Sunday, November 21, 2010

Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 4


Show description for Sunday 11/21/2010 @ 3:00 PM - 6:00 PM

Please note: NDJ begins at 4:15 today, rather than 3:00.

This week, on the 5 o'clock hour, we present part four of a four part series, Bob Kaufman, Poet.This radio documentary, created by David Henderson, originally aired on Pacifica Radio in 1991. For those not familiar with the life and work of Bob Kaufman, this is a wonderful opportunity to become acquainted with one of the most important poets of the Beat Generation.New Day Jazz extends special thanks to Q.R. Hand, Jr. for the use of these archival recordings.


ArtistSongAlbumLabel

Declared EnemyFlowersSalute to 100001 Stars: A Tribute to Jean GenetRogue Art

Declared EnemyAlberto's WorkshopSalute to 100001 Stars: A Tribute to Jean GenetRogue Art

Declared EnemyMettraySalute to 100001 Stars: A Tribute to Jean GenetRogue Art

Declared EnemyBlack PanthersSalute to 100001 Stars: A Tribute to Jean GenetRogue Art

Wordwind ChorusThe MovementWe Are of the SayingWe Are of the Saying

Declared EnemyAbdallahSalute to 100001 Stars: A Tribute to Jean GenetRogue Art
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Duke Ellington & His WashingtoniansEast St. Louis Toodle-OoRalph Ellison: Living with MusicColumbia

Duke Ellington & His WashingtoniansBlack & Tan FantasyRalph Ellison: Living with MusicColumbia

Jimmy RushingHarvard BluesRalph Ellison: Living with MusicColumbia

Jimmy RushingDown Hearted BluesRalph Ellison: Living with MusicColumbia

William ParkerThe StruggleUncle Joe's Spirit HouseCentering Records

Marshall AllenHeart AuraNight LogicRogue Art
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 4Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 4Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 4Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 4
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Marshall AllenBow in the CloudNight LogicRogue Art

Tyrone Brown featuring John A. WilliamsReadings from Safari WestSuite for John A. WilliamsDreambox Media

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Hidden Name & Complex Fate


videoRalph Ellison reads an excerpt from his essay, Hidden Name & Complex Fate, tracing his childhood and community environment, to his first encounter with T.S. Eliot and The Wasteland.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 3


Show description for Sunday 11/14/2010 @ 3:00 PM - 6:00 PM

Please note: NDJ begins at 3:15 today, rather than 3:00.

This week, on the 5 o'clock hour, we present part three of a four part series, Bob Kaufman, Poet.This radio documentary, created by David Henderson, originally aired on Pacifica Radio in 1991. For those not familiar with the life and work of Bob Kaufman, this is a wonderful opportunity to become acquainted with one of the most important poets of the Beat Generation.New Day Jazz extends special thanks to Q.R. Hand, Jr. for the use of these archival recordings.


ArtistSongAlbumLabel

Wynton KellyKeep It Movin'Kelly BlueRiverside

Hampton HawesBlue SkiesThe Green Leaves of SummerContemporary

Gwendolyn BrooksSong of the Front YardAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Gwendolyn BrooksThe Preacher RuminatesAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Gwendolyn BrooksThe Children of the PoorAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Gwendolyn BrooksOld LaughterAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Charles MingusHearts' Beat and Shades in Physical EmbracesThe Black Saint and the Sinner LadyImpulse
========================== Airbreak ==========================

John Coltrane and Johnny HartmanDedicated to YouJohn Coltrane and Johnny HartmanImpulse

Johnny HartmanStairway to the StarsI Just Dropped by to Say HelloImpulse

Billie HolidayI Get A Kick Out of YouAll or Nothing at AllVerve

Billie HolidayCheek to CheekLady Sings the BluesVerve

Margaret WalkerOld Molly MeansAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Margaret WalkerKissie LeeAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Esther PhilipsI'm Gettin' 'Long AlrightConfessin' the BluesAtlantic

Esther PhillipsI WonderConfessin' the BluesAtlantic
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Dizzy GillespieA Night In TunisiaDizzy Gillespie Vol. 1/2 (1946-1949)RCA France

