Sun Ra - What Planet Is This? (rec. 1973, rel. 2006)

What Planet Is This? is, for any Sun Ra fan, a most welcome release indeed as the sound quality is (for the most part) first-rate and the maximum-strength Arkestra was well-rehearsed and in top form for this prestigious concert.

Opening with the usual processional/improvisation, the first thing you notice is a full contingent of low brass, including two trombones and tuba (likely played by Charles Stevens, Dick Griffin and Hakim Jami, respectively). Sonny often had to make do without the rich, warm sonorities of the trombone in his working ensembles, but he would usually recruit players for high-profile gigs such as this, re-tooling the arrangements to accommodate an expanded sonic palette. The second thing you notice is the presence of Ronnie Boykins, who brings his sure-footed authority on the double-bass, anchoring the proceedings in his own inimitable fashion. Curiously, Clifford Jarvis is absent, replaced by Lex Humphries on trap drums. While Humphries’s laconic style may lack the fiery, propulsive drive of Jarvis, we are also spared the interminable drum solos that would have inevitably resulted—and that is a good thing, as far as I’m concerned.

Once the twenty-five member Arkestra has assembled on stage (including an array of percussionists and The Space Ethnic Voices), June Tyson solemnly intones “Astro Black,” accompanied by delicate bass thrumming but ending with an explosive, full-band space chord and free-form freak-out. Whew! Then, just as suddenly, the chaos melts into the big-band swing of “Discipline 27,” led by Pat Patrick’s baritone sax riffing. The Arkestra sounds great, with the trombones and tuba prominently featured amidst the reeds and trumpets. But Ra is playing a different kind of organ than usual (or perhaps he’s just poorly miked)—it sounds oddly muffled and distant here. Fortunately, he was provided a decent grand piano and, in the long improvisation which follows, he makes excellent use of it, throwing off astonishingly dexterous runs and thick, dissonant harmonies a la Cecil Taylor. Then he moves to the MiniMoog synthesizer to create pulsating walls of industrial noise against which the horns spatter notes like graffiti. And again, the organ sound is…strange, kind of like “The Mighty Wurlitzer” at a baseball park. Is there a theatre organ at Carnegie Hall? Is that what he’s playing? Who knows! This remarkably compelling improvisation goes on for almost thirty minutes, dominated by the shifting hues of Ra’s keyboards and held together by Boykins’s macroscopic sense of structure and groove (not to mention the thrilling crescendos of tympani). Various solos and ensembles are queued by Ra, giving shape to an improvised construction of remarkable cohesiveness and expressive beauty. Despite the seemingly excessive length, it’s actually over before you know it and the band launches smoothly into “Space Is The Place.” Wow! One of the Space Ethnic Voices (who?) does some of her insane, post-Ono vocal acrobatics before the band eases into lush and dreamy versions of “Enlightenment” and “Love In Outer Space.” These arguably over-played numbers could sometimes sound glib and tossed-off in performance, but here they sound poised and purposeful, aided, in part, by the relaxed drumming of Humphries and the rock-solid bass of Boykins.

But Humphries shows he’s no slouch on “The Shadow World,” kicking up furious polyrhythms in tandem with Aye Aton [Robert Underwood] and a host of burbling congas. Starting from a dead stop, the Arkestra executes the dauntingly difficult composition with startling precision, the hi-fi recording allowing us to hear deep into the densely orchestrated ensemble. The improvisation that follows is another perfect example of Ra’s disciplined freedom at its most cogent—even Gilmore’s unaccompanied solo (often a show-stopping tour de force) is ultimately curtailed and subsumed within the evolving group dynamic, just a part of the intricately woven musical fabric. After about fifteen minutes, the band settles into a quiet, Afro-Asian feel, with Alzo Wright’s cello providing some “Strange Strings”-style bowings and Marshall Allen wailing away on a plangent oboe—both of which elicit surprisingly respectful applause from the audience, given how weird and otherworldly the sounds. It is a magical moment. By this point, the audience has been transported, if not into outer space, then into Sun Ra’s alternative reality, where such sounds are as natural and nutritive as the air we breathe. This is truly an exemplary rendition of “The Shadow World” and needs to be heard to be believed. “Watusa” and “Discipline 27-II” conclude the set in the usual fashion, with a percussion/dance workout and a seventeen-minute sermon of cosmic declamations. Yet the ultra-spacious sound quality and the richly textured Arkestra’s near-definitive performances make them worth listening to—even if, like me, you think you’ve heard these routines too many times already.

(Read the entire review at NuVoid's Sun Ra Sundays)

208. [182b]  Sun Ra and his Space Arkestra

Sun Ra (mini-Moog sin, space org, p, declamation); Akh Tal Ebah [Doug Williams] (tp, flg, voc); Lamont McClamb [Kwami Hadi] (tp, perc); prob. Charles Stephens (tb); prob. Dick Griffin (tb); prob. Hakim Jami (tuba); Marshall Allen (as, fl, ob, perc); Danny Davis (as, fl, perc); Larry Northington (as, cga, perc); John Gilmore (ts, perc); Leroy Taylor [Eloe Omoe] (bcl, perc); Danny Ray Thompson (bars, fl, libf, perc); Pat Patrick (bars, eb); James Jacson (bsn, fl, Inf-d); Alzo Wright (clo, perc); Ronnie Boykins (b); Lex Humphries (d); Robert Underwood [Aye Aton] (d, perc); Harry Richards (perc); Stanley Morgan [Atakatune] (cga); Russell Branch [Odun] (cga); Space Ethnic Voices: June Tyson (voc, dance); Judith Holton (dance, voc); Cheryl Banks (dance, voc); Ruth Wright (dance, voc).

Carnegie Hall, NYC, July 6, 1973, 6pm

untitled improvisation [perc]
Astro Black (Ra) [JT voc]
Discipline 27 (Ra)
untitled improvisation [Boykins, b; Mini-Moog, org; Gilmore, ts; Patrick, bars; Omoe, bcl; Thompson, libf; Allen, as]
Space Is the Place (Ra) [JT, ATE, SEV voc; inc]
Enlightenment (Dotson-Ra) [ens voc]
Love in Outer Space (Ra)
The Shadow World (Ra)
Watusi (Pitts-Sherrill)
Discipline 27-II (Ra) /
What Planet Is This? (Ra) /
I Roam the Cosmos (Ra) /
The Universe Sent Me (Ra) /
My Brother the Sun (Ra) [SR declamation, JT, SEV voc]

A 120-minute mono tape of this concert was made by the Voice of America and never broadcast.  A copy was located at the Library of Congress by Larry Appelbaum.  the performance was part of the Newport in New York Festival; the Arkestra followed Cab Calloway on the bill.  Personnel from the VOA log (also listed on the concert program -- thanks to Allen Welsh for that information).  Some tunes were identified by Pat Padua; more recently, a careful study of the tapes was done by James Wolf.  Wolf says the second untitled improvisation runs 30 minutes and that the solos are linked by an "upward glissando motif" played by the two trombones.  "The Shadow World" runs 20 minutes.

According to James Wolf, the VOA log fails to mention James Jacson, whose bassoon is audible on "The Shadow World," two trombonists (one doubling on bass trombone), a tuba player, and Ronnie Boykins.  Wolf believes that two trap drummers were present.
from Campbell / Trent  The Earthly Recordings 2nd ed.

