She is the Jaliyaa
She did not leave us to die in the burning and ransacked
Villages. The Mandinka and Fula.
She did not leave our souls to rot in the bellies of sharks.
The Tiliboo & Tiligi,
She picked us up and out of the bile and vomit and the blood of our prayers
streaming profusely down the sides of our faith.
She landed us gently on our
new beginning while clothing our nakedness in the shadows of her smile. She
was our death and resurrection of Jesus began
a strange and difficult existence in the crack of the whip. In the rage of the overseer.
In the lashes shredding and cutting into his Virgin birth.
The primitive, The primitive and crudely crafted
drums throbbing and pulsating, and contradictions dancing,
and she is chanting whose children are· these?
Moving and feeling through the high register and
subtle words of New Orleans.
And the Red, And the Green, And the Yellow
Bandanas flowing and strolling High in the Wind.
Some called it Spanish. Some called it Creole. Some called it French.
She called out Bamboulal.
Congo. Calindal. Ju Jun
The Ring shout. The Circle dance. A free day.
Some free time, Some free time to call on our science.
To call on our Mathematics. To construct our Cipher to genius.
To self-image. To memories. Moving in and out of this counter clockwise motion.
Swaying in Rhythm. Feet stomping the earth. Swaying in time.
Feet stomping the earth.
Answers back: in the voices of our choirs
Our Churches, Our Gospel is where she baptised us in the harmony,
in the melody of Field songs, work songs
and secret songs of the Mississippi Delta and the blues,
Striking a familiar chord in the
Clickety clack. Clickety clack. Clickety clack of the train wheels moving
us up North to Memphis and the honky tonks.
To Kansas and the boogie woogie.
To St Louis and the rag time.
And to Chicago and the funky sound
of our circular breathing that taught us how to swing
and to sing in the scat of jazz and the Razz matazz,
of be bop and the developing magic of Hip Hop.
And the Blood of Biggie. And the tears of Tupac forever resting in her sound.
She is our Music. She is
She is our Dance.
She is our Art.
She is our Freedom.
She is,
She is,
She is.
credits
from Understand What Black Is,
track released May 18, 2018
A Nostalgia 77 & Prince Fatty Production. Written by Umar Bin Hassan (ASCAP 335581655), Abiodun Oyowele (ASCAP 128761658), Benedic Lamdin, Mike Pelanconi, Dub Judah, Winston "Horseman" Williams & Riaan Vosloo.
Mike Pelanconi Published by Because Music. Umar Bin Hassan, Abiodun Oyowele, Benedic Lamdin, Dub Judah, Winston "Horseman" Williams & Riaan Vosloo Published by Copyright Control.
Produced by Benedic Lamdin & Mike Pelanconi.
The Musicians:
Drums - Winston "Horseman" Williams. Bass - Dub Judah. Guitar - Kashta Menilek Tafari. Piano & Hammond - Carlton "Bubblers" Ogilvie. Piano - Ross Stanley. Percussion - Lenny Edwards & Afla Sackey. Trumpet - Alex Bonney. Flute - Gareth Lockrane. Clarinet - Lluis Mather. Bass Clarinet - George Crowley. Tenor Saxophone - James Allsopp. Baritone - Sam Rapley. Trombones - Trevor Mires, Tom White & Adrian Hallowell.
Magic in its purest form. I love Floating Points, I love Pharoah Sanders, I love The London Symphony Orchestra. It's a match made in heaven, and the result is absolutely gorgeous. I have loved this record since its release, and realized I don't own it for some reason. So its time to change that. 9.5/10 honestly could become a 10/10 on an indepth vinyl relisten. angrypizza98
Like so many others, this came like a bolt out of the blue and, even though it's well before payday, I had to have this astonishing album on vinyl to prove it exists. The feel of the tunes makes me feel like the Impressions do, Curtis Mayfield, the big spaces and instinctive horns and stuff drifting in and out. Great grooves and I can see lots of ghosts nodding along to this with big smiles on their faces. At last! Anthony Cottrell