Charlie ParkerA Night In TunisiaThe Best of BirdWarner Brothers

Bud PowellA Night In TunisiaThe Amazing Bud Powell Volume 1Blue Note

Gillespie-Parker-Powell-Mingus-RoachA Night In TunisiaJazz at Massey HallOriginal Jazz Classics (Debut)

Claude McKaySt. Isaac's ChurchAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Claude McKayThe Tropics In New YorkAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Claude McKayIf We Must Die (Introduction)Anthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Claude McKayIf We Must DieAnthology of Negro PoetryFolkways

Dizzy Gillespie OrchestraCubana Be Cubana BopDizzy Gillespie Vol. 1/2 (1946-1949)RCA France

Dizzy Gillespie OrchestraMantecaDizzy Gillespie Vol. 1/2 (1946-1949)RCA France
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Bob Kaufman, Poet Part 3Bob Kaufman, Poet Part 3Bob Kaufman, Poet Part 3Bob Kaufman, Poet Part 3
========================== Airbreak ==========================

George RussellStratusphunkThe Outer ViewRiverside

George RussellBent EagleThe Outer ViewRiverside

Esther PhillipsBlues Medley: Blow Top Blues, Jelly Jelly Blues, Long John BluesConfessin' the BluesAtlantic
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Dizzy GillespieIn the Land of Oo-Bla-DeeDizzy Gillespie Vol. 1/2 (1946-1949)

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Thou Shalt Not Kill by Kenneth Rexroth


Thou Shalt Not Kill

A Memorial for Dylan Thomas


I
They are murdering all the young men.
For half a century now, every day,
They have hunted them down and killed them.
They are killing them now.
At this minute, all over the world,
They are killing the young men.
They know ten thousand ways to kill them.
Every year they invent new ones.
In the jungles of Africa,
In the marshes of Asia,
In the deserts of Asia,
In the slave pens of Siberia,
In the slums of Europe,
In the nightclubs of America,
The murderers are at work.


They are stoning Stephen,
They are casting him forth from every city in the world.
Under the Welcome sign,
Under the Rotary emblem,
On the highway in the suburbs,
His body lies under the hurling stones.
He was full of faith and power.
He did great wonders among the people.
They could not stand against his wisdom.
They could not bear the spirit with which he spoke.
He cried out in the name
Of the tabernacle of witness in the wilderness.
They were cut to the heart.
They gnashed against him with their teeth.
They cried out with a loud voice.
They stopped their ears.
They ran on him with one accord.
They cast him out of the city and stoned him.
The witnesses laid down their clothes
At the feet of a man whose name was your name—
You.


You are the murderer.
You are killing the young men.
You are broiling Lawrence on his gridiron.
When you demanded he divulge
The hidden treasures of the spirit,
He showed you the poor.
You set your heart against him.
You seized him and bound him with rage.
You roasted him on a slow fire.
His fat dripped and spurted in the flame.
The smell was sweet to your nose.
He cried out,
“I am cooked on this side,
Turn me over and eat,
You
Eat of my flesh.”


You are murdering the young men.
You are shooting Sebastian with arrows.
He kept the faithful steadfast under persecution.
First you shot him with arrows.
Then you beat him with rods.
Then you threw him in a sewer.
You fear nothing more than courage.
You who turn away your eyes
At the bravery of the young men.


You,
The hyena with polished face and bow tie,
In the office of a billion dollar
Corporation devoted to service;
The vulture dripping with carrion,
Carefully and carelessly robed in imported tweeds,
Lecturing on the Age of Abundance;
The jackal in double-breasted gabardine,
Barking by remote control,
In the United Nations;
The vampire bat seated at the couch head,
Notebook in hand, toying with his decerebrator;
The autonomous, ambulatory cancer,
The Superego in a thousand uniforms;
You, the finger man of behemoth,
The murderer of the young men.



