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"title": "Live from Death Row, Keith LaMar Performs Freedom Songs in SF",
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"content": "\u003cp>When Jay Bordeleau booked Freedom First, a singular collaboration between pianist Albert Marquès and spoken word artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.keithlamar.org/\">Keith LaMar\u003c/a>, the \u003ca href=\"https://mrtipplessf.com/calendar/albert-marques-and-keith-lamar-freedom-first/\">Oct. 3-4 engagement\u003c/a> was marked by an urgency unlike any other at his jazz club, Mr. Tipple’s — or any other venue in the city for that matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After 29 years on death row, LaMar was scheduled for execution at Ohio State Penitentiary on Nov. 16, 2023 for what he’s always insisted was a wrongful conviction. In recent years, Marquès and a dedicated cadre of jazz musicians have championed his cause through international performances and the 2022 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://sayitloudrecords.bandcamp.com/album/freedom-first\">Freedom First\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, where LaMar skillfully recites his work via telephone from prison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with ongoing efforts to secure a new trial, the attention from Freedom First may have helped induce Ohio Governor Mike DeWine to issue a \u003ca href=\"https://governor.ohio.gov/media/news-and-media/governor-dewine-issues-reprieve\">four-year reprieve for LaMar\u003c/a>, though the stated cause was “ongoing problems involving the willingness of pharmaceutical suppliers to provide drugs to the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The governor’s July decree moved his execution date to Jan. 13, 2027, “a mixed bag,” says LaMar in a recent phone conversation. “More time means more opportunity to right the wrong. But it also means more time. It’s bittersweet. I’m trying to hold on.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZiCHpQpaxs\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>LaMar was serving 15 years to life at the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility for a 1989 murder when riots broke out in April 1993. At the end of the 11-day standoff, nine inmates and a prison guard were dead, and in 1995 LaMar was convicted for murdering five prisoners. He’s steadfastly maintained his innocence, and it was only in the aftermath of George Floyd’s death in 2020 that Marquès came into the picture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born and raised in an industrial town outside of Barcelona, Marquès has long drawn inspiration from Catalonia’s heritage of radical politics. He and his wife, sculptor Mia Pearlman, happened to live in the same Brooklyn building as Brian Jackson, the keyboardist and composer best known for his prolific creative partnership with the late Gil Scott-Heron.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Black Lives Matter demonstrations swept the nation, “we had lots of conversations around the George Floyd protests,” Marquès recalls. “The question kept coming up, ‘Why don’t we do something before the government kills [people]?’ Brian’s wife had read Keith’s book and that made connections. Keith loves jazz and John Coltrane, and he knows so much about it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8b3ZMwA9Qc\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Talking to LaMar is a bracing experience. People often describe music as a lifeline, but in his case it provides a soul-bearing creative outlet, essential emotional sustenance and a direct connection to fellow jazz devotees. He grew up in Cleveland surrounded by sacred and secular Black popular music, and didn’t really discover jazz until he was years into his sentence. On death row, he immersed himself in the music of Thelonious Monk, Nat “King” Cole and, particularly, John Coltrane, “all these people who created this canon of creativity,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I started reading history books, learning and growing. My loyalty to this art form grew along with my knowledge of this art form. It’s an integral part of my life. I start listening when I wake up and throughout the day it helps me stay focused.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2002727958/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s all too aware of the tension between his incarceration and jazz’s liberatory impulse, though he echoes the epiphany of Albert Camus’ Meursault in \u003cem>The Stranger\u003c/em> in describing his mindset. LaMar celebrates the music as a vehicle for freedom, but it’s the embrace of a man who has liberated himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m already free,” he says. “I just happen to be in this place, death row. But we’re all leaving this planet. What are you going to do between now and then?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935221\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1663px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935221\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"A musician visiting from the outside and an incarcerated poet hug inside a prison.\" width=\"1663\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-scaled.jpeg 1663w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-800x1232.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-1020x1570.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-160x246.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-768x1182.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-998x1536.jpeg 998w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-1330x2048.jpeg 1330w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1663px) 100vw, 1663px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Pianist Albert Marquès and poet Keith LaMar in 2022. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Albert Marquès)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For the Oct. 3-4 performances at Mr. Tipple’s, which are fundraisers for the legal campaign to overturn his sentence, LaMar will be reciting pieces from \u003cem>Freedom First\u003c/em> via phone from death row as Marquès leads a quartet featuring bassist Joshua Thurston-Milgrom, drummer Zack O’Farrill and tenor saxophonist Kazemde George.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>O’Farrill, the third generation of an illustrious jazz clan, and the Berkeley-reared George have been working with Marquès since he first assembled some 30 musicians for performance protests in 2020. Since then, more than 70 musicians have participated in the project, including Berkeley-raised pianist-composer Samora Pinderhughes, who conducted a public conversation with LaMar last year as part of \u003ca href=\"https://ybca.org/event/transformation-music-and-healing-with-keith-lamar-and-samora-pinderhughes/\">\u003cem>The Healing Project\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, an extensive installation at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. [aside postid='arts_13911226']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For George, who returns to the Bay Area to perform at the \u003ca href=\"https://blackcatsf.turntabletickets.com/shows/1487/?date=2023-11-24\">Black Cat Nov. 24-26\u003c/a> with vocalist Sami Stevens, the attraction to playing in Freedom First is both political and aesthetic. “First of all, we’re playing really good music, Albert’s originals, gospel and John Coltrane, all stuff I’m really into interpreting from a musical standpoint,” he says. “And we play some Trane I wouldn’t normally play, like ‘Alabama,’ a really heavy tune that I’m not going to call on a regular gig for a Saturday night crowd. The purpose of this music is different. This feels like we’re serving a bigger purpose.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mr. Tipples, a chatty supper club that’s been a jazz hot spot since 2016, isn’t an obvious venue for Freedom First, unless you know that its owner, Bordeleau, spent his college years in Ann Arbor giving music workshops in Michigan prisons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The idea was to create art and joy in the prison system, so I jumped at this when I heard about LaMar,” he says. “Those experiences made me really interested in not just serving cocktails to fancy people. This is much more interesting and impactful.”[aside postid='arts_13883580']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Part of Freedom First’s impact flows from LaMar’s musical commitment. He can’t hear much of what the musicians are playing to accompany him in the moment, but he listens back to recordings to study how they respond to his voice. And he’s constantly absorbing new sounds and songs. He listens mostly to jazz, but lately he’s been checking out Elvis Costello and he’s been obsessed with a song by Mercury Prize-winning British singer-songwriter Benjamin Clementine, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6DU6lDPs-AQ\">Condolence\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Some of what music does for me as a person, it immerses and envelopes me in my significance as a human being,” he says. “It lets me feel I’m a member of this thing called humanity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Freedom First performs at \u003ca href=\"https://mrtipplessf.com/calendar/albert-marques-and-keith-lamar-freedom-first/\">Mr. Tipple’s on Oct. 3-4, 2023\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>LaMar was serving 15 years to life at the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility for a 1989 murder when riots broke out in April 1993. At the end of the 11-day standoff, nine inmates and a prison guard were dead, and in 1995 LaMar was convicted for murdering five prisoners. He’s steadfastly maintained his innocence, and it was only in the aftermath of George Floyd’s death in 2020 that Marquès came into the picture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born and raised in an industrial town outside of Barcelona, Marquès has long drawn inspiration from Catalonia’s heritage of radical politics. He and his wife, sculptor Mia Pearlman, happened to live in the same Brooklyn building as Brian Jackson, the keyboardist and composer best known for his prolific creative partnership with the late Gil Scott-Heron.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Black Lives Matter demonstrations swept the nation, “we had lots of conversations around the George Floyd protests,” Marquès recalls. “The question kept coming up, ‘Why don’t we do something before the government kills [people]?’ Brian’s wife had read Keith’s book and that made connections. Keith loves jazz and John Coltrane, and he knows so much about it.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/L8b3ZMwA9Qc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/L8b3ZMwA9Qc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Talking to LaMar is a bracing experience. People often describe music as a lifeline, but in his case it provides a soul-bearing creative outlet, essential emotional sustenance and a direct connection to fellow jazz devotees. He grew up in Cleveland surrounded by sacred and secular Black popular music, and didn’t really discover jazz until he was years into his sentence. On death row, he immersed himself in the music of Thelonious Monk, Nat “King” Cole and, particularly, John Coltrane, “all these people who created this canon of creativity,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I started reading history books, learning and growing. My loyalty to this art form grew along with my knowledge of this art form. It’s an integral part of my life. I start listening when I wake up and throughout the day it helps me stay focused.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" style=\"border: 0; width: 100%; height: 120px;\" src=\"https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2002727958/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/artwork=small/transparent=true/\" width=\"100%\" height=\"500\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s all too aware of the tension between his incarceration and jazz’s liberatory impulse, though he echoes the epiphany of Albert Camus’ Meursault in \u003cem>The Stranger\u003c/em> in describing his mindset. LaMar celebrates the music as a vehicle for freedom, but it’s the embrace of a man who has liberated himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m already free,” he says. “I just happen to be in this place, death row. But we’re all leaving this planet. What are you going to do between now and then?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935221\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1663px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935221\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"A musician visiting from the outside and an incarcerated poet hug inside a prison.\" width=\"1663\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-scaled.jpeg 1663w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-800x1232.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-1020x1570.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-160x246.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-768x1182.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-998x1536.jpeg 998w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/processed-55849b59-9acf-4916-8780-769392acade4_YqdYR55a-1330x2048.jpeg 1330w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1663px) 100vw, 1663px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Pianist Albert Marquès and poet Keith LaMar in 2022. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Albert Marquès)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For the Oct. 3-4 performances at Mr. Tipple’s, which are fundraisers for the legal campaign to overturn his sentence, LaMar will be reciting pieces from \u003cem>Freedom First\u003c/em> via phone from death row as Marquès leads a quartet featuring bassist Joshua Thurston-Milgrom, drummer Zack O’Farrill and tenor saxophonist Kazemde George.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>O’Farrill, the third generation of an illustrious jazz clan, and the Berkeley-reared George have been working with Marquès since he first assembled some 30 musicians for performance protests in 2020. Since then, more than 70 musicians have participated in the project, including Berkeley-raised pianist-composer Samora Pinderhughes, who conducted a public conversation with LaMar last year as part of \u003ca href=\"https://ybca.org/event/transformation-music-and-healing-with-keith-lamar-and-samora-pinderhughes/\">\u003cem>The Healing Project\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, an extensive installation at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For George, who returns to the Bay Area to perform at the \u003ca href=\"https://blackcatsf.turntabletickets.com/shows/1487/?date=2023-11-24\">Black Cat Nov. 24-26\u003c/a> with vocalist Sami Stevens, the attraction to playing in Freedom First is both political and aesthetic. “First of all, we’re playing really good music, Albert’s originals, gospel and John Coltrane, all stuff I’m really into interpreting from a musical standpoint,” he says. “And we play some Trane I wouldn’t normally play, like ‘Alabama,’ a really heavy tune that I’m not going to call on a regular gig for a Saturday night crowd. The purpose of this music is different. This feels like we’re serving a bigger purpose.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mr. Tipples, a chatty supper club that’s been a jazz hot spot since 2016, isn’t an obvious venue for Freedom First, unless you know that its owner, Bordeleau, spent his college years in Ann Arbor giving music workshops in Michigan prisons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The idea was to create art and joy in the prison system, so I jumped at this when I heard about LaMar,” he says. “Those experiences made me really interested in not just serving cocktails to fancy people. This is much more interesting and impactful.”\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Part of Freedom First’s impact flows from LaMar’s musical commitment. He can’t hear much of what the musicians are playing to accompany him in the moment, but he listens back to recordings to study how they respond to his voice. And he’s constantly absorbing new sounds and songs. He listens mostly to jazz, but lately he’s been checking out Elvis Costello and he’s been obsessed with a song by Mercury Prize-winning British singer-songwriter Benjamin Clementine, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6DU6lDPs-AQ\">Condolence\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Some of what music does for me as a person, it immerses and envelopes me in my significance as a human being,” he says. “It lets me feel I’m a member of this thing called humanity.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Freedom First performs at \u003ca href=\"https://mrtipplessf.com/calendar/albert-marques-and-keith-lamar-freedom-first/\">Mr. Tipple’s on Oct. 3-4, 2023\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "8-over-80-gary-bartz",
"title": "For 82-Year-Old Jazz Saxophonist Gary Bartz, ‘Music Is My Religion’",
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"headTitle": "For 82-Year-Old Jazz Saxophonist Gary Bartz, ‘Music Is My Religion’ | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935187\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_.jpg\" alt=\"A man with white hair and a blue suit plays alto saxophone with foliage in the background.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz plays saxophone on the rooftop of KQED in San Francisco, Aug. 13, 2023. The recently named NEA Jazz Master has just finished recording three new projects, due to be released in 2024. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]G[/dropcap]ary Bartz wants to go to the playground. Walking along 17th Street in San Francisco, he spies a swing set in Franklin Square and clambers up the park stairs, carrying his saxophone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his 82 years, Bartz has released dozens of albums under his own name, and hundreds more as a sideman. He’s performed thousands of concerts with jazz luminaries like Miles Davis, Pharoah Sanders and Art Blakey, all over the globe. In August, three weeks before we meet, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2023/07/12/1187199875/nea-jazz-masters\">NEA named him a 2024 Jazz Master\u003c/a>, a prestigious national honor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But today, he’s just returned from a marathon three-week recording session in Los Angeles, and he’s ready to unwind. At the playground, he hops on a swing, throws his head back with a wide smile and starts singing: “Fairy tales can come true / It can happen to you / If you’re young at heart…”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The passage of time, this inevitable thing that might nag at other octogenarians, comes to a halt. For a moment, singing of love and life and dreams, Bartz is a kid again, transported back to his childhood in Baltimore. When he reaches the end of the song, he stands up, brushes the dirt from the swing’s chains off his hands, and asks out loud to no one in particular:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who’s 82 \u003cem>now\u003c/em>?!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933561\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933561\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Gary Bartz swings at the playground at Franklin Square in San Francisco\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz swings at the playground at San Francisco’s Franklin Square. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There may be a reason for Bartz’s carefree mood these days. In addition to the NEA honor, which comes with a $25,000 grant, his music is undergoing a renaissance among younger listeners. Part of it is his recent collaboration with Adrian Younge and Ali Shaheed Muhammad (from A Tribe Called Quest) in their \u003cem>Jazz Is Dead\u003c/em> series, which introduced Bartz to a new audience amidst a growing crossover of jazz and hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But mainly, it’s that Bartz has always made music that reflects the emotional, spiritual and political realms of the world. Everyone else is just catching up, is all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Spontaneous composition’ in the Bay Area\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>For a college professor — he’s taught at Oberlin for over two decades — Bartz is quicker to admit what he doesn’t know than what he does. He says he can’t define love, exactly. He doesn’t know what happens to us in the afterlife, only that man-made religions exist to console those who refuse to see reality. As for music, this thing he’s spent his life studying, “we don’t know where it comes from, and we don’t know where it goes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He does know about the things he can control, though. On his days at home, Bartz sometimes runs or bikes around Lake Merritt or Lafayette Reservoir. He tries to stay on his diet, and listens to Frank Sinatra “about every day.” Most of the time, he practices his horn: running through his compositions, or spontaneously creating new ones. Other people, he says, foolishly call it “improvising.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But we’re not improvising. We’re composing, all the time,” he says about soloing. “Improvising means you’re making stuff up. You don’t study something for 50 years just to go make stuff up.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933558\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933558\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Gary Bartz poses for a portrait with his saxophone\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz poses for a portrait with his saxophone at KQED. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those 50 years, Bartz kept being drawn to the Bay Area. He closed out the final show at the old Yoshi’s in North Oakland, appeared regularly at the Keystone Korner in San Francisco, and recorded prolifically at Fantasy Studios in Berkeley. He even tells a story of crossing paths with Bob Marley at a live radio broadcast session in Sausalito. “There’s so much great music that has come out of here,” he says. “It’s always been a very fertile place for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Six years ago, Bartz moved to a house on the border of Oakland and Emeryville to be closer to family. He admits to a touch of nomadism, suggesting he may not stay forever. But in his time living in the Bay Area, he’s become part of the scene on major stages like the Kuumbwa Jazz Center and the San Jose Jazz Festival.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside tag='8over80' label='More 8 Over 80']At the SFJAZZ Center in January, Bartz appeared at a tribute to the late pianist McCoy Tyner, in whose band he performed for many years. (“He was composing music at the highest level,” Bartz says.) On tunes like “Contemplation,” Bartz soloed on stage — or rather, spontaneously composed — with more imagination, technique and spirit than many musicians half his age.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In June of this year, Bartz again paid tribute to a recently departed friend, who he calls “my brother”: the saxophone giant Pharoah Sanders. At the Healdsburg Jazz Festival, Bartz performed Sanders landmarks like “The Creator Has a Master Plan,” and stepped to the microphone to sing the pensive “Colors,” with its poetic lyrics about pushing aside the misery of life, and inviting happiness and joy.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Hearing the future\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Bartz was just six when he heard Charlie Parker for the first time, and “it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard,” he says. He remembers thinking to himself: \u003cem>that’s what I want to do with my life\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Five years later, during which he listened studiously to the jazz greats of the day, his parents bought him an alto saxophone. (His life goal was aided by the fact that his father, Floyd, ran a jazz club in Baltimore.) After attending Juilliard, he packed off to New York, where he hooked up with jazz drum giant Max Roach and, at age 24, joined Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers. While stringing gigs together, he sometimes slept on the subway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933560\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933560\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a blue suit looks determinedly into the camera\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz poses for a portrait on San Francisco’s Bryant Street. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>By the time Miles Davis asked Bartz to join his band, in 1970, he’d already played with the likes of Charles Mingus, Roy Ayers, Eric Dolphy and Woody Shaw. But his time with Miles, captured on records like \u003cem>Live-Evil\u003c/em> and \u003cem>The Cellar Door Sessions\u003c/em>, was an experience like no other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Miles could hear the future,” Bartz says. “That’s the job of any artist, to be able to see or hear the future. Something that’s never been heard before. That’s what we’re all looking for.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13927947']Listening to Bartz’s own albums from the early 1970s, one gets a glimpse of his version of the future. On 1971’s \u003cem>Harlem Bush Music—Uhuru\u003c/em>, made with his group NTU Troop, blues and ramshackle proto-funk mix with avant-garde jazz and the music of Central and West Africa. Lyrics sung plainly by either Bartz or vocalist Andy Bey cover topics like Vietnam (“Vietcong”), life in the cosmos (“Celestial Blues”), conscientious objection to war (“Uhuru Sasa”), and the emotional abrasion of being Black in America (“Blue (A Folk Tale)”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the same time, Bartz also conveyed a playful side, as heard on the later tracks “Whasaname” and “Dozens (The Sounding Song),” which refers to the \u003ca href=\"https://www.elijahwald.com/dozens.html\">one-upping game of insults\u003c/a> which strongly influenced early hip-hop. (Rap is often a dividing line among generations, but Bartz understood it immediately: “When they asked Rakim where he got his flow, he said ‘I got my flow from listening to John Coltrane.’ So that should tell you something right there.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bartz has also drawn on the words of poets, like Paul Laurence Dunbar for “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/5uYVxQKLtVc?si=xYZq7titrr5KPQL0&t=1795\">Parted\u003c/a>,” and Langston Hughes for the rhythmic, reflective “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9WCFQzznC4\">I’ve Known Rivers\u003c/a>.” The latter is a highlight in Bartz’s catalog, and an ode to a community of people that spans the Congo to the Mississippi. Its final line is a meditation on age and experience: “My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9WCFQzznC4\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The world is still catching up to Gary Bartz, but to write so soulfully, so young, I gather Bartz was also catching up to himself. He first recorded “I’ve Known Rivers” in France when he was 33 years old. Almost 50 years later, after living in New York, Italy, Spain, and Los Angeles, I ask how he views modern-day America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Well, our laws are based on a false premise, which is that color of your skin makes a race. That’s a dumb premise,” he says. “There’s only one human race. I mean, I’ve never seen a different one. Little kids know it. They have to be taught different, either on purpose, or just by society. I found out by growing up in a segregated city.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With so much lived experience, I wonder: Does he feel 82?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Physically, I do, sometimes,” Bartz says. “Mentally, I see myself the same as I’ve always seen myself. But when I look in the mirror, I say, ‘Who is he?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933559\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933559\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Gary Bartz plays his saxophone on the rooftop of KQED\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz plays his saxophone on the rooftop of KQED. ‘Listening is more important than playing,’ he often says. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Staying devout\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A British reporter once asked Charlie Parker for his religious affiliation. “I am a devout musician,” Parker replied. Bartz likes that concept, and calls himself a born-again musician, “because there were times that I forsook music, and didn’t realize how important it really was.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bartz tells me if he could go back in time and give advice to himself at age 20, he’d say: “Be careful.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Drugs were rampant in New York jazz circles at the time. Heroin, especially. If you did it, you were immediately connected to other musicians who did it too; people like Art Blakey, Kenny Dorham and Philly Joe Jones. Bartz did it, and naturally got hooked. It lasted on and off for years. “I endangered myself,” Bartz says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935188\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935188\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"A man in long pants and yellow shit plays saxophone under stage lights \" width=\"1920\" height=\"1257\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-800x524.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-1020x668.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-768x503.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-1536x1006.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz onstage with NTU Troop at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1973. \u003ccite>(Tony Lane/Prestige Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Once, a friend asked Bartz, “Who do you play music for?” “It was like a koan,” he says. “It took me a while to understand even the question: Who do I play music for?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says he spent much of the 1970s trying to answer the question. He got close to an answer in 1977, when he switched gears stylistically and recorded the song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfiEkI3Z0ig\">Music is My Sanctuary\u003c/a>.” Released on Capitol Records, it became one of his better known commercial singles. But originally, it had a different title.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“For me,” Bartz says, “music is my \u003cem>religion\u003c/em>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935187\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935187\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_.jpg\" alt=\"A man with white hair and a blue suit plays alto saxophone with foliage in the background.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Bartz.Rooftop.MAIN_-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz plays saxophone on the rooftop of KQED in San Francisco, Aug. 13, 2023. The recently named NEA Jazz Master has just finished recording three new projects, due to be released in 2024. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">G\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ary Bartz wants to go to the playground. Walking along 17th Street in San Francisco, he spies a swing set in Franklin Square and clambers up the park stairs, carrying his saxophone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his 82 years, Bartz has released dozens of albums under his own name, and hundreds more as a sideman. He’s performed thousands of concerts with jazz luminaries like Miles Davis, Pharoah Sanders and Art Blakey, all over the globe. In August, three weeks before we meet, the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2023/07/12/1187199875/nea-jazz-masters\">NEA named him a 2024 Jazz Master\u003c/a>, a prestigious national honor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But today, he’s just returned from a marathon three-week recording session in Los Angeles, and he’s ready to unwind. At the playground, he hops on a swing, throws his head back with a wide smile and starts singing: “Fairy tales can come true / It can happen to you / If you’re young at heart…”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The passage of time, this inevitable thing that might nag at other octogenarians, comes to a halt. For a moment, singing of love and life and dreams, Bartz is a kid again, transported back to his childhood in Baltimore. When he reaches the end of the song, he stands up, brushes the dirt from the swing’s chains off his hands, and asks out loud to no one in particular:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who’s 82 \u003cem>now\u003c/em>?!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933561\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933561\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Gary Bartz swings at the playground at Franklin Square in San Francisco\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68139_20230818-GaryBartz-23-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz swings at the playground at San Francisco’s Franklin Square. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There may be a reason for Bartz’s carefree mood these days. In addition to the NEA honor, which comes with a $25,000 grant, his music is undergoing a renaissance among younger listeners. Part of it is his recent collaboration with Adrian Younge and Ali Shaheed Muhammad (from A Tribe Called Quest) in their \u003cem>Jazz Is Dead\u003c/em> series, which introduced Bartz to a new audience amidst a growing crossover of jazz and hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But mainly, it’s that Bartz has always made music that reflects the emotional, spiritual and political realms of the world. Everyone else is just catching up, is all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Spontaneous composition’ in the Bay Area\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>For a college professor — he’s taught at Oberlin for over two decades — Bartz is quicker to admit what he doesn’t know than what he does. He says he can’t define love, exactly. He doesn’t know what happens to us in the afterlife, only that man-made religions exist to console those who refuse to see reality. As for music, this thing he’s spent his life studying, “we don’t know where it comes from, and we don’t know where it goes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He does know about the things he can control, though. On his days at home, Bartz sometimes runs or bikes around Lake Merritt or Lafayette Reservoir. He tries to stay on his diet, and listens to Frank Sinatra “about every day.” Most of the time, he practices his horn: running through his compositions, or spontaneously creating new ones. Other people, he says, foolishly call it “improvising.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But we’re not improvising. We’re composing, all the time,” he says about soloing. “Improvising means you’re making stuff up. You don’t study something for 50 years just to go make stuff up.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933558\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933558\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Gary Bartz poses for a portrait with his saxophone\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68119_20230818-GaryBartz-04-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz poses for a portrait with his saxophone at KQED. