diamond grill in her spikes. & this version, this version of you ain’t like you remembered. no, i don’t recognize this lonely woman you’ve become & your mothers wouldn’t recognize her either.
where is her free jazz, where is her way out of the box of form & time? where is her avant-garde doorway, moth-haired shamans greeting with arms full of fruit, limbs like baseball bats wielded by the greats. where is your zest for this orange of life? some petty, some mean-ass, small-ass people got you down, girl. there is not enough love for you here.
what do you call a song that ends & begins again? what do you call a woman who is lonely for herself? what do you call a black soul on the brink? what do you call the river when it runs through your house?
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4. |
The Haunted Oak
03:32
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Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?
My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I say in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains.
I bent me down to hear his sigh;
I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
And left him here alone.
They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?
I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.
And never more shall leaves come forth
On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.
And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.
And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree
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5. |
A Song
01:39
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take my virginity
and convert it to maternity
wait around a century or two
and see what i’ll do
take my body give it yo’ brand
stitch my breasts on the fatherland
wait around a decade or two
and see just what i’ll do.
place my dreams on any back stair
tune my eyes for yo’ nightmare
wait around a century or two
and see what i’ll finally do.
suck my breath until i stutter
listen to the sounds i utter
wait around a decade or two
and see just what i’ll do.
take my daughter one sunday morn
drape her in dresses to be torn
wait around a century or two
and see what i’ll finally do.
bury me early all dressed in white
find yourself a brand new wife
wait around a decade of two
and see what she’ll finally do.
and see what she’ll finally do
and see what she’ll finally do.
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6. |
Dear Bessie
05:04
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I remember how I got started with you. It had to be watching The Color Purple one time while I was still in high school. I was fascinated by the scene in which Shug Avery is taking a bath after she has shown up at Mister’s and Celie’s home. There was music in the background--a fluttery wail of blues that seemed cranked up against heavy static. I coined it “bathtub music.” I went out and bought some of that music with your name on it. I played it when I was in the tub. I wanted it to make me renewed like it made Shug Avery. Perhaps in my idealism, I thought I would leap out of the tub “after I was ailin” and bring the house down in some juke joint, grown woman, musk strutting out of my pores.
But the tape only comes out once in a while now. I used it in a class to let my students hear what the blues sounded like. I always thought your voice was too rough. I preferred Billie! In some ways you reminded me of my great aunts down at “the club” guzzling corn liquor into the late hours of the night--humming church songs over games of pinochle. You know--I’m ashamed to say it--but that used to embarrass me. I didn’t understand what there was to be cherished when I was about 13 or 14 years old. That humming, your washboard voice, is the voice that steered me into womanhood. How could I deny something like that is beyond me...sometimes shit you learn at school makes everything at home look like shoes stuffed with newspaper.
But you could not stay out of my mind for too long--I was intrigued when I read somewhere that James Baldwin had left Paris for the Swiss Alps with only his typewriter and one of your records. To the rhythms of your voice, he wrote Go Tell It on the Mountain. Visiting with my friend Tonya two nights ago, I learned that Langston Hughes traveled with his record player and several of your recordings. These “learned” men were supposedly moved to words by your phrasing. You didn’t need high falutin orchestra arrangements--they say you just got up there and sang. You lived a fast life--drinkin, fist-fightin, lovin men and women--it absolutely amazes me how you struggled to live free in the 1920s--a Black woman.
Last week, Tonya and I were in the car on our way to the Good Will when a special interview with Aretha Franklin came on NPR. They played the very first song she recorded with Columbia Records--I think it’s called “Today I Sing the Blues.” Something happened to us when that song came on. We were looking out the windshield, and it was as if we were both looking back through time, and we could see you up there on a little bitty stage--big, full bodied woman wearin yo plumes with the nerve to wear red and sweatin devils cuz of the heat up there. Child, let me tell you how all I could hear was you in Aretha’s fresh out of church voice--even now when I listen to Mary J. Blige or Whitney, I hear you. Now I understand how it must have been some stompin up in Harlem when you sang. People hangin out of windows like wet nylons cuz they could still hear you from miles and miles. If I had been there--I think I would--yes, I certainly would--throw myself to the floor to feel the vibration of your voice on my body.
