Do It to Me!

Lena!

Horne, Lena 30/6/1917 <O> 9/5/2010 NYC

This fragment was a fifth level mature warrior – 4th life thereat.  Lena was in the power mode with a goal of unmitigated growth.  She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lena’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.

Lena’s casting is in the second position of the second cadence in the seventh greater cadence.  She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate.

Lena’s was a Saturn/Venus body type.

Essence twin for Lena is a warrior and her king task companion did exert some influence.

The three primary needs for Lena were: expression, power and exchange.

There are 10 past-life associations between Lena and Arvin whilst there are 7 past-life associations with Merlin.

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Back in Spring, 1994, I was standing in my West End, Vancouver bedroom getting dressed – after having made dinner for Bower Carlyle-St. Clare and me.  At the time, he was recently full-blown with AIDS but doing well.  As he sat out in the living room in the rocking chair which had been Merlin’s favourite piece of furniture, I was busily getting ready to head off to work on the midnight shift.

Just then Ross Porter, who was gigging on the CBC’s late-night Jazz show, began introducing a recently released album.  I screamed and rushed out to the living room, turned up the sound to full blast and directly stood in the centre of the perfectly placed speakers.

Said Ross Porter, it was a new album by Lena Horne – a cut of which he was nicely setting up.  Since as long as I could remember, this woman’s every performance always made me feel good throughout.  The opening of the song, Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear from Me, began with the bass working its magic.

For the next several minutes, I stood there flying-without-moving.  Admiringly, Bower sat there silently drinking in the visual of me as I stood in black stretch jeans tucked into riding boots and nothing else with hair long and out.

with lids closed, I drank every note of the performance; I was truly besotted.  Then the song got really groovy and at one point, just past the four-minute mark, simultaneous with Lena Horne, I let out the exact same whoop as she did.  Stunned, I placed my hands at my mouth and threw open my eyes.

Bower was convinced that I had heard the recording before.  Soon enough, Lena Horne’s album, We’ll Be Together Again, was blasting my West End apartment on a daily basis.  One day, Bower called up and declared that we were going to New York – he had never been.

To hell with work, he had declared as I tried begging off.  Not having it, Bower shot back that he was taking me to New York City because I knew it and always spoke so fondly of my time there.

Early October rolled around and we held up at the Hotel Chelsea – he had booked the suite as he knew that it was Merlin’s favourite place to stay in New York City.  We went to the show and although, he had been hoping to see Diana Ross – chiefly why he wanted to go to New York City, we ended up having a blast at the performance way up in the balcony.  The next day, I stood around in Times Square and scored us tickets to, Kiss of the Spider Woman, at the Broadhurst Theatre.

A couple of days later and we were returned to Vancouver as giddy as two kids who had just had the wildest adventure.  Sadly, for being full-blown, Bower developed a nagging cough which dragged on for long weeks; nonetheless, it was a magical adventure and I was especially grateful that he had made possible, the trip to see Lena Horne in concert at Carnegie Hall.

As Diana Ross was his favourite performer, every film of hers he had taped.  He understood my love of Lena Horne when finally, he took the time to appreciate her performance in, The Wiz – directed by her partner Sidney Lumet.

Back in 1978, when seeing, The Wiz, on its opening weekend with Owen Hawksmoor – a man of truly equine proportions – This brief appearance and performance by Lena Horne made the film for me; everyone else paled by comparison.

Back in 1969, whilst vacationing in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, one briny Friday evening the 1943 film, Stormy Weather, was on television.  This was my first introduction to Lena Horne.  I was thoroughly captivated by her.

My response to her has always been visceral; she is energising, captivating – her eyes both raptor-like and thoroughly empowering to lock on to.  If there was no essence bond, it is highly improbable that I would have such an intensely visceral response to her.

I then found it hard to sleep that night after the film.  Not surprisingly, in light of our essence bond as entity mates, I did that night dream of her.  Furthermore, I have noticed that the passing of entity and cadre mates leaves me especially splayed – I don’t feel impending doom, I just feel as though a portal has opened up and I could drift off and find myself on the other side… an astral plane habitué.

I think that because of my casting’s cardinality, I tend to act as a beacon – somehow, I tend to sense when cadre mates are on the cusp of departing.  This used to be fairly frightening when younger; now, I have learnt to simply give of self and realise that someone in the fold is moving on.

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Ugly Beauty.

Album:  Underground (1968)

Label:  Columbia

Piano:  Thelonious Monk

Tenor Saxophone:  Charlie Rouse

Bass:  Larry Gales

Drums:  Ben Riley.