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those 50 years, Bartz kept being drawn to the Bay Area. He closed out the final show at the old Yoshi’s in North Oakland, appeared regularly at the Keystone Korner in San Francisco, and recorded prolifically at Fantasy Studios in Berkeley. He even tells a story of crossing paths with Bob Marley at a live radio broadcast session in Sausalito. “There’s so much great music that has come out of here,” he says. “It’s always been a very fertile place for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Six years ago, Bartz moved to a house on the border of Oakland and Emeryville to be closer to family. He admits to a touch of nomadism, suggesting he may not stay forever. But in his time living in the Bay Area, he’s become part of the scene on major stages like the Kuumbwa Jazz Center and the San Jose Jazz Festival.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>At the SFJAZZ Center in January, Bartz appeared at a tribute to the late pianist McCoy Tyner, in whose band he performed for many years. (“He was composing music at the highest level,” Bartz says.) On tunes like “Contemplation,” Bartz soloed on stage — or rather, spontaneously composed — with more imagination, technique and spirit than many musicians half his age.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In June of this year, Bartz again paid tribute to a recently departed friend, who he calls “my brother”: the saxophone giant Pharoah Sanders. At the Healdsburg Jazz Festival, Bartz performed Sanders landmarks like “The Creator Has a Master Plan,” and stepped to the microphone to sing the pensive “Colors,” with its poetic lyrics about pushing aside the misery of life, and inviting happiness and joy.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Hearing the future\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Bartz was just six when he heard Charlie Parker for the first time, and “it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard,” he says. He remembers thinking to himself: \u003cem>that’s what I want to do with my life\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Five years later, during which he listened studiously to the jazz greats of the day, his parents bought him an alto saxophone. (His life goal was aided by the fact that his father, Floyd, ran a jazz club in Baltimore.) After attending Juilliard, he packed off to New York, where he hooked up with jazz drum giant Max Roach and, at age 24, joined Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers. While stringing gigs together, he sometimes slept on the subway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933560\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933560\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a blue suit looks determinedly into the camera\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68136_20230818-GaryBartz-21-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz poses for a portrait on San Francisco’s Bryant Street. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>By the time Miles Davis asked Bartz to join his band, in 1970, he’d already played with the likes of Charles Mingus, Roy Ayers, Eric Dolphy and Woody Shaw. But his time with Miles, captured on records like \u003cem>Live-Evil\u003c/em> and \u003cem>The Cellar Door Sessions\u003c/em>, was an experience like no other.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Miles could hear the future,” Bartz says. “That’s the job of any artist, to be able to see or hear the future. Something that’s never been heard before. That’s what we’re all looking for.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Listening to Bartz’s own albums from the early 1970s, one gets a glimpse of his version of the future. On 1971’s \u003cem>Harlem Bush Music—Uhuru\u003c/em>, made with his group NTU Troop, blues and ramshackle proto-funk mix with avant-garde jazz and the music of Central and West Africa. Lyrics sung plainly by either Bartz or vocalist Andy Bey cover topics like Vietnam (“Vietcong”), life in the cosmos (“Celestial Blues”), conscientious objection to war (“Uhuru Sasa”), and the emotional abrasion of being Black in America (“Blue (A Folk Tale)”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the same time, Bartz also conveyed a playful side, as heard on the later tracks “Whasaname” and “Dozens (The Sounding Song),” which refers to the \u003ca href=\"https://www.elijahwald.com/dozens.html\">one-upping game of insults\u003c/a> which strongly influenced early hip-hop. (Rap is often a dividing line among generations, but Bartz understood it immediately: “When they asked Rakim where he got his flow, he said ‘I got my flow from listening to John Coltrane.’ So that should tell you something right there.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bartz has also drawn on the words of poets, like Paul Laurence Dunbar for “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/5uYVxQKLtVc?si=xYZq7titrr5KPQL0&t=1795\">Parted\u003c/a>,” and Langston Hughes for the rhythmic, reflective “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9WCFQzznC4\">I’ve Known Rivers\u003c/a>.” The latter is a highlight in Bartz’s catalog, and an ode to a community of people that spans the Congo to the Mississippi. Its final line is a meditation on age and experience: “My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/l9WCFQzznC4'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/l9WCFQzznC4'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The world is still catching up to Gary Bartz, but to write so soulfully, so young, I gather Bartz was also catching up to himself. He first recorded “I’ve Known Rivers” in France when he was 33 years old. Almost 50 years later, after living in New York, Italy, Spain, and Los Angeles, I ask how he views modern-day America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Well, our laws are based on a false premise, which is that color of your skin makes a race. That’s a dumb premise,” he says. “There’s only one human race. I mean, I’ve never seen a different one. Little kids know it. They have to be taught different, either on purpose, or just by society. I found out by growing up in a segregated city.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With so much lived experience, I wonder: Does he feel 82?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Physically, I do, sometimes,” Bartz says. “Mentally, I see myself the same as I’ve always seen myself. But when I look in the mirror, I say, ‘Who is he?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13933559\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13933559\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Gary Bartz plays his saxophone on the rooftop of KQED\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/RS68129_20230818-GaryBartz-13-JY-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz plays his saxophone on the rooftop of KQED. ‘Listening is more important than playing,’ he often says. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Staying devout\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A British reporter once asked Charlie Parker for his religious affiliation. “I am a devout musician,” Parker replied. Bartz likes that concept, and calls himself a born-again musician, “because there were times that I forsook music, and didn’t realize how important it really was.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bartz tells me if he could go back in time and give advice to himself at age 20, he’d say: “Be careful.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Drugs were rampant in New York jazz circles at the time. Heroin, especially. If you did it, you were immediately connected to other musicians who did it too; people like Art Blakey, Kenny Dorham and Philly Joe Jones. Bartz did it, and naturally got hooked. It lasted on and off for years. “I endangered myself,” Bartz says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935188\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935188\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"A man in long pants and yellow shit plays saxophone under stage lights \" width=\"1920\" height=\"1257\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-800x524.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-1020x668.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-768x503.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/BartzStage.72dpi-1536x1006.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Bartz onstage with NTU Troop at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1973. \u003ccite>(Tony Lane/Prestige Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Once, a friend asked Bartz, “Who do you play music for?” “It was like a koan,” he says. “It took me a while to understand even the question: Who do I play music for?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says he spent much of the 1970s trying to answer the question. He got close to an answer in 1977, when he switched gears stylistically and recorded the song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfiEkI3Z0ig\">Music is My Sanctuary\u003c/a>.” Released on Capitol Records, it became one of his better known commercial singles. But originally, it had a different title.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“For me,” Bartz says, “music is my \u003cem>religion\u003c/em>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Hyphy Kids Got Trauma: A Rightnowish Podcast Series",
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"headTitle": "Hyphy Kids Got Trauma: A Rightnowish Podcast Series | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935051\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 3000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935051\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1.png\" alt=\"The words Rightnowish Presents Hyphy Kids Got Trauma are airbrushed on a white t-shirt over a yellow background.\" width=\"3000\" height=\"3000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1.png 3000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-800x800.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-1020x1020.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-160x160.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-768x768.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-1536x1536.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-2048x2048.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-1920x1920.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 3000px) 100vw, 3000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hyphy Kids Got Trauma, the podcast series from Rightnowish. \u003ccite>(Rebecca Kao)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he year 2006 was a wild one in the Bay Area, especially if, like me, you were into hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The scene was dominated by the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11881696/how-hyphy-came-to-define-bay-area-hip-hop\">hyphy movement\u003c/a>, a youth culture driven by uptempo music, oversized airbrushed white T-shirts, big-ass sunglasses called stunna shades and candy painted cars doing donuts in intersections. Music blasted out of speakers lodged in the cars’ front grills as crowds of people gathered around, screaming “swang that shit.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The people fueled the music, and in turn, the music moved the people. It was unbridled energy, livewire behavior, and communal celebration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But beneath it all? That’s where it gets real — and why we’re calling this special Rightnowish podcast series Hyphy Kids Got Trauma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3485225341&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932929\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932929\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hyphy was known as a high-energy, flamboyant movement, but layered beneath it surface was no small amount of pain. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]O[/dropcap]n March 7, 2006, Oakland rapper Too Short dropped the single “Blow The Whistle.” Produced by one of Atlanta’s most acclaimed artists, Lil Jon, it perfectly married the energy of hyphy music with the power of crunk music. With a sinister bass line, energetic drums, a simple hook and Too Short’s cocky flow, the song was a smash, and still gets present-day crowds turnt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The very next week, on March 14, Vallejo’s legendary lyricist and esteemed entrepreneur E-40 released \u003cem>My Ghetto Report Card\u003c/em>, a landmark project that featured the hit song “Tell Me When to Go.” Also produced by Lil Jon, and featuring fan favorite Keak Da Sneak from East Oakland, the song and accompanying video caused a cultural earthquake, the aftershocks of which are felt to this day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC4775019711&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935137\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935137\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for 'Tell Me When To Go' in 2006. \" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for ‘Tell Me When To Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That year also brought about landmark projects from San Francisco’s San Quinn, Big Rich, and Messy Marv. West Oakland’s J-Stalin teamed up with DJ Fresh for a banger. North Oakland’s Mistah F.A.B. and Pittsburg’s late lyricist The Jacka both rode the wave of big projects they individually dropped the year prior. And at the end of 2006, Berkeley’s The Pack stepped into the rap game with the hit song “Vans.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There was this one artist, Beeda Weeda, from a neighborhood in East Oakland known as the Dubs — or Murder Dubs — who made this one song I couldn’t stop slappin’.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923938']The track was simply titled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXx3oATdjeg\">We Ain’t Listening\u003c/a>,” and it was pure youth rebellion over drums and synths. The lyrics provided a vent for me, a frustrated teenager. I was one of the many young adults who’d consumed too much dark liquor while celebrating each drug-induced day as if it were my last. Maybe because it very well could’ve been.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Almost 20 years later, with the benefit of hindsight and the language to express it, I can see how I was partying while simultaneously mourning, and living in a constant, traumatic state of fear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In January of 2006, my friend Willie Clay, who I’d known since middle school, was shot and killed in the Dubs. Multiple people were hit; one other person died. That year, 148 people were killed in Oakland, one of the Town’s highest homicide totals ever recorded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935136\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935136\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A park bench in the Dubs, pictured in 2011, memorializes loved ones from the neighborhood.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A park bench in the Dubs, pictured in 2011, memorializes loved ones from the neighborhood. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen people talk about the hyphy movement, it’s often remembered as fun-loving and goofy. And while there were definitely some comical dances and corny songs, the origins of hyphy are far from funny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Hyphy” originally meant hyperactive, and not in a good way. Like an aggressive loose dog, a driver speeding on the wrong side of the street, or rebellious teenagers who tell oppressive authority figures “we ain’t listening” without giving it a second thought.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the culture grew, though, the term got watered down. There was actually a lot of pain in that era. Some of the scars were specific to that year, while others were the latest incarnation of larger societal issues (systemic racism, sexism, capitalism and imperialism, to name a few) that have oppressed folks in this country for centuries. But no matter what the cause was, the pain gave us a reason to party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The music was an outlet; a salve for the wounds caused by the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3978396932&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935139\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1280px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935139\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow.jpg\" alt=\"Beeda Weeda, Tajai from Souls of Mischief, and J. Stalin.\" width=\"1280\" height=\"853\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow.jpg 1280w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, 1280px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Beeda Weeda, Tajai from Souls of Mischief, and J. Stalin. \u003ccite>(Alexander Warnow)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In addition to festering neighborhood beefs and unfortunate acts of community violence, we were facing the onset of gentrification. Banks were handing out predatory housing loans, rents were increasing and \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/03/us/politics/03bcbrown.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">former Oakland Mayor Jerry Brown laid out a plan\u003c/a> to redevelop downtown and usher in thousands of new residents. \u003ca href=\"https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jun/01/from-black-panthers-to-bbq-becky-the-displacement-of-black-oakland\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Black folks were pushed out of Oakland in droves\u003c/a>, relocating to California’s Central Valley, Nevada, Arizona or one of the southern states. We were also dealing with over-policing from a corrupt Oakland Police Department that had entered its third year of federal oversight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the same time, the unjust system of mass incarceration in California hit its peak. In 2006, the state’s prisons operated at \u003ca href=\"https://www.library.ca.gov/wp-content/uploads/GovernmentPublications/executive-order-proclamation/38-Proc-2006-93.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">200% of their capacity\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And nationally, as the United States hurtled toward its worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, the military was sending my peers to Afghanistan to fight the War on Terror, a conflict that would eventually become the longest war this country has ever seen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, we were dealing with a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How did we cope? We went stupid. We shook dreads. We dodged cops. We smoked grapes, sipped drank and shoved pills in our faces. We turned up the music, revved engines and screamed “Yee!” ’til our voices shook the concrete, causing the nation to take note of us. \u003cem>That’s\u003c/em> how we dealt with pain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC6098869655&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935138\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A scraper bike on the set of E-40's music video 'Tell Me When to Go' in 2006.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1700\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1536x1020.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-2048x1360.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1920x1275.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scraper bike on the set of E-40’s music video ‘Tell Me When to Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]A[/dropcap] few years ago I was bending corners around West Oakland and saw some graffiti on an underpass that stuck with me. The words were simple: “hyphy kids got trauma.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The piece I saw, inspired by lyrics from San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.textmerecords.com/rich-iyala\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rich Iyala\u003c/a>, was by a graffiti writer named Nasty. But then I saw it in a few other places too, by different writers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evidently the idea resonated with folks. I wasn’t the only one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have fond memories of watching cars dance at sideshows, and seeing homies gig during turf dance battles at East Oakland’s Youth Uprising Center. But those sweet reflections, of kicking it with my friends at the teenage club — the Candy Shop, or hotboxing with the homies in the parking lot — are met with the unsavory realities of the the hyphy movement. It wasn’t all fun and games. There were a lot of people with the letters RIP airbrushed on their white t-shirts, and folks with funeral pamphlets on the front dashboard of their Buick scrapers. Evidence of the pain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a hip-hop loving, budding journalist, laying the foundation for my career path while trying to stay out of harm’s way, I took note of it all. Now, as an adult, I see it with a new perspective.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The year 2006 truly was a wild year for the Bay Area. I’m still healing from it, and I’m not the only one.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "Hyphy Kids Got Trauma: A Rightnowish Podcast Series | KQED",
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"headline": "Hyphy Kids Got Trauma: A Rightnowish Podcast Series",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935051\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 3000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935051\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1.png\" alt=\"The words Rightnowish Presents Hyphy Kids Got Trauma are airbrushed on a white t-shirt over a yellow background.\" width=\"3000\" height=\"3000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1.png 3000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-800x800.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-1020x1020.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-160x160.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-768x768.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-1536x1536.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-2048x2048.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/HKGTFinalTile_Hyphy-Kids-Got-Trauma-1-1920x1920.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 3000px) 100vw, 3000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hyphy Kids Got Trauma, the podcast series from Rightnowish. \u003ccite>(Rebecca Kao)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>he year 2006 was a wild one in the Bay Area, especially if, like me, you were into hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The scene was dominated by the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11881696/how-hyphy-came-to-define-bay-area-hip-hop\">hyphy movement\u003c/a>, a youth culture driven by uptempo music, oversized airbrushed white T-shirts, big-ass sunglasses called stunna shades and candy painted cars doing donuts in intersections. Music blasted out of speakers lodged in the cars’ front grills as crowds of people gathered around, screaming “swang that shit.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The people fueled the music, and in turn, the music moved the people. It was unbridled energy, livewire behavior, and communal celebration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But beneath it all? That’s where it gets real — and why we’re calling this special Rightnowish podcast series Hyphy Kids Got Trauma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3485225341&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13932929\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13932929\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/08/HyphyKids.Dray_-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hyphy was known as a high-energy, flamboyant movement, but layered beneath it surface was no small amount of pain. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">O\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>n March 7, 2006, Oakland rapper Too Short dropped the single “Blow The Whistle.” Produced by one of Atlanta’s most acclaimed artists, Lil Jon, it perfectly married the energy of hyphy music with the power of crunk music. With a sinister bass line, energetic drums, a simple hook and Too Short’s cocky flow, the song was a smash, and still gets present-day crowds turnt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The very next week, on March 14, Vallejo’s legendary lyricist and esteemed entrepreneur E-40 released \u003cem>My Ghetto Report Card\u003c/em>, a landmark project that featured the hit song “Tell Me When to Go.” Also produced by Lil Jon, and featuring fan favorite Keak Da Sneak from East Oakland, the song and accompanying video caused a cultural earthquake, the aftershocks of which are felt to this day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC4775019711&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935137\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935137\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for 'Tell Me When To Go' in 2006. \" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/e-40_video_photo_s_by_dray_keak_da_sneak___e-40-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Keak da Sneak and E-40 on the set of the music video for ‘Tell Me When To Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>That year also brought about landmark projects from San Francisco’s San Quinn, Big Rich, and Messy Marv. West Oakland’s J-Stalin teamed up with DJ Fresh for a banger. North Oakland’s Mistah F.A.B. and Pittsburg’s late lyricist The Jacka both rode the wave of big projects they individually dropped the year prior. And at the end of 2006, Berkeley’s The Pack stepped into the rap game with the hit song “Vans.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There was this one artist, Beeda Weeda, from a neighborhood in East Oakland known as the Dubs — or Murder Dubs — who made this one song I couldn’t stop slappin’.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The track was simply titled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXx3oATdjeg\">We Ain’t Listening\u003c/a>,” and it was pure youth rebellion over drums and synths. The lyrics provided a vent for me, a frustrated teenager. I was one of the many young adults who’d consumed too much dark liquor while celebrating each drug-induced day as if it were my last. Maybe because it very well could’ve been.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Almost 20 years later, with the benefit of hindsight and the language to express it, I can see how I was partying while simultaneously mourning, and living in a constant, traumatic state of fear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In January of 2006, my friend Willie Clay, who I’d known since middle school, was shot and killed in the Dubs. Multiple people were hit; one other person died. That year, 148 people were killed in Oakland, one of the Town’s highest homicide totals ever recorded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935136\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935136\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A park bench in the Dubs, pictured in 2011, memorializes loved ones from the neighborhood.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Dubs.ParkBench.2011.CredPEN-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A park bench in the Dubs, pictured in 2011, memorializes loved ones from the neighborhood. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">W\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hen people talk about the hyphy movement, it’s often remembered as fun-loving and goofy. And while there were definitely some comical dances and corny songs, the origins of hyphy are far from funny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Hyphy” originally meant hyperactive, and not in a good way. Like an aggressive loose dog, a driver speeding on the wrong side of the street, or rebellious teenagers who tell oppressive authority figures “we ain’t listening” without giving it a second thought.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the culture grew, though, the term got watered down. There was actually a lot of pain in that era. Some of the scars were specific to that year, while others were the latest incarnation of larger societal issues (systemic racism, sexism, capitalism and imperialism, to name a few) that have oppressed folks in this country for centuries. But no matter what the cause was, the pain gave us a reason to party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The music was an outlet; a salve for the wounds caused by the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3978396932&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935139\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1280px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935139\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow.jpg\" alt=\"Beeda Weeda, Tajai from Souls of Mischief, and J. Stalin.\" width=\"1280\" height=\"853\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow.jpg 1280w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/CRED.AlexanderWarnow-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1280px) 100vw, 1280px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R) Beeda Weeda, Tajai from Souls of Mischief, and J. Stalin. \u003ccite>(Alexander Warnow)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In addition to festering neighborhood beefs and unfortunate acts of community violence, we were facing the onset of gentrification. Banks were handing out predatory housing loans, rents were increasing and \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/03/us/politics/03bcbrown.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">former Oakland Mayor Jerry Brown laid out a plan\u003c/a> to redevelop downtown and usher in thousands of new residents. \u003ca href=\"https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jun/01/from-black-panthers-to-bbq-becky-the-displacement-of-black-oakland\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Black folks were pushed out of Oakland in droves\u003c/a>, relocating to California’s Central Valley, Nevada, Arizona or one of the southern states. We were also dealing with over-policing from a corrupt Oakland Police Department that had entered its third year of federal oversight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the same time, the unjust system of mass incarceration in California hit its peak. In 2006, the state’s prisons operated at \u003ca href=\"https://www.library.ca.gov/wp-content/uploads/GovernmentPublications/executive-order-proclamation/38-Proc-2006-93.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">200% of their capacity\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And nationally, as the United States hurtled toward its worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, the military was sending my peers to Afghanistan to fight the War on Terror, a conflict that would eventually become the longest war this country has ever seen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yeah, we were dealing with a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How did we cope? We went stupid. We shook dreads. We dodged cops. We smoked grapes, sipped drank and shoved pills in our faces. We turned up the music, revved engines and screamed “Yee!” ’til our voices shook the concrete, causing the nation to take note of us. \u003cem>That’s\u003c/em> how we dealt with pain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC6098869655&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935138\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13935138\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A scraper bike on the set of E-40's music video 'Tell Me When to Go' in 2006.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1700\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1536x1020.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-2048x1360.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/FabVideoShoot.Scraper.Dray_-1920x1275.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A scraper bike on the set of E-40’s music video ‘Tell Me When to Go’ in 2006. \u003ccite>(D-Ray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">A\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp> few years ago I was bending corners around West Oakland and saw some graffiti on an underpass that stuck with me. The words were simple: “hyphy kids got trauma.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The piece I saw, inspired by lyrics from San Francisco’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.textmerecords.com/rich-iyala\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Rich Iyala\u003c/a>, was by a graffiti writer named Nasty. But then I saw it in a few other places too, by different writers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Evidently the idea resonated with folks. I wasn’t the only one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have fond memories of watching cars dance at sideshows, and seeing homies gig during turf dance battles at East Oakland’s Youth Uprising Center. But those sweet reflections, of kicking it with my friends at the teenage club — the Candy Shop, or hotboxing with the homies in the parking lot — are met with the unsavory realities of the the hyphy movement. It wasn’t all fun and games. There were a lot of people with the letters RIP airbrushed on their white t-shirts, and folks with funeral pamphlets on the front dashboard of their Buick scrapers. Evidence of the pain.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a hip-hop loving, budding journalist, laying the foundation for my career path while trying to stay out of harm’s way, I took note of it all. Now, as an adult, I see it with a new perspective.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The year 2006 truly was a wild year for the Bay Area. I’m still healing from it, and I’m not the only one.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935008\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13935008\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-800x946.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"946\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-800x946.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-1020x1206.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-160x189.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-768x908.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-1299x1536.jpg 1299w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-1732x2048.jpg 1732w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">1100 Himself packs ‘Dragon Ball Z’ and wrestling references into his adrenaline-raising verses. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’ll put this plainly: \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/1100himself/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">1100 Himself\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> — the ethereal, laidback lyricist whose drill raps embody East Oakland’s precariousness — is built different. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On a first pass, you might dismiss the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.thizzler.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thizzler-backed\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> word juggler as just another dude bragging about getting money in the trenches. But he’s not \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">only\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> that. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With a sleepy cadence and signature Bay Area weirdness, the “Funk Town” spitter layers violent storytelling with unexpected textures and jazzy beats. Drawing heavily from his “out of body” experiences in the streets, he references a sprawling variety of oddball interests — PlayStation, wrestling, Japanese animation, \u003cem>Family Guy\u003c/em>, Souls of Mischief.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At times, he’s more enigma than MC, more outlaw than orator — a combustible mix of deadpan philosophy and detailed observations.