What Planet is This? (1973)
Sun Ra and his Space Arkestra
Vinyl Lovers (180 gram LP) 900632

1. A1  What Planet is This? Opening Improvisation   5:29
2. A2 Enlightenment   2:23
3. A3 The Shadow World   21.57

4. B1 Astro Black   3:04
5. B2 Discipline 27   25:06
6. C1 Space is the Place   10:23

7. C2 Love in Outer Space   10:27
8. C3 Watusa, Egyptian March   8:58

9. D1 What Planet is This? Ending Improvisation   28:16

-FLAC-

RS

LP 1

LP 2

HF

LP 1

LP 2

or

-320-

RS

HF

What Planet is This? (1973)
Sun Ra and his Space Arkestra
Golden Years of Jazz, 2006, GY 24/25
Leo Records [CD]

1.  Untitled Improvisation   5:31
2.  Astro Black   3:04
3.  Discipline 27   7:30
4.  Untitled Improvisation   28:19
5.  Space Is the Place   10:28
6.  Enlightenment   3:39
7.  Love In Outer Space   10:30
8.  The Shadow World   20:44
9.  Watusa , Egyptian March   8:55
10. Discipline 27-II   17:39

-FLAC-

RS

CD 1

CD 2

HF

CD 1

CD 2

or

-320-

RS

HF

 

Samarai Celestial - Cosmic Gold Millennium (1997)

An intergalactic journey beyond the normal realm of jazz from the drummer of Sun Ra's Intergalactic Arkestra. Take a free-flowing improvisational trip through the cosmos, exploring the limitlessness of traditional, avant, and free jazz, and the universal power of music.

Samarai played drums for the Sun Ra Intergalactic Arkestra steadily from 1979-1985 & again from 1994-1997 when he passed away from a heart problem. On his two albums, the Sun Ra Arkestra’s cosmically gifted jazz drummer invents electro space funk!  Isis Sun is his first solo album & it’s Out, but not like you’re thinkin’.  Long, improvised, jams heavy on rhythm & hypnosis, and the Words of the Universe.  Dedicated to and inspired by his teacher Sun Ra and ancient Egypt, and designed to realign the Cosmos into their proper harmonic & rhythmic cycles, Cosmic Gold Millennium extended the electronic harmonic convergence and added a second disc of straight ahead acoustic jazz. 

It featured: 

Samarai Celestial (Drums), Samarai Celestial (Vocals), Samarai Celestial (Main Performer), Tyrone Hill (Trombone), Rick Iannacone (Guitar), Bobby Zankel (Sax (Alto), Jason Oettel (Bass - Acoustic)

via

Samarai Celestial
Cosmic Gold Millennium (1997)
Carrot Top Records  SAKI014 [CD]

Disc 1: CREATION'S CALL
1.  Creation's Call   13:06
2.  New Formalation   18:24
3.  Celestial Enlightenment   13:58
4.  New Child   14:46
5.  Ra's Shadow   7:44 

Disc 2:  INTERGALACTIC COMPOSITORY OF FUNK
1.  Omni Joyride   4:54
2.  Cosmo 4x4   4:50
3.  Planet Shade   2:00
4.  Sun Valley   1:53
5.  John Gilmore   2:26
6.  Universe in Self   1:47
7.  Angel Speech   1:50
8.  Jah Hoo Doo Man   8:12
9.  Cosmic Gold Millennium   13:16
10. Angelic Space   21:36
11. The Kidd of Jordan   9:05

-FLAC-
Disc 1

RS

HF1 + HF2

Disc 2
RS
HF1 + HF2

-320-
Disc 1

RS

MF

Disc 2
RS
MF

 

Following is an informative 2008 biography from the Knoxville, TN Webzine, Metro Pulse.

At times, he garbed himself in the same outlandish threads and spoke in the same cosmically attuned patois of his mentor, Sun Ra, the great Philadelphia freak-jazz bandleader; at others, he drove patchwork cars and scrimped to pay bills, as humble and down-to-earth as anyone else who played music for a living in relatively conservative Knoxville, Tenn., which he called home for nine of his 43 years on earth.

And he had a temper, too, though it showed infrequently. But when it was aroused, usually by an act of bigotry or racial insensitivity, it could be as ferocious in its intensity as one of his frenetic drum solos.

But most people who knew him hereabouts remember Samarai Celestial, nee Eric Walker, for his great personal warmth and generosity of spirit, as well as for the formidable natural talents that led many to declare the Savannah, Ga.-born drummer as powerful and creative a musician as any they’d encountered. The latter opinion takes on heightened meaning when you consider it has been voiced by several members of Knoxville’s distinguished jazz fraternity, a group that includes the estimable pianist/composer Donald Brown.

Brown has been instrumental in organizing a tribute to Samarai Celestial, to be held Sunday, April 13, as a sort of kickoff to this year’s Knoxville Jazz Festival, which gets into full swing later that week. The tribute show will feature performances by the Bill Scarlett Group, featuring Tom Johnson, Taylor Coker and Darryl Johnson, as well as the Rocky Wynder Group, with Chico Crawford, Keith Brown, and Harold Nagee. Other special guests will include master percussionist James Pippin, and perhaps a guest drum solo by Samarai Celestial’s son, Nija.

“It had been in the back of my mind for a year or so, that we needed to do some kind of tribute to Samarai,” says Brown of his friend and musical collaborator, who died from what was apparently a congenital heart problem in November of 1997. “Rocky and I had talked for a long time about how much we missed him. We thought this might be a good time to have some kind of tribute, remind everyone what a great musician he was, and of the contributions he made to the Knoxville music scene.”

Born in Savannah and self-taught on drums, the young Eric Walker was playing clubs by age 13. Throughout his late teens and early twenties, his was the life of an itinerant musician as he traveled and played in cities throughout the southeast.

He met Sun Ra through a friend during a stint in New Orleans in 1979. Legend has it that the mystically inclined bandleader, shortly after meeting 25-year-old Walker—by then a member of the Nation of Islam, having taken the name Sami—stopped in mid-conversation and declared, “This is my new drummer,” despite never having heard him play.

Su Ra’s influence on the young musician was considerable; he gave him a new name, a new fashion sense, and tamed some of Sami’s youthful rage and anomie with his own philosophy of universal love and spiritual harmony.

“He was like a father to Samarai,” says Pippin, who would later grow close to Samarai during his time in Knoxville, when the two played regular shows with local keyboard whiz Marcus Shirley. “He was a bandleader, a father, and a teacher. You have to remember, too, that it says a great deal that he chose Samarai. He wouldn’t get just anyone to play for him; it takes a unique person to play for Sun Ra.”

As a member of the Sun Ra Intergalactic Cosmo Love Adventure Arkestra, Samarai spent a good deal of his time in Philadelphia, the Arkestra’s home base. There he met pretty Lisa Harvey, a cosmetology student, who would later become his wife, re-christened by her new fiance with the name Saphorai.

Saphorai would later recount that Samarai’s opening line, ventured while the two were standing side by side on the city’s number 13 trolley, was: “The creator sent you here to be my soul mate.”

But between touring and recording with the Arkestra, Samarai continued to wander. He was living in Chattanooga in 1987, playing regularly at a Holiday Inn when Knoxville jazz luminaries like saxophonist Rocky Wynder caught wind of the phenomenally talented drummer living off lounge gigs in the smaller city to the south.

Wynder was playing and booking shows at Annie’s in the Old City, the little jazz club later known as Lucille’s; he arranged for Samarai to sit in with his own combo one evening at Annie’s, and instantly fell in love with the younger man’s playing.