They say the crash mangled one of your arms. You bled to death out there with your lover. I think of Osiris--those spread parts all over the universe. How many more pieces of Black women lay across the earth awaiting recognition. I aim to find them and try to collect them into one body.
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7. |
From Batouala/Africa SOS
07:29
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From Batouala:
Des horizons où le soleil se lève à ceux où il se couche, le vent pousse les brouillards. Ils enveloppent de leurs pagnes la hauteur des “kagas,” qui n'apparaissent que vaguement encore. Et, dans ces brumes, tous les oiseaux chantent, des perroquets aux merles-métalliques, des hoche-queue aux gendarmes et aux toucans.
Les tourterelles rasent le sol de leur vol. Les poules s'enfuient, tête sous l'aile, dès qu'elles voient, à travers les brouillards qui se fondent, à faible altitude tournoyer les charognards.
L'air frais vient, fuit, revient. Et produisent les arbres un frisselis de mille feuilles mouillées. Et frémissent les cimes des “varas.” Et, en agitant leurs longues tiges flexibles, les bambous gémissent.
Un dernier coup de vent déchire les dernières brumes, d'où le soleil s'élance, lavé, intact, lucide. Devant la plaie qui s'élargissait, là-bas, du rouge soleil, il y eut un apaisement qui, d'espace en espace, gagna les plus lointaines solitudes.
Mais, indifférent à la faveur solaire, assis, à quelques pas de sa case, auprès du brasier qu'il venait d'allumer, Batouala, le mokoundji, l'esprit libre de toute pensée, lentement, sagement, fumait sa bonne vieille pipe, son bon vieux “garabo.”
Le jour était venu.
Africa SOS:
Africa’s in danger
Africa’s in danger
Africa’s in danger
Africa’s in danger
Mama, wanna talk to you
Mama, don’t wanna talk about you
Mama, don’t wanna read about you
Mama, don’t wanna see you cry
But I can’t talk while the children
are fallin from the future like meteors
And I can’t find the words to tell you
that the slaughter’s got a number on my soul
And where’s the army that’ll rescue the damned
And where’s the white man who divided up all the land
And where’s the king and queens who will claim more than just kente
And where’s the truth that’ll blow my romantic jungle to bits
Africa’s in danger
Africa’s in danger
Africa’s in danger
Africa’s in danger
the Africa of exotic and endangered
the Africa of fertile rivers and tainted water
the Africa of rainforests and pharmacies
the Africa of diamonds and jewelers
the Africa of cattle and meatpackers
the Africa of Miriam Makeba and Saartje Baartman
the Africa of explorers and missionaries
the Africa of blood and genocide
the Africa of manhood and dictators
the Africa of matriarchy and rape
the Africa of rebellion and refugees
the Africa of Ali and ebola
the Africa of Iman and famine
the Africa of expensive shit and cheap help
the Africa of adinkra symbols and bleachin creams
the Africa of jungle and hell
the Africa with all our DNA and with no clue where we wandered
the Africa not Egypt and not Rome
the Africa I desire
the Africa I despise
the Africa I ain’t
the Africa I am
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8. |
Doublehanded Suite
05:02
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Yolanda Wisher & The Afroeaters Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Yolanda Wisher & The Afroeaters is a Philly-based blues and jazz band fronted by a poet.
Yolanda Wisher & The Afroeaters recommends:
Paul Giess reimagines hymns and spirituals in a refreshing, uplifting way. Features the healing vocals of V. Shayne Frederick.
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Paul Giess' first album is a sweet and soulful classic.
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Blacklight
by V. Shayne Frederick
V. Shayne Frederick creates whole worlds with his voice and takes you there.
go to albumIf you like Yolanda Wisher & The Afroeaters, you may also like:
Playing with Esu / Where will Ogun Live
by Neo Griot & The Afrocentric Prince
featured on Bandcamp Radio Jan 25, 2022
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Fodder
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Poet Douglas Kearney and composer/producer/drummer Val Jeanty link up for a a compelling LP that feels like the written word come to life.
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The Japanese Rimbaud
by Mikado Koko
Mikado Koko blends glitchy ambient with excerpts of poems from the late Japanese experimental poet Chuya Nakahara.
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