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> If you want to know what frequency he’s on, simply skim his catalog.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OyKHo3bN7U0\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Earlier this year, 1100 dropped \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/14TZrWzVuBaQvanqDNVXF3\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">1300 My Cousin\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a project that solidified his status as a rising talent whose rhymes conjure futuristic, gangster film noir. And just last week, he dropped \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/1GETCs99FSZabm8MysGYYH\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Leven Durant \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(a playful reference to the former Golden State Warrior), an album that outlines his trademark street exploits and summons the aura of a Lil B mixtape with its off-kilter lyrics and\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/Cv22VOiPrSZ/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Photoshopped cover art\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tracks like “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_V_ewvoGIc\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Note to Self\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">”\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> cut through the noisy bravado to highlight 1100 in his idiosyncratic prime. For two straight minutes — without any hook or features — he rap-talks about his therapist, SpongeBob SquarePants and “popping shrooms” while “going where the wind blow.” Lines like “I’m trying to find myself… I used to try to be my brother now I be myself” and “it’s funny how you always run back to the time of pain” surprise with their unglamorized clarity — a refreshing element in a genre often confined to hyperbolic claims of flawlessness.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He does this over minimalistic, subdued, choral-and-keyboard backdrops that evoke Scandinavian winters — introspective, lo-fi instrumentals not typically favored by Thizzler’s street rappers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Leven Durant\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> marks his most publicized effort to date, as the rapper has now reached 41,000 followers on Instagram and 171,000 monthly listeners on Spotify. Not too shabby for a kid from East 24th Street and 11th Avenue who once rapped about needing “courtesy rides because I lost my Clipper” public transit card. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnuZ5d0Q5Yc\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Going back to 2022, 1100 and his Dr. Dre-like mentor, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/producedbymitchell/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mitchell\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> — a superbly skilled sound architect and part-time rhymer — began to gain major traction with \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/3cskKMxiBB3u8UoUduzsJZ\">\u003cem>2 Headed Goat\u003c/em>\u003c/a>,\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.passionweiss.com/2022/05/27/1100-himself-mitchell-interview/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a joint project that garnered underground acclaim\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The album’s cover art features a claymation-style portrait of the two rappers draped in Dragon Ball Z dōgis (martial arts training gear), Jordan 1s and chains while standing on their respective street corners. Each song wavers between the dark circus of nefarious crimes and the soul-searching rhythms of urban meditation. To my ears, they’re on the shortlist for the most intriguing Bay Area duos right now.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And again in 2022, 1100 Himself delivered \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/34hR8xXLJyaRlw3DDUEII4\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The 11th Hokage\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a solo album that hijacks the \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Naruto\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> manga narrative in which the most capable ninja of a village is denoted as the region’s “hokage.” Featuring an armada of local collaborators like 10Millibang and Demahjiae, the production utilizes slowed down flutes, wavy basslines and video game samples to create an eclectic soundscape with overtones of Detroit drill music.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Of course, in 2020, 1100 Himself gave us \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/313g6vscYv8EBdW9fnknfM\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Funk Theft Auto\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Heavily inspired by the legendary video game\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, the album oscillates from rags-to-riches anthems like “Throw It In The Bag” to a Bobby Caldwell-sampling ballad about loyalty, “Do For Love.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Like I said, 1100 Himself’s center point is hard to triangulate. But for nerds like me who appreciate a trippy orbit of weed-hazed whimsy, and for Bay Area mobb music aficionados who like to ride with tinted windows, he’s certainly providing a memorable soundtrack. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_V_ewvoGIc\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13935008\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13935008\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-800x946.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"946\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-800x946.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-1020x1206.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-160x189.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-768x908.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-1299x1536.jpg 1299w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038-1732x2048.jpg 1732w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC08038.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">1100 Himself packs ‘Dragon Ball Z’ and wrestling references into his adrenaline-raising verses. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">I’ll put this plainly: \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/1100himself/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">1100 Himself\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> — the ethereal, laidback lyricist whose drill raps embody East Oakland’s precariousness — is built different. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">On a first pass, you might dismiss the \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.thizzler.com/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Thizzler-backed\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> word juggler as just another dude bragging about getting money in the trenches. But he’s not \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">only\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> that. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">With a sleepy cadence and signature Bay Area weirdness, the “Funk Town” spitter layers violent storytelling with unexpected textures and jazzy beats. Drawing heavily from his “out of body” experiences in the streets, he references a sprawling variety of oddball interests — PlayStation, wrestling, Japanese animation, \u003cem>Family Guy\u003c/em>, Souls of Mischief.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">At times, he’s more enigma than MC, more outlaw than orator — a combustible mix of deadpan philosophy and detailed observations.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> If you want to know what frequency he’s on, simply skim his catalog.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/OyKHo3bN7U0'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/OyKHo3bN7U0'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Earlier this year, 1100 dropped \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/14TZrWzVuBaQvanqDNVXF3\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">1300 My Cousin\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a project that solidified his status as a rising talent whose rhymes conjure futuristic, gangster film noir. And just last week, he dropped \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/1GETCs99FSZabm8MysGYYH\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Leven Durant \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">(a playful reference to the former Golden State Warrior), an album that outlines his trademark street exploits and summons the aura of a Lil B mixtape with its off-kilter lyrics and\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/Cv22VOiPrSZ/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> Photoshopped cover art\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Tracks like “\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_V_ewvoGIc\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Note to Self\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">”\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> cut through the noisy bravado to highlight 1100 in his idiosyncratic prime. For two straight minutes — without any hook or features — he rap-talks about his therapist, SpongeBob SquarePants and “popping shrooms” while “going where the wind blow.” Lines like “I’m trying to find myself… I used to try to be my brother now I be myself” and “it’s funny how you always run back to the time of pain” surprise with their unglamorized clarity — a refreshing element in a genre often confined to hyperbolic claims of flawlessness.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">He does this over minimalistic, subdued, choral-and-keyboard backdrops that evoke Scandinavian winters — introspective, lo-fi instrumentals not typically favored by Thizzler’s street rappers. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Leven Durant\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> marks his most publicized effort to date, as the rapper has now reached 41,000 followers on Instagram and 171,000 monthly listeners on Spotify. Not too shabby for a kid from East 24th Street and 11th Avenue who once rapped about needing “courtesy rides because I lost my Clipper” public transit card. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/JnuZ5d0Q5Yc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/JnuZ5d0Q5Yc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Going back to 2022, 1100 and his Dr. Dre-like mentor, \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/producedbymitchell/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Mitchell\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> — a superbly skilled sound architect and part-time rhymer — began to gain major traction with \u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/3cskKMxiBB3u8UoUduzsJZ\">\u003cem>2 Headed Goat\u003c/em>\u003c/a>,\u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.passionweiss.com/2022/05/27/1100-himself-mitchell-interview/\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> a joint project that garnered underground acclaim\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. The album’s cover art features a claymation-style portrait of the two rappers draped in Dragon Ball Z dōgis (martial arts training gear), Jordan 1s and chains while standing on their respective street corners. Each song wavers between the dark circus of nefarious crimes and the soul-searching rhythms of urban meditation. To my ears, they’re on the shortlist for the most intriguing Bay Area duos right now.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">And again in 2022, 1100 Himself delivered \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/34hR8xXLJyaRlw3DDUEII4\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The 11th Hokage\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, a solo album that hijacks the \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Naruto\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> manga narrative in which the most capable ninja of a village is denoted as the region’s “hokage.” Featuring an armada of local collaborators like 10Millibang and Demahjiae, the production utilizes slowed down flutes, wavy basslines and video game samples to create an eclectic soundscape with overtones of Detroit drill music.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Of course, in 2020, 1100 Himself gave us \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://open.spotify.com/album/313g6vscYv8EBdW9fnknfM\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Funk Theft Auto\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">. Heavily inspired by the legendary video game\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">, the album oscillates from rags-to-riches anthems like “Throw It In The Bag” to a Bobby Caldwell-sampling ballad about loyalty, “Do For Love.” \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Like I said, 1100 Himself’s center point is hard to triangulate. But for nerds like me who appreciate a trippy orbit of weed-hazed whimsy, and for Bay Area mobb music aficionados who like to ride with tinted windows, he’s certainly providing a memorable soundtrack. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/s_V_ewvoGIc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/s_V_ewvoGIc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "8-over-80-terry-garthwaite",
"title": "Joy of Cooking’s Terry Garthwaite Broke Barriers in Rock — and Still Refuses to Be Defined",
"publishDate": 1695218410,
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"headTitle": "Joy of Cooking’s Terry Garthwaite Broke Barriers in Rock — and Still Refuses to Be Defined | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934932\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934932\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"an older white woman with curly white hair smiles while sitting in her living room and playing guitar\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Terry Garthwaite plays guitar at her home in San Geronimo on July 6, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]erry Garthwaite can’t remember every inane comment she’s received from a man who seemed threatened or confused by her. She’s 85, and after breaking molds for more than 50 years, there are just too many to count.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside tag='8over80' label='More 8 Over 80']Together with her friend Toni Brown, Garthwaite fronted Joy of Cooking, a seminal blues-rock band that offered something unheard of when it bubbled up out of Berkeley in the late ’60s: a mixed-gender band in which the women wrote the songs, sang and played the lead instruments. The group released three albums on Capitol Records in the early ’70s, after which Garthwaite forged a career as an independent singer, guitarist, composer, producer and teacher, with more than \u003ca href=\"https://www.allmusic.com/artist/terry-garthwaite-mn0000023631/credits\">100 credits to her name\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Garthwaite can cite a few memorable slights — like the time, circa 1970, when she went to a guitar shop to buy strings, and a guy who had been to a Joy of Cooking show approached her. “He said, ‘If I close my eyes and forget that there are women in the band, it sounds really good,’” recalls the musician, with a hint of bemusement. “And that was, in a nutshell, the perspective. Same thing with the bloody record companies.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seated in the front room of her tiny wooden cottage in San Geronimo, where she’s lived since 1971 — that’s Marin County, 10 minutes east of Samuel P. Taylor State Park — Garthwaite speaks in a low, measured voice, with a hint of the rasp that earned her comparisons to Janis Joplin. Her demeanor is gentle but straightforward, with a sharp wit and very little tolerance for bullshit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her Gibson six-string guitar is propped next to her, near a hand-painted marimba and a binder of news clippings about her music, including an Annie Leibovitz photo of Joy of Cooking. The 1979 edition of \u003cem>The Rolling Stone Record Guide\u003c/em> sits alongside Garthwaite’s self-published song books, like \u003cem>Verbal Remedies: Songs to Soothe the Spirit\u003c/em>. Crystals line the windowsills. Two diplomas advertise Garthwaite’s bachelor’s in sociology from UC Berkeley (1965) and her certification from Joy Gardner-Gordon’s Vibrational Healing Program (2001). Only the latter is framed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So,” she says. “You wanted to ask me some questions?”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The tough rock singer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Terry Garthwaite’s first love was the blues. A true child of Berkeley — her grandfather was a sea captain who settled in North Berkeley, and all her aunts and uncles lived nearby — Garthwaite grew up at the corner of Scenic and Vine, in a house where she and her two brothers’ creativity was encouraged. Their father was an illustrator who also played violin, self-published poetry books and belonged to the Bohemian Club; their mother was a dancer and ballet teacher. They gave their daughter her first guitar, a Martin acoustic six-string, when she was 14.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931521\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931521\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A wrinkled hand holds a photo showing a person holding a guitar.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Garthwaite holds a photo of her younger self. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She was drawn to bluesmen like Leadbelly, Blind Willie Johnson, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. Pops Staples from the Staple Singers was especially influential in her guitar playing, says Garthwaite. “And I still think of Mavis Staples as being my mentor. I never met her, but I just loved her style.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While she completed her degree at Cal, the clubs and coffeehouses of ’60s Berkeley provided the rest of Garthwaite’s education. She met singer-songwriter Toni Brown at a house party in 1967: Brown sat down to play the piano, Garthwaite picked up her guitar, and the alchemy was instantaneous. “I liked her writing and she liked my singing,” says Garthwaite. “So we decided to get together and experiment.” They recruited a three-person rhythm section that included Garthwaite’s younger brother, David, on bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1969, Joy of Cooking had a weekly gig at \u003ca href=\"http://jerrygarciasbrokendownpalaces.blogspot.com/2012/06/mandrakes-1048-university-avenue.html\">Mandrake’s\u003c/a>, a club at the corner of 10th and University that hosted B.B. King, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker and Big Mama Thornton. On stage, Garthwaite and Brown refined their salty-sweet vocal dynamic, performing adventurous songs with driving, danceable rhythms and feminist themes woven subtly throughout the lyrics. For a time, it seemed Joy of Cooking was the house band not just for Mandrake’s but for Berkeley: They were the entertainment at People’s Park on the storied day in 1969 when the neighborhood hippies first came together to plant trees and construct a playground there, kicking off an idyllic few weeks before the University \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13917145/a-brief-history-battle-peoples-park-berkeley-protests\">tried to take it back\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PcsCAfZ6RA\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">p\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nWithin a year, Bill Graham was booking the band at the Fillmore West and Winterland Ballroom, opening for the likes of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Joy of Cooking also shared stages with the Band, Santana, Pete Seeger, Allen Ginsberg, an early version of Jefferson Airplane (“it was at a little club in San Francisco called the Matrix, we got paid $11”) and Janis Joplin — who reportedly felt competitive with Joy of Cooking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think we were a threat to her. Somebody told me that: that \u003cem>I\u003c/em> was a threat to her,” says Garthwaite. “Which I was not. But Joy of Cooking was an up-and-coming band.” She shrugs. “Too much attention.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That dynamic speaks to the sexism of the time: for women musicians, there really was only a sliver of attention — and money, and festival slots, and airtime — to go around. Garthwaite remembers being on tour after Joy of Cooking released its self-titled debut LP in 1971, and doing a promotional stop at a radio station. “The DJ said, ‘Oh, we already played our limit of women for the day,’” recalls Garthwaite. “There was a quota.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931524\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931524\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"An array of magazine and newspaper clippings spread out across a table top and featuring Terry Garthwaite.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An article in ‘TIME,’ featuring an Annie Leibovitz photo of Joy of Cooking (originally published in ‘Rolling Stone’) from Garthwaite’s collection of clippings about the band. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A 1971 \u003ca href=\"https://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,904986,00.html\">\u003cem>TIME\u003c/em> magazine article\u003c/a> (headline: “Female Rock”) further illustrates the prevailing attitude of the era. A Detroit group called Pride of Women is described as “four leggy but irate girls” who make music that’s “ferociously antimale.” Of L.A.’s all-female rock band Fanny: “The sound is not impressive. But the sight of four young girls making rock-’n’-roll music is still a novelty, and the girls have been able to start a tour.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Joy of Cooking fares the best here, with a positive (albeit patronizing) blurb: “The one outfit so far that can compete with top-level male band quality is Joy of Cooking, and it is only partly female,” it reads, describing Garthwaite as “a tough rock singer” and Brown as “a pretty Bennington graduate … [who] writes songs about what it is like to be a woman.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It remains to be seen,” the piece concludes, “if the male-dominated world of rock music is really ready for Women’s Lib.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘I don’t put myself in a bin’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Garthwaite doesn’t seem bitter about what she experienced in those years: the misogyny, the pigeonholing, the condescension. But there’s no denying that she’s spent the decades since Joy of Cooking disbanded consciously turning away from the commercially oriented, capital-I industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13926121']She has defined herself, instead, by following her passions — and by refusing to be defined.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t classify myself,” she says. “I don’t put myself in a bin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This attitude permeates both her personal life and her work: She’s had relationships with women and men, but declines to put a name on it; she’s always been adjacent to Berkeley’s lesbian folk scene and the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2020/06/17/877383217/love-in-abundance-a-guide-to-womens-music\">women’s music\u003c/a> community, but not strictly part of it. She has skirted jazz, spoken word, New Age music, protest songs. When she watches TV here at her cottage, she’s fascinated by \u003cem>The Voice\u003c/em>. But she also worries about the contestants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These young people so badly want to win, and they want to go on the road and they want to, you know, be with the record company,” she says. “And I just hope that they can maintain a sense of their own integrity and not get shoved around by the industry. Because the industry wants to put you in pockets. I never wanted to be in somebody’s pocket.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQZmBYcWpgM\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">p\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nHer post-Joy of Cooking resume illustrates that handily: notable entries include a half-dozen solo records; two full-length collaborations with former bandmate Toni Brown; and touring in the ’80s as part of a \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>-noted \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1982/10/01/books/3-women-make-jazz-poetry-and-folk-go-together.html\">jazz/folk/poetry trio\u003c/a> with Bobbie Louise Hawkins and Rosalie Sorrels (including a live album recorded at the Great American Music Hall).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it was her son Sasha’s birth in 1976 that sparked the most dramatic change in her music. “I started writing lullabies for him while we were still in the hospital,” she says, her voice tender at the memory. Nearly 50 years later, some of those songs exist as sheet music taught to school kids across the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Drawn to the power of short, mantra-like rhymes, Garthwaite began writing what she calls “spirit jingles” and “affirhythms.” She got into crystals, then vibrational healing, which involves using color, light and sound to treat physical ailments. She started self-publishing her songbooks and leading singing circles; one group of students has been with her weekly now for 20 years. At the time of our interview, she’s preparing for her 17th year co-leading a singing retreat for more than 50 women at a spiritual center north of Santa Fe. By all accounts, she’s a natural teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934994\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934994\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1.jpg\" alt=\"a young white woman in a blue sweater hugs an older white woman in a teal sweater, in front of leafy green trees\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Oona and Terry Garthwaite at Terry’s 80th birthday celebration in Samuel P. Taylor State Park, 2018. As a working musician, Oona says her path was indelibly shaped by her aunt’s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Oona Garthwaite)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A legacy of joy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“One of my earliest memories is being at her house when I was maybe six, and she was doing a little singing group for kids,” recalls Oakland songwriter and musician \u003ca href=\"https://oona.bandcamp.com/\">Oona Garthwaite\u003c/a>, whose father is Terry’s brother David, the bass player. She grew up close by, in rural Marin County, thinking all grown-ups were musicians.[aside postid='arts_13914014']“It was partly learning to sing in harmony, and she taught us some of her chants. But then our homework was, like, to make percussion instruments out of Tupperware,” she says. (Terry makes her own percussion instruments by scouring thrift stores for pots and pans, then attaching the lids to beams of wood.) “She was the first person I ever knew doing 8-track recording at home. It was all about the delight of exploration, experimentation, following things that were interesting to you, no matter what.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the main thing her aunt taught her, says Oona, was to take up space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Especially as a young woman, when you say ‘Yeah, I’m an artist,’ with a certain kind of confidence, people look at you sideways. Like, ‘Who are you to be so sure of yourself?,’” she says. She remembers being at the Fillmore as a kid during a Joy of Cooking reunion show, realizing how many fans they had — and seeing that the people who raised her were there on the wall in the poster room alongside Otis Redding and Aretha Franklin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934925\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934925\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"A person props up a framed graphic poster for the band Joy of Cooking next to another framed poster\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Band posters from Joy of Cooking shows sit on the floor of Garthwaite’s home. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I think my family history gave me this sense of belonging … like I had a right to be there. Even though I grew up on a dirt road, as far away from the industry as you can get, I didn’t have to prove myself as worthy of the music community. It was my birthright.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lately, Oona has been helping Terry with digitally mastering her catalog; her niece wants to make sure nothing gets lost to the temporality of vinyl and tape. New generations are discovering Garthwaite’s music all the time, after all: When she got a sync request last year from HBO — the network wanted to use the Joy of Cooking song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93BXClbUgFE\">Three-Day Loser\u003c/a>” for authentic ’70s music in the show \u003cem>Minx\u003c/em> — Capitol finally put Joy of Cooking’s entire catalog up on streaming sites.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhG8I8SHZs4\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">p\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nThe HBO paycheck was nice. But Garthwaite isn’t particularly consumed with business these days. She’s deciding what songs she wants to teach at circle next week, and which board games she’s going to play with her grandkids this weekend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She has also begun to think about her legacy a bit, especially as some of her friends have passed away: Toni Brown, who lived nearby in Woodacre, died last August after a long illness. “That was a blessing that she finally went,” Garthwaite says softly, “because she wasn’t happy being here anymore.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934926\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934926\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"And older woman with short, curly gray hair smiles in leafy yard, one hand on wooden railing\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Terry Garthwaite stands in her yard in San Geronimo. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Garthwaite wants to be here. She plans to write, sing and play guitar into her 100s, as long as her body keeps up with her. She’s penning a memoir; chapter titles include “Surrounded by Light” and “Sing Yourself Happy.” And she finds herself more focused than ever on making music that gives people hope. Asked what gives \u003cem>her\u003c/em> hope, she lists names: Rachel Maddow. Sonia Sotomayor. Dolly Parton. Greta Thunberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She has no regrets. Advice she would give her younger self? She thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Probably not to fret,” she says. “Don’t worry so much. Do it your way, you know? If you don’t follow your heart, who will?”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "Joy of Cooking’s Frontwoman Terry Garthwaite Is Still Rocking | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934932\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934932\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"an older white woman with curly white hair smiles while sitting in her living room and playing guitar\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-13-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Terry Garthwaite plays guitar at her home in San Geronimo on July 6, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>erry Garthwaite can’t remember every inane comment she’s received from a man who seemed threatened or confused by her. She’s 85, and after breaking molds for more than 50 years, there are just too many to count.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Together with her friend Toni Brown, Garthwaite fronted Joy of Cooking, a seminal blues-rock band that offered something unheard of when it bubbled up out of Berkeley in the late ’60s: a mixed-gender band in which the women wrote the songs, sang and played the lead instruments. The group released three albums on Capitol Records in the early ’70s, after which Garthwaite forged a career as an independent singer, guitarist, composer, producer and teacher, with more than \u003ca href=\"https://www.allmusic.com/artist/terry-garthwaite-mn0000023631/credits\">100 credits to her name\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Garthwaite can cite a few memorable slights — like the time, circa 1970, when she went to a guitar shop to buy strings, and a guy who had been to a Joy of Cooking show approached her. “He said, ‘If I close my eyes and forget that there are women in the band, it sounds really good,’” recalls the musician, with a hint of bemusement. “And that was, in a nutshell, the perspective. Same thing with the bloody record companies.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Seated in the front room of her tiny wooden cottage in San Geronimo, where she’s lived since 1971 — that’s Marin County, 10 minutes east of Samuel P. Taylor State Park — Garthwaite speaks in a low, measured voice, with a hint of the rasp that earned her comparisons to Janis Joplin. Her demeanor is gentle but straightforward, with a sharp wit and very little tolerance for bullshit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her Gibson six-string guitar is propped next to her, near a hand-painted marimba and a binder of news clippings about her music, including an Annie Leibovitz photo of Joy of Cooking. The 1979 edition of \u003cem>The Rolling Stone Record Guide\u003c/em> sits alongside Garthwaite’s self-published song books, like \u003cem>Verbal Remedies: Songs to Soothe the Spirit\u003c/em>. Crystals line the windowsills. Two diplomas advertise Garthwaite’s bachelor’s in sociology from UC Berkeley (1965) and her certification from Joy Gardner-Gordon’s Vibrational Healing Program (2001). Only the latter is framed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So,” she says. “You wanted to ask me some questions?”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The tough rock singer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Terry Garthwaite’s first love was the blues. A true child of Berkeley — her grandfather was a sea captain who settled in North Berkeley, and all her aunts and uncles lived nearby — Garthwaite grew up at the corner of Scenic and Vine, in a house where she and her two brothers’ creativity was encouraged. Their father was an illustrator who also played violin, self-published poetry books and belonged to the Bohemian Club; their mother was a dancer and ballet teacher. They gave their daughter her first guitar, a Martin acoustic six-string, when she was 14.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931521\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931521\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A wrinkled hand holds a photo showing a person holding a guitar.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66867_230706-TerryGarthwaite-04-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Garthwaite holds a photo of her younger self. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She was drawn to bluesmen like Leadbelly, Blind Willie Johnson, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. Pops Staples from the Staple Singers was especially influential in her guitar playing, says Garthwaite. “And I still think of Mavis Staples as being my mentor. I never met her, but I just loved her style.