Forget everything you think you know or have been told about the birth of the blues and the histories of jazz and rock ‘n’ roll: Rumble – The Indians Who Rocked The World has a different story to tell and by the sound of it, much of what’s been handed down to us about North American music and its origins has been wrong.
The sound of the American South – the rush of its waters, the song of the bird, the crack of thunder and the rain that follows – informs the sound of Native American music, the root of all other American forms.
Take the story of the Mississippi Delta’s Charley Patton, widely acknowledged to be the father of the country blues. An existing photograph of him reveals he is likely a man of mixed race origins, though without clear proof, historians have remained inconclusive in their findings. Rumble reveals through interviews, research, and recordings, that Patton’s blood ties are to the Chocktaw nation and moreover, his connection to Native American music contributed to the rhythmic and vocal patterns of what we know as country blues. In the film, musician Pura Fé (Tuscarora) a/b’s his technique with a turntable and her voice: “That’s Indian music with a guitar,” she says. Calling on a kind of pre-blues origin of his sound, the assembled scholars and musicians, including modern day bluesmen Corey Harris and Alvin Youngblood Hart, go into deeper explanation of Patton’s relationship to Dockery Plantation, the setting where he developed a showstopping style living among Black, Choctaw, and European farmworkers. He went on to pass on what he knew to other area musicians like Son House and visiting players like the young Roebuck Staples and Chester Burnette (who of course became Howlin’ Wolf). So why is Patton’s history generally painted so sketchily in the history books? READ THE ANSWER & THE ENTIRE ARTICLE in Down With Tyranny!
I reviewed the new documentary on the life of jazz trumpet player and composer, Lee Morgan, in the new edition of No Recess! magazine.
I Called Him Morgan
A Film by Kasper Collin
1h 32min
Non-Americans are empirically better at appreciating our country’s cultural output than we are: Look what England, Canada, and Australia did with rock ‘n’ roll. Then there are the French, the Dutch, the Danish, and the Swiss, who have archived and appreciated jazz far better than we have. Just ask the musicians who thrived in Europe in the 20th Century, some of them making their homes away from home there.
Currently, it’s the Swedes in the lead, who are deconstructing our culture in state-of-the-art documentaries on Black lives. Göran Hugo Olsson’s The Black Power Mixtape (2011) took up connections between 50 years of Black liberation movement and hip-hop and reinvented the socio-political-music documentary. Now we have Kasper Collin’s I Called Him Morgan, concerning the life and death of composer and trumpet player Lee Morgan, shot in 1972 by his wife and manager Helen, that takes the music doc into uncharted territory.
Collin delivers a self-described “understated narrative” that sidesteps the fine points of biography and allows the musician’s compositions to speak for themselves, resulting in a whole new filmic form of redemption song.
Collin, a relative newcomer to filmmaking with one film, 2007’s My Name Is Albert Ayler, to his credit (about iconoclastic musician Albert Ayler), came to his second subject through his music that still plays in regular rotation, at least on YouTube. “It was never my intention to make another jazz film,” he told an audience at the San Francisco International Film Festival in April. Indeed, he knew of Morgan’s background sketch — super-talent, magnificent in fact, his hit “The Sidewinder,” and the crime of passion that ended it all. But when he came upon a clip of Morgan as a young man playing with Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, he became spellbound by sound.
Combing the internet for information about his newfound obsession, Collin unearthed some documentation just too tempting to let pass: There existed a 27-minute recorded interview transcript with Helen, recounting the couple’s story. Told in 1996 (just a month before her death) to her teacher and jazz enthusiast in Wilmington, North Carolina, Collin made it his business to find its recordist, Larry Reni Thomas, and the cassette itself, which was degenerating by the minute in a drawer.
With this crackling piece of audio tape (restored, of course), Collin found his basic track for the film, and it became his invitation to tell two stories: One of the hardscrabble country girl who made her way to New York City; the other of a teenage musical prodigy turned dope fiend who made an incredible comeback and a lasting impression on jazz itself. Layering the audio with an unprecedented number of high-quality stills (taken by Blue Note’s Francis Wolff), moving footage of Morgan, newly rendered experimental B-roll, and important interviews with friends and bandmates like Wayne Shorter, Paul West, and Bernie Maupin, Collin’s film sails on Morgan’s melodies toward its dizzying denouement that coincides with an epic Noreaster. But it is Morgan’s horn and his own original sound over a vast Blue Note catalog that lives strong: The title piece from his 1964 recording, Search For The New Land, serves as a theme throughout the film, encapsulating in sound Morgan’s story: low down, but with hints of shimmer and brilliance shining through.