“We’d call different types of rhythms, and he was right there,” says Wynder, now a spry octogenarian. “Fiery! That was it. He was an all-around drummer. He could play any type of rhythm—jazz, meringue, Dixieland. Funk? Rock ’n’ roll? Waltzes? ‘Here I am!’ He was a Drummer.”

Says saxophonist and former University of Tennessee jazz instructor Bill Scarlett, who also played extensively with Samarai during his time in Knoxville: “He was sharp at adapting things he heard, without being taught, probably because he was self-taught as a drummer. He was very creative, excellent at getting into the musical meaning of the piece, playing things that were relevant other than just holding a steady beat. He was not mechanical in that sense, although he certainly had a whole lot of mechanical technique.”

Brown, who came to Knoxville to join the UT jazz faculty in 1989, met Samarai later than most of his colleagues, but would eventually form perhaps the closest bond with the drummer. In addition to playing regular Lucille’s gigs with Brown, Samarai would go on to tour Europe with him, play high-profile shows in New York, and hold down the rhythm on two of Brown’s CDs, including the Grammy-nominated Send One Your Love.

“One thing I loved was that you could hear the history of so many traditions in his playing, the history of R&B, the history of jazz, the history of blues,” Brown says. “But you could also hear the future. And he had this great quality where he wasn’t afraid to try anything, and he would usually make it work. He was one of the most creative musicians I’ve ever had a chance to work with. He was a constant reminder of what life is all about, what music is all about, about being in the moment and not playing it safe.”

But even more than his wondrous playing, his new Knoxville friends loved Samarai for his warm heart and his infectious personality. “Everybody liked Samarai; he was just a happy dude,” says Wynder. “He’d see you around, and it wasn’t none of this little voice, ‘Uh, well, uh, how you doing?’ It was like, ‘Heeeeyyyy, maaaan!’ He always had his arms open for you.”

Many of the obvious trappings of Sun Ra’s influence—the futuristic garments and cosmic hepcat speech—apparently fell by the wayside when Samarai came to Knoxville. Says Pippin, “I imagine that he changed some of that when he came to a place like East Tennessee; he seemed more subtle when I first met him. But Sun Ra was still there. He taught Samarai to be an entertainer, not just a percussionist.”

Even in “subdued” mode, Samarai trafficked freely and gleefully with the city’s jazz musicians, playing regular shows at Lucille’s and the now-defunct Planet Earth, picking up additional party gigs or sideman stints when and wherever he could. By the time he left Knoxville for Savannah in the waning months of his life, Samarai had made countless club appearances in town, recorded and toured with Brown, and put out a couple of his own idiosyncratic local CD releases—Cosmic Gold Millennium and Isis Sun—in between tours with the Arkestra.

Although he played as often as he could find the work, Samarai’s existence in Knoxville was often hand to mouth. “He was one of those people who was so wrapped up in his art that he rarely thought of the details of living, maintaining a car, paying the rent,” Scarlett remembers. “He overlooked that stuff sometimes. He quite often didn’t have a car, so people were always giving him rides to gigs.”

Wynder remembers Samarai having “two or three cars, at different times. But they were all what we used to call struggy buggies, or roustabouts. They’d get you to point B, and then maybe you’d get back to point A. Maybe.

“He had one, it was an Oldsmobile that a fellow was supposed to have put a new engine in. He was riding around one day, and he called me. Said, ‘Hey, I’m stranded out here on Asheville Highway. And it ain’t gas.’ I said, ‘Okay, I’ll come and get you.’ Between all of us, we wouldn’t ever leave him hanging. And his spirit wasn’t ever down.”

But some say Samarai’s last years in Knoxville were troubled. Perhaps it was the dearth of opportunities for a working musician—for though Knoxville had many experienced jazz players, many of them taught or worked other trades to earn the bulk of their living. Or perhaps it was the lack of acceptance for some of his more otherworldly musical ideas; his local CDs, for instance, showcased electronic percussion experiments and bizarro improvisations that he could find few venues for here in town.

Or perhaps it was the small-mindedness he occasionally ran across, bigotries that are unfortunately still a part of life in Knoxville, even in the 21st century. Scarlett remembers a rare incident when Samarai flashed his infamous temper at a local auto shop well-known for high-balling its minority customers.

“He got a bill that was three or four times the estimate,” Scarlett remembers. “So he went back into the showroom and started screaming, ‘Is this how you treat a n-----? Well, I’m a n-----, and I’ll show you how a n----- acts!’ By the time it was over, they took him in the back and cut more than half his bill. It was a sad incident, but it was comical too, the way he went off. The kind of thing where you have to laugh to keep from crying.”

Whatever pressures beset him also led to his divorce from Saphorai—mother of his children Nija and Osha, as well as his stepson, Donald Jaye—though the two remained close until the end of Samarai’s life.

The first sign of Samarai’s failing health came in 1994, a few months after his final split with Saphorai. His former spouse spoke to him on the phone twice that day; she would later recall that he said he felt sick, and a little short of breath when she called that morning. Upon speaking to him later that afternoon, it was evident that he had gone into cardiac arrest, his left shoulder throbbing with pain.

An X-ray taken later at University of Tennessee Hospital revealed the problem; Samarai’s heart was terribly enlarged, swollen such that it extended nearly two-thirds of the way across his chest.

Scarlett remembers that Samarai was supposed to receive federal disability compensation shortly thereafter; but there was a catch. “Like everything with our government bureaucracy, it was taking a while to go through,” Scarlett says. “And in the meantime, he had to eat, and he started playing again, which was against the stipulations of the disability. They caught him, and that prevented him from ever receiving disability.

“It was such a sad thing, terrible. And it was ridiculous. He was a young man, so he could have even received a heart transplant. Except that would have been hundreds of thousands of dollars he didn’t have. ”

What’s more, playing in his trademark physically frenetic style was strictly against doctor’s orders. As Samarai continued to gig to earn a living, his condition only worsened. “I remember talking to him at the end, and he sounded just awful, like he was struggling just to talk,” Scarlett remembers. “It was heartbreaking for me just to speak to him.

In 1996, he moved back to Savannah, to see his beloved father through the final stages of prostate cancer. Even after his father’s death, there was a brief time when Samarai reportedly harbored new hope; he was planning a tour with Donald Brown, some solo dates, and also another jaunt with the Arkestra.

Then he collapsed during a performance at the Savannah Jazz Festival in September of 1997 and spent the next two weeks in the hospital. Upon his release, he cancelled his upcoming appearances, as his physical condition, already poor, had deteriorated into a miserable constancy of nausea and wheezing.

On Sunday, Nov. 28, 1997, Samarai Celestial left this earth.

Donald Brown believes the upcoming tribute is important, in that it will expose younger jazz aficionados in town to one of the most gifted musicians ever to live in this jazz-rich city. “For some of the newer generations that pass through the university, this was a truly creative, outstanding individual that they may never have been aware of.”

More than that, however, he wants to honor the memory of an especially dear companion, a friend, father, and fellow musician the likes of whom most of see perhaps once in our lifetime. “He was at the core such a kind, warm person,” Brown remembers. “He was the kind of person who would give you anything; the kind of person with the qualities I cherish in a fellow human being.”

“At the end of his life, he shouldn’t have been playing, otherwise maybe he’d still be here,” muses Rocky Wynder philosophically. “But what you gonna do? He didn’t let no grass grow on his feet, man. And he was a person who took the bitters with the sweets.

“But out of all his downfalls, he always had that special something. He might not have had a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out, but he was always jolly. He was still Samarai.”