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While she completed her degree at Cal, the clubs and coffeehouses of ’60s Berkeley provided the rest of Garthwaite’s education. She met singer-songwriter Toni Brown at a house party in 1967: Brown sat down to play the piano, Garthwaite picked up her guitar, and the alchemy was instantaneous. “I liked her writing and she liked my singing,” says Garthwaite. “So we decided to get together and experiment.” They recruited a three-person rhythm section that included Garthwaite’s younger brother, David, on bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1969, Joy of Cooking had a weekly gig at \u003ca href=\"http://jerrygarciasbrokendownpalaces.blogspot.com/2012/06/mandrakes-1048-university-avenue.html\">Mandrake’s\u003c/a>, a club at the corner of 10th and University that hosted B.B. King, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker and Big Mama Thornton. On stage, Garthwaite and Brown refined their salty-sweet vocal dynamic, performing adventurous songs with driving, danceable rhythms and feminist themes woven subtly throughout the lyrics. For a time, it seemed Joy of Cooking was the house band not just for Mandrake’s but for Berkeley: They were the entertainment at People’s Park on the storied day in 1969 when the neighborhood hippies first came together to plant trees and construct a playground there, kicking off an idyllic few weeks before the University \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13917145/a-brief-history-battle-peoples-park-berkeley-protests\">tried to take it back\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/4PcsCAfZ6RA'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/4PcsCAfZ6RA'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">p\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nWithin a year, Bill Graham was booking the band at the Fillmore West and Winterland Ballroom, opening for the likes of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Joy of Cooking also shared stages with the Band, Santana, Pete Seeger, Allen Ginsberg, an early version of Jefferson Airplane (“it was at a little club in San Francisco called the Matrix, we got paid $11”) and Janis Joplin — who reportedly felt competitive with Joy of Cooking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think we were a threat to her. Somebody told me that: that \u003cem>I\u003c/em> was a threat to her,” says Garthwaite. “Which I was not. But Joy of Cooking was an up-and-coming band.” She shrugs. “Too much attention.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That dynamic speaks to the sexism of the time: for women musicians, there really was only a sliver of attention — and money, and festival slots, and airtime — to go around. Garthwaite remembers being on tour after Joy of Cooking released its self-titled debut LP in 1971, and doing a promotional stop at a radio station. “The DJ said, ‘Oh, we already played our limit of women for the day,’” recalls Garthwaite. “There was a quota.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931524\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931524\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"An array of magazine and newspaper clippings spread out across a table top and featuring Terry Garthwaite.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66887_230706-TerryGarthwaite-33-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An article in ‘TIME,’ featuring an Annie Leibovitz photo of Joy of Cooking (originally published in ‘Rolling Stone’) from Garthwaite’s collection of clippings about the band. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A 1971 \u003ca href=\"https://content.time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,904986,00.html\">\u003cem>TIME\u003c/em> magazine article\u003c/a> (headline: “Female Rock”) further illustrates the prevailing attitude of the era. A Detroit group called Pride of Women is described as “four leggy but irate girls” who make music that’s “ferociously antimale.” Of L.A.’s all-female rock band Fanny: “The sound is not impressive. But the sight of four young girls making rock-’n’-roll music is still a novelty, and the girls have been able to start a tour.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Joy of Cooking fares the best here, with a positive (albeit patronizing) blurb: “The one outfit so far that can compete with top-level male band quality is Joy of Cooking, and it is only partly female,” it reads, describing Garthwaite as “a tough rock singer” and Brown as “a pretty Bennington graduate … [who] writes songs about what it is like to be a woman.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It remains to be seen,” the piece concludes, “if the male-dominated world of rock music is really ready for Women’s Lib.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘I don’t put myself in a bin’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Garthwaite doesn’t seem bitter about what she experienced in those years: the misogyny, the pigeonholing, the condescension. But there’s no denying that she’s spent the decades since Joy of Cooking disbanded consciously turning away from the commercially oriented, capital-I industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>She has defined herself, instead, by following her passions — and by refusing to be defined.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I don’t classify myself,” she says. “I don’t put myself in a bin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This attitude permeates both her personal life and her work: She’s had relationships with women and men, but declines to put a name on it; she’s always been adjacent to Berkeley’s lesbian folk scene and the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2020/06/17/877383217/love-in-abundance-a-guide-to-womens-music\">women’s music\u003c/a> community, but not strictly part of it. She has skirted jazz, spoken word, New Age music, protest songs. When she watches TV here at her cottage, she’s fascinated by \u003cem>The Voice\u003c/em>. But she also worries about the contestants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These young people so badly want to win, and they want to go on the road and they want to, you know, be with the record company,” she says. “And I just hope that they can maintain a sense of their own integrity and not get shoved around by the industry. Because the industry wants to put you in pockets. I never wanted to be in somebody’s pocket.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/cQZmBYcWpgM'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/cQZmBYcWpgM'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">p\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nHer post-Joy of Cooking resume illustrates that handily: notable entries include a half-dozen solo records; two full-length collaborations with former bandmate Toni Brown; and touring in the ’80s as part of a \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>-noted \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1982/10/01/books/3-women-make-jazz-poetry-and-folk-go-together.html\">jazz/folk/poetry trio\u003c/a> with Bobbie Louise Hawkins and Rosalie Sorrels (including a live album recorded at the Great American Music Hall).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But it was her son Sasha’s birth in 1976 that sparked the most dramatic change in her music. “I started writing lullabies for him while we were still in the hospital,” she says, her voice tender at the memory. Nearly 50 years later, some of those songs exist as sheet music taught to school kids across the country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Drawn to the power of short, mantra-like rhymes, Garthwaite began writing what she calls “spirit jingles” and “affirhythms.” She got into crystals, then vibrational healing, which involves using color, light and sound to treat physical ailments. She started self-publishing her songbooks and leading singing circles; one group of students has been with her weekly now for 20 years. At the time of our interview, she’s preparing for her 17th year co-leading a singing retreat for more than 50 women at a spiritual center north of Santa Fe. By all accounts, she’s a natural teacher.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934994\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934994\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1.jpg\" alt=\"a young white woman in a blue sweater hugs an older white woman in a teal sweater, in front of leafy green trees\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1.jpg 640w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/IMG_2304-1-160x120.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Oona and Terry Garthwaite at Terry’s 80th birthday celebration in Samuel P. Taylor State Park, 2018. As a working musician, Oona says her path was indelibly shaped by her aunt’s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Oona Garthwaite)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A legacy of joy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“One of my earliest memories is being at her house when I was maybe six, and she was doing a little singing group for kids,” recalls Oakland songwriter and musician \u003ca href=\"https://oona.bandcamp.com/\">Oona Garthwaite\u003c/a>, whose father is Terry’s brother David, the bass player. She grew up close by, in rural Marin County, thinking all grown-ups were musicians.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“It was partly learning to sing in harmony, and she taught us some of her chants. But then our homework was, like, to make percussion instruments out of Tupperware,” she says. (Terry makes her own percussion instruments by scouring thrift stores for pots and pans, then attaching the lids to beams of wood.) “She was the first person I ever knew doing 8-track recording at home. It was all about the delight of exploration, experimentation, following things that were interesting to you, no matter what.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the main thing her aunt taught her, says Oona, was to take up space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Especially as a young woman, when you say ‘Yeah, I’m an artist,’ with a certain kind of confidence, people look at you sideways. Like, ‘Who are you to be so sure of yourself?,’” she says. She remembers being at the Fillmore as a kid during a Joy of Cooking reunion show, realizing how many fans they had — and seeing that the people who raised her were there on the wall in the poster room alongside Otis Redding and Aretha Franklin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934925\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934925\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"A person props up a framed graphic poster for the band Joy of Cooking next to another framed poster\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-01-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Band posters from Joy of Cooking shows sit on the floor of Garthwaite’s home. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I think my family history gave me this sense of belonging … like I had a right to be there. Even though I grew up on a dirt road, as far away from the industry as you can get, I didn’t have to prove myself as worthy of the music community. It was my birthright.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lately, Oona has been helping Terry with digitally mastering her catalog; her niece wants to make sure nothing gets lost to the temporality of vinyl and tape. New generations are discovering Garthwaite’s music all the time, after all: When she got a sync request last year from HBO — the network wanted to use the Joy of Cooking song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93BXClbUgFE\">Three-Day Loser\u003c/a>” for authentic ’70s music in the show \u003cem>Minx\u003c/em> — Capitol finally put Joy of Cooking’s entire catalog up on streaming sites.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/JhG8I8SHZs4'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/JhG8I8SHZs4'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"color: #ffffff\">p\u003c/span>\u003cbr>\nThe HBO paycheck was nice. But Garthwaite isn’t particularly consumed with business these days. She’s deciding what songs she wants to teach at circle next week, and which board games she’s going to play with her grandkids this weekend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She has also begun to think about her legacy a bit, especially as some of her friends have passed away: Toni Brown, who lived nearby in Woodacre, died last August after a long illness. “That was a blessing that she finally went,” Garthwaite says softly, “because she wasn’t happy being here anymore.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934926\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934926\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"And older woman with short, curly gray hair smiles in leafy yard, one hand on wooden railing\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/230706-TerryGarthwaite-30-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Terry Garthwaite stands in her yard in San Geronimo. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Garthwaite wants to be here. She plans to write, sing and play guitar into her 100s, as long as her body keeps up with her. She’s penning a memoir; chapter titles include “Surrounded by Light” and “Sing Yourself Happy.” And she finds herself more focused than ever on making music that gives people hope. Asked what gives \u003cem>her\u003c/em> hope, she lists names: Rachel Maddow. Sonia Sotomayor. Dolly Parton. Greta Thunberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She has no regrets. Advice she would give her younger self? She thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Probably not to fret,” she says. “Don’t worry so much. Do it your way, you know? If you don’t follow your heart, who will?”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>After singer and guitarist \u003ca href=\"https://www.heydavidjames.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">David James\u003c/a> ran into his estranged father, Jesse James, in late ‘90s San Francisco, they met up at the St. John Coltrane Church on Divisadero Street to reconcile their relationship. But it wasn’t until after his father passed in 2005 that the musician learned the full extent of the elder James’s legacy in the city: In 1965, he founded \u003ca href=\"https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Mission_Rebels_in_Action\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Mission Rebels\u003c/a>, an organization that provided job training, educational opportunities and apprenticeships to impoverished youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On Sept. 22 and 24, David James and seven ensemble musicians will pay tribute to Jesse James — known to some as “the Rev” for his reputation as a street minister — in a multimedia performance titled \u003cem>Mission Rebel No. 1. \u003c/em>Accompanying projected images of his father and samples of his father’s voice, the music includes jazz, funk, classical and hip-hop, says James, adding that he formed the set from an intuitive and emotional place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In a weird way, it is a love letter to my dad,” says David James, of the performances at San Francisco’s Brava Theater and Palo Alto’s Mitchell Park Community Center. “I guess it’s me trying to understand him a little more.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934972\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 768px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson.jpeg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934972\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson.jpeg\" alt=\"a black and white photo of an older Black man using a wheelchair\" width=\"768\" height=\"1024\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson-160x213.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 768px) 100vw, 768px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘The Rev’ Jesse James, date unknown. \u003ccite>(Linda Wilson)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Each segment is based on a moment in Jesse James’ life. One is centered around his life in Harlem — before he moved to San Francisco in the ‘60s — and his experiences with addiction and incarceration as a Muslim man.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I realized that this person’s life is quite a story,” says his son.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='news_11906012']While David James grew up in the Mission and then West Oakland without his father, he found a love for music that he later learned was a part of his father’s life too. In one image featured in the performance, Jesse James, wearing a houndstooth blazer and large glasses, bellows into a microphone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>David James, meanwhile, sang as a kid, picked up multiple instruments, joined a band just out of high school and later played with Bay Area bands Spearhead, The Coup and the Afrofunk Experience. (He now plays with the band GPS, which in 2016 released the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/10879005/brian-andres-david-james-and-kneedelus-oh-my-3-new-albums-by-california-artists\">locally acclaimed album \u003cem>Billionaire Blues\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934973\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 715px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5.jpeg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5.jpeg\" alt=\"a Black man with long hair sits in a blue shirt and red pants, holding a guitar and smiling\" width=\"715\" height=\"732\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5.jpeg 715w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5-160x164.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 715px) 100vw, 715px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">David James says that learning about his late father’s work has been inspiring. \u003ccite>(Lenny Gonzalez)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Since embarking on this historical recovery of his father’s life and impact, James has been inspired by his findings. His father’s legacy in San Francisco, for example, lives on through \u003ca href=\"https://www.horizons-sf.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Horizons Unlimited\u003c/a>, a program that grew out of Mission Rebels and still serves young people of color in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s this ripple that he put out just through his life and talking to these kids,” says James, “which wound up becoming so much bigger.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cem>‘Mission Rebel No. 1’ \u003c/em>\u003cem>premieres at 8 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 22 at the Brava Theater (2789 24th St.) in San Francisco. \u003ca href=\"https://brava.my.salesforce-sites.com/ticket/#/instances/a0F2M00000MSo0WUAT\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Tickets here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A second performance takes place at 2 p.m. on Sunday, Sept. 24 at the Mitchell Park Community Center (3700 Middlefield Road) in Palo Alto. \u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/earthwise-welcomes-david-jamess-gps-mission-rebel-no-1-finding-reverend-j-tickets-601712878417\">Tickets here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>After singer and guitarist \u003ca href=\"https://www.heydavidjames.com/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">David James\u003c/a> ran into his estranged father, Jesse James, in late ‘90s San Francisco, they met up at the St. John Coltrane Church on Divisadero Street to reconcile their relationship. But it wasn’t until after his father passed in 2005 that the musician learned the full extent of the elder James’s legacy in the city: In 1965, he founded \u003ca href=\"https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Mission_Rebels_in_Action\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Mission Rebels\u003c/a>, an organization that provided job training, educational opportunities and apprenticeships to impoverished youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On Sept. 22 and 24, David James and seven ensemble musicians will pay tribute to Jesse James — known to some as “the Rev” for his reputation as a street minister — in a multimedia performance titled \u003cem>Mission Rebel No. 1. \u003c/em>Accompanying projected images of his father and samples of his father’s voice, the music includes jazz, funk, classical and hip-hop, says James, adding that he formed the set from an intuitive and emotional place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In a weird way, it is a love letter to my dad,” says David James, of the performances at San Francisco’s Brava Theater and Palo Alto’s Mitchell Park Community Center. “I guess it’s me trying to understand him a little more.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934972\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 768px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson.jpeg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934972\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson.jpeg\" alt=\"a black and white photo of an older Black man using a wheelchair\" width=\"768\" height=\"1024\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson.jpeg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Rev.-Jesse-James-by-Linda-Wilson-160x213.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 768px) 100vw, 768px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘The Rev’ Jesse James, date unknown. \u003ccite>(Linda Wilson)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Each segment is based on a moment in Jesse James’ life. One is centered around his life in Harlem — before he moved to San Francisco in the ‘60s — and his experiences with addiction and incarceration as a Muslim man.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I realized that this person’s life is quite a story,” says his son.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>While David James grew up in the Mission and then West Oakland without his father, he found a love for music that he later learned was a part of his father’s life too. In one image featured in the performance, Jesse James, wearing a houndstooth blazer and large glasses, bellows into a microphone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>David James, meanwhile, sang as a kid, picked up multiple instruments, joined a band just out of high school and later played with Bay Area bands Spearhead, The Coup and the Afrofunk Experience. (He now plays with the band GPS, which in 2016 released the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/10879005/brian-andres-david-james-and-kneedelus-oh-my-3-new-albums-by-california-artists\">locally acclaimed album \u003cem>Billionaire Blues\u003c/em>\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934973\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 715px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5.jpeg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934973\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5.jpeg\" alt=\"a Black man with long hair sits in a blue shirt and red pants, holding a guitar and smiling\" width=\"715\" height=\"732\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5.jpeg 715w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/David-James-by-Lenny-Gonzalez-5-160x164.jpeg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 715px) 100vw, 715px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">David James says that learning about his late father’s work has been inspiring. \u003ccite>(Lenny Gonzalez)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Since embarking on this historical recovery of his father’s life and impact, James has been inspired by his findings. His father’s legacy in San Francisco, for example, lives on through \u003ca href=\"https://www.horizons-sf.org/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Horizons Unlimited\u003c/a>, a program that grew out of Mission Rebels and still serves young people of color in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s this ripple that he put out just through his life and talking to these kids,” says James, “which wound up becoming so much bigger.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cem>‘Mission Rebel No. 1’ \u003c/em>\u003cem>premieres at 8 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 22 at the Brava Theater (2789 24th St.) in San Francisco. \u003ca href=\"https://brava.my.salesforce-sites.com/ticket/#/instances/a0F2M00000MSo0WUAT\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Tickets here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A second performance takes place at 2 p.m. on Sunday, Sept. 24 at the Mitchell Park Community Center (3700 Middlefield Road) in Palo Alto. \u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/earthwise-welcomes-david-jamess-gps-mission-rebel-no-1-finding-reverend-j-tickets-601712878417\">Tickets here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "How Anthropologist José Cuéllar Became Dr. Loco, the Last Pachuco",
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"headTitle": "How Anthropologist José Cuéllar Became Dr. Loco, the Last Pachuco | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934402\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-06-BL_COVER.jpg\" alt=\"An older man with white braids and glasses plays a saxophone in his home\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934402\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar, 82, plays the saxophone at his home in San Francisco on July 21, 2023. As a professor emeritus of Chicano studies at San Francisco State University, he has led a dual career as an academic and leader of Dr. Loco’s Rockin’ Jalapeño Band. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen José Cuéllar made his fateful trip to the crossroads it wasn’t to barter his soul. Rather, without much forethought he exchanged his life savings for a saxophone. While the post-World War II economy of San Antonio was booming he didn’t have any grand ambition in mind. But the deal he struck set him on a wending path to positions in some of the nation’s most vaunted universities, while eventually giving rise to his musical alter ego Dr. Loco, a patron saint of Chicano culture dubbed “the last pachuco” by legendary Mexican rockers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A groundbreaking anthropologist who spent two decades as chair and director of San Francisco State’s César E. Chavéz Institute for Public Policy, Cuéllar hasn’t just studied and documented Chicano culture. He’s embodied the creative frisson generated by cultural evolution as the leader of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/DrLoco4real/\">Rockin’ Jalapeño Band\u003c/a>, a vehicle through which he’s explored the verdant possibilities of Mexican American life and identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hP21Obro5oA\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Reflecting back, it seems to me that I’ve wanted to do things and planned things, but what I’ve done is not stuff I planned,” says Cuéllar, 82, from his house in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood. “I never really planned or felt ‘I want to go to Stanford.’ They called me. I thought I’d go back to San Diego State after a year.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The journey to teaching at Stanford University, where Dr. Loco first manifested in 1989, started as an impulse purchase when Cuéllar was a high school senior with a pocketful of cash. The money was intended as tuition for his first year in business college studying to be a draftsman. The plan was to follow his father, “who had bootstrapped his way into this gig by correspondence course,” Cuéllar says. “But there was a glass ceiling and he’d reached as high as a Mexican could go in that company doing aerial-topographical mapping. I was going to try it as a career.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934406\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934406\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-23-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"A hand holds a cell phone with a black and white photograph on it of a young man holding a clarinet and a saxophone, wearing a suit and sunglasses\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar holds a photo of himself at 18. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On his way to make the tuition deposit he passed a music store where a tenor saxophone in the window caught his eye. The price: $550. His wallet: $600. “Maybe it was destiny,” he says. “I went in and bought the sax and then walked around for a couple of hours thinking ‘What am I going to tell my pop?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside tag='8over80' label='More 8 Over 80']Realizing he had to face the music, Cuéllar sat down at a bus stop to head home. “As I’m waiting a car full of guys pulls up and there’s a guy who I knew was a sax player in the high school band I had been in,” he recalls. “He was surprised to see me with a sax. I said, ‘I just bought it and I want to learn how to play.’ He said, ‘Get in the car, we’re going to rehearsal.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though music has occasionally receded from his life, sometimes for long stretches, it’s served as a guiding light for Cuéllar. He got his start as a professional working around Texas in the Del-Kings, a mostly Chicano R&B band playing Junior Parker, Bobby “Blue” Bland, B.B. King and T-Bone Walker numbers along with some Five Satins-style doo-wop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A musically barren four-year stint in the Air Force that trained him as a dental technician could have sent him in a new direction, “but the cold reality of what it would take for a Mexican to be a dentist in Texas, as presented to me by my dentist,” made him rethink his ambitions and realize, “I really do want to be a musician,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934405\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934405\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-21-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"An older man with white braids and glasses holds a black-and-white picture of himself in sunglasses singing into a mic with a guitar hanging in front of him\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar holds a photo of himself playing music in the early 1990s at his home in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The birth of Dr. Loco\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>He spent much of the next decade performing in Las Vegas and Southern California, and along the way Cuéllar ended up keeping that belated date with higher education. Enrolling in Golden West College in Huntington Beach to study music, he was gradually politicized by the movement against American involvement in the Vietnam War. Transferring to Long Beach State in 1969, he arrived just as the rising Chicano movement, which was deeply entwined with anti-war protests, attained new visibility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Embracing the movement he turned his attention to his own community, eventually earning a PhD in anthropology from UCLA in 1977. He managed to keep his hand in music until then, but when Cuéllar accepted a tenure-track position at the University of Colorado at Boulder, it receded. “I couldn’t find anyone to play with in Colorado that I liked,” he says. “I wanted to get more involved in my academics too, so the horn went into the closet and stayed there until I got to Stanford in 1983.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Teaching Chicano studies and serving as senior ethnogerontologist at the School of Medicine, he was reunited with his saxophone when students urged him to put together a combo to play campus events. Thus was born the Corrido Boogie Band, a group that’s remembered mostly as Cuéllar’s introduction to the Bay Area music scene. They frequently backed the Chicano comedy troupe \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13875737/culture-clash-makes-america-still-great-again-at-berkeley-rep\">Culture Clash\u003c/a>, who always wondered what to call Cuéllar. The need for a stage moniker was answered while he was doing research on gang kids, cholos, in Tijuana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was standing there with a bunch of kids and this kid comes up and says ‘Is it true you’re a doctor?’ And I said ‘Yeah, I’m an anthropologist,’ but in Spanish its antropólogo, so he goes, ‘Dr. Loco.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934403\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934403\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-11-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"Four wide shelves with ceramic and wooden instruments densly arranged on them\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Flutes from Mexico and Central America line a book shelf in José Cuéllar’s San Francisco home. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The name stuck, and back at Stanford he transformed the Corrido Boogie Band into Dr. Loco’s Rockin’ Jalapeño Band in 1989. The group’s sound encompassed musical eras and idioms, merging old school New Orleans R&B, Afro Caribbean rhythms, Mexican rancheras and Tex-Mex soul. The interconnectedness of his two professions became apparent while he was doing research along the U.S.-Mexican border for his book, \u003cem>Tex Mex Saxo: The History and Heritage of El Saxofon in Tejano and Norteno Music\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Funded by a Rockefeller Gateways Fellowship, Cuéllar was looking for the differences between saxophone styles on both sides of the border. Besides the distinct roles the horn plays in each style — in Norteño the sax is a secondary voice while in Tejano it often plays lead — Cuéllar found that starting in the 1940s the saxophone was a primary avenue through which blues and jazz merged with Mexican music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Flaco Jiménez said ‘I love the sax because it begins to add the blues influence,’” he says. “It’s amazing how this African American influence has manifested itself in our music. In fact, that’s what starts to define and distinguish Chicano music. What you see is not the anglicization of the Mexican, it’s the Africanization of the Mexican. Intuitively I knew that, but it took this research to bring it home to me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Rockin’ Jalapeño Band makes his observation anything but academic on 1998’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/14399400-Dr-Locos-Rockin-Jalape%C3%B1o-Band-Barrio-Ritmos-Blues\">Barrio Ritmos & Blues\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, a cool, low-riding cruise through the various intersections of Chicano and African American culture. The album opens with “Pa’ Lo Que Vale,” a bilingual version of the Buffalo Springfield protest anthem “For What It’s Worth,” the first of a number of tunes that the band “pochocized” by mixing Spanish and English.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=43s46gohFjc\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The godfather of a sound confronts loss\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Dr. Loco’s sound and image made a particularly deep impression in Mexico City, where the hugely popular rock en español act \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maldita_Vecindad\">Maldita Vecindad\u003c/a> went on a quest to connect with him. They’d scored a major hit in 1991 with the song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRN6n9Wgq2Q\">Pachuco\u003c/a>” that celebrated the rebellious sartorial style of Mexican American young men exemplified by zoot suits. “They saw him as the last pachuco,” says Alameda producer Greg Landau, an eight-time Grammy Award nominee who’s worked with Dr. Loco since the ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We went to see them at Fillmore in 2007 and they saluted him from the stage, saying ‘Dr. Loco is here, our godfather,’ and hailed him for combining activism and music,” says Landau, who ended up flying down to Mexico City a week later to produce the Maldita Vecindad album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/6972266-Maldita-Vecindad-Circular-Colectivo\">Circular Colectivo\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Landau also got an up-close look at Cuéllar’s impact on students “who were in awe of him” during a sabbatical year when he filled in for him at SF State. “His presence and the way he presents himself, he makes students aware he’s Dr. Loco,” Landau says. “That’s part of the experience he’s teaching. How do you embody all of these things?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934404\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934404\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-15-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"An older man with white braids and glasses sits in a chair smiling, with one arm propped on his hip\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar, aka Dr. Loco, at home in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Cuéllar has been an emeritus professor at SF State since 2010, though he continues to teach, research and consult at various institutions. As a musician, he’s still easing back into performing after the pandemic and a bout with long COVID, working mostly with \u003ca href=\"https://www.thebernalbeat.com/\">The Bernal Beat\u003c/a>. For a man who’s gone from triumph to triumph without a game plan, Cuéllar’s work in gerontology has prepared him well for the inevitable toll of aging “and the losses that we deal with,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m looking at loss of relationships, mobility and space. I know the longer I live, the more I have to confront loss, including abilities,” he says. “How do we contend with that? Thinking musically, I realized when I wound up losing teeth that it became really difficult to form an embouchure. So I look at the guitar now, or keyboard, and started exploring other musical instruments. The more I lose, I try to build some things to replace relationships and abilities.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "How Anthropologist José Cuéllar Became the Sax Playing Dr. Loco | KQED",