II
What happened to Robinson,
Who used to stagger down Eighth Street,
Dizzy with solitary gin?
Where is Masters, who crouched in
His law office for ruinous decades?
Where is Leonard who thought he was
A locomotive? And Lindsay,
Wise as a dove, innocent
As a serpent, where is he?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


What became of Jim Oppenheim?
Lola Ridge alone in an
Icy furnished room? Orrick Johns,
Hopping into the surf on his
One leg? Elinor Wylie
Who leaped like Kierkegaard?
Sara Teasdale, where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Where is George Sterling, that tame fawn?
Phelps Putnam who stole away?
Jack Wheelwright who couldn’t cross the bridge?
Donald Evans with his cane and
Monocle, where is he?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


John Gould Fletcher who could not
Unbreak his powerful heart?
Bodenheim butchered in stinking
Squalor? Edna Millav who took
Her last straight whiskey? Genevieve
Who loved so much; where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Harry who didn’t care at all?
Hart who went back to the sea?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Where is Sol Funaroff?
What happened to Potamkin?
Isidor Schneider? Claude McKay?
Countee Cullen? Clarence Weinstock?
Who animates their corpses today?
Timor mortis conturbat me.


Where is Ezra, that noisy man?
Where is Larsson whose poems were prayers?
Where is Charles Snider, that gentle
Bitter boy? Carnevali,
What became of him?
Carol who was so beautiful, where is she?
Timor mortis conturbat me.



III
Was their end noble and tragic,
Like the mask of a tyrant?
Like Agamemnon’s secret golden face?
Indeed it was not. Up all night
In the fo’c’sle, bemused and beaten,
Bleeding at the rectum, in his
Pocket a review by the one
Colleague he respected, “If he
Really means what these poems
Pretend to say, he has only
One way out—.” Into the
Hot acrid Caribbean sun,
Into the acrid, transparent,
Smoky sea. Or another, lice in his
Armpits and crotch, garbage littered
On the floor, gray greasy rags on
The bed. “I killed them because they
Were dirty, stinking Communists.
I should get a medal.” Again,
Another, Simenon foretold,
His end at a glance. “I dare you
To pull the trigger.” She shut her eyes
And spilled gin over her dress.
The pistol wobbled in his hand.
It took them hours to die.
Another threw herself downstairs,
And broke her back. It took her years.
Two put their heads under water
In the bath and filled their lungs.
Another threw himself under
The traffic of a crowded bridge.
Another, drunk, jumped from a
Balcony and broke her neck.
Another soaked herself in
Gasoline and ran blazing
Into the street and lived on
In custody. One made love
Only once with a beggar woman.
He died years later of syphilis
Of the brain and spine. Fifteen
Years of pain and poverty,
While his mind leaked away.
One tried three times in twenty years
To drown himself. The last time
He succeeded. One turned on the gas
When she had no more food, no more
Money, and only half a lung.
One went up to Harlem, took on
Thirty men, came home and
Cut her throat. One sat up all night
Talking to H. L. Mencken and
Drowned himself in the morning.
How many stopped writing at thirty?
How many went to work for Time?
How many died of prefrontal
Lobotomies in the Communist Party?
How many arc lost in the back wards
Of provincial madhouses?
How many on the advice of
Their psychoanalysts, decided
A business career was best after all?
How many are hopeless alcoholics?
René Crevel!
Jacques Rigaud!
Antonin Artaud!
Mayakofsky!
Essenin!
Robert Desnos!
Saint Pol Roux!
Max Jacob!
All over the world
The same disembodied hand
Strikes us down.
Here is a mountain of death.
A hill of heads like the Khans piled up.
The first-born of a century
Slaughtered by Herod.
Three generations of infants
Stuffed down the maw of Moloch.