2nd Chance: Sun Ra - God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be (1979)

Saturn 72579, presents Sun Ra in a unique piano trio setting with bassist Hayes Burnett and drummer Samarai Celestial, playing 'Days of Happiness', 'Magic City Blue', 'Tenderness', 'Blythe Spirit Dance' and 'God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be'.  The mood ranges from contemplative to celebratory, and there is throughout the record a marvelous clarity of vision.  The piano style is full of interest throughout.  An excellent LP.

from Another Shade of Blue - Chris Trent

309. [241]  Sun Ra and his Arkestra

God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be

Sun Ra (p.); Hayes Burnett (b); Samarai Celestial [Eric Walker] (d).

Variety Recording Studio, NYC,
July 25, 1979

Days of Happiness (Ra)
Magic City Blue (Ra)
Tenderness (Ra)
Blithe Spirit Dance (Ra)
God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be (Ra)

Saturn LP 72579, God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be, was released in 1979.  It has also appeared under the titles Blithe Spirit Dance, Days of Happiness, and Trio.  Trio was a 1989 reissue with a new cover by the Hinds brothers.  Personnel identified and location verified by Samarai Celestial, who said that this was his first recording with Ra.  Charles Blass believes that overdubbing was used on this recording.

From Campbell / Trent  The Earthly Recordings 2nd ed.

Another absolutely amazing album that begs the question:  Why has this not been reissued?!


Magic City Blue

 God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be (1979)

1.    Days of Happiness    7:25

2.    Magic City Blue    4:45

3.    Tenderness    8:31

4.    Blithe Spirit Dance    10:27

5.    God Is More Than Love Can Ever Be!    6:47

-FLAC-
RS
HF

or

-320-
RS
HF

MANY Thanks to I-), Marc E of Philly, & Zyxirion for your continued contributions, kindness, and support!

Samarai Celestial - Isis Sun (1995)

Samaria Celestial is was the drummer for the SUN RA Intergalactic Cosmo Love Adventure Arkestra.  Isis Sun is his first solo outing and acts as a personal tribute to Sun Ra and his unique collection of musical proteges.  The album was almost completely improvised and utilizes numerous complex rhythm tracks, space synth backwash, his brother's wood flute and Samarai's own unique Intergalactic Space Rap.  The package is completed with stunning artwork with full color tray cards, rainbow spiral galaxies, Egyptian temples, resplendent fractals and even an appearance by Sun Ra himself.

For over thirty years, Sun Ra's Intergalactic Arkestra stretched the creative boundaries of avant-jazz. Sun Ra claimed to be from Saturn, and said that he "arrived" on earth to spread the Creator's greatest gift: music. While his outrageous statements gained him attention, it was his talent as a musician and bandleader that earned him respect. Ra was an amazingly gifted musician, but he also surrounded himself with a like-minded, similarly gifted group of musicians. Samarai Celestial played drums for the Sun Ra Arkestra steadily from 1979-1985, and again from 1994 until he passed away in at age 43 in 1997, after a four-year battle with heart disease. Celestial credits Ra as one of the greatest musical masters ever, and he dedicated his first solo album, Isis Sun (1995), to the memory of his teacher (Ra passed away in 1992, and the Arkestra continues to tour under the direction of Marshall Allen).

Celestial's music is a far-out cosmic exploration, full of polyrhythms, funky beats, and ear-bending sound experiments. In the liner notes to Isis Sun, Celestial wrote that he was trying to "create something different in music that contained Masterful Elements of the past, present, and future to give my Master thanks for the hours of lessons, dedicated purity, and the development of the omniversal spirit of the arts." The result is a mixture of lightning-fast drumming, free improvisation, and synthesized insanity that both honors Ra's legacy of creative musical expression and highlights Celestial's innovative skill.

Musicians:

    Bobby Zankel, Jason Oettel, Rick Iannacone, Samarai Celestial, Tyrone Hill

Sun Ra (Edit Version)

Isis Sun (1995)

Samarai Celestial

1. Sun Ra   14:26
2. Isis Sun   12:26
3. Unifying Rhythm   20:50
4. Nation Time   15:13
5. Sun Ra (Edit Version)   7:47

-FLAC-

RS

HF1 + HF2

or

-320-

RS

HF

Celestial Skinsman

Samarai Celestial was a jazz visionary: flamboyant, inspired, and amazingly gifted. But it was a dedication to his muse that perhaps ended his life too soon.

By Mike Gibson

JANUARY 20, 1998:  It's mid-winter 1989 at the drab, aging University of Tennessee Music Hall when the man once known as Eric Walker completes his boisterous initiation into Knoxville's small but distinguished fraternity of jazz musicians.

The occasion is the black-tie faculty recital of pianist and new UT assistant professor Donald Brown, who has hand-picked a quartet of supporting musicians that includes department head Jerry Coker on tenor saxophone, bass instructor Rusty Holloway on stand-up, and acclaimed New York trumpeter Bill Mobley. But the starched ambiance notwithstanding, the restless drummer with the luminous dark eyes and toothy megawatt smile refuses to go unnoticed.

When Brown signals the onset of the drummer's solo spot, he assails the kit with a lunatic intensity that elicits visible astonishment from the other four musicians. There is no sense of cool jazzbo reserve in the onslaught; after one particularly ferocious roll, he stands and lets out a resounding whoop, then lashes at the cymbals with unhinged glee. Like bewildered weathermen staring at murky radar screens, the other players can only vainly search the charts on their music stands, as if the tiny black dots and gridlines on the stenciled pages will yield some clue as to the length and severity of this sudden percussive hailstorm.

At long last, the drummer stands again and cries out with hoarse ebullience: "I need help now!" Then, as a mischievous grin seeps across his face—a grin that outshines even the drum kit's burnished bronze halo of cymbals—he pauses, looks around knowingly as if to measure the impact of his own spectacle, and settles back into his chair with a playful, rump-wagging shimmy that leaves Holloway nuzzling the thick neck of his stand-up bass in an effort to suppress a giggle.

As Brown leads the ensemble back into the heart of the song, the crowd erupts with unruly cheers, shattering any remaining sense of uncomfortable dignity. It's the kind of effect that Samarai Celestial—cult-jazz luminary, empyrean savant, and celestial skinsman par excellence—will have on many more Knoxville audiences to come.

"I knew at the time that he was capable of some wild showmanship, but that one even caught me off guard," Brown chuckles. "Basically, he was a fool, and I mean that in the best sense. Samarai was just different, like [jazz drummer] Art Blakely, one of the top four or five most amazing people in my life. He was the kind of person where you had to have him in your life some way. You couldn't do without him."

Those recital histrionics, preserved on video in Brown's personal archives, are now freighted with poignancy as well as mirth; on November 28, at age 43, Samarai died in his native Savannah, Ga., having battled painful, crippling heart disease the last four years of his life.

A musician of singular gifts and a human being of enormous warmth and charisma, Samarai came to Knoxville in 1987 after gaining cult renown as the drummer for avant-jazz bandleader Sun Ra. In his nine years here, he continued to tour and record with Ra's amorphous, eclectic Arkestra; gigged, recorded, and traveled with a host of local talents; and recorded a pair of startlingly unconventional solo releases. He returned to Savannah in 1996, his own health declining, to shepherd his father through the last stages of a terminal illness.

Local production guru Seva, a close friend and musical collaborator, calls his story a "classic jazz tragedy," another instance of gentle genius savaged by life's harsh actualities. "His commitment to music was so deep that he accepted financial difficulty and instability throughout his life."