"description": "Cuéllar hasn’t just studied Chicano culture, he embodies its creative possibilities as a saxophonist and band leader.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934402\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-06-BL_COVER.jpg\" alt=\"An older man with white braids and glasses plays a saxophone in his home\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934402\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67183_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-06-BL_COVER-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar, 82, plays the saxophone at his home in San Francisco on July 21, 2023. As a professor emeritus of Chicano studies at San Francisco State University, he has led a dual career as an academic and leader of Dr. Loco’s Rockin’ Jalapeño Band. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">W\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>hen José Cuéllar made his fateful trip to the crossroads it wasn’t to barter his soul. Rather, without much forethought he exchanged his life savings for a saxophone. While the post-World War II economy of San Antonio was booming he didn’t have any grand ambition in mind. But the deal he struck set him on a wending path to positions in some of the nation’s most vaunted universities, while eventually giving rise to his musical alter ego Dr. Loco, a patron saint of Chicano culture dubbed “the last pachuco” by legendary Mexican rockers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A groundbreaking anthropologist who spent two decades as chair and director of San Francisco State’s César E. Chavéz Institute for Public Policy, Cuéllar hasn’t just studied and documented Chicano culture. He’s embodied the creative frisson generated by cultural evolution as the leader of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/DrLoco4real/\">Rockin’ Jalapeño Band\u003c/a>, a vehicle through which he’s explored the verdant possibilities of Mexican American life and identity.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/hP21Obro5oA'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/hP21Obro5oA'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Reflecting back, it seems to me that I’ve wanted to do things and planned things, but what I’ve done is not stuff I planned,” says Cuéllar, 82, from his house in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood. “I never really planned or felt ‘I want to go to Stanford.’ They called me. I thought I’d go back to San Diego State after a year.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The journey to teaching at Stanford University, where Dr. Loco first manifested in 1989, started as an impulse purchase when Cuéllar was a high school senior with a pocketful of cash. The money was intended as tuition for his first year in business college studying to be a draftsman. The plan was to follow his father, “who had bootstrapped his way into this gig by correspondence course,” Cuéllar says. “But there was a glass ceiling and he’d reached as high as a Mexican could go in that company doing aerial-topographical mapping. I was going to try it as a career.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934406\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934406\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-23-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"A hand holds a cell phone with a black and white photograph on it of a young man holding a clarinet and a saxophone, wearing a suit and sunglasses\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67201_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-23-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar holds a photo of himself at 18. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>On his way to make the tuition deposit he passed a music store where a tenor saxophone in the window caught his eye. The price: $550. His wallet: $600. “Maybe it was destiny,” he says. “I went in and bought the sax and then walked around for a couple of hours thinking ‘What am I going to tell my pop?’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Realizing he had to face the music, Cuéllar sat down at a bus stop to head home. “As I’m waiting a car full of guys pulls up and there’s a guy who I knew was a sax player in the high school band I had been in,” he recalls. “He was surprised to see me with a sax. I said, ‘I just bought it and I want to learn how to play.’ He said, ‘Get in the car, we’re going to rehearsal.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though music has occasionally receded from his life, sometimes for long stretches, it’s served as a guiding light for Cuéllar. He got his start as a professional working around Texas in the Del-Kings, a mostly Chicano R&B band playing Junior Parker, Bobby “Blue” Bland, B.B. King and T-Bone Walker numbers along with some Five Satins-style doo-wop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A musically barren four-year stint in the Air Force that trained him as a dental technician could have sent him in a new direction, “but the cold reality of what it would take for a Mexican to be a dentist in Texas, as presented to me by my dentist,” made him rethink his ambitions and realize, “I really do want to be a musician,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934405\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934405\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-21-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"An older man with white braids and glasses holds a black-and-white picture of himself in sunglasses singing into a mic with a guitar hanging in front of him\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67199_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-21-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar holds a photo of himself playing music in the early 1990s at his home in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The birth of Dr. Loco\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>He spent much of the next decade performing in Las Vegas and Southern California, and along the way Cuéllar ended up keeping that belated date with higher education. Enrolling in Golden West College in Huntington Beach to study music, he was gradually politicized by the movement against American involvement in the Vietnam War. Transferring to Long Beach State in 1969, he arrived just as the rising Chicano movement, which was deeply entwined with anti-war protests, attained new visibility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Embracing the movement he turned his attention to his own community, eventually earning a PhD in anthropology from UCLA in 1977. He managed to keep his hand in music until then, but when Cuéllar accepted a tenure-track position at the University of Colorado at Boulder, it receded. “I couldn’t find anyone to play with in Colorado that I liked,” he says. “I wanted to get more involved in my academics too, so the horn went into the closet and stayed there until I got to Stanford in 1983.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Teaching Chicano studies and serving as senior ethnogerontologist at the School of Medicine, he was reunited with his saxophone when students urged him to put together a combo to play campus events. Thus was born the Corrido Boogie Band, a group that’s remembered mostly as Cuéllar’s introduction to the Bay Area music scene. They frequently backed the Chicano comedy troupe \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13875737/culture-clash-makes-america-still-great-again-at-berkeley-rep\">Culture Clash\u003c/a>, who always wondered what to call Cuéllar. The need for a stage moniker was answered while he was doing research on gang kids, cholos, in Tijuana.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was standing there with a bunch of kids and this kid comes up and says ‘Is it true you’re a doctor?’ And I said ‘Yeah, I’m an anthropologist,’ but in Spanish its antropólogo, so he goes, ‘Dr. Loco.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934403\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934403\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-11-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"Four wide shelves with ceramic and wooden instruments densly arranged on them\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67191_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-11-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Flutes from Mexico and Central America line a book shelf in José Cuéllar’s San Francisco home. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The name stuck, and back at Stanford he transformed the Corrido Boogie Band into Dr. Loco’s Rockin’ Jalapeño Band in 1989. The group’s sound encompassed musical eras and idioms, merging old school New Orleans R&B, Afro Caribbean rhythms, Mexican rancheras and Tex-Mex soul. The interconnectedness of his two professions became apparent while he was doing research along the U.S.-Mexican border for his book, \u003cem>Tex Mex Saxo: The History and Heritage of El Saxofon in Tejano and Norteno Music\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Funded by a Rockefeller Gateways Fellowship, Cuéllar was looking for the differences between saxophone styles on both sides of the border. Besides the distinct roles the horn plays in each style — in Norteño the sax is a secondary voice while in Tejano it often plays lead — Cuéllar found that starting in the 1940s the saxophone was a primary avenue through which blues and jazz merged with Mexican music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Flaco Jiménez said ‘I love the sax because it begins to add the blues influence,’” he says. “It’s amazing how this African American influence has manifested itself in our music. In fact, that’s what starts to define and distinguish Chicano music. What you see is not the anglicization of the Mexican, it’s the Africanization of the Mexican. Intuitively I knew that, but it took this research to bring it home to me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Rockin’ Jalapeño Band makes his observation anything but academic on 1998’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/14399400-Dr-Locos-Rockin-Jalape%C3%B1o-Band-Barrio-Ritmos-Blues\">Barrio Ritmos & Blues\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, a cool, low-riding cruise through the various intersections of Chicano and African American culture. The album opens with “Pa’ Lo Que Vale,” a bilingual version of the Buffalo Springfield protest anthem “For What It’s Worth,” the first of a number of tunes that the band “pochocized” by mixing Spanish and English.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/43s46gohFjc'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/43s46gohFjc'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The godfather of a sound confronts loss\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Dr. Loco’s sound and image made a particularly deep impression in Mexico City, where the hugely popular rock en español act \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maldita_Vecindad\">Maldita Vecindad\u003c/a> went on a quest to connect with him. They’d scored a major hit in 1991 with the song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRN6n9Wgq2Q\">Pachuco\u003c/a>” that celebrated the rebellious sartorial style of Mexican American young men exemplified by zoot suits. “They saw him as the last pachuco,” says Alameda producer Greg Landau, an eight-time Grammy Award nominee who’s worked with Dr. Loco since the ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We went to see them at Fillmore in 2007 and they saluted him from the stage, saying ‘Dr. Loco is here, our godfather,’ and hailed him for combining activism and music,” says Landau, who ended up flying down to Mexico City a week later to produce the Maldita Vecindad album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/6972266-Maldita-Vecindad-Circular-Colectivo\">Circular Colectivo\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Landau also got an up-close look at Cuéllar’s impact on students “who were in awe of him” during a sabbatical year when he filled in for him at SF State. “His presence and the way he presents himself, he makes students aware he’s Dr. Loco,” Landau says. “That’s part of the experience he’s teaching. How do you embody all of these things?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934404\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934404\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-Jose%CC%81Cue%CC%81llar8over80-15-BL_2000.jpg\" alt=\"An older man with white braids and glasses sits in a chair smiling, with one arm propped on his hip\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS67193_230721-JoséCuéllar8over80-15-BL_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">José Cuéllar, aka Dr. Loco, at home in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Cuéllar has been an emeritus professor at SF State since 2010, though he continues to teach, research and consult at various institutions. As a musician, he’s still easing back into performing after the pandemic and a bout with long COVID, working mostly with \u003ca href=\"https://www.thebernalbeat.com/\">The Bernal Beat\u003c/a>. For a man who’s gone from triumph to triumph without a game plan, Cuéllar’s work in gerontology has prepared him well for the inevitable toll of aging “and the losses that we deal with,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m looking at loss of relationships, mobility and space. I know the longer I live, the more I have to confront loss, including abilities,” he says. “How do we contend with that? Thinking musically, I realized when I wound up losing teeth that it became really difficult to form an embouchure. So I look at the guitar now, or keyboard, and started exploring other musical instruments. The more I lose, I try to build some things to replace relationships and abilities.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "8-over-80-vangie-buell",
"title": "After a Lifetime of Music and Activism, Vangie Buell’s Not Done Inspiring Others",
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"headTitle": "After a Lifetime of Music and Activism, Vangie Buell’s Not Done Inspiring Others | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934754\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934754\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg\" alt='An older woman in a pink shirt looks at a music stand and holds a guitar. The text \"8 over 80\" and \"Vangie Buell\" is overlaid' width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Filipina American activist and musician Evangeline “Vangie” Canonizado Buell, 91, plays guitar and sings during a hootenanny she helped organize at Piedmont Gardens senior living community in Oakland on May 24, 2023, a folk music performance with residents and staff. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he hootenanny has just begun at \u003ca href=\"https://www.humangood.org/piedmont-gardens\">Piedmont Gardens\u003c/a> senior living facility. The staff is handing out programs, flutes of champagne and sparkling apple cider, and trays of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. This folk music sing-along, which started in 2014, is the facility’s most popular event, drawing 90 or so attendees every month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside tag='8over80' label='More 8 Over 80']To the center right of stage, nearly hidden behind a music stand, is a Filipina American elder — a manang — with a guitar propped on her lap. It’s 91-year-old folk musician, author and longtime activist Evangeline “Vangie” Canonizado Buell, the maven responsible for bringing all these people together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The hootenanny had its start as a private jam session for three guitar-playing residents, but when Buell joined the group, people started stopping by and hanging out. “Why are we playing for ourselves?” Buell asked the other musicians. “We need to share this music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alongside her now are the six core hootenanny members, a mixture of residents and staff. One of them, Helen Rubardt, sang live with Buell on KPFA’s folk radio show “Midnight Special” in the ’60s and ’70s. They recently reconnected at Piedmont Gardens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Buell sings her solo, it reverberates clearly and deliberately through the garden, the result of decades of practice. The audience is hushed by the low timbre vibrato of her singing voice; her fingers strum the guitar strings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930190\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930190\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A room full of seniors sit in chairs arranged in rows and sing while reading lyrics from sheets of paper on their laps.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Residents sing and listen to folk music during a Piedmont Gardens hootenanny. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Vangie is such a role model for me, not just as a person and a woman, but I feel really grateful to have this special connection because we are also both Filipina,” says Jenevieve Francisco, the Piedmont Gardens’ lifestyle enrichment coordinator and co-conductor of the hootenanny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, if it weren’t for Buell, Francisco never would have met the members of her own three-part singing group, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thesampaguitas/\">The Sampaguitas\u003c/a>, named after the Philippines’ national flower. Buell invited the women to sing a Filipino song at a previous hootenanny; they formed an official group and continue to perform together today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lovely harmonies of The Sampaguitas are just one of the many examples her admirers point to when explaining Buell’s knack for bringing people together. Throughout her multifaceted career, Buell has encouraged Filipino Americans to share their stories as she does — through music, creative writing and the celebration of her own multicultural family.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Activism shaped by life experience\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>That family history starts long before Buell’s birth in 1932. Her grandfather, a Buffalo Soldier, fought in the Spanish-American war, then married and remained in the Philippines. During her childhood in West Oakland, music was a major part of Buell’s life; her father played in the U.S. Navy band and taught her and her sister to play the guitar and piano. Times were also hard: The incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II prompted families like Buell’s to wear buttons that read “loyal Filipino American” — an attempt to lessen some of the racism and discrimination they experienced.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930193\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930193\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A page in a family photo album shows images of a girl riding a horse and the same person as a young woman wearing a cap and gown and a formal dress. On the opposite page are photos of large groups of people.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photos of Vangie Buell in her memoir ‘25 Chickens and a Pig for a Bride.’ \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Buell graduated from McClymonds High School and went to San José State University, where she met an economics professor (and her future husband) named Hank Vilas. On the way back from their New Mexico honeymoon in 1952, the dangers facing their interracial marriage (Vilas was white) became clear when Buell was racially profiled and thrown in jail for suspected prostitution. Luckily, their marriage certificate secured her release.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She says her marriage to Vilas helped shape her life purpose. “He opened up a whole new world to me in terms of politics, culture,” she remembers fondly. “I feel like where I am, that path I took, I would not be there if I had not married Hank.” Five years and three kids into their marriage, Vilas came out as gay. They divorced, but stayed great friends and co-parents until he died of AIDS in 1985.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Buell became an activist for peace, civil rights and equality, using folk music as a cultural bridge and raising money for various causes in the process. Her name appears regularly in Bay Area newspapers in the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s as a supporting act at progressive events, including a 1960 dramatic program dealing with the “Institution of McCarthysim.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She remarried twice more. “I was very lucky I was married to three Irish Americans — not all at once!” she jokes about her husbands Bob Elkin and Bill Buell. Throughout, she juggled family and career, working at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1988/06/06/us/berkeley-journal-who-ll-sell-tofu-puffs-after-co-ops-are-gone.html\">Berkeley Co-Op\u003c/a> (at one time the largest and best-known food cooperative in the nation), UC Berkeley’s International House, teaching guitar and finishing up her undergraduate degree at the University of San Francisco. Her organizing work in Berkeley led to the proclamation of “Evangeline Canonizado Buell Day” in 2009, honoring her commitment to social justice and cultural understanding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even on a national stage, Buell stands out. In 2015, she and 175 other Filipino Americans were guests of President Obama for the White House’s first celebration of Filipino American History Month. It was a moment of recognition for her important work as a co-founder of the East Bay Chapter of the Filipino American National Historical Society (FAHNS), where she later served as president emeritus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930192\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930192\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Three seniors sit behind a piano, laughing and smiling.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vangie Buell and two fellow residents during a Piedmont Gardens hootenanny. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The bayanihan spirit\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It was only after I read \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.asiabookcenter.com/store/p223/Twenty-Five_Chickens_and_a_Pig_for_a_Bride%3A_Growing_up_in_a_Filipino_Immigrant_Family.html\">25 Chickens and a Pig for a Bride\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, her 2006 memoir, that I understood the full scope of Buell’s contributions to Filipino American culture (at least, what she got up to in her first 70 years). With photojournalist Minerva Amistoso, she’s currently writing a second memoir covering the next 20.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve gotten to know Buell (or Manang Vangie, as I call her) during hootenanny performances and lunches in the Piedmont Gardens dining room. There, she shares delicious soups, sandwiches and chocolate sundaes prepared by the staff, who always treat Buell like their own lola, or grandmother. The facility has around 60 employees of Filipino descent, including two of the cooks (“That’s why the food is so good,” she says). Being around her feels like being with my own lola, who I lost earlier this year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maybe that’s why she’s so special — not just because she brings people together, but because she represents how valuable Filipina women are to the diaspora. They are the sharers of food, music, culture, language and, most importantly, a bridge back home to the motherland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Women like Buell are not just kababayan (our countrymen), they are kababaihan, Women Who Get The Work Done, as defined in her title essay from the Filipino American anthology \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.asiabookcenter.com/store/p725/Seven_Card_Stud_and_Seven_Manangs_Wild%C2%A0%C2%A0%C2%A0_.html\">Seven Card Stud with Seven Manangs Wild\u003c/a>\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930191\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930191\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A senior citizen holding a guitar sits at in front of a microphone and speaks into it.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vangie Buell reads a poem during a Piedmont Gardens hootenanny. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Buell’s essay is dedicated to her own kababaihan, the collective made up of her step-grandmother Roberta’s friends who passed down culture through their scheduled poker games. They were the Filipino wives of Buffalo Soldiers, who had only these poker games, and each other, to survive in the United States, where rampant discrimination and sexism was directed against them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with poker strategy, Buell learned the concept of bayanihan through these games, when the manangs would purposely fold a winning hand to give their earnings to the one in most need that week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a lot of pride, so they would make sure that when they gave to each other, they had a way of doing it so that that person would accept the gift and not feel like they were indebted,” she says. She remembers how they cared for each other and the manong farmworkers, and how they protected each other in a Bay Area past that wasn’t always progressive and open-minded.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘It keeps inspiring’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As a first-generation Filipina American, Buell has experienced the melancholy feeling of “coming back home to the Philippines” as an adult. It was a place she had no personal memories of, but instead learned of through the stories of her parents and grandparents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During that trip, she remembers vast inequity: of seeing poor people on the streets while experiencing the privileges of being a U.S. citizen traveling abroad. It is a feeling that only people of our diaspora would know — and we both get emotional.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m getting teary-eyed because my parents never went back. I had to go back for them. I sobbed when I landed,” she says, between sniffles. “I miss them, I miss that generation so much.” We hold hands and take a moment to comfort each other over the din of the dining room. “I’m now the matriarch in the family, and I used to be the little one, you know.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934761\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934761\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg\" alt=\"An older woman in a pink shirt looks down at a grand piano in a sun-filled room with windows behind\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vangie Buell plays the piano at Piedmont Gardens. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Buell’s willingness to share her own past makes it easy for others to connect with her — it’s no wonder so many of us feel like she’s family. “There’s so much more to the elder community than meets the eye,” says Jenevieve Francisco of Piedmont Gardens. “Like any group of people that you don’t see a lot or interact with very much, it’s easy to generalize.” She cites a 93-year-old resident who just finished climbing Half Dome at Yosemite with his son and granddaughter, and Buell running the hootenannies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It makes sense that music would be the cornerstone of Buell’s activism, one that she practices every day on the grand piano of the Piedmont Gardens sky room. I’m lucky because she doesn’t play for just anyone, and I’m getting a personal concert from the maven herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What I like to do is to remember the work you do here, in trying to better your community here, it spreads out worldwide,” Buell says. “You inspire somebody else and it keeps inspiring. … I did it through my music.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934754\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934754\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg\" alt='An older woman in a pink shirt looks at a music stand and holds a guitar. The text \"8 over 80\" and \"Vangie Buell\" is overlaid' width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66065_017_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Filipina American activist and musician Evangeline “Vangie” Canonizado Buell, 91, plays guitar and sings during a hootenanny she helped organize at Piedmont Gardens senior living community in Oakland on May 24, 2023, a folk music performance with residents and staff. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>he hootenanny has just begun at \u003ca href=\"https://www.humangood.org/piedmont-gardens\">Piedmont Gardens\u003c/a> senior living facility. The staff is handing out programs, flutes of champagne and sparkling apple cider, and trays of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies. This folk music sing-along, which started in 2014, is the facility’s most popular event, drawing 90 or so attendees every month.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>To the center right of stage, nearly hidden behind a music stand, is a Filipina American elder — a manang — with a guitar propped on her lap. It’s 91-year-old folk musician, author and longtime activist Evangeline “Vangie” Canonizado Buell, the maven responsible for bringing all these people together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The hootenanny had its start as a private jam session for three guitar-playing residents, but when Buell joined the group, people started stopping by and hanging out. “Why are we playing for ourselves?” Buell asked the other musicians. “We need to share this music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alongside her now are the six core hootenanny members, a mixture of residents and staff. One of them, Helen Rubardt, sang live with Buell on KPFA’s folk radio show “Midnight Special” in the ’60s and ’70s. They recently reconnected at Piedmont Gardens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Buell sings her solo, it reverberates clearly and deliberately through the garden, the result of decades of practice. The audience is hushed by the low timbre vibrato of her singing voice; her fingers strum the guitar strings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930190\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930190\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A room full of seniors sit in chairs arranged in rows and sing while reading lyrics from sheets of paper on their laps.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66052_005_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Residents sing and listen to folk music during a Piedmont Gardens hootenanny. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Vangie is such a role model for me, not just as a person and a woman, but I feel really grateful to have this special connection because we are also both Filipina,” says Jenevieve Francisco, the Piedmont Gardens’ lifestyle enrichment coordinator and co-conductor of the hootenanny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, if it weren’t for Buell, Francisco never would have met the members of her own three-part singing group, \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/thesampaguitas/\">The Sampaguitas\u003c/a>, named after the Philippines’ national flower. Buell invited the women to sing a Filipino song at a previous hootenanny; they formed an official group and continue to perform together today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lovely harmonies of The Sampaguitas are just one of the many examples her admirers point to when explaining Buell’s knack for bringing people together. Throughout her multifaceted career, Buell has encouraged Filipino Americans to share their stories as she does — through music, creative writing and the celebration of her own multicultural family.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Activism shaped by life experience\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>That family history starts long before Buell’s birth in 1932. Her grandfather, a Buffalo Soldier, fought in the Spanish-American war, then married and remained in the Philippines. During her childhood in West Oakland, music was a major part of Buell’s life; her father played in the U.S. Navy band and taught her and her sister to play the guitar and piano. Times were also hard: The incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II prompted families like Buell’s to wear buttons that read “loyal Filipino American” — an attempt to lessen some of the racism and discrimination they experienced.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930193\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930193\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A page in a family photo album shows images of a girl riding a horse and the same person as a young woman wearing a cap and gown and a formal dress. On the opposite page are photos of large groups of people.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66068_023_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photos of Vangie Buell in her memoir ‘25 Chickens and a Pig for a Bride.’ \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Buell graduated from McClymonds High School and went to San José State University, where she met an economics professor (and her future husband) named Hank Vilas. On the way back from their New Mexico honeymoon in 1952, the dangers facing their interracial marriage (Vilas was white) became clear when Buell was racially profiled and thrown in jail for suspected prostitution. Luckily, their marriage certificate secured her release.