 

Because every day is a Thelonious Monk day!

This brings back such sweet lazy memories of raining days – more like four days straight – in November in Vancouver!

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Natalie Cole 6/2/50_31/12/15

Natalie Cole

Natalie-Cole

natalie cole2

natalie cole3

natalie cole4

I am so devastated by this loss that I don’t even have the time to do the usual due diligence of listing credits.

So poised, elegant, admirable, fabulous, fantastic… could scat/vocalese just as stratospherically as Ella Fitzgerald.

From seeing her at Ontario Place’s Amphitheatre in the ’70s, whilst she did her funky soul diva incarnation, to the sheer brilliance of her sophisticated Jazz syncopation, there was no one else who could make me feel more fuck-all fabulous pride and take seriously this joint call being Black.

Natalie got to the very essence of who we, a proud noble people, truly are.  Her album: Take A Look (1993) literally afforded me the grace and dignity to get through the most hellish experience of being in a workplace surrounded by people who haven’t a clue that they are crazy – a people who collectively render us as invisible and who relish at every opportunity the racially predatory thrill of talking about us and openly ridiculing us as though we were a weeble-infested bag of flour in the corner.  These marvellous people for whom the gun is g_d incarnate and for whom it has never once occurred that we possibly could perceive them as crazy – crazy as in having invented something as absurd as Apartheid, crazy in openly gunning us down because well… one can, crazy as in busing, crazy as in building latter day landlocked Mayflowers whose hull hold a cargo that staves off the flowering of the next Coltrane, Tatum, Monk, Ellington et al… crazy as in harvesting a most strange fruit from poplar trees whilst crazily dressed up in the coward’s garb from pointy head to toe, crazy as in then having the fuck-all temerity to squat all over the culture and ape, ape, ape like crazy every thing we do culturally, creatively…. alas, who else but the crazy would openly hate you then turn around and ape everything you do from Jazz, to Hip-Hop, to Rap and all the while, like the truly crazy then somehow think that we never notice that they never ever have personal relations with Blacks… la Krall, Bublé and Eminem to name but a few readily come to mind.

Every day in Vancouver, for having survived and gotten one day closer to triumphantly getting through 24 months of workplace probation, it was to my lovely art-filled West End apartment that I retreated where this lovely beauteous-eyed goddess, Natalie Cole, would greet me with a voice that would truly embalm the soul from the bilious dissonance of the racial predator – those who haven’t a fucking clue that they are crazy…  And how the crazy people love to laugh at everything.

Sweet and blissful dreams dear Natalie, you proud noble griot who came to remind us that we are the most beautiful lotus to have flowered from the hellish swamp known as the semi-feral well-armed racial predator’s paradise.  What a positively rich, layered, textured, august life you accomplished…

A better place this world, a more grounded people we are, for you having chosen to be focussed herein at this time, in this place.

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*As I had always planned on doing Natalie Cole’s Michael Overleaves, they had not been done at the time of her passing and my having penned this impassioned tribute.  A couple of weeks later when her overleaves arrived, it was one of the rare times that on receiving someone’s overleaves that I broke down crying.  I always felt strongly connected to this woman – she was family.  Here then, at this juncture, though they have been added previously and subsequent to this original post – it is now December 2016 as I change the copyright time stamp – are Natalie Cole’s rather august Michael Overleaves.

There are these little things that bind us for being entity and cadre mates… at the end of the video for Route 66 which accompanies this tribute post, Natalie Cole can be heard saying, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”  This is precisely what fellow artisan and entity mate Attila Isaksen and I would repeat to each other as a greeting or when slipping out of inner musings after long pleasurable sexual play…

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Sack O’ Woe.

© 1960 Julian “Cannonball” Adderley – Live performance October 16, 1960 recorded at Lighthouse Club, Hermosa Beach, California.

The Cannonball Adderley Quintet at the Lighthouse

Riverside Records

Alto Saxophone: Cannonball Adderley

Cornet: Nat Adderley

Bass: Sam Jones

Piano: Victor Feldman

Drums: Louis Hayes

This has always been one of my favourite live Jazz recordings.  Back in October 1995, a few days after the verdict in the O. J. Simpson criminal trial, I was walking home after some shopping along the south side of Robson Avenue and back to my West End apartment at 878 Gilford at Haro Streets.

From behind, I heard someone yelling and calling out; the man sounded mad as hell.  Artisan soul to the core, I was lost, deep in thought, of some idea construct or other.