Morgan hailed from Philadelphia and joined Dizzy Gillespie’s band at age 18. He and saxophonist Wayne Shorter soon joined Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers and began their careers in earnest, traveling the world, blowing their horns, indulging in the best of everything from cars to shoes and clothes. “Best car, best lady, best shoes,” said friend and bassist Paul West. But it wasn’t long before Morgan fell for drugs and quit playing altogether. At one point he not only sold his horn but his shoes, claiming he preferred dope to all else life had to offer. “He came to the studio in his slippers,” recalled bassist Jymie Merritt, still visibly pained by the memory of his once sharp-dressed pal sinking so low.
Enter Helen, a self-made woman from the South and fixture on the jazz scene; she lived not far from Birdland and was known to the jazz crowd for her home cooking and hospitality. Helen met Morgan (as she preferred to call him) at a house party when he was at his worst: no coat, no shoes, no teeth, and certainly no horn. Fourteen years his senior, she made it her job to get him clean. By all accounts, their life together was good — which made its end when Lee was just 33 and on the comeback trail all the more shocking to their inner circle and the jazz public. Helen’s taped explanation of what happened that night is brief and to the point, as if it could’ve happened to anyone, but its chilling vocalization is best saved for the viewer.
Like the deaths of Billie Holiday and Charlie Parker, which were not entirely unexpected, and that of Clifford Brown which was, Morgan’s loss continues to be grieved by the jazz survivors who knew him well. I Called Him Morgan ensures listeners of Lee Morgan and newcomers to the sound will feel the loss too, not only for the life of an American giant and sessions never recorded, but for the gone world, when jazz defined excellence, style, and ultimately rebellion.
Injustice in the music business is one of the themes shared by three summer music documentaries now playing in theaters or on demand. Twenty Feet From Stardom, A Band Called Death and Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me all concern the lives of musicians who did not reap the benefits of success their superstar counterparts or even their industry’s executives enjoy. These tales of a typically unkind, fickle and often unethical music business are told far too often: There is of course a long tradition of broke and hungry blues singers and ripped-off rock’n’rollers; perhaps most famous are the Funk Brothers, creators of the Motown sound, whose untold history became Standing in the Shadows of Motown, the blueprint for these kind of behind the veil stories. And yet, the background vocalists of Twenty Feet… and the musicians of the ironically named ‘70s bands, Death and Big Star, though largely overlooked, unsung, and often underpaid themselves, also delivered life-giving music of lasting value—music far more focused and accomplished than many of their more successful name brand peers.
Much to the younger generation of musicians in their family’s delight, the Hackney brothers co-created punk rock in early ‘70s Detroit. A Band Called Death is their story, as told by surviving brothers Bobby and Dannis, with credit due to brother David for the vision. Inspired by their minister dad’s insistence they watch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, the boys formed a band; as rock evolved, so did their sound. David aimed to combine the guitar chords of Pete Townshend of the Who with the leads of Jimi Hendrix. With Bobby’s vocals and bass, and Dannis’ agility on drums central to the crunch, David’s idea came into focus, though it had also been shaped by forces much stranger than spine-chilling rock’n’roll. Impacted by the accidental death of their father, David’s idea—a hard rock threesome named Death with a triangular mind-body-spirit logo was an entire concept, though it turned out to be a bit much for listeners to metabolize in the post-‘60s hour of segregated rock and soul. It is generally agreed among band and family, record industry personnel and public perception that David’s extreme construct did the band no favors, particularly when they were very close to getting a record deal with Clive Davis and David wouldn’t budge. “First you let them change your name and then…” You may as well surrender your soul is the implication, and there is truth in those words. Though he and his brothers’ band were consigned to the rare and forgotten records rack for 30 years, David’s vision, that Death would one day be poplar after he was gone, turned out to be prophecy. A Band Called Death lets that story unfold, as it unleashes the power and excitement of the music, highlighting its timelessness and virtuosity. For non-believers, their pure rock’n’roll single, “Keep on Knocking,” may be the convincer: I never tire of it and could happily spin it over and over and over again.
