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Happy 500th Mister Sunday, Flowers for Beverly Glenn-Copeland, Dancing to Company B, Breathing with Shabaka, Smoking with KMRU
After a long day negotiating the rain and sogginess and thick humidity en route to a child’s birthday party in Midtown, I somehow mustered the energy to go out once more. On a Sunday night, no less. Originally, this entry would have been about the Mica Levi/ Still House Plants/ claire rousay triple-bill banger, but a listing snafu left me in the parking lot. But I was ambitious enough to make a back-up plan.
It was the 500th edition of the long-running Mister Sunday party. I’ve been going since the earliest days (since before the US government designated their original Gowanus dancefloor as being worthy of superfund status). For as many artists/ DJs/ parties/ albums/ events/ pop-ups/ trends/ zeitgeists that I’ve written about over the years that quickly fall into the black hole of amnesia, it’s reassuring to know that this never-ending dance party is still there, even if most seasons now I’m mostly relegated to checking in on their Instagram page and taking in the dancefloor at a considerable distance.
Multiple attempts were made this summer and last to actually haul out to Ridgewood, but nothing came of it. So on the moment, it was liberating to go get lost on the dancefloor, to have the fog drift across my eyes and obscure others, to be one with strangers as well as to bump into some dear old friends. Same with the set from Justin and Eamon. There were wholly unknown Afrobeat, house, techno, Italo jams that sparked great joy on the dancefloor. Genre tags too began to lose their distinctions, blurring into an ecstatic whole.
Fun fact: this video was shot at the Paradise Garage.
At one key peak, Company B’s “Fascinated” arose and I laugh out loud to the memories it conjured: hunched over a tape deck in the suburbs back in the 1980s, ready to click off the pause button to record a song. In the moment, I told myself that I definitely recorded this freestyle classic, but I know better. I was definitely waiting for the new Def Leppard or Bon Jovi to be broadcast. I would have skipped over “Fascinated” at all costs. “And now I’m finally old enough to be 500!” I shouted to a friend when it reached that shrieking chorus about a love toy and the way it makes you feel.
Familiar favorites cap the party. The Isley Brothers’ “Live It Up” (you know it’s a bonafide Isleys classic because it has a Part 1 and Part 2) emerged in the mix, Ernie Isley’s guitar spark-emitting like a fireball flaring between the speakers. Last song is Carl Craig’s early 2000s future jazz remake of Donald Byrd’s “Think Twice.” And then a miracle : a Second Line ensemble marched out onto the dancefloor and a New Orleans-style bon ton roula broke out. The tuba player has a bubble machine strapped to his chest as well. The rain cleared away and the night sky was suddenly afloat in euphoric tiny bubbles.
I almost forgot this happened, but in the early days of the 2020 lockdown, I conducted a Zoom chat with Beverly Glenn-Copeland, who encapsulated pandemic life as so: “I’m gonna uppercut you, but at the same time, I have a gift for you. Can you deal with what you have to learn and be able to accept this gift? Can you handle both of these?”
It’s the kind of duality that Glenn has delightfully hovered over for most of his life. And finally he was in NYC, as part of the launch of Transa, the latest in the Red+Hot series of compilations, this one focused on trans identity and awareness. At the mention of his name, a spontaneous standing ovation occurred in the crowded auditorium.
Now 80 years old, he recently announced that he has dementia and this would be one of his last ever live performances. The devoted who had gathered got to give him his flowers, even if they couldn’t see him. Having recently broken a leg, he was low to the ground, just out of eyesight. That voice though, the strength in such gentleness, it cut through it all. “Ever New” and “Last Dance” are rendered in the loveliest of coos. There was a new song called “Laughter in Summer.”
Another song features Glenn’s longtime wife Elizabeth, who says that it was all conveyed to Glenn “via the Universal Broadcasting System,” which means that he instantly forgot about it as soon as it was written and had to be reminded of it. There’s even time for Glenn to stand up and talk about learning how to play the African drum. He beats out a tattoo on it and reveals a deep growl in his voice, playful rather than reverential. It hit hard and felt like a beautiful parting gift.
Shabaka (just Shabaka) does a residency at the Blue Note. It’s a tight squeeze in the club. The culture is ready for some wooden flute. Shabaka walks on with a trio featuring Kalia Vandever (trombone), Austin Williamson (drums), and his special guest for the evening, Brandee Younger (harp). A vast array of flutes are near at hand. The music is so subtle, slow-moving, yet sublime. Flute and harp are mainstays in the realm of New Age music, yet it’s not quite like that. It’s more like temple music. Brandee’s harp naturally conjures clouds and the ether of heaven, but it also roots the proceedings. Williamson is so deft and supportive that I don’t make any notes about his gentle playing. As sparkling as Brandee’s harp is as special guest, I feel like Vandever is the secret sauce here. The trombonist runs her horn through a litany of effects so that her every breath is like a cloud swaddling Shabaka’s flute.
The mind can’t help but drift off, ensorcelled in the group’s musical spell, the body on the precipice of sleep, of falling onto the shoulder of a nearby patron maybe four inches away. Oops. Later, Shabaka will talk about these flutes (my favorite is no doubt the Bulgarian overtone flute) and why he moved away from the saxophone, so as to remove the “technological” layer of the saxophone and other proper woodwinds, where the intervals are firmly set. With a hand-carved flute, you are just vibrating the air. You move with your creativity and what you can come up with, he explains, rather than hitting these predetermined intervals. Breathe and play with your exhalation and make up some magic. There are no notes up in heaven. A pre-Mayan flute sounds and a woman at our table whooped. “That’s my people,” she whispered, to no one in particular.
It’s dark inside of Roulette and KMRU (Joseph Kamaru) was already seated at his laptop, the lone source of light in the room. My eyes and ears had to do a similar task: stay still until shapes in the darkness reveal themselves. Found a seat once such shadows have settled and clarified, like sand swirling up on the bottom of the ocean. It’s one long, abstract piece, but shapes and elongated sequences slowly emerged from there. Think about distances, what the sky might be like in his native Kenya, where one can look out at a long unbroken horizon and an enormous sky.
Then I think of that imaginary horizon now marred by oil fire smoke: roiling, tumultuous, so black as to rising and occlude once familiar landscapes. Rather than something slowly progressing and evolving, KMRU moves swiftly. Drift and you’re liable to lose him in the roar of sound. Accustomed as I am to his instant classic Peel, everything here comes at my ears, swift and dynamic and unrelenting. It’s a thrilling, physical ride. At an unbearable peak (one of many), KMRU cuts if off, then quickly walks to a corner of the room as the lights flip on. The end was so abrupt as to be startling. It took me awhile to fall all the way back down to earth.