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She says her marriage to Vilas helped shape her life purpose. “He opened up a whole new world to me in terms of politics, culture,” she remembers fondly. “I feel like where I am, that path I took, I would not be there if I had not married Hank.” Five years and three kids into their marriage, Vilas came out as gay. They divorced, but stayed great friends and co-parents until he died of AIDS in 1985.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Buell became an activist for peace, civil rights and equality, using folk music as a cultural bridge and raising money for various causes in the process. Her name appears regularly in Bay Area newspapers in the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s as a supporting act at progressive events, including a 1960 dramatic program dealing with the “Institution of McCarthysim.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She remarried twice more. “I was very lucky I was married to three Irish Americans — not all at once!” she jokes about her husbands Bob Elkin and Bill Buell. Throughout, she juggled family and career, working at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1988/06/06/us/berkeley-journal-who-ll-sell-tofu-puffs-after-co-ops-are-gone.html\">Berkeley Co-Op\u003c/a> (at one time the largest and best-known food cooperative in the nation), UC Berkeley’s International House, teaching guitar and finishing up her undergraduate degree at the University of San Francisco. Her organizing work in Berkeley led to the proclamation of “Evangeline Canonizado Buell Day” in 2009, honoring her commitment to social justice and cultural understanding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even on a national stage, Buell stands out. In 2015, she and 175 other Filipino Americans were guests of President Obama for the White House’s first celebration of Filipino American History Month. It was a moment of recognition for her important work as a co-founder of the East Bay Chapter of the Filipino American National Historical Society (FAHNS), where she later served as president emeritus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930192\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930192\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Three seniors sit behind a piano, laughing and smiling.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66061_013_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vangie Buell and two fellow residents during a Piedmont Gardens hootenanny. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The bayanihan spirit\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It was only after I read \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.asiabookcenter.com/store/p223/Twenty-Five_Chickens_and_a_Pig_for_a_Bride%3A_Growing_up_in_a_Filipino_Immigrant_Family.html\">25 Chickens and a Pig for a Bride\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, her 2006 memoir, that I understood the full scope of Buell’s contributions to Filipino American culture (at least, what she got up to in her first 70 years). With photojournalist Minerva Amistoso, she’s currently writing a second memoir covering the next 20.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve gotten to know Buell (or Manang Vangie, as I call her) during hootenanny performances and lunches in the Piedmont Gardens dining room. There, she shares delicious soups, sandwiches and chocolate sundaes prepared by the staff, who always treat Buell like their own lola, or grandmother. The facility has around 60 employees of Filipino descent, including two of the cooks (“That’s why the food is so good,” she says). Being around her feels like being with my own lola, who I lost earlier this year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maybe that’s why she’s so special — not just because she brings people together, but because she represents how valuable Filipina women are to the diaspora. They are the sharers of food, music, culture, language and, most importantly, a bridge back home to the motherland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Women like Buell are not just kababayan (our countrymen), they are kababaihan, Women Who Get The Work Done, as defined in her title essay from the Filipino American anthology \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.asiabookcenter.com/store/p725/Seven_Card_Stud_and_Seven_Manangs_Wild%C2%A0%C2%A0%C2%A0_.html\">Seven Card Stud with Seven Manangs Wild\u003c/a>\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13930191\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13930191\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A senior citizen holding a guitar sits at in front of a microphone and speaks into it.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/06/RS66054_003_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vangie Buell reads a poem during a Piedmont Gardens hootenanny. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Buell’s essay is dedicated to her own kababaihan, the collective made up of her step-grandmother Roberta’s friends who passed down culture through their scheduled poker games. They were the Filipino wives of Buffalo Soldiers, who had only these poker games, and each other, to survive in the United States, where rampant discrimination and sexism was directed against them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with poker strategy, Buell learned the concept of bayanihan through these games, when the manangs would purposely fold a winning hand to give their earnings to the one in most need that week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They had a lot of pride, so they would make sure that when they gave to each other, they had a way of doing it so that that person would accept the gift and not feel like they were indebted,” she says. She remembers how they cared for each other and the manong farmworkers, and how they protected each other in a Bay Area past that wasn’t always progressive and open-minded.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘It keeps inspiring’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As a first-generation Filipina American, Buell has experienced the melancholy feeling of “coming back home to the Philippines” as an adult. It was a place she had no personal memories of, but instead learned of through the stories of her parents and grandparents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During that trip, she remembers vast inequity: of seeing poor people on the streets while experiencing the privileges of being a U.S. citizen traveling abroad. It is a feeling that only people of our diaspora would know — and we both get emotional.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’m getting teary-eyed because my parents never went back. I had to go back for them. I sobbed when I landed,” she says, between sniffles. “I miss them, I miss that generation so much.” We hold hands and take a moment to comfort each other over the din of the dining room. “I’m now the matriarch in the family, and I used to be the little one, you know.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934761\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934761\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg\" alt=\"An older woman in a pink shirt looks down at a grand piano in a sun-filled room with windows behind\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/RS66067_021_KQEDArts_MusicianVangieBuell_05242023_2000-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vangie Buell plays the piano at Piedmont Gardens. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Buell’s willingness to share her own past makes it easy for others to connect with her — it’s no wonder so many of us feel like she’s family. “There’s so much more to the elder community than meets the eye,” says Jenevieve Francisco of Piedmont Gardens. “Like any group of people that you don’t see a lot or interact with very much, it’s easy to generalize.” She cites a 93-year-old resident who just finished climbing Half Dome at Yosemite with his son and granddaughter, and Buell running the hootenannies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It makes sense that music would be the cornerstone of Buell’s activism, one that she practices every day on the grand piano of the Piedmont Gardens sky room. I’m lucky because she doesn’t play for just anyone, and I’m getting a personal concert from the maven herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What I like to do is to remember the work you do here, in trying to better your community here, it spreads out worldwide,” Buell says. “You inspire somebody else and it keeps inspiring. … I did it through my music.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Meet Kimmie Fresh, Who Fired Back at Too Short With Her Own 'Freaky Tales' in 1988",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]B[/dropcap]efore the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925177/the-conscious-daughters-raps-sucka-free-thelma-and-louise-rewrote-the-rules\">Conscious Daughters\u003c/a>, before \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13906176/in-hip-hop-and-academia-mystic-defines-her-own-success-story\">Mystic\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13825052/kamaiyah-surprises-hayward-high-school-with-black-panther-tickets\">Kamaiyah\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13928057/alien-mac-kitty-cougnut-daughter-san-francisco-frisco-rap-legacy\">Alien Mac Kitty\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13917611/life-between-the-stages-lil-kayla-and-san-jose-jazz\">Lil Kayla\u003c/a>, there was Kimmie Fresh, one of the very first female rappers from the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She performed at local venues as large as the Henry J. Kaiser Auditorium and as small as Kesha’s Inn. She went on tour opening for Morris Day from The Time, and appeared on local TV. And, in 1988, she recorded the groundbreaking album \u003cem>The Real Freaky Tales: The Girls’ Story\u003c/em>, with its title track, a XXX-rated, woman-centric revenge fantasy response to Too Short’s “Freaky Tales.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13973907']But now, Kimmie Fresh is almost entirely forgotten. Her album is long out of print. She hasn’t been \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13934460/mayoral-proclamation-sheng-thao-women-hip-hop\">honored by the mayor\u003c/a> or \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CwBtpcjJFuj/\">inducted into a formal archive\u003c/a> like other women in hip-hop who came after her. Her name was in \u003cem>The Source\u003c/em> just once, in the background of a record store advertisement. No interviews with her exist online. For years, I wondered if I’d ever locate her at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I eventually caught up with Kimmie Fresh, this important early Bay Area hip-hop artist, it was at a place not far from where she made history in the 1980s: \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/kimmieskitchin/\">Kimmie’s Kitchin\u003c/a>, her soul food counter she now runs inside an East Oakland liquor store.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934701\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman in black tank top and apron holds a record album, and looks down on it reflectingly.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934701\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh today, holding a copy of ‘The Real Freaky Tales: The Girls’ Story.’ She remembers receiving royalty checks in amounts up to $16,000 for the album. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Turning the Tables With ‘The Real Freaky Tales’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To hear Kimmie Fresh tell it, “The Real Freaky Tales” started as a simple answer record, in the mold of Roxanne Shanté’s “Roxanne’s Revenge.” At 21, she heard Too Short’s exaggerated sexual braggadocio and simply turned the tables, firing back by writing an eight-minute song using the same girls’ names from his explicit street hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And instead of what he was doing to them,” she says of the song today, sitting at Kimmie’s Kitchin inside Two Star Market, “\u003cem>they\u003c/em> were doing to \u003cem>him\u003c/em>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJZ1hVfdBso\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In “The Real Freaky Tales,” Too Short is objectified. He’s used for cunnilingus by the women, and then pimped out by them. He’s thrown in a car trunk and driven to a house full of women who force him into sexually pleasing them at gunpoint. Against his will, he’s violated by a foreign object — and comes to enjoy it. He stops being a rapper and becomes a streetwalker. It was more than an answer record – in the hyper-masculine world of Oakland pimp rap, this was a wholesale murder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What did Too Short think when he heard it? “He laughed! When he heard the full song, he laughed,” says Kimmie Fresh. “And then he said, ‘We gon’ make some money.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even in the mid-’80s, Short knew the mutual benefit to be had from a public rap beef. He invited Kimmie to open for him at the Turf Club, at Golden Gate Fields in Albany, she recalls, “and the crowd just went crazy.” While he worked out a major-label deal for her with Jive Records, she recorded songs with affiliates of his \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-forms-dangerous-music\">Dangerous Music\u003c/a> label at Different Fur studios in San Francisco. At the time, no female rapper in the Bay Area had ever released a full album.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934697\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A group of Black teenagers in large jackets and faded jeans pose in front of a lake.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1908\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934697\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-800x596.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-1020x760.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-160x119.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-768x572.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-1536x1145.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-2048x1526.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-1920x1431.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The album cover photo for ‘The Real Freaky Tales’ was shot on the west shore of Lake Merritt. L-R: Rachel Deprizio, Paul Dancer, Kimmie Fresh, Donald Barrett, Ashley, and Tracie Edmonds.\u003cbr> \u003ccite>(Larry Henderson/75 Girls Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And then she got impatient. As the months dragged on, she ran into Dean Hodges, owner of the small local label \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#75-girls-records-formed\">75 Girls\u003c/a>, which his top-selling artist Too Short had just left. Hodges relished the idea of releasing a Too Short diss track. Having already started working with another young female rapper from Oakland named Cassidine, he offered to pay to re-record the songs and release a Kimmie Fresh album with the quickness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At her food counter, Kimmie Fresh pulls up \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/g0ybaf3Indo?si=-CyxkXTO2vGC01sO&t=1089\">vintage home video footage\u003c/a> on her iPad, rescued from a VHS tape bought at a garage sale, which captures the excitement of her 75 Girls deal. She and her friends shoot photos for the album at Lake Merritt and Eastmont Mall; MC Hammer even stops by and lends his support. They rehearse in her small living room on 75th Avenue, dancing and rapping in formation. They hold up a banner in the street advertising their four-city tour in the south opening for Morris Day and Pebbles, giddy with disbelief.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One person, though, didn’t appear too happy. On the back cover of his next LP, Too Short concluded his liner notes with a none-too-subtle message: “Kimmie Fresh, THANKS FOR NOTHING. Biiiiiiiitch!!!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934699\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 946px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man and Black woman pose for a selfie, smiling at the camera\" width=\"946\" height=\"960\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934699\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2.jpg 946w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2-800x812.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2-160x162.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2-768x779.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 946px) 100vw, 946px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short and Kimmie Fresh still see each other periodically. Of their sparring in the 1980s, which brought attention to both of them, ‘it was game recognize game,’ she says. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Kimmie Fresh)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Pimp Rap and the Crack Epidemic\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Remember the power of a public rap beef? These days, Short and Kimmie are cool, and still see each other periodically. Part of it may be because Kimmie Fresh was more than a novelty, but a genuinely fierce rapper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you can find a copy of \u003cem>The Real Freaky Tales\u003c/em> — now a collectors’ item that has sold for as much as $300 — you’ll hear a vivid portrait of Oakland in the 1980s. “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCSdG_187UY\">I Love My Microphone\u003c/a>” is a high-speed litany of boasts. “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vJFltVGDeg\">Tear the Roof Off\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyanRV2I2CU\">The Crowd Be Lovin’ Me\u003c/a>” take on challenges and pickup attempts from men, shouting out Jody Watley, Janet Jackson and women in Kimmie’s own crew from 75th Avenue.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DE0drk3Uk_U\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then there’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DE0drk3Uk_U\">Don’t Let That Be the Reason\u003c/a>,” which chronicles the rise and fall of a wealthy Mercedes Benz-driving player who gets hooked on crack and lands in jail. The judge asks him to snitch, but he refuses, even though his friends won’t bail him out. After prison, he loses everything, and watches old associates walk by while he sleeps in the gutter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we talk, Kimmie Fresh spontaneously raps these songs at the table, still in possession of her skills. The songs are personal for her, after all: “Don’t Let That Be the Reason” was a composite sketch of friends and family in East Oakland who fell victim to the crack epidemic, Kimmie says, nodding in reflection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That was many people I knew,” she says. “Many, many people I knew.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934694\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.RollerRink.jpg\" alt=\"A flyer for a concert, with block lettering\" width=\"720\" height=\"945\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934694\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.RollerRink.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.RollerRink-160x210.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh performed at various venues in the Bay Area, including the San Leandro Skating Rink. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Kimmie Fresh)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As for prostitution, Kimmie wasn’t the only young woman in the 1980s Bay Area rapping explicitly about sex. Cassidine’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xIfUjnJp5KM\">Secret Weapon\u003c/a>” was a graphic salute to prostitutes, some just 16 years old, working the strip on E. 14th Street, and a rebuke to their male customers. Under the group name Danger Zone, Barbie and Entice (who had been on “The Real Freaky Tales”) had the song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvMjOBASvbc\">Jailbait\u003c/a>,” a warning about predatory men to “all you girls out there who are under 18.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Both serve as a balance to the male-centric Bay Area pimp rap of the 1980s from Too Short and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike and Calvin T\u003c/a>. Kimmie herself came up around a lot of pimps: she mentions Frank the Bank, Gangsta Brown, even her own brothers. They all told her the same thing: “Don’t ever let a man treat you like we treat these hoes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So I’ve always been strong,” Kimmie says, matter-of-factly. “They instilled that in me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934703\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman in tank top and black apron and gold hoop earrings poses in an industrial kitchen, next to a range.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934703\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh, pictured at her soul food counter Kimmie’s Kitchin in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Life After Rap\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Strong or not, life finds a way of derailing rap careers. Motherhood, especially, took up Kimmie’s time and energy. She worked various jobs: at a bank, a pawn shop, Mervyn’s, a hair salon. At one point, she spent almost a year in jail for a setup, she says, when her boyfriend was accused of murder. (“It was something that he was accused of, and he tried to say that I was there,” she says, insisting that she was not. “I got my first royalty check, and then I almost lost my life.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934698\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 705px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.90s.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman in short hair and a Raiders starter jacket and watch crouches in a photo studio.\" width=\"705\" height=\"721\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934698\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.90s.jpg 705w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.90s-160x164.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 705px) 100vw, 705px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh in a promotional photo from the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Kimmie Fresh)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She moved to Las Vegas for a while, but after watching an ailing close friend, the rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PbWW_25Z7c\">Tee-Mail\u003c/a>, die of cancer back home in Oakland, “I was destroyed.” She decided to stay, sleeping on a friend’s couch. By then, the Town had largely forgotten about Kimmie Fresh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While D’Wayne Wiggins from Tony Toni Toné built her a cafe in his studio to start Kimmie’s Kitchin in 2019, and artists like Keak da Sneak, Mistah F.A.B. and Dru Down have all visited, the general public remains widely unaware of Kimmie Fresh. She’s often mistaken, she says, for a member of the Conscious Daughters or Oaktown’s 3.5.7. When she’s brought on stage with Too Short, the DJ inevitably plays “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfSYngzHOsY\">Don’t Fight the Feelin’\u003c/a>,” which features Barbie and Entice, and she’s expected to rap their verses, as if all women rappers are interchangeable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her music lives exclusively in fan-ripped uploads on YouTube. It hasn’t been put on streaming, or reissued on vinyl. Getting it on Spotify is something she’s working on, but her old label boss, Dean Hodges, sold the rights to the 75 Girls catalog in the 1990s, and last Kimmie’s heard, he’s living in a West Oakland homeless encampment. She’s lost touch with Cassidine, her old labelmate on 75 Girls. She doesn’t know where her old masters are, nor the recordings she made for Jive, so long ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934695\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1432px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont.jpg\" alt=\"A group of Black teenagers in large jackets and faded jeans dance in a parking lot.\" width=\"1432\" height=\"848\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934695\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont.jpg 1432w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-800x474.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-1020x604.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-768x455.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1432px) 100vw, 1432px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The photoshoot for ‘The Real Freaky Tales’ LP, in the parking lot of the Eastmont Mall. At one point in the day, MC Hammer stopped by. \u003ccite>(Larry Henderson/75 Girls Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Kimmie is happy to still be active at her counter, cooking dishes like oxtail tacos, shrimp and grits, and chicken and waffles. She’s especially proud of her family. There are stains on her apron and a cook’s burn marks on her forearms, right near her tattoos of her four son’s names. People come in from time to time to bring her old photos of a different life, 35 years ago, from back when she says rap was better and more fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of our interview, when presented with a cassette copy of \u003cem>The Real Freaky Tales\u003c/em>, she calls across the liquor store to summon an employee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Angel! Come over here… have you ever seen my album?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Kimmie Fresh appears live in conversation with KQED’s Nastia Voynovskaya as part of ‘Hip-Hop Herstory: Celebrating Bay Area Women’ on Thursday, Sept. 14, at The Commons at KQED. Also appearing are Tia Nomore, RyanNicole, Stoni and Alien Mac Kitty. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/event/3402\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>Editor’s note: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">B\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>efore the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925177/the-conscious-daughters-raps-sucka-free-thelma-and-louise-rewrote-the-rules\">Conscious Daughters\u003c/a>, before \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13906176/in-hip-hop-and-academia-mystic-defines-her-own-success-story\">Mystic\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13825052/kamaiyah-surprises-hayward-high-school-with-black-panther-tickets\">Kamaiyah\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13928057/alien-mac-kitty-cougnut-daughter-san-francisco-frisco-rap-legacy\">Alien Mac Kitty\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13917611/life-between-the-stages-lil-kayla-and-san-jose-jazz\">Lil Kayla\u003c/a>, there was Kimmie Fresh, one of the very first female rappers from the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She performed at local venues as large as the Henry J. Kaiser Auditorium and as small as Kesha’s Inn. She went on tour opening for Morris Day from The Time, and appeared on local TV. And, in 1988, she recorded the groundbreaking album \u003cem>The Real Freaky Tales: The Girls’ Story\u003c/em>, with its title track, a XXX-rated, woman-centric revenge fantasy response to Too Short’s “Freaky Tales.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>But now, Kimmie Fresh is almost entirely forgotten. Her album is long out of print. She hasn’t been \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13934460/mayoral-proclamation-sheng-thao-women-hip-hop\">honored by the mayor\u003c/a> or \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CwBtpcjJFuj/\">inducted into a formal archive\u003c/a> like other women in hip-hop who came after her. Her name was in \u003cem>The Source\u003c/em> just once, in the background of a record store advertisement. No interviews with her exist online. For years, I wondered if I’d ever locate her at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I eventually caught up with Kimmie Fresh, this important early Bay Area hip-hop artist, it was at a place not far from where she made history in the 1980s: \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/kimmieskitchin/\">Kimmie’s Kitchin\u003c/a>, her soul food counter she now runs inside an East Oakland liquor store.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934701\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman in black tank top and apron holds a record album, and looks down on it reflectingly.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934701\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.holdingalbum.web_-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh today, holding a copy of ‘The Real Freaky Tales: The Girls’ Story.’ She remembers receiving royalty checks in amounts up to $16,000 for the album. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Turning the Tables With ‘The Real Freaky Tales’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To hear Kimmie Fresh tell it, “The Real Freaky Tales” started as a simple answer record, in the mold of Roxanne Shanté’s “Roxanne’s Revenge.” At 21, she heard Too Short’s exaggerated sexual braggadocio and simply turned the tables, firing back by writing an eight-minute song using the same girls’ names from his explicit street hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And instead of what he was doing to them,” she says of the song today, sitting at Kimmie’s Kitchin inside Two Star Market, “\u003cem>they\u003c/em> were doing to \u003cem>him\u003c/em>.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/TJZ1hVfdBso'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/TJZ1hVfdBso'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>In “The Real Freaky Tales,” Too Short is objectified. He’s used for cunnilingus by the women, and then pimped out by them. He’s thrown in a car trunk and driven to a house full of women who force him into sexually pleasing them at gunpoint. Against his will, he’s violated by a foreign object — and comes to enjoy it. He stops being a rapper and becomes a streetwalker. It was more than an answer record – in the hyper-masculine world of Oakland pimp rap, this was a wholesale murder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What did Too Short think when he heard it? “He laughed! When he heard the full song, he laughed,” says Kimmie Fresh. “And then he said, ‘We gon’ make some money.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even in the mid-’80s, Short knew the mutual benefit to be had from a public rap beef. He invited Kimmie to open for him at the Turf Club, at Golden Gate Fields in Albany, she recalls, “and the crowd just went crazy.” While he worked out a major-label deal for her with Jive Records, she recorded songs with affiliates of his \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-forms-dangerous-music\">Dangerous Music\u003c/a> label at Different Fur studios in San Francisco. At the time, no female rapper in the Bay Area had ever released a full album.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934697\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A group of Black teenagers in large jackets and faded jeans pose in front of a lake.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1908\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934697\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-800x596.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-1020x760.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-160x119.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-768x572.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-1536x1145.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-2048x1526.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.AlbumCoverPhoto-1920x1431.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The album cover photo for ‘The Real Freaky Tales’ was shot on the west shore of Lake Merritt. L-R: Rachel Deprizio, Paul Dancer, Kimmie Fresh, Donald Barrett, Ashley, and Tracie Edmonds.\u003cbr> \u003ccite>(Larry Henderson/75 Girls Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And then she got impatient. As the months dragged on, she ran into Dean Hodges, owner of the small local label \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#75-girls-records-formed\">75 Girls\u003c/a>, which his top-selling artist Too Short had just left. Hodges relished the idea of releasing a Too Short diss track. Having already started working with another young female rapper from Oakland named Cassidine, he offered to pay to re-record the songs and release a Kimmie Fresh album with the quickness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At her food counter, Kimmie Fresh pulls up \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/live/g0ybaf3Indo?si=-CyxkXTO2vGC01sO&t=1089\">vintage home video footage\u003c/a> on her iPad, rescued from a VHS tape bought at a garage sale, which captures the excitement of her 75 Girls deal. She and her friends shoot photos for the album at Lake Merritt and Eastmont Mall; MC Hammer even stops by and lends his support. They rehearse in her small living room on 75th Avenue, dancing and rapping in formation. They hold up a banner in the street advertising their four-city tour in the south opening for Morris Day and Pebbles, giddy with disbelief.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One person, though, didn’t appear too happy. On the back cover of his next LP, Too Short concluded his liner notes with a none-too-subtle message: “Kimmie Fresh, THANKS FOR NOTHING. Biiiiiiiitch!!!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934699\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 946px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2.jpg\" alt=\"A Black man and Black woman pose for a selfie, smiling at the camera\" width=\"946\" height=\"960\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934699\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2.jpg 946w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2-800x812.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2-160x162.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Short_.2-768x779.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 946px) 100vw, 946px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short and Kimmie Fresh still see each other periodically. Of their sparring in the 1980s, which brought attention to both of them, ‘it was game recognize game,’ she says. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Kimmie Fresh)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Pimp Rap and the Crack Epidemic\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Remember the power of a public rap beef? These days, Short and Kimmie are cool, and still see each other periodically. Part of it may be because Kimmie Fresh was more than a novelty, but a genuinely fierce rapper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you can find a copy of \u003cem>The Real Freaky Tales\u003c/em> — now a collectors’ item that has sold for as much as $300 — you’ll hear a vivid portrait of Oakland in the 1980s. “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCSdG_187UY\">I Love My Microphone\u003c/a>” is a high-speed litany of boasts. “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vJFltVGDeg\">Tear the Roof Off\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyanRV2I2CU\">The Crowd Be Lovin’ Me\u003c/a>” take on challenges and pickup attempts from men, shouting out Jody Watley, Janet Jackson and women in Kimmie’s own crew from 75th Avenue.