IV
He is dead.
The bird of Rhiannon.
He is dead.
In the winter of the heart.
He is Dead.
In the canyons of death,
They found him dumb at last,
In the blizzard of lies.
He never spoke again.
He died.
He is dead.
In their antiseptic hands,
He is dead.
The little spellbinder of Cader Idris.
He is dead.
The sparrow of Cardiff.
He is dead.
The canary of Swansea.
Who killed him?
Who killed the bright-headed bird?
You did, you son of a bitch.
You drowned him in your cocktail brain.
He fell down and died in your synthetic heart.
You killed him,
Oppenheimer the Million-Killer,
You killed him,
Einstein the Gray Eminence.
You killed him,
Havanahavana, with your Nobel Prize.
You killed him, General,
Through the proper channels.
You strangled him, Le Mouton,
With your mains étendues.
He confessed in open court to a pince-nezed skull.
You shot him in the back of the head
As he stumbled in the last cellar.
You killed him,
Benign Lady on the postage stamp.
He was found dead at a Liberal Weekly luncheon.
He was found dead on the cutting room floor.
He was found dead at a Time policy conference.
Henry Luce killed him with a telegram to the Pope.
Mademoiselle strangled him with a padded brassiere.
Old Possum sprinkled him with a tea ball.
After the wolves were done, the vaticides
Crawled off with his bowels to their classrooms and quarterlies.
When the news came over the radio
You personally rose up shouting, “Give us Barabbas!”
In your lonely crowd you swept over him.
Your custom-built brogans and your ballet slippers
Pummeled him to death in the gritty street.
You hit him with an album of Hindemith.
You stabbed him with stainless steel by Isamu Noguchi,
He is dead.
He is Dead.
Like Ignacio the bullfighter,
At four o’clock in the afternoon.
At precisely four o’clock.
I too do not want to hear it.
I too do not want to know it.
I want to run into the street,
Shouting, “Remember Vanzetti!”
I want to pour gasoline down your chimneys.
I want to blow up your galleries.
I want to burn down your editorial offices.
I want to slit the bellies of your frigid women.
I want to sink your sailboats and launches.
I want to strangle your children at their finger paintings.
I want to poison your Afghans and poodles.
He is dead, the little drunken cherub.
He is dead,
The effulgent tub thumper.
He is Dead.
The ever living birds are not singing
To the head of Bran.
The sea birds are still
Over Bardsey of Ten Thousand Saints.
The underground men are not singing
On their way to work.
There is a smell of blood
In the smell of the turf smoke.
They have struck him down,
The son of David ap Gwilym.
They have murdered him,
The Baby of Taliessin.
There he lies dead,
By the Iceberg of the United Nations.
There he lies sandbagged,
At the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
The Gulf Stream smells of blood
As it breaks on the sand of Iona
And the blue rocks of Canarvon.
And all the birds of the deep sea rise up
Over the luxury liners and scream,
“You killed him! You killed him.
In your God damned Brooks Brothers suit,
You son of a bitch.”

Monday, November 8, 2010

Commission by Ezra Pound


Commission by Ezra Pound



Go, my songs, to the lonely and the unsatisfied,
Go also to the nerve wracked, go to the enslaved by convention,
Bear to them my contempt for their oppressors.
Go as a great wave of cool water,
Bear my contempt of oppressors.

Speak against unconscious oppression,
Speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative,
Speak against bonds.
Go to the bourgeoise who is dying of her ennuis,
Go to the women in suburbs.
Go to the hideously wedded,
Go to them whose failure is concealed,
Go to the unluckily mated,
Go to the bought wife,
Go to the woman entailed.

Go to those who have delicate lust,
Go to those whose delicate desires are thwarted,
Go like a blight upon the dullness of the world,
Go with your edge against this,
Strengthen the subtle cords,
Bring confidence upon the algae and the tentacles of the soul.

Go in a friendly manner,
Go with an open speech.
Be eager to find new evils and new good,
Be against all forms of oppression.
Go to those who are thickened with middle age,
To those who have lost their interest.
Go to the adolescent who are smothered in family___
Oh how hideous it is
To see three generations of one house gathered together!
It is like an old tree with shoots,
And with some branches rotted and falling.

Go out and defy opinion,
Go against this vegetable bondage of the blood.
Be against all sorts of mortmain.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Bob Kaufman, Poet: Part 2




Show description for Sunday 11/7/2010 @ 3:00 PM - 6:00 PM

This week, on the 5 o'clock hour, we present part two of a four part series, Bob Kaufman, Poet.
This radio documentary, created by David Henderson, originally aired
on Pacifica Radio in 1991. For those not familiar with the life and
work of Bob Kaufman, this is a wonderful opportunity to become
acquainted with one of the most important poets of the Beat Generation.
New Day Jazz extends special thanks to Q.R. Hand, Jr. for the use of
these archival recordings.