If there is such a thing as rock justice, revived career status may also be in the balance for some of the singers profiled in Twenty Feet From Stardom, a look at the ladies (and one man) who sing the background vocals to the soundtrack of your life. To their tremendous credit, director Morgan Neville and producer and industry vet Gil Friesen don’t flinch from the cruelty of the record business, a model that has historically cheated its true talent while rewarding mediocre copycats. The film debuted at the Sundance Festival and screened earlier this year at the San Francisco International Film Festival and is told by the vocalists Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, Claudia Lennear, their contemporary counterparts, Lisa Fischer and Judith Hill, and the musicians they sing for (Stevie Wonder, Bruce Springsteen, Sting and Mick Jagger). With differing degrees of yearning for the spotlight, each woman shares her own tale of what it was like to sing behind Ray Charles, the Rolling Stones and Michael Jackson and in the case of Love, for producer Phil Spector (now serving a prison sentence for murder). Both Fischer and Lennear, emerge as the pair who crave little more than what they have: Fischer’s devoted to her gift and married to the music and a life on a road. Lennear stepped back and became a teacher, though as a result of the film and revisiting her years alongside George Harrison, Joe Cocker, and Ike and Tina Turmer, she’s been inspired to reclaim her place in the spotlight. Here’s her version of the Beatles song, “Let It Be.”
Perhaps most depressing in this downbeat trio of tales is Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me, a story of unrequited loves and life let downs. Chris Bell, who alongside Alex Chilton, was a principle songwriter on the Memphis group’s first album, left the fold under what the film portrays as mysterious circumstances. What’s clear however, is that he was touched by substance abuse, and sexual and religious confusion, and all the troubles conspired to takeaway his life at the cursed rock’n’roll age of 27. It didn’t help that Big Star’s record label, Ardent, was affiliated with Stax, though while giants of the soul industry were experiencing business and reorganization troubles just as they crossed the bridge toward releasing rock’n’roll records. And then there is Chilton, a vocal talent with qualities so chameleon-like, and a reticence to be interviewed, that he’s hard to pin down. The teenaged soul singer of “The Letter” shifted gears in Big Star, and yet again in his post-band, punkish years; he passed away in 2010 before the completion of the film, and his presence in it is confined to audio and performance clips. It would’ve been interesting to hear what he might say of his former band from a 60-year-old’s vantage point, but without him or Bell to speak for themselves, the real story of Big Star largely remains a mystery, to be filed under bands that never made it, but could have, if only the stars had aligned in their favor. Though their story is grim, their recording legacy is the prize: “The Ballad of El Goodo” from #1 Record, is a collaborative effort between Chilton and Bell, a power-pop freedom song:
Though I would not characterize any one of these music documentaries as uplifting, within the frames of each reel, and certainly within the individual stories, there are flashes of reverence, bright spots of humor, and in all cases, impeccable music. There is no shortage of stories like these, ready to unspool and cast the music business as it was once known in its true, unflattering light. I don’t want to say I’m happy that everyone can see for themselves the hit parade of human sacrifice, left in the wake of what it takes to create superstar entertainment for the masses. Nor do I delight in the music industry’s complete and total rupture. But it’s no doubt valuable for music consumers, just like consumers of other goods, to know a little bit more about what goes into the making of product they love so much. The music business is a killer, with very little to do with the art of its creators. Certainly it has shown little to no compassion for the health and welfare of musicians, without whom, there would be no primary product. Perhaps it’s best we no longer fool ourselves into thinking that talent and excellence are qualifications for success, no matter what business we may find ourselves. The artist or worker without a killer instinct, will need to make a choice: Take a backseat willingly, or be content, to be left standing in the shadows.
Forget everything you think you know or have been told about the birth of the blues and the histories of jazz and rock ‘n’ roll: Rumble – The Indians Who Rocked The World has a different story to tell and by the sound of it, much of what’s been handed down to us about North American music and its origins has been wrong.
I reviewed the 
Denise Sullivan 