Samarai Celestial was born Eric Walker on Nov. 28, 1954, in Savannah. His parents, Ezekiel and Thelma Walker, both played piano, while his brother, who would later rename himself Sharif Rashied, played trumpet and flute. Although Eric showed considerable rhythmic inclination as a child, his first instrument was Rashied's trumpet, a grade school hand-me-down. He would take up drums in earnest at age 13, however, and within a couple of years he was accomplished enough to play jazz and R&B at Savannah clubs.

At the onset of Eric's senior year, his brother returned from a stint in Vietnam, where a fellow soldier had introduced him to the Nation of Islam. Eric converted as well, changing his name to Sami.

While passing out Islamic newspapers on a street corner one day, the youths were accosted first by a single police officer, then by a full riot squad of cops with guns and batons. A struggle ensued, and though the brothers were unarmed, they would spend eight months in jail without bond in connection with the incident, then serve an additional three months on an aggravated assault conviction.

Embittered, Sami took to the life of a wandering musician upon his release, migrating first to Atlanta, then to South Carolina. By his early 20s, the young nomad had found a temporary home in New Orleans, where he gigged with a blind pianist named Henry Butler as well as Ellis Marsalis, the venerable pianist now better known as the father of horn virtuosos Wynton and Branford.

He was also befriended by prominent New Orleans jazz educator Ed "Kid" Jordan, who had played with the freakishly-garbed space-jazz iconoclast Sun Ra. Born Herman Blount, Ra was a gifted subversive, a keyboardist, composer, arranger, producer, and avant-philosopher of no small talents who in the 1950s assumed the mantle of a Saturn-born soothsayer empowered by omnipotent cosmic forces, a role and an attendant philosophy cobbled together from ancient Egyptian mythology and '50s flying saucer futurism.

Sun Ra was founder and leader of the Arkestra, a Philadelphia-based coalition of musicians who played corrupted big band jazz heavily inflected with its maestro's chimerical notions. Over the course of a 40-some-odd-year career, the Arkestra would eventually circle the globe dozens of times on tour and author more than 400 separate releases, most of them on Ra's own Saturn record label.

On a trip through New Orleans in 1979, Ra told Jordan he was looking for a new drummer. Jordan recommended that he audition a versatile and adept skinsman named Sami, then 25. According to Rashied, Sami met Sun Ra at a club full of talented percussionists eager to make the master's acquaintance. "They met, and then another musician came up and wanted to give him his number," he recalls. "For some strange reason, Sun Ra said, 'No, this is my drummer,' before he had even heard him play."

That day, Sami accepted an invitation to join the Sun Ra Intergalactic Cosmo Love Adventure Arkestra. Within the week, he obtained a passport and left with the Arkestra for a three-month tour of Europe.

It was under Sun Ra's tutelage that Sami brought to fruition the musical and spiritual outlooks he would harbor for the rest of his life. Tyrone Hill, a trombonist who joined the Arkestra only a couple of years prior, remembers that master and pupil bonded quickly, as Sami readily took to Ra's more abstract, inclusive musical/spiritual approach.

"Most of the musicians that have come through the Arkestra didn't fully understand the concept of what [Sun Ra] was doing," says Hill. "It was like, 'This guy is talking about outer space. What does this have to do with music?' But it was very special and magical for [Sami]. He and Sun Ra had the same ideas and musical concepts, the idea of music as a healing force in the universe, as a way to change the condition of the world."

Sami began reading books on Egyptology at Sun Ra's behest and adopted the kind of elaborate, spacey trappings—sequined jackets, colorful capes, garishly ornate hats—that characterized Ra's daily attire. He also adapted Ra's fanciful, cosmic-hippie mode of speech—using "greetings" as a salutation instead of "hello" (because it contains the word "hell"), "space" instead of "goodbye," and contriving his own vocabulary of otherworldly utterances when standard English seemed somehow less than adequate, words like "cosmotery" and "omniversal" and "everlutionary."

As a sign his of fondness for Sami, the bandleader gave him the name 'Ra'—an Egyptian word for god—as well as the surname Celestial. The first two parts of his moniker were soon fused, yielding 'Samarai.'

It was at the end of a Sun Ra tour in 1985, with the Arkestra on hiatus, that Samarai met Lisa Harvey, a pretty, delicate-featured 21-year-old cosmetology student at Philadelphia's Wilford Academy. Their paths crossed on the 13th day of June on the city's number 13 trolley, a numerical concurrence Harvey, now known simply as Saphorai, attributes to fate rather than happenstance.

The two spoke briefly when she asked him the time. By another stroke of fate, she says, they disembarked at the same stop, as her apartment was directly across the street from his rehearsal space. "Then he looked at me and said, 'The creator sent you here to be my soulmate.'" she relates. "I thought to myself, 'What a line!' All I could do was look at him and say, 'Oh, really?'"

They exchanged phone numbers, and Samarai called her the next morning. Harvey was captivated, and the two talked for more than an hour, discussing outre jazz, alternative spiritualism, and fate.

They made a dinner date, and from that first evening together, Saphorai says the two became an "inseparable unit."

Just as Sun Ra had done for him, he bequeathed her the surname 'Ra,' which he would combine with "Sapphire," a stage name she had used since 1980 when she began singing at local nightclubs. The resulting amalgamation, Saphorai, means "gem of god."

Though he remained a member of the Arkestra, the ever-wandering Samarai's side projects would take the two first back to Atlanta, then to Chattanooga, where they married. Samarai was an adoring partner, she says, and also an incurable flirt. Occasionally strapped for cash, the couple worked briefly at an Atlanta hotel banquet room. During breaks, she remembers that Samarai would steal mints from a dish at the front counter and head to the lobby or elevator, where he would give every woman he saw an ingratiating smile and a candy.

"He always wanted to reach out to people," says Saphorai. "And he was a deeper lover for it. He treated me like a queen."

Saphorai entered the relationship with a child from a failed early marriage. A slender, hard-muscled wide receiver on the Karns High football team, 15-year-old Donald Jaye Jarmon now refers to his late stepfather as simply "my dad," a role Saphorai says Samarai happily assumed within the first year of their courtship, and continued to play even after their divorce in 1993.

In Chattanooga, however, Samarai told her he wanted more children. Saphorai conceived and bore their son, Nija, in 1987, and their daughter, Osha, two years later. Today, 10-year-old Nija is a sensitive slip of a lad, Osha a knowing cherub. Both are quiet, precocious, less aggressively social than their gregarious sire, but unmistakably possessed of his huge, saucer-like eyes.

As a father, Samarai was doting and endlessly playful. Saphorai recounts that he would often frolic with the kids for hours at a time, Osha wrapped around his neck and Nija curled up in an arm, with Samarai on all fours in classic "horsey" fashion.

Nija, who already shows flashes of his father's talent, remembers learning drumming rudiments from his dad, who labeled the inner portion of the drum head "momma," the outer portion "daddy." The correlations allowed Nija to play rolls that worked across the entire drum, following the cadence of Samarai's voice at ever-increasing tempos.

It was in part Samarai's concern for where the couple would raise their kids that led them to Knoxville. His Chattanooga projects had grown fewer and farther between, and a friend with Knoxville connections suggested he contact Al George, a local saxophone player who needed a drummer for his dinner gigs on the old River Queen riverboat.