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/DE0drk3Uk_U'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/DE0drk3Uk_U'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Then there’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DE0drk3Uk_U\">Don’t Let That Be the Reason\u003c/a>,” which chronicles the rise and fall of a wealthy Mercedes Benz-driving player who gets hooked on crack and lands in jail. The judge asks him to snitch, but he refuses, even though his friends won’t bail him out. After prison, he loses everything, and watches old associates walk by while he sleeps in the gutter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we talk, Kimmie Fresh spontaneously raps these songs at the table, still in possession of her skills. The songs are personal for her, after all: “Don’t Let That Be the Reason” was a composite sketch of friends and family in East Oakland who fell victim to the crack epidemic, Kimmie says, nodding in reflection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That was many people I knew,” she says. “Many, many people I knew.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934694\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 720px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.RollerRink.jpg\" alt=\"A flyer for a concert, with block lettering\" width=\"720\" height=\"945\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934694\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.RollerRink.jpg 720w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.RollerRink-160x210.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 720px) 100vw, 720px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh performed at various venues in the Bay Area, including the San Leandro Skating Rink. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Kimmie Fresh)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As for prostitution, Kimmie wasn’t the only young woman in the 1980s Bay Area rapping explicitly about sex. Cassidine’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xIfUjnJp5KM\">Secret Weapon\u003c/a>” was a graphic salute to prostitutes, some just 16 years old, working the strip on E. 14th Street, and a rebuke to their male customers. Under the group name Danger Zone, Barbie and Entice (who had been on “The Real Freaky Tales”) had the song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvMjOBASvbc\">Jailbait\u003c/a>,” a warning about predatory men to “all you girls out there who are under 18.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Both serve as a balance to the male-centric Bay Area pimp rap of the 1980s from Too Short and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike and Calvin T\u003c/a>. Kimmie herself came up around a lot of pimps: she mentions Frank the Bank, Gangsta Brown, even her own brothers. They all told her the same thing: “Don’t ever let a man treat you like we treat these hoes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So I’ve always been strong,” Kimmie says, matter-of-factly. “They instilled that in me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934703\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman in tank top and black apron and gold hoop earrings poses in an industrial kitchen, next to a range.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934703\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Kimmie.kitchen.web_-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh, pictured at her soul food counter Kimmie’s Kitchin in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Gabe Meline/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Life After Rap\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Strong or not, life finds a way of derailing rap careers. Motherhood, especially, took up Kimmie’s time and energy. She worked various jobs: at a bank, a pawn shop, Mervyn’s, a hair salon. At one point, she spent almost a year in jail for a setup, she says, when her boyfriend was accused of murder. (“It was something that he was accused of, and he tried to say that I was there,” she says, insisting that she was not. “I got my first royalty check, and then I almost lost my life.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934698\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 705px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.90s.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman in short hair and a Raiders starter jacket and watch crouches in a photo studio.\" width=\"705\" height=\"721\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934698\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.90s.jpg 705w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.90s-160x164.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 705px) 100vw, 705px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kimmie Fresh in a promotional photo from the 1990s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Kimmie Fresh)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>She moved to Las Vegas for a while, but after watching an ailing close friend, the rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PbWW_25Z7c\">Tee-Mail\u003c/a>, die of cancer back home in Oakland, “I was destroyed.” She decided to stay, sleeping on a friend’s couch. By then, the Town had largely forgotten about Kimmie Fresh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While D’Wayne Wiggins from Tony Toni Toné built her a cafe in his studio to start Kimmie’s Kitchin in 2019, and artists like Keak da Sneak, Mistah F.A.B. and Dru Down have all visited, the general public remains widely unaware of Kimmie Fresh. She’s often mistaken, she says, for a member of the Conscious Daughters or Oaktown’s 3.5.7. When she’s brought on stage with Too Short, the DJ inevitably plays “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfSYngzHOsY\">Don’t Fight the Feelin’\u003c/a>,” which features Barbie and Entice, and she’s expected to rap their verses, as if all women rappers are interchangeable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her music lives exclusively in fan-ripped uploads on YouTube. It hasn’t been put on streaming, or reissued on vinyl. Getting it on Spotify is something she’s working on, but her old label boss, Dean Hodges, sold the rights to the 75 Girls catalog in the 1990s, and last Kimmie’s heard, he’s living in a West Oakland homeless encampment. She’s lost touch with Cassidine, her old labelmate on 75 Girls. She doesn’t know where her old masters are, nor the recordings she made for Jive, so long ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934695\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1432px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont.jpg\" alt=\"A group of Black teenagers in large jackets and faded jeans dance in a parking lot.\" width=\"1432\" height=\"848\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934695\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont.jpg 1432w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-800x474.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-1020x604.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/KimmieFresh.Eastmont-768x455.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1432px) 100vw, 1432px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The photoshoot for ‘The Real Freaky Tales’ LP, in the parking lot of the Eastmont Mall. At one point in the day, MC Hammer stopped by. \u003ccite>(Larry Henderson/75 Girls Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Kimmie is happy to still be active at her counter, cooking dishes like oxtail tacos, shrimp and grits, and chicken and waffles. She’s especially proud of her family. There are stains on her apron and a cook’s burn marks on her forearms, right near her tattoos of her four son’s names. People come in from time to time to bring her old photos of a different life, 35 years ago, from back when she says rap was better and more fun.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of our interview, when presented with a cassette copy of \u003cem>The Real Freaky Tales\u003c/em>, she calls across the liquor store to summon an employee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Angel! Come over here… have you ever seen my album?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Kimmie Fresh appears live in conversation with KQED’s Nastia Voynovskaya as part of ‘Hip-Hop Herstory: Celebrating Bay Area Women’ on Thursday, Sept. 14, at The Commons at KQED. Also appearing are Tia Nomore, RyanNicole, Stoni and Alien Mac Kitty. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/event/3402\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Let ’Em Know: Oakland’s New Souls of Mischief Mural",
"headTitle": "Let ’Em Know: Oakland’s New Souls of Mischief Mural | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>If you’ve been near lower High Street in Oakland over the past few weeks, you may have noticed something beautiful taking shape: a large, colorful mural featuring Oakland’s Souls of Mischief. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mural, which covers the building for High Street Studios, spans parts of two city blocks and features portraits of all four members of the East Oakland hip-hop group. On the High Street side, Opio appears in a setting dotted with sunstars, flowers, and birds against a multi-hued sky. Next to him, Tajai gazes out at viewers amidst a backdrop of urban buildings, geometrical shapes, and the Hiero sigil imposed over a sunset cityscape\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13934324']On the Watting Street side, Phesto Dee taps the side of his head with one hand while the other points outward, his figure partially obscuring what looks like an African mask with a speaker cone for an eye. Nearby is A-Plus, arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture in front of flowers and abstract disks. The combination of these images suggests a spiritual aspect of hip-hop you never knew existed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The vibrant painting, created by artists based out of High Street Studios, is nestled in a working-class, industrial part of the Fruitvale District. It’s a neighborhood whose environmental landscape has historically been defined by nondescript buildings: auto parts stores, an OUSD facility and a lumber company coexist with numerous warehouses and live-work spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934665\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005.jpg\" alt=\"A portion of the Souls of Mischief mural at High Street and Watting in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934665\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A portion of the Souls of Mischief mural at High Street and Watting in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(David Burke)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Now, the mural nods to a lesser-known element of the neighborhood’s history. Quiet as it’s kept, lower High Street has long been home to a vibrant artist community working out of those warehouses, and the area has made notable contributions to local hip-hop. In the mid-’90s, the warehouse at 4001 San Leandro was occupied by the Mystik Journeymen during a formative time in their development. The DIY hip-hop duo became known for throwing “Top Ramen” parties at the spot, where the cover charge was $5 or a package of the starchy instant noodle soup. When the crew expanded to become the Living Legends in 1996, emcees Eligh, the Grouch and Murs all moved into the space, where they lived in makeshift partitioned “rooms” and recorded some of their earliest works as a collective. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Faultline is among the currently active artist spaces in the area; others include the embattled Vulcan Lofts (whose residents have been fighting to maintain rent control and prevent displacement of 200 artists since 2019) and Oscillation Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13933590']David Burke, co-lead artist for the Souls of Mischief mural, is headquartered at High Street Studios, along with co-lead artist Pancho Peskador. The two are public art veterans; Burke served as art director for Art Esteem’s Oakland Superheroes Mural Project, while Peskador was co-lead artist on the Alice Street mural that became the subject of an award-winning documentary film. The story behind their most recent mural is one of compassion, sacrifice, love — and third eye vision.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Burke and Peskador worked on the project with a third co-lead artist, Joevic Yeban, as well as assistant artists Veronica Aguilar and Pablo Ruiz, and photographer Steve Babuliak. The mural is the third in a series of “Love Letter to Oakland”-themed murals; the other two are located in Jack London Square and Temescal. Burke says additional entries in the series are continually under consideration, “but we want them to be neighborhood-specific.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4.jpg\" alt=\"Phesto Dee of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934661\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Phesto Dee of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The 30th anniversary of the Souls’ debut album \u003cem>93 Til Infinity\u003c/em> served as a catalyst for the mural, says Burke. “I thought, man, that would be a great thing to celebrate them in conjunction with this anniversary tour,” he says. In the first half of this year, Burke’s team met with the Souls and brought them into the studio for reference photos. “And then,” Burke says, “we had to find a site.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They wanted a large-scale wall to maximize visual impact, and a spot in East Oakland, where the Souls are from. “That was really important to us, because their headquarters is right around the corner from where we eventually painted the mural,” says Burke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13932471']After exploring various options, the best one turned out to be their home base. High Street Studios’ landlord gave them permission to paint the studio’s building, and also granted them a rent reduction for the service — which was critical, because other funding sources dried up. The muralists ended up doing their latest love letter as an actual act of love. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not like we’re trying to always do this under budget or for free or anything like that,” Burke says, adding that artists sometimes have to find a balance between commercially lucrative and artistically satisfying projects. This was the latter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934667\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A-Plus, David Burke, Opio, Joevic Yeban, Tajai, Pancho Peskador and Phesto Dee pose in front of the Souls of Mischief mural at High and Watting Streets in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Work began in July; the entire painting process took about five weeks. Throughout, the muralists’ spirits were uplifted, Peskador says, by “the constant support and excitement of the neighborhood people” from all walks of life: OUSD employees, the unhoused, everyday residents and families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The original sketch left room for creative inspiration. “In this mural we were jazz players,” says Peskador. “It has a structure. But also we were able to improvise on top of that structure.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We wanted to give each one of the band members their own space to operate. And each one of those portraits has their own environment,” adds Burke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This birthed a specific design aesthetic, Peskador says. “We wanted to create an analog and futuristic vision where technology and nature are embracing each other, not necessarily in contraposition and fighting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934660\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3.jpg\" alt=\"A-Plus of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934660\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A-Plus of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Visual symbols included musical equipment — speakers and old-school equalizers — as well as what Peskador calls “a little magic: orbs of energy coming out of Opio’s hands, cables that turn into veins and the veins turn into roots. And all that is intertwined and interconnected, giving the statement [that] nothing is separate. We are all connected.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The painters finished the day before the Sept. 3 unveiling ceremony, which turned out to be a reminder of what’s good about Oakland: culture, community, and diversity. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While waiting for the Souls to arrive, the muralists chatted with local visual artists Keena Romano and Jet Martinez, and DJ Hella Good spun underground hip-hop — including deep Hiero cuts, like Del’s “The Undisputed Ones” — while perched on a scaffold. Neighborhood residents remarked how they’d been following the mural’s progress as the crowd began to thicken with Hiero supporters: friends, family, and former Skyline High classmates. (Full disclosure: I spoke at this event, introducing the Souls by putting their legacy in context.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924126']When it came time for the Souls to speak, the moment became weighty and poignant. Seeing the mural in person for the first time, they were visibly moved: A-Plus and Phesto, in particular, spoke in halting tones, struggling to find the right words and maintain composure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As guys who are wordsmiths,” Tajai began, “there’s no way to put into words” what the mural meant to them. “There is no way to possibly explain how this feels to guys who grew up here, never left here, been here the whole time, really trying to elevate what’s here. Because we know how beautiful and how important it is, just Oakland in general, worldwide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Panthers, the hippies, womens’ movement, people with disabilities, (the Bay Area) is a place where all these movements have been championed. And spearheaded. To be part of this permanent landscape is extremely important to us. We’re grateful to the artists and all of y’all beyond the limited ability of words to express.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5.jpg\" alt=\"Tajai of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934662\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tajai of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>After a hectic year of doing 100-plus shows, on top of 30 years of being professional musicians, there weren’t many firsts they’d yet to achieve, Tajai added. “This here is a first like no other.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you know me, I could never be called a man of few words, but there’s always a day,” said A-Plus, before taking an extended pause. “I know my father’s here. I’m super-thankful, super proud. Man…” his words trailed off. “This is huge. I love y’all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923938']“It’s indescribable,” said Opio. “We put our heart and soul into this. It’s been a lot of hard work and dedication. To be honored in your hometown has gotta be one of the greatest honors of all time for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’ve been following the progress of the mural overseas and on the North American side,” explained Phesto Dee. “When they started finishing up this side, my wife brought my kids down and they stood in front of it.” He paused to let the emphasis resonate. “They stood in front and that just did it. The scale started to really come to me at that point, just how large it was. Also, what it means for generations to come.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934664\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1.jpg\" alt=\"A portion of the Souls of Mischief mural at High Street and Watting in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934664\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Souls of Mischief mural in progress at High Street and Watting in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(David Burke)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Burke says it was important to give the Souls their flowers while they are still here, noting that many hip-hop-themed local murals are memorials painted only after the passing of a musical icon. He was also conscious of the fact the mural and its subjects represent a counter-narrative to mainstream depictions of hip-hop. During their Hiero Day performance, A-Plus told the crowd, “we’re about that peace.” When Opio came into the studio to take his reference photo, he reportedly said, “I just want to be smiling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Love Letters crew are still planning a Phase 2, where they hope to complete the unfinished sections of the wall and honor local female hip-hop artists, along with Oakland’s graffiti history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But for now, the artists can chill, knowing they’ve accomplished something great. For Peskador, the mural’s significance is that it has altered the neighborhood’s drab environment in a positive way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That is so huge for me personally, to see how people vibrate (to the mural) and how you can change places… the energy of that corner is changed forever. It’s never going to be the same corner.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>If you’ve been near lower High Street in Oakland over the past few weeks, you may have noticed something beautiful taking shape: a large, colorful mural featuring Oakland’s Souls of Mischief. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The mural, which covers the building for High Street Studios, spans parts of two city blocks and features portraits of all four members of the East Oakland hip-hop group. On the High Street side, Opio appears in a setting dotted with sunstars, flowers, and birds against a multi-hued sky. Next to him, Tajai gazes out at viewers amidst a backdrop of urban buildings, geometrical shapes, and the Hiero sigil imposed over a sunset cityscape\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>On the Watting Street side, Phesto Dee taps the side of his head with one hand while the other points outward, his figure partially obscuring what looks like an African mask with a speaker cone for an eye. Nearby is A-Plus, arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture in front of flowers and abstract disks. The combination of these images suggests a spiritual aspect of hip-hop you never knew existed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The vibrant painting, created by artists based out of High Street Studios, is nestled in a working-class, industrial part of the Fruitvale District. It’s a neighborhood whose environmental landscape has historically been defined by nondescript buildings: auto parts stores, an OUSD facility and a lumber company coexist with numerous warehouses and live-work spaces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934665\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005.jpg\" alt=\"A portion of the Souls of Mischief mural at High Street and Watting in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934665\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/DSC00005-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A portion of the Souls of Mischief mural at High Street and Watting in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(David Burke)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Now, the mural nods to a lesser-known element of the neighborhood’s history. Quiet as it’s kept, lower High Street has long been home to a vibrant artist community working out of those warehouses, and the area has made notable contributions to local hip-hop. In the mid-’90s, the warehouse at 4001 San Leandro was occupied by the Mystik Journeymen during a formative time in their development. The DIY hip-hop duo became known for throwing “Top Ramen” parties at the spot, where the cover charge was $5 or a package of the starchy instant noodle soup. When the crew expanded to become the Living Legends in 1996, emcees Eligh, the Grouch and Murs all moved into the space, where they lived in makeshift partitioned “rooms” and recorded some of their earliest works as a collective. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Faultline is among the currently active artist spaces in the area; others include the embattled Vulcan Lofts (whose residents have been fighting to maintain rent control and prevent displacement of 200 artists since 2019) and Oscillation Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>David Burke, co-lead artist for the Souls of Mischief mural, is headquartered at High Street Studios, along with co-lead artist Pancho Peskador. The two are public art veterans; Burke served as art director for Art Esteem’s Oakland Superheroes Mural Project, while Peskador was co-lead artist on the Alice Street mural that became the subject of an award-winning documentary film. The story behind their most recent mural is one of compassion, sacrifice, love — and third eye vision.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Burke and Peskador worked on the project with a third co-lead artist, Joevic Yeban, as well as assistant artists Veronica Aguilar and Pablo Ruiz, and photographer Steve Babuliak. The mural is the third in a series of “Love Letter to Oakland”-themed murals; the other two are located in Jack London Square and Temescal. Burke says additional entries in the series are continually under consideration, “but we want them to be neighborhood-specific.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4.jpg\" alt=\"Phesto Dee of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934661\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_4-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Phesto Dee of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The 30th anniversary of the Souls’ debut album \u003cem>93 Til Infinity\u003c/em> served as a catalyst for the mural, says Burke. “I thought, man, that would be a great thing to celebrate them in conjunction with this anniversary tour,” he says. In the first half of this year, Burke’s team met with the Souls and brought them into the studio for reference photos. “And then,” Burke says, “we had to find a site.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They wanted a large-scale wall to maximize visual impact, and a spot in East Oakland, where the Souls are from. “That was really important to us, because their headquarters is right around the corner from where we eventually painted the mural,” says Burke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>After exploring various options, the best one turned out to be their home base. High Street Studios’ landlord gave them permission to paint the studio’s building, and also granted them a rent reduction for the service — which was critical, because other funding sources dried up. The muralists ended up doing their latest love letter as an actual act of love. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s not like we’re trying to always do this under budget or for free or anything like that,” Burke says, adding that artists sometimes have to find a balance between commercially lucrative and artistically satisfying projects. This was the latter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934667\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934667\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_1-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A-Plus, David Burke, Opio, Joevic Yeban, Tajai, Pancho Peskador and Phesto Dee pose in front of the Souls of Mischief mural at High and Watting Streets in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Work began in July; the entire painting process took about five weeks. Throughout, the muralists’ spirits were uplifted, Peskador says, by “the constant support and excitement of the neighborhood people” from all walks of life: OUSD employees, the unhoused, everyday residents and families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The original sketch left room for creative inspiration. “In this mural we were jazz players,” says Peskador. “It has a structure. But also we were able to improvise on top of that structure.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We wanted to give each one of the band members their own space to operate. And each one of those portraits has their own environment,” adds Burke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This birthed a specific design aesthetic, Peskador says. “We wanted to create an analog and futuristic vision where technology and nature are embracing each other, not necessarily in contraposition and fighting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934660\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3.jpg\" alt=\"A-Plus of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934660\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_3-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A-Plus of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Visual symbols included musical equipment — speakers and old-school equalizers — as well as what Peskador calls “a little magic: orbs of energy coming out of Opio’s hands, cables that turn into veins and the veins turn into roots. And all that is intertwined and interconnected, giving the statement [that] nothing is separate. We are all connected.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The painters finished the day before the Sept. 3 unveiling ceremony, which turned out to be a reminder of what’s good about Oakland: culture, community, and diversity. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While waiting for the Souls to arrive, the muralists chatted with local visual artists Keena Romano and Jet Martinez, and DJ Hella Good spun underground hip-hop — including deep Hiero cuts, like Del’s “The Undisputed Ones” — while perched on a scaffold. Neighborhood residents remarked how they’d been following the mural’s progress as the crowd began to thicken with Hiero supporters: friends, family, and former Skyline High classmates. (Full disclosure: I spoke at this event, introducing the Souls by putting their legacy in context.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>When it came time for the Souls to speak, the moment became weighty and poignant. Seeing the mural in person for the first time, they were visibly moved: A-Plus and Phesto, in particular, spoke in halting tones, struggling to find the right words and maintain composure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As guys who are wordsmiths,” Tajai began, “there’s no way to put into words” what the mural meant to them. “There is no way to possibly explain how this feels to guys who grew up here, never left here, been here the whole time, really trying to elevate what’s here. Because we know how beautiful and how important it is, just Oakland in general, worldwide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Panthers, the hippies, womens’ movement, people with disabilities, (the Bay Area) is a place where all these movements have been championed. And spearheaded. To be part of this permanent landscape is extremely important to us. We’re grateful to the artists and all of y’all beyond the limited ability of words to express.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5.jpg\" alt=\"Tajai of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1275\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934662\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-800x531.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-1020x677.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Babuljak_5-1536x1020.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tajai of Souls of Mischief poses in front of his own likeness, painted as part of a mural in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(Steve Babuljak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>After a hectic year of doing 100-plus shows, on top of 30 years of being professional musicians, there weren’t many firsts they’d yet to achieve, Tajai added. “This here is a first like no other.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you know me, I could never be called a man of few words, but there’s always a day,” said A-Plus, before taking an extended pause. “I know my father’s here. I’m super-thankful, super proud. Man…” his words trailed off. “This is huge. I love y’all.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“It’s indescribable,” said Opio. “We put our heart and soul into this. It’s been a lot of hard work and dedication. To be honored in your hometown has gotta be one of the greatest honors of all time for me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’ve been following the progress of the mural overseas and on the North American side,” explained Phesto Dee. “When they started finishing up this side, my wife brought my kids down and they stood in front of it.” He paused to let the emphasis resonate. “They stood in front and that just did it. The scale started to really come to me at that point, just how large it was. Also, what it means for generations to come.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934664\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1.jpg\" alt=\"A portion of the Souls of Mischief mural at High Street and Watting in East Oakland.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934664\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/Burke_1-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Souls of Mischief mural in progress at High Street and Watting in East Oakland. \u003ccite>(David Burke)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Burke says it was important to give the Souls their flowers while they are still here, noting that many hip-hop-themed local murals are memorials painted only after the passing of a musical icon. He was also conscious of the fact the mural and its subjects represent a counter-narrative to mainstream depictions of hip-hop. During their Hiero Day performance, A-Plus told the crowd, “we’re about that peace.” When Opio came into the studio to take his reference photo, he reportedly said, “I just want to be smiling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Love Letters crew are still planning a Phase 2, where they hope to complete the unfinished sections of the wall and honor local female hip-hop artists, along with Oakland’s graffiti history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But for now, the artists can chill, knowing they’ve accomplished something great. For Peskador, the mural’s significance is that it has altered the neighborhood’s drab environment in a positive way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That is so huge for me personally, to see how people vibrate (to the mural) and how you can change places… the energy of that corner is changed forever. It’s never going to be the same corner.