ArtistSongAlbumLabel

Countee CullenFrom The Dark TowerA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Langston HughesI've Known RiversA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Robert HaydenFrederick DouglassA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Paul Laurence DunbarWe Wear The MaskA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Oliver NelsonStolen MomentsBlues And The Abstract TruthImpulse

Carmen McRaeOld Devil MoonEasy To LoveBethlehem

Gigi GryceMinorityGigi Gryce And The Jazz Lab QuintetRiverside

Betty CarterYou're Getting To Be A Habit With MeOut ThereABC
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Betty CarterStormy WeatherThe Modern Sound of Betty CarterABC

Charles MingusStormy WeatherMingusCandid

Sterling BrownOl' LemA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Helene JohnsonSonnet To A Negro In HarlemA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Arna BontempsSouthern MansionA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Langston HughesMother To SonA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Sarah VaughnPinkyAfter HoursColumbia

Sarah VaughnStreet Of DreamsAfter HoursColumbia
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Roland KirkFrom Bechet, Byas. And FatsRip, Rag And PanicLimelight

Roland KirkMystical DreamRip, Rag And PanicLimelight

Yusef LateefThe WeaverLive At Pep's Impulse

Yusef LateefSlippin' And Slidin'Live At Pep's Impulse

Yusef LateefSong Of DelilahLive At Pep's Impulse

Myron O'HigginsTo A Young PoetA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

James Vaughnfrom Four QuestionsA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways

Owen DodsonCounterpointA Hand Is On The GateVerve-Folkways
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Sun RaEnlightenmentNuits De La Fondation Maeght Volume One


Don CherryBrown Rice
A&M

Art Ensemble Of ChicagoDreaming Of The MasterNice GuysECM

Dave Holland QuartetConference Of The BirdsConference Of The BirdsECM
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Bob Kaufman, Poet Part TwoBob Kaufman, Poet Part TwoBob Kaufman, Poet Part TwoBob Kaufman, Poet Part Two
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Art Blakey And The Jazz MessengersMr. JinIndestructibleBlue Note

Shirley HornViolets For Your FursViolets For Your FursSteeple Chase

Shirley Horn I'm Old FashionedA Lazt AfternoonSteeple Chase

Cassandra WilsonI'm Old FashionedBlue SkiesJMT
========================== Airbreak ==========================

Ed O.G. featuring Umar Bin HassanEasy Comes Easy Goes (Jazz Poet Mix)

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Not Grand, Not A Party, Just Old

For many whites, no matter what their politics, the Tea Party is All in the Family, literally. They may have an Uncle Archie, bigoted, racist, repulsive to common sense and dignity, but that doesn't keep them from sending him a Christmas card or remembering his, or his children's birthday. White radicals, and even a few progressives, have been so hopped up on this comic book fantasy of a "total seizure of power," ala China, or Cuba, (both of which were largely peasant societies and virtually monolingual), that they are willing to feign this nonsense that the Tea Party is an authentic populist uprising. All lies, as shown by the recent NAACP report, http://teapartynationalism.com/ . Of course what they ignore, time and time again, is the that vast, sprawling, technologically advanced state of this population, is also multi-ethnic, multi-lingual, and unlikely to meet on any platform supporting the right, or a white male theocracy, no matter how allegedly anti-government. Historically white liberals, progressives and radicals, have long bemoaned their collective inability to break bread with blacks, gaining and maintaining power with us, by building a coalition with our working class and impoverished.(See The Wages of Whiteness by David Roediger,or The Ordeal of Assimilation: A Documentary History of the White Working Class.) Obama has presented a historical opportunity to do this, and yet they do not. Is this yet another example of whites refusal to accept black leadership? Absolutely. There are many positive aspects of the Obama administration around which even staunch Communist's like Amiri Baraka, or Jack Hirschman, have saw fit to propagandize in favor of their revolutionary agenda. White progressives, on the other hand, bitch about their disappointments in him, sometimes regurgitating the most bilious, fact-free, talking points from the far right to do so. As blacks we are used to disappointments in elected leaders, but it doesn't cause us to abandon ship. We've been at it's bottom too long for that game! Whites who advocate for the Tea Party as some kind of authentic populist movement are as addicted to the rhetoric of white supremacy as their most backward and criminal brethren.