For two months, Samarai commuted between cities every week, at last deciding that Knoxville would be a good place for the boys to grow up. The couple moved in October of '87, and Samarai was soon playing and fraternizing with most of the city's prominent jazz artists; saxophonists Coker, Wynder, and Bill Scarlett, singers Yvonne Milton (George's niece) and Nancy Brennan Strange, pianists Brown and Shirley, percussionist James Pippen.

This free-wheeling, cosmic hepcat would make a lasting impression on his new Knoxville friends; most have vivid memories of their earliest encounters with him. At one of Brown's first shows with Samarai, the drummer developed an abiding fondness for the buffalo wings on the buffet table and, with Brown watching, began shoveling chicken into the pockets of his suit.

"It was like, 'These are good. I gotta take some home,'" Brown says with a husky laugh. "He may have wrapped them in a napkin or something, but I know he was getting grease all in the pockets. I thought, 'Man, this cat is different.'"

Strange met Samarai on Earth Day, seven years ago, at Club LeConte, and was instantly struck by every facet of his being—his colorful, occasionally spicy language, his outlandish (yet somehow impeccable) thrift-store wardrobe, his incessant good humor and spill-over smile. "I knew right away I'd met a real character," Strange says with a giggle. "We ended up playing together that night, some jazz standards, and he made the drums sing. We did 'Ain't Misbehavin',' and it was as if the drums were reciting the syllables."

"His laughter was the thing that hit me first," remembers Milton. "He was very passionate, a master of the conversational art, and he had the most distinct laugh. It always broke out into this incredible energy. It was a knowing laugh, like he had the inside track, a rooster-in-the-henhouse kind of thing. It made you think he had it going on."

Samarai's playing was every bit as memorable as his persona. Under Sun Ra's guidance, he had developed an unusual and complex polyrhythmic approach, a precision whirlwind of a style that enabled him to provide broad rhythmic support for the Arkestra's chaotic ensemble forays; he would at times mark three separate beats between two hands and a set of foot pedals. And though he was capable of tasteful, restrained playing, brazen virtuosity and bust-out showmanship were always his forte.

"You know how if you're sitting outside at Lucille's and hear the train coming through on the Old City tracks?" one local jazz fan posits. "Samarai was like that train coming through. There was so much exuberance in his playing. He was like a demon."

Samarai's prowess ensured that he had regular gigs throughout most of his stay in Knoxville; he played every week at Lucille's in the Old City for more than five years and, at different times, claimed a regular spot at a handful of now-defunct clubs, including Planet Earth, Bullfrog's, and Ella Guru's downtown and D.J. Sharp's in West Knoxville.

He also traveled and recorded intermittently with several local and regional collaborators, including Brown, who used Samarai as his drummer on the Grammy-nominated album Send One Your Love (the second Grammy nominee Samarai would play on) as well as his 1990 release People Music.

Brown admits playing with Samarai could be problematic. He was chronically late, even to his own gigs. He was often out-of-pocket, in need of a ride or a small loan. And he enjoyed the occasional marijuana cigarette, a vice that Brown remembers wrought havoc with his playing on the second night of a 1990 European stand. "I told him, 'Man, don't you ever do that shit to me again,'" Brown says.

"I was pissed," he laughs. "But that's Samarai. And no matter what he did, there was always this love there. It was like a marriage, except he had the upper hand because he knew what he could get away with because he knew how much I dug him."

But Samarai would ultimately become dissatisfied with his lot in Knoxville; the city only had so many nightspots conversant in jazz, many of them failing and few of them willing to grant him free reign with the keening cosmic-tribal improvisations that characterized his solo material. Saphorai says his artistic frustrations began exacting a toll on the marriage; he was drinking more often and more abundantly, spending less time at home, and the couple began to argue with increasing frequency.

"He wasn't getting enough rest or eating like he normally had done," she recalls. "He was trying to work double-time, wherever he could find gigs, and before you knew it he was out of town again. I pled with him to slow down and let up a little, but that was only like an insult to him."

The couple separated in 1992, although the holding pattern of break-up-and-reconciliation lasted for more than a year before their divorce in 1993. "We never stopped loving each other," she says. "He was always my soulmate. But we realized that it would be best we not live together at that point. We had different ideas of what life should be like at that stage."

A few months after the couple's final split. Saphorai was working for a local insurance agent, sitting at her desk during a break, when she felt a strange compunction to give her former spouse a call. She remembers that his resonant voice was unusually low, unnervingly subdued as it came through the phone receiver. He was feeling sick and short of breath, he told her, but felt he would improve given a few hours rest and a pot of herbal tea.

When she called later that day, he sounded worse than before, weaker, his voice quavering. His left shoulder was throbbing with pain. A former pre-med student, Saphorai recognized the ugly harbingers of cardiac arrest. When she arrived at his apartment minutes later, his complexion was the color of ash.

"I rushed him to UT hospital," she says. "The whole time he was holding my hand and saying, 'Why is this happening to me?' When we got to the emergency room, he barely even went through triage. They immediately took him back into the treatment room and started shocking his heart back into a normal rhythm."

Samarai spent the evening in the hospital's critical care unit with most of the staff worried he wouldn't see the light of the following day. When his condition finally showed signs of improvement, one of the doctors pulled Saphorai aside and showed her something that redoubled her horror.

"I go into a room and look at this x-ray of his heart, and it extends two-thirds of the way across his chest," she says. "Basically, they told me there were two ways he could have developed that—through heredity or through drinking and abusing his body."

One of the physicians advised Samarai not to play drums for at least two years, but the counsel fell on deaf ears. Samarai was a drummer, after all; music was all he really knew. And he felt he had a message to impart, a message which Saphorai says he now sought to bring forth with a near-obsessive fervor. "He rarely did straight-up gigs anymore," Saphorai says. "He went full speed ahead with his music, working with Seva and other people who are into alternative musical realms."

With Seva's technical and production assistance, Samarai recorded two CDs for the Carrot Top independent label. Isis Sun, from 1995, is a dense, sometimes mystifying piece of electro-tribal art percussion—intricate, interlocking synthesized rhythms laced on some tracks with Samarai's shamanistic whoops and incantations.

Cosmic Gold Millennium, a two-disc set released just before his death, is more accessible, with its first side capturing some stellar bop-on-Benzedrine acoustic jazz workouts featuring Samarai and a handful of like-minded players, including the Arkestra's Hill. The second disc showcases more electronic shenanigans, with its atavistic beat collages providing a bed for spacey synthesizer noodling. According to Seva, at least two more Samarai solo records will be released posthumously, in addition to any number of projects with other musicians, including Hill and bandleader Herman Green.

Although Samarai worked and collaborated tirelessly—perhaps driven by a sense that his days on earth were numbered—the cracks in his declining health were beginning to show. Friends say he would often stop in the middle of a session or a set, visibly drained, and leave the room to catch his breath and cool down. Seva would at one point discover that he had been sleeping in a chair since early '97; when he lay prone, his swollen heart exerted suffocating pressure on his lungs and ribcage.

"I think the first incident with his heart really changed him," Brown suggests. "That's when I noticed a real change in his spirit, his demeanor. I felt he was never quite the same person; he was more tentative and cautious about how he carried himself."

In 1996, Samarai moved back to Savannah to be with his father, who was battling prostate cancer. Already ravaged physically by his own illness and emotionally by artistic frustrations and the break-up of his family, Saphorai says he was deeply affected by Ezekiel Walker's condition. "His father was the sweetest man, and Samarai always called him 'my guardian angel,'" says Saphorai. "He was the one person in his immediate family that had accepted his art when he first chose the society of musicians."