I then felt a hand on my right shoulder that violently turned my body around and, though I dodged quickly enough, I ended up with a fist at the right temple.  I swayed and soon there were other punches as I tried to duck and rush away.  The guy, I recognised straight away; I had met him some weeks earlier.  At the time, he was really keen on letting me know that he was Jewish and had been in Israel.

I hadn’t a clue what he was up to, though on the few occasions that I saw him, he seemed to aimlessly wonder about Stanley Park late at night time while I was off to go get my funk on deep into the woods; he had never once made it to the woods.

Soon enough, there were passersby who formed a loose circle about the spectacle of me being beaten to within a breath of going unconscious.  Not a soul said or did a thing.  No one came to my aid as he violently punched at me while speciously accusing me of theft.

This was the hunt – the racial predator’s favourite sport of socially, aggressively feeding on Blacks which is always enjoyed with the same semi-feral hyena-like laughter and grinning.

From behind, I then heard a violent shout and soon, I heard the familiar voice of a local shopkeeper as he told the boor to get off me.

Grabbing me about the shoulder, his face warped with rage and pain, Bruce Day took me into his tiny little gem of a store, “The Little Hardware Company” which sat just east of Bidwell Street on Robson Street’s south side.  Months later, the store would relocate around the corner onto Bidwell to make way for Robson’s further development.

I was so glad to have escaped the humiliation when retreating into Bruce’s hardware store; I had always slipped inside while waiting for a bus to get to work or just to buy some item or other.  There, too, I had gone when paint-buying to turn my apartment into the right tones of warm colours to best display my fast burgeoning First Nations art collection.

Of course, he was a big strapping man with a more than passing resemblance to the actor, James Spader.  Bruce also had the most beautifully warm smiling eyes.  Casually, Bruce made conversation as though nothing had happened and as soon as the dark warmth of his tiny shop and his cool spirit had embalmed my very soul, I slipped out onto Robson and headed for home.

My busted lip healed soon enough; however, there was ringing in my right ear for long weeks afterwards.

On retiring to my apartment, this was the music that repaired my humanity – Sack O’ Woe.

Jazz is the music that prevents us from waging war with the racial predator who has yet to acknowledge that there is any such thing as the racial predator and that the racial predator is culpable of sweet dick-all when it comes to predatorily fucking with Blacks.

The Simpson trial was not about Nicole Brown Simpson, it was about the murder of Ron Goldman.  To this day, it has never been satisfactorily explored what this man was doing where he was that fateful night.  Either way, I was made to pay for a jury not having returned the verdict that they damn well ought to have.

Alas, music is the most expedient way to transcend the madness that is the racial predator in all his psychotic, violent manifestations.  What pray tell do they know of Jazz when so consumed are they, the racial predatory, with a need to prey on us?

In having enslaved our ancestors and to this day remained hellbent on denying that insult, what more can be expected of the flawed, fractured and compromised collective psyche of the racial predator?  They haven’t  a damn clue how utterly dissembled their humanity remains.

Indeed, Jazz is not yours deems the racial predator.  Jazz is too damn good for the likes of you; so along came a campaign of heroin et al to hunt down this affront to the racial predator’s sense of one’s place in the order of things and sure enough in little less than a century, there he sits smugly copping attitude when speciously declaring, “Jazz has its roots in Klezmer!”

Of course, the fool gave himself away when using the verb ‘root’ which is synonymous with and was coined by the very people who invented Jazz.  Indeed, the very people for whom Jazz is an uneclipsed affirmation of their humanity and untrammelled nobility of spirit.

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© 2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Do nothing ’till you hear from me!

© 1994 Lena Horne music by Duke Ellington & Sidney Russell

The first time I heard this music, I was arrested by the opening chords as I stood still in the middle of my living room on the third/top storey of 878 Gilford Street in Vancouver’s West End.  At the end of Lena Horne’s passionate singing, I screamed and laughed uncontrollably with tears running down my face.

I had been standing half naked before getting ready for work and decided that the experience was too great to do something so ridiculously banal as go in to work that day.  Naturally, I had been standing with tape recorder in hand – after having just recorded the dreams dreamt.  Quickly, I grabbed a new cassette and recorded the newly released song from the CBC FM radio station as Ross Porter had waxed on long enough about the new Lena Horne Jazz recording for me to have pounced into action.

I spent the rest of my stay in Vancouver listening to this recording at least four times weekly.

This is the music that let’s you leap off into truly sublime dream experiences.

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© 2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.