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>With today’s concert prices and Ticketmaster fees, a free festival that’s been going strong for more than two decades is truly a gift. Hardly Strictly returns to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park Sept. 29–Oct. 1 with a 73-artist lineup that spans bluegrass, country, folk, R&B and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The fourth and final phase of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass.com/schedule/\">festival lineup\u003c/a> was announced today. Highlights include multifaceted singer and author Valerie June, legendary singer-songwriter Emmylou Harris, rock ‘n’ roll pianist Neal Francis, alt-rockers Chuck Prophet & the Mission Express, a City Lights poetry showcase with Tongo Eisen-Martin, Kim Addonizio and Evan Kennedy, veteran soul singer Bettye LaVette and much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s no RSVP requirement for this year’s Hardly Strictly, but concert-goers must go through four designated entrances: JFK Drive and Transverse Drive, Fulton Street and 30th Avenue, JFK Drive and 36th Avenue and South Polo Field. Clear bags and backpacks are recommended for faster entry, and all attendees will be required to go through security checkpoints and metal detectors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hardly Strictly is an all-ages event. Picnic blankets, low chairs and small, soft-backed coolers are allowed, and so is beer and wine (no hard liquor or glass containers, though). Food and non-alcoholic beverages will be for sale inside the park, and free water refill stations will be available between the Banjo Stage and Arrow Meadow. For the complete lineup and festival guidelines, check out the \u003ca href=\"https://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass.com/info/\">Hardly Strictly website\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>With today’s concert prices and Ticketmaster fees, a free festival that’s been going strong for more than two decades is truly a gift. Hardly Strictly returns to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park Sept. 29–Oct. 1 with a 73-artist lineup that spans bluegrass, country, folk, R&B and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The fourth and final phase of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass.com/schedule/\">festival lineup\u003c/a> was announced today. Highlights include multifaceted singer and author Valerie June, legendary singer-songwriter Emmylou Harris, rock ‘n’ roll pianist Neal Francis, alt-rockers Chuck Prophet & the Mission Express, a City Lights poetry showcase with Tongo Eisen-Martin, Kim Addonizio and Evan Kennedy, veteran soul singer Bettye LaVette and much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s no RSVP requirement for this year’s Hardly Strictly, but concert-goers must go through four designated entrances: JFK Drive and Transverse Drive, Fulton Street and 30th Avenue, JFK Drive and 36th Avenue and South Polo Field. Clear bags and backpacks are recommended for faster entry, and all attendees will be required to go through security checkpoints and metal detectors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Hardly Strictly is an all-ages event. Picnic blankets, low chairs and small, soft-backed coolers are allowed, and so is beer and wine (no hard liquor or glass containers, though). Food and non-alcoholic beverages will be for sale inside the park, and free water refill stations will be available between the Banjo Stage and Arrow Meadow. For the complete lineup and festival guidelines, check out the \u003ca href=\"https://www.hardlystrictlybluegrass.com/info/\">Hardly Strictly website\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934573\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934573\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An 87-year-old woman with a pink top and sequined hat poses in front of flowers.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sugar Pie DeSanto poses for a portrait with her record, ‘Down in the Basement’ outside her home in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. DeSanto, 87, released her latest album ‘Sugar’s Suite’ in 2018. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]S[/dropcap]ugar Pie DeSanto has always had guts. At 15, she snuck out of her parents’ house to sing in clubs, with baseballs in her bra to make herself look older. At 26, she quit her gig as James Brown’s opening act to headline her own show. And at 84, she was regularly on stage doing backflips, and singing upside down with her legs wrapped around the waist of a lucky gentleman from the audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She might be temporarily retired due to health issues — key word: temporarily — but DeSanto is plotting her comeback. “The maker’s been good to me, you know, and I pray every day because I want him to bring me back to turn that backflip for ’em one more time,” says the singer, now 87, then cackles. “They’ll have a heart attack.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That bold streak marks DeSanto’s approach to, well, just about everything, and her singing talents and gumption have taken her to some incredible places in her almost-nine decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934571\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934571\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sugar Pie DeSanto, 87, poses for a portrait outside her home in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>How Umpeylia became Sugar Pie\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Born Umpeylia Balinton to a Filipino father and Black mother in Brooklyn in 1935, DeSanto grew up in San Francisco’s Fillmore District as the oldest girl of 10 siblings. At the time, the Fillmore was a multicultural neighborhood where Black, Chinese and Italian families lived side by side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The good thing about it, we could all mix with each other,” she says. “You know, it’s not like now with a bunch of crap going on. The kids would come to your house and just walk in and say, ‘Hey, mom.’ … There wasn’t no locking no doors.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of those neighborhood kids was Etta James, who was three years younger. She was raised by foster parents and relatives, and came over often to sing with the Balinton girls on the back porch. She and DeSanto developed a lifelong friendship that would result in two classic soul duets: 1965’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/uBw9g-t5MQI?si=eGF08VfjzN4wqCQA\">Do I Make Myself Clear\u003c/a>” and 1966’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/8IpxDTK8HIg?si=lrg1rRraxSxnx_8c\">In the Basement\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934574\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934574\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A concert poster from Sugar Pie DeSanto's show at the Littlefield in Brooklyn in 2014.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Posters and memorabilia hang on Sugar Pie DeSanto’s wall in in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But before DeSanto made chart-topping singles, she honed her skills singing live at jazz and blues clubs in the Fillmore, known back then as the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11825401/how-urban-renewal-decimated-the-fillmore-district-and-took-jazz-with-it\">Harlem of the West\u003c/a>. After Black Americans from the South moved to California port cities during World War II, the music scene in San Francisco and Oakland flourished. DeSanto, who grew up playing classical piano, fell in love with the sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside tag='8over80' label='More 8 Over 80']Her mother supported her musical ambitions, but her father wasn’t having it. One night, he showed up to a club during one of her performances — and pulled her off the stage by her ear. “‘Who told you you could shake your booty?’” DeSanto remembers him chastising her in his Filipino accent. “That was funny,” she chuckles, then pauses: “Wasn’t funny then, though.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, DeSanto was undeterred. One night in 1954, when she competed in a talent show at the Ellis Theater, Johnny Otis was in the audience. The Vallejo-born, Greek American musician known as the “godfather of rhythm and blues” had discovered 13-year-old Etta James three years earlier, and he was taken by 19-year-old DeSanto’s powerful voice and irrepressible charisma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Otis convinced her to go with him to Los Angeles, where she recorded her first singles, the lovesick slow-dance number “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/sEd8HF5PguM?si=lOYbxGpZXEDy47JD\">Please Be True\u003c/a>” and uptempo doo-wop track “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/M5itQV8Chmg?si=WWE8EP2U4NY1DDX4\">Boom Diddy Wawa Baby\u003c/a>.” She was still going by her birth name, Umpeylia Balinton. “‘We can’t put that on no record,’” she recalls Otis saying. “‘You’re so little and cute, you could be Sugar Pie.’ And that’s how I got my name.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite her youth and 4-foot-11-inch stature, DeSanto became a force to be reckoned with. Did she ever have to fight for respect as a female musician in the 1950s? She says no. “I took over the studio, honey,” she tells me. “And a couple of times I put the drums over their head, you know, hittin’ ’em across their head ’cause they pissed me off. I’ve always been very technical about my music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934572\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934572\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An 87-year-old woman with a pink top and sequined hat poses with her hands on her hips, looking assertively yet playfully at the camera.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sugar Pie DeSanto, 87, poses for a portrait outside her home in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>James Moore, DeSanto’s longtime manager, says he’s heard stories of how exacting she could be from other musicians, including the late Maurice White of Earth, Wind & Fire. “Some guy hit a wrong note,” Moore recalls White telling him. “He said Sugar Pie started using curse words that he’d never heard before, and paint started peeling off the walls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1959, DeSanto arrived on the national stage with her hit single “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/CyNUAWZiDQE?si=MVNKvolXjeEPo-Z6\">I Want to Know\u003c/a>,” a danceable, piano-driven kiss-off to a former lover she co-wrote with legendary Oakland blues producer Bob Geddins and performed with first husband, bandleader Pee Wee Kingsley. The song hit No. 4 on the Billboard R&B chart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The record began opening doors, and DeSanto was invited to perform at New York’s famed Apollo Theater, where James Brown was the headliner. Though he was a big name, DeSanto didn’t let on that she was impressed when he invited her to open for him on tour. She remembers him saying, “‘I want you, you little girl.’” “You want me for what?” she shot back. “‘To open my show. You really good,’” she recalls Brown growling, to which she replied coolly: “Oh?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DeSanto and Brown hit the road with their raucous live show. DeSanto sang while jumping over the piano into a split, earning her the nickname “the Lady James Brown.” Her memory of the exact tour dates is a little spotty, but newspaper records reveal advertisements for her concerts with Brown in cities like Philadelphia, Charlotte, Oklahoma City and Phoenix in 1960 and 1961.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934560\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934560\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/sugar-pie-concert-poster.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"783\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/sugar-pie-concert-poster.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/sugar-pie-concert-poster-160x209.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A poster from Sugar Pie DeSanto’s 1961 concert with James Brown in Olympia, Washington.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This was during the civil rights movement, and DeSanto was shocked when she arrived from the multicultural Bay Area to the segregated South. Because she was racially ambiguous, with straight hair, venues would invite her to dine inside their restaurants but relegate her band to the barrels out back. She found this unacceptable. “Are you losing your mind?” she’d spit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“‘If they can’t eat where I eat, then I ain’t eatin’ at all, and they ain’t either,’” DeSanto would tell the white venue staff before storming out. “Boy, they was pissed off,” she remembers. “But they wouldn’t start no stuff because they knew we weren’t gonna take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But despite her hard exterior, “that hurt my soul,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, DeSanto thrived on tour, and eventually decided to split off from Brown to headline her own concerts, much to his displeasure. “He said, ‘You can’t leave me.’ The hell I can’t,” she recounts with that mischievous cackle, noting that the two later reconciled during a night of gambling in Reno.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Challenges in the music industry\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Her success eventually took her to Chicago, where she spent most of the ’60s at Chess Records. In 1964, her seductive, bluesy single “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/2cBmk9I_jLA?si=iK8oC-uj54NgVb5l\">Slip-In Mules\u003c/a>” hit No. 10 on Billboard. With a track record of writing her own hits, she became a staff songwriter at Chess, where she collaborated often with her songwriting partner, Shena DeMell. In her time there, DeSanto penned over 100 songs for musical greats like Minnie Riperton, Fontella Bass and The Whispers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this era that DeSanto’s profile grew internationally. There’s a video of her belting out “Rock Me Baby” — a suggestive, slinky tune — at the 1964 American Folk Blues Festival in England, her powerful voice erupting like a geyser as her body twists with each note. The audience was floored. “They tore down the walls and everything,” she says. “They jumped up and started dancing and howling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her time in the U.K. clearly made a lasting impression. In 1966, the \u003cem>Thanet Times and East Kent Pictorial\u003c/em>, a British newspaper, called her “America’s top female blues singer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/pagqJxGR33I?si=y3hmaKCy0AMHMwZZ\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For DeSanto and many of her peers, popularity didn’t always equal financial success in the music industry. Record companies often took advantage of young, Black artists’ eagerness to record their music, and weren’t transparent when it came to rights and royalties. They’d pay for things like hotels and cars (in DeSanto’s case, a tan Cadillac that matched her dog).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But as far as giving you a statement saying, ‘We sold 10,000 records, we’re paying you 5% or whatever, you know, so this is how much money you have.’ She never got that,” says her manager, Moore, adding that he’s still tracking down her royalties from when her songs were featured in the hit series \u003cem>The Handmaid’s Tale \u003c/em>and the Oscar-nominated 1999 film \u003cem>\u003ci>The Hurricane\u003c/i>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Talk about reparations — that’s where the reparations should start,” Moore says. “The record labels made hundreds of millions of dollars and [the artists] didn’t make anything, comparatively speaking. Music is America’s greatest export to the rest of the world. … it was all started in the Black community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934576\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934576\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Three trophies on Sugar Pie DeSanto's shelf include her 2020 Arhoolie\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Awards and honors are displayed on Sugar Pie DeSanto’s wall in in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. She was given the prestigious Arhoolie Award in 2020. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Yearning to return to the stage\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the ’70s, DeSanto returned to Oakland, and kept up a rigorous performance schedule that lasted for five decades. Her fierceness never extinguished, even in the face of immense challenges. In 2006, she lost her husband Jesse Earl Davis in a house fire that destroyed her belongings. They were together off and on for 27 years and married twice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2012, she lost her childhood friend Etta James, who was 73 years old when she passed away from leukemia and other health complications. She and DeSanto had grown apart over the decades because of James’ struggles with drug addiction, but there was always love there. “That was my girl,” DeSanto says. “That really hurt me deeply that she passed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, DeSanto is focused on her own health. After being treated for cancer in her neck, she continues to struggle with respiratory issues. Still, her feisty spirit is strong as ever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I run this place,” she says with a sly wink when I visit her outside her senior apartment building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Hey, big guy!” she calls after a bearded man passing by, cracking up at her own antics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DeSanto’s most recent album, \u003ca href=\"http://sugarpiedesanto.com/music/\">\u003cem>Sugar’s Suite\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, came out in 2018, and in 2020 she received the \u003ca href=\"https://oaklandside.org/2020/12/01/legendary-rb-singer-sugar-pie-desanto-to-be-honored-next-week/\">Arhoolie Award\u003c/a> for extraordinary individuals who preserve traditional music. She’s still writing songs from her bed, and is determined to one day make it back to the stage. She was crushed when she couldn’t go to Chicago on June 10, when she received a mayoral proclamation for her contributions to the blues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It ain’t about the money, honey,” she says. “It’s about me singing to the people and making everybody happy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You don’t know how bad I miss it,” she continues. “When you’ve been given all those years to the public that I have, I miss my people.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934573\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934573\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An 87-year-old woman with a pink top and sequined hat poses in front of flowers.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-02-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sugar Pie DeSanto poses for a portrait with her record, ‘Down in the Basement’ outside her home in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. DeSanto, 87, released her latest album ‘Sugar’s Suite’ in 2018. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This story is part of the series \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/8over80\">8 Over 80\u003c/a>, celebrating artists and cultural figures over the age of 80 who continue to shape the greater Bay Area.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">S\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>ugar Pie DeSanto has always had guts. At 15, she snuck out of her parents’ house to sing in clubs, with baseballs in her bra to make herself look older. At 26, she quit her gig as James Brown’s opening act to headline her own show. And at 84, she was regularly on stage doing backflips, and singing upside down with her legs wrapped around the waist of a lucky gentleman from the audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She might be temporarily retired due to health issues — key word: temporarily — but DeSanto is plotting her comeback. “The maker’s been good to me, you know, and I pray every day because I want him to bring me back to turn that backflip for ’em one more time,” says the singer, now 87, then cackles. “They’ll have a heart attack.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That bold streak marks DeSanto’s approach to, well, just about everything, and her singing talents and gumption have taken her to some incredible places in her almost-nine decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934571\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934571\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-13-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sugar Pie DeSanto, 87, poses for a portrait outside her home in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>How Umpeylia became Sugar Pie\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Born Umpeylia Balinton to a Filipino father and Black mother in Brooklyn in 1935, DeSanto grew up in San Francisco’s Fillmore District as the oldest girl of 10 siblings. At the time, the Fillmore was a multicultural neighborhood where Black, Chinese and Italian families lived side by side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The good thing about it, we could all mix with each other,” she says. “You know, it’s not like now with a bunch of crap going on. The kids would come to your house and just walk in and say, ‘Hey, mom.’ … There wasn’t no locking no doors.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of those neighborhood kids was Etta James, who was three years younger. She was raised by foster parents and relatives, and came over often to sing with the Balinton girls on the back porch. She and DeSanto developed a lifelong friendship that would result in two classic soul duets: 1965’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/uBw9g-t5MQI?si=eGF08VfjzN4wqCQA\">Do I Make Myself Clear\u003c/a>” and 1966’s “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/8IpxDTK8HIg?si=lrg1rRraxSxnx_8c\">In the Basement\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934574\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934574\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A concert poster from Sugar Pie DeSanto's show at the Littlefield in Brooklyn in 2014.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-17-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Posters and memorabilia hang on Sugar Pie DeSanto’s wall in in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But before DeSanto made chart-topping singles, she honed her skills singing live at jazz and blues clubs in the Fillmore, known back then as the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11825401/how-urban-renewal-decimated-the-fillmore-district-and-took-jazz-with-it\">Harlem of the West\u003c/a>. After Black Americans from the South moved to California port cities during World War II, the music scene in San Francisco and Oakland flourished. DeSanto, who grew up playing classical piano, fell in love with the sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Her mother supported her musical ambitions, but her father wasn’t having it. One night, he showed up to a club during one of her performances — and pulled her off the stage by her ear. “‘Who told you you could shake your booty?’” DeSanto remembers him chastising her in his Filipino accent. “That was funny,” she chuckles, then pauses: “Wasn’t funny then, though.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, DeSanto was undeterred. One night in 1954, when she competed in a talent show at the Ellis Theater, Johnny Otis was in the audience. The Vallejo-born, Greek American musician known as the “godfather of rhythm and blues” had discovered 13-year-old Etta James three years earlier, and he was taken by 19-year-old DeSanto’s powerful voice and irrepressible charisma.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Otis convinced her to go with him to Los Angeles, where she recorded her first singles, the lovesick slow-dance number “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/sEd8HF5PguM?si=lOYbxGpZXEDy47JD\">Please Be True\u003c/a>” and uptempo doo-wop track “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/M5itQV8Chmg?si=WWE8EP2U4NY1DDX4\">Boom Diddy Wawa Baby\u003c/a>.” She was still going by her birth name, Umpeylia Balinton. “‘We can’t put that on no record,’” she recalls Otis saying. “‘You’re so little and cute, you could be Sugar Pie.’ And that’s how I got my name.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Despite her youth and 4-foot-11-inch stature, DeSanto became a force to be reckoned with. Did she ever have to fight for respect as a female musician in the 1950s? She says no. “I took over the studio, honey,” she tells me. “And a couple of times I put the drums over their head, you know, hittin’ ’em across their head ’cause they pissed me off. I’ve always been very technical about my music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934572\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934572\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An 87-year-old woman with a pink top and sequined hat poses with her hands on her hips, looking assertively yet playfully at the camera.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-05-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sugar Pie DeSanto, 87, poses for a portrait outside her home in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>James Moore, DeSanto’s longtime manager, says he’s heard stories of how exacting she could be from other musicians, including the late Maurice White of Earth, Wind & Fire. “Some guy hit a wrong note,” Moore recalls White telling him. “He said Sugar Pie started using curse words that he’d never heard before, and paint started peeling off the walls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1959, DeSanto arrived on the national stage with her hit single “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/CyNUAWZiDQE?si=MVNKvolXjeEPo-Z6\">I Want to Know\u003c/a>,” a danceable, piano-driven kiss-off to a former lover she co-wrote with legendary Oakland blues producer Bob Geddins and performed with first husband, bandleader Pee Wee Kingsley. The song hit No. 4 on the Billboard R&B chart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The record began opening doors, and DeSanto was invited to perform at New York’s famed Apollo Theater, where James Brown was the headliner. Though he was a big name, DeSanto didn’t let on that she was impressed when he invited her to open for him on tour. She remembers him saying, “‘I want you, you little girl.’” “You want me for what?” she shot back. “‘To open my show. You really good,’” she recalls Brown growling, to which she replied coolly: “Oh?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DeSanto and Brown hit the road with their raucous live show. DeSanto sang while jumping over the piano into a split, earning her the nickname “the Lady James Brown.” Her memory of the exact tour dates is a little spotty, but newspaper records reveal advertisements for her concerts with Brown in cities like Philadelphia, Charlotte, Oklahoma City and Phoenix in 1960 and 1961.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934560\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934560\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/sugar-pie-concert-poster.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"783\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/sugar-pie-concert-poster.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/sugar-pie-concert-poster-160x209.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A poster from Sugar Pie DeSanto’s 1961 concert with James Brown in Olympia, Washington.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This was during the civil rights movement, and DeSanto was shocked when she arrived from the multicultural Bay Area to the segregated South. Because she was racially ambiguous, with straight hair, venues would invite her to dine inside their restaurants but relegate her band to the barrels out back. She found this unacceptable. “Are you losing your mind?” she’d spit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“‘If they can’t eat where I eat, then I ain’t eatin’ at all, and they ain’t either,’” DeSanto would tell the white venue staff before storming out. “Boy, they was pissed off,” she remembers. “But they wouldn’t start no stuff because they knew we weren’t gonna take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But despite her hard exterior, “that hurt my soul,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, DeSanto thrived on tour, and eventually decided to split off from Brown to headline her own concerts, much to his displeasure. “He said, ‘You can’t leave me.’ The hell I can’t,” she recounts with that mischievous cackle, noting that the two later reconciled during a night of gambling in Reno.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Challenges in the music industry\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Her success eventually took her to Chicago, where she spent most of the ’60s at Chess Records. In 1964, her seductive, bluesy single “\u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/2cBmk9I_jLA?si=iK8oC-uj54NgVb5l\">Slip-In Mules\u003c/a>” hit No. 10 on Billboard. With a track record of writing her own hits, she became a staff songwriter at Chess, where she collaborated often with her songwriting partner, Shena DeMell. In her time there, DeSanto penned over 100 songs for musical greats like Minnie Riperton, Fontella Bass and The Whispers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this era that DeSanto’s profile grew internationally. There’s a video of her belting out “Rock Me Baby” — a suggestive, slinky tune — at the 1964 American Folk Blues Festival in England, her powerful voice erupting like a geyser as her body twists with each note. The audience was floored. “They tore down the walls and everything,” she says. “They jumped up and started dancing and howling.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her time in the U.K. clearly made a lasting impression. In 1966, the \u003cem>Thanet Times and East Kent Pictorial\u003c/em>, a British newspaper, called her “America’s top female blues singer.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/pagqJxGR33I'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/pagqJxGR33I'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For DeSanto and many of her peers, popularity didn’t always equal financial success in the music industry. Record companies often took advantage of young, Black artists’ eagerness to record their music, and weren’t transparent when it came to rights and royalties. They’d pay for things like hotels and cars (in DeSanto’s case, a tan Cadillac that matched her dog).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But as far as giving you a statement saying, ‘We sold 10,000 records, we’re paying you 5% or whatever, you know, so this is how much money you have.’ She never got that,” says her manager, Moore, adding that he’s still tracking down her royalties from when her songs were featured in the hit series \u003cem>The Handmaid’s Tale \u003c/em>and the Oscar-nominated 1999 film \u003cem>\u003ci>The Hurricane\u003c/i>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Talk about reparations — that’s where the reparations should start,” Moore says. “The record labels made hundreds of millions of dollars and [the artists] didn’t make anything, comparatively speaking. Music is America’s greatest export to the rest of the world. … it was all started in the Black community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13934576\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13934576\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Three trophies on Sugar Pie DeSanto's shelf include her 2020 Arhoolie\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/09/20230908-SugarPieDeSanto-20-JY-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Awards and honors are displayed on Sugar Pie DeSanto’s wall in in Oakland, Calif., on Friday, Sept. 8, 2023. She was given the prestigious Arhoolie Award in 2020. \u003ccite>(Juliana Yamada/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Yearning to return to the stage\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the ’70s, DeSanto returned to Oakland, and kept up a rigorous performance schedule that lasted for five decades. Her fierceness never extinguished, even in the face of immense challenges. In 2006, she lost her husband Jesse Earl Davis in a house fire that destroyed her belongings. They were together off and on for 27 years and married twice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2012, she lost her childhood friend Etta James, who was 73 years old when she passed away from leukemia and other health complications. She and DeSanto had grown apart over the decades because of James’ struggles with drug addiction, but there was always love there. “That was my girl,” DeSanto says. “That really hurt me deeply that she passed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, DeSanto is focused on her own health. After being treated for cancer in her neck, she continues to struggle with respiratory issues. Still, her feisty spirit is strong as ever.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I run this place,” she says with a sly wink when I visit her outside her senior apartment building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Hey, big guy!” she calls after a bearded man passing by, cracking up at her own antics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>DeSanto’s most recent album, \u003ca href=\"http://sugarpiedesanto.com/music/\">\u003cem>Sugar’s Suite\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, came out in 2018, and in 2020 she received the \u003ca href=\"https://oaklandside.org/2020/12/01/legendary-rb-singer-sugar-pie-desanto-to-be-honored-next-week/\">Arhoolie Award\u003c/a> for extraordinary individuals who preserve traditional music. She’s still writing songs from her bed, and is determined to one day make it back to the stage. She was crushed when she couldn’t go to Chicago on June 10, when she received a mayoral proclamation for her contributions to the blues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It ain’t about the money, honey,” she says. “It’s about me singing to the people and making everybody happy.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"tagline": "Exploring the Bay Area, one question at a time",
"info": "KQED’s new podcast, Bay Curious, gets to the bottom of the mysteries — both profound and peculiar — that give the Bay Area its unique identity. And we’ll do it with your help! You ask the questions. You decide what Bay Curious investigates. And you join us on the journey to find the answers.",
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},
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"info": "KQED’s statewide radio news program providing daily coverage of issues, trends and public policy decisions.",
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"order": 8
},
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"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
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"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
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"order": 1
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"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
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"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
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"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"order": 9
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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"hidden-brain": {
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"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
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"source": "NPR"
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"how-i-built-this": {
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"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
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"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
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"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
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"order": 18
},
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},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
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},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
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},
"masters-of-scale": {
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"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
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"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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"stitcher": "https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/stories-teachers-share",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
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