Ezekiel died in spring of '97. Samarai continued to live with his mother, playing sporadically in town. For a brief time that summer, he seemed to nurture new hope that his condition would improve; he was planning fall dates with Brown, some solo gigs, and a tour with the Arkestra, which survived as a unit despite Sun Ra's death in 1993.

Then, in September, at the Savannah Jazz Festival in the city civic center's Johnny Mercer Theater, Samarai began acting strangely during a set with a small sax and organ combo. Standing in the wings of the stage, Rashied remembers that his brother rose suddenly, as he would often do during his more unfettered performances. But this time, the gesture was not one of extemporaneous musical celebration.

"He reached back to loosen his clothes while doing a one-handed roll, and I knew something was wrong," says Rashied. "Then he threw down the drumsticks and ran off the stage toward me, his face pale, and I knew something was very, very wrong."

Samarai was rushed to the hospital where he would stay for two weeks. Upon his release, he canceled his solo dates, the tours with Brown and the Arkestra, and Rashied says his condition degenerated into a miserable constancy of sleeplessness, nausea, and wheezing.

On Sunday, November 14, Saphorai had an experience that defies rational explanation. She hadn't seen Samarai since summer, and she says she hadn't dreamt of him in years. But as she slept this night, she saw herself in the alleyway behind the Tennessee Theater, moving speakers and music equipment when Samarai, dressed in a black turtleneck and red jacket, walked through the alley and stumbled...

"I call to him and run over to help him sit down," she says. "His hands are so small, like he's lost so much weight, like he's beginning to wither. He looks up at me and says, 'Saphorai it's my time.' I said 'I'm speechless,' and I embrace him, and he embraces me, and I'm just pouring out tears. I told him I never stopped loving him, and he told me he never stopped loving me."

Disturbed, she awoke the next morning and called her ex-husband in Savannah. In his cheerul greeting, he sounded much like his old, high-spirited self, and responded whimsically when she described her dream. But Samarai, who had often spoken of astral travel, was evasive when she asked him to speculate on the nature of her vision.

"At last, he says, 'I was there with you last night.' I'm thinking, 'Oh yeah, right! This is bullshit!'" Saphorai says, blushing at her own unintended candor. "But the one thing I had left out in my description was what he had on. I asked him and he said, 'I had on a black turtleneck and a red jacket.' My mind was blown. I knew at that moment that had come to my dream to hug me goodbye."

Exactly two weeks from the evening of Saphorai's dream, Samarai Celestial left the planet.

Today, when friends speak of Samarai's passing, it's with a sense of profound organic loss, as if some immutable, elemental force had suddenly and inexplicably disappeared. Brown still searches, without thinking, for traces of his departed friend in the shadowy interior recesses of Old City nightspots, in dank downtown alleys where weary musicians load drum cases and worn speakers into dilapidated vans. "I'll see a car and think it looks like his last car, or I think about a gig coming up and say, 'I should use Samarai.'"

In some sense, he's still here, in the more than 100 Sun Ra releases he graced in his tenure with the Arkestra, in dozens of corollary releases authored with other kindred artists, and in the countless hours of personal archival tape, much of it unlabeled, Seva and Rashied hope to one day chart and preserve for posterity.

But some believe it was never Samarai's intention to remain bound for too long by the inflexible caveats of the material realm. "I know he didn't want to stay on this earth," says son Nija. "I think he's happy his body is gone. He knew there were higher places and he wanted to get those higher places."

Hill remembers that in the waning months of his life, Samarai made one last sojourn to visit Sun Ra's grave in Philadelphia, maybe a final act of preparation for the passage to come. Today, Hill believes maestro and pupil have reunited, in a place where celestial prophets and space jazz pioneers never struggle or grieve. "And I am sure," he adds knowingly, "that they are rehearsing." 

via

2nd Chance: Sun Ra - A Fireside Chat with Lucifer (1983)

Many thanks to our friend, Paul W. for the flac rip of his treasured LP.  Enjoy!
(ReUpped & RePosted by ReQuest)

375. [280]  Sun Ra and his Outer Space Arkestra

A Fireside Chat with Lucifer /
Celestial Love /
Nuclear War

Sun Ra (voc -1; p, syn, org); Walter Miller (tp); Tyrone Hill (voc -1; tb); Vincent Chancey (Fr hn); Marshall Allen (as, fl); John Gilmore (ts); Danny Ray Thompson (bars, fl); James Jacson (bsn, Inf-d); Hayes Burnett (b); Samarai Celestial (d); Atakatune (cga, perc); June Tyson (voc -1, -2).

Variety Recording Studios, NYC,
September 1982

Nuclear War (Ra) -1
Retrospect (Ra)
Makeup (Ra)
A Fireside Chat with Lucifer (Ra)
Celestial Love (Ra)
Sometimes I'm Happy (Caesar-Youmans) -2
Interstellarism
[Interstellar Low Ways] (Ra)
Blue Intensity (Ra)
Sophisticated Lady (Ellington)
Nameless One #2 (Ra)
Nameless One #3 (Ra)
Smile (Chaplin) -2
Drop Me Off in Harlem (Ellington)

Saturn Gemini 19841, also numbered Saturn A/B1984SG-9, was released in 1983 with the title A Fireside Chat with Lucifer.  The matrix numbers for this LP were Sun Ra 1984A and 1984B.  Saturn Gemini 19842, also numbered Saturn C/D1984SG-9, was released in 1983 with the title Celestial Love -- matrix numbers Sun Ra 1984C and 1984D.  Y RA 1 was a 12-inch 33-rpm single, issued in Britain in 1982.  Y RA 2 was slated for release in Britain under the title Rays from the Outer Tomorrow; it never appeared, but an Italian LP Y RA 2 was released in 1984 under the title Nuclear War.  All tracks from this LP also on the Greek release Music Box SMB 40242 [LP and cass].

Personnel were not credited on any of these releases, except for vocals by "Mr Re" and June Tyson on the single.  Vincent Chancey identified himself, Miller, Gilmore, Allen, Jacson, and Thompson in an interview on the WKCR Sun Ra Festival.  Sun Ra mentions Tyrone Hill by name on "Nuclear War."  Michael Shore says that Burnett, Samarai, and Atakatune were regulars with the Arkestra in 1982; Samarai confirms his presence.

from Campbell / Trent  The Earthly Recordings 2nd ed.

A Fireside Chat with Lucifer

1. Nuclear war    7:46 

2. Retrospect    5:44 

3. Makeup    4:58 

4. A fireside chat with Lucifer    20:24

-FLAC-
 RS
FF
HF

 or

-320k-
RS
FF
HF 

2nd Chance: John Cage Meets Sun Ra (1987)

This has proven to be one of the most popular offerings here and although no one has requested a re-up, I have noticed that the original post still receives a large number of visits.  Because the MU links are now lo-o-o-ong gone, I can only assume that people are leaving disappointed; I believe it's time to rectify.

MANY Thanks to Vinylust for sharing his vinyl rip in FLAC with us!

496. [344] Sun Ra and John Cage

Sun Ra (Yamaha DX-7 syn); John Cage (voc); Marshall Allen (as -2); June Tyson (voc -2); Pharaoh Abdullah [Thomas Thaddeus] (dance, incense, procession -1).

Sideshows by the Sea, Coney Island,
Brooklyn, NY, June 8, 1986

John Cage Meets Sun Ra (Cage-Ra)
John Cage Meets Sun Ra (Cage-Ra) (cont.)
untitled -1
untitled -2

Meltdown MPA-1, John Cage Meets Sun Ra, was an LP released in 1987.  According to Warren Smith of Variety Recording Studios, who did the pressing, some copies were delivered to Sun Ra without labels and may have circulated with Saturn labels.  A 10th-anniversary limited-edition CD was scheduled for release in January 1997, but it never materialized.

On the released portions of the performance, Ra and Cage perform alternately, except during a stretch of Side B.  According to Bill Andrejko, other portions of the concert, which included Pharaoh Abdullah (procession, dance) were recorded but not released; Rick Russo confirms that some material from the concert, including contributions by Marshall Allen and June Tyson, was not included on the LP.  Sideshows by the Sea was the last surviving freak show along the Coney Island boardwalk.  Ra and Cage's appearance was duly announced by the barker outside; a pizza party followed the performance.  Information from the liner notes, Bill Andrejko, Dan Sullivan, and Rick Russo.  According to Richard Ehrman, there is a 90-minute audience tape of the complete concert.

John Corbett has stated (in the preface to a Sun Ra interview) that Ra and Cage read poetry together in January 1985, but Russo states that Ra and Cage met each other on June 6, 1986, and that the June 8 performance was the only time they appeared together.

Assuming Corbett is referring to events in June 1986 and not January 1985 in his preface to a Sun Ra interview that originally appeared in Butt Rag, the Arkestra played Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel in Providence, RI, on June 9.

from Campbell / Trent  The Earthly Recordings 2nd ed.

 

John Cage Meets Sun Ra 
Meltdown LP  MPA-1
 

Side A - 21:14

Side B - 21:26

-FLAC-
RS
HF

or

-320-
RS
HF

Those interested in John Cage can go here to watch the 1966 movie SOUND - a 24 minute (not 4'33")avant garde minimalist jazz music performance noise experimental film featuring Cage and Sun Ra's parallel galaxy celestial brother, Roland Kirk.

2nd Chance: Ronnie Boykins - The Will Come, Is Now (1976)

Ronnie Boykins was one of the first members of Sun Ra’s fledgling Arkestra, joining the band in early 1958 and his innovative yet rock-solid bass playing was a key element in the music’s rapid development up through the mid-1960s (it was also Boykins’s car that carried the band from Chicago to Montreal in 1961 and, thence, to New York City). Boykins had been classmates with John Gilmore and Pat Patrick at Du Sable High School (where he played sousaphone in the band) but he had already established himself as an in-demand bassist prior to joining the Arkestra, having played with such diverse figures as Muddy Waters, Johnny Griffin and Jimmy Witherspoon. In 1966, Boykins left the Arkestra to pursue other opportunities, (notably including work with Rahsaan Roland Kirk) and, as we’ve seen, Sonny had a hard time finding his replacement, opting on many occasions for doing without the bass altogether. Boykins intermittently performed with Arkestra thereafter with his last known appearance being at Hunter College on June 16, 1974 (portions of which were released as Out Beyond The Kingdom Of ). While Prof. Campbell suggests he might been a part of the two-week stand at The “New” Five Spot in June, 1975, he is not present on the bootleg tape which circulates (Campbell & Trent p.220). According to Szwed, growing animosity between Boykins and Ra over money and lack of composer credit for some of the Arkestra’s recordings caused him to quit the band for good sometime during this period (Szwed p.119).
Continue reading at NuVoid's Sun Ra Sundays


Listening to The Will Come, Is Now on my iPod as I type; I can't help but revisit this ESP-Disk' release at least once a month.  Ronnie Boykins' first and only release as a leader has so much replay value and it it leaves me wanting more and more. A bassist that is as versatile to play along with Muddy Waters, Marion Brown, Steve Lacy, Bill Dixon, Sam Rivers, Mary Lou Williams. Rashaan Roland Kirk, at many others, Boykins is mostly famous for his time with the Arkestra. Where we can hear Boykins providing the bass lines for some of the most pivotal Sun Ra LPs.

In an era when Jazz was becoming more and more fusion as well as electric, Boykins rejected the norm and recorded this earthy, acoustic session in 1974. It's very rhythmic, with bass licks that draw from eastern music and polyrhythmic influences from African drumming. Yet his beautiful arco playing on the upright amalgamates classical western sounds with eastern and African influences.

The opening title track exemplifies everything I described in the prior paragraph. However we then make a left turn with the following cut, "Starlight at the Wonder Inn." A buoyant ballad pulling from traditional jazz melodies that even a composer like Strayhorn would write. Although Boykins' technique allows it to be off teetered enough to comprise of its own aesthetic. Fitting perfectly with the rest of the album.

"Demon Dance" is the most Post-Bop in nature, but once the theme is played the whole ensemble wails together as if they were a New Orleans band from the earlier part of the century. It's swinging while offering a change of pace just as the album starts to really grip hold of you.

(continue reading)
by Matthew Ditullo at This Shape of Jazz

Capricorn Moon

Thanks to Rev.b for this great track of Ronnie playing with Marion Brown!

Ronnie Boykins is probably best known for being a member of the Sun Ra Arkestra. During that time, the Arkestra made some of its best recordings and Boykins was an integral part of the equation. He integrated his relationship with Sun Ra to gear the forward movement of the music. In his individual contributions on the bass he gave the instrument an underlying voice in developing the thematic concept through his choice of notes, the use of arco and his chord patterns.

Boykins' ability saw him called up by Marion Brown, Bill Barron, Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Steve Lacy in a long list of collaborations. Challenging music was not his only forté, he moved from free invention into the mainstream with Mary Lou Williams and played the blues with Muddy Waters. Boykins went on to lead the Free Jazz Society and then went into the Melodic Art-Tet. In spite of all his accomplishments, Boykins was modest. When Bernard Stollman asked him to record for ESP in 1964, Boykins said that he was not ready. Eleven years later in 1975, he was.

Boykins' music is the confluence of several streams. He places as much emphasis on composition as he does on improvisation, with the title track profiling the two. Boykins sets up the groove for the Middle Eastern melody, the antithesis for horns which blow asymmetrical lines. It's a constantly shifting vortex, with Joe Ferguson indulging in the melody before the other horns come in to dissect it. The final shift comes from Boykins, whose bow arcs both melody and dissonance while the percussion dances niftily below.

"Demon's Dance" is a wild swinging tune with a generous dollop of New Orleans rhythm, quite mainstream and a delicious romp. Boykins gift for melody is apparent on all the tracks. "The Third I" loosens that grip for an open invitation to percussion and congas. The insistent rhythm is scarped by the bassist, whose arching lines cut deep into the pith. The flute flutters in but the resolution is completed by Boykins, who bares the melody and then wraps it up with the rest of his band.

Boykins made just one record as leader, but it marks his place as an adventurous bassist and a composer with a gift for style and genre. 

All About Jazz review By Jerry D'Souza

The Will Come, Is Now
ESP-Disk CD
ESP 3026 (LP rel. 1976) (CD reiss. 2009)

1. The Will Come, Is Now   12:33
2. Starlight At The Wonder Inn   7:33
3. Demon's Dance   3:21
4. Dawn Is Evening, Afternoon   6:19
5. Tipping On Heels   4:50
6. The Third I   12:26

Personnel: Ronnie Boykins (sousaphone, bass instrument); Joe Ferguson , Jimmy Vass (flute, saxophone); Monty Waters (saxophone); Daoud Haroom (trombone); George Avaloz (congas); Art Lewis (percussion).

-FLAC-
RS
HF

or

-320-
RS
MF