The opening scene from the Denzel portrayal of Macbeth caused me to flashback to Mrs. Ritchie’s English 5 class at Carver High. Our class recited in unison the poetry the three witches spewed as they brewed their potion: “When will we three meet again in thunder, lightning and in rain…” This was my first academic encounter with spo-ken word poetry. We were given homework assignments to study to be prepared to recite in class, verbatim, certain passages from that Shakespearean classic. As the semester progressed, the assignments grew more demanding. Stu-dents were randomly called upon to recite, from memory, the prologue to The Canterbury Tales — in Old English! The Ritchies were intense task masters. Mrs. Ritchie’s husband, Mr. Ritchie, was my Auto Shop teacher.
I became acquainted with spoken word poetry prior to experiencing it in school. In Altgeld Gardens, where I lived, there was a joint called The Rib Hut. It was where the older dudes hung out, nodding their heads to jazz music emanating from the jukebox. Some were nodding when there was no music. That’s where I first heard King Pleasure blending poetic lyrics with Jazz rhythms. I often refer to King Pleasure as “the original rapper.”
But even earlier than that, when growing up in the proj-ects one learned to counter-punch with his mouth before he did so with his fists. Commonly It was during a game-ly pastime called “signifying” or more commonly known as “playing the dozens.” It was more or less a rhyming put-down of an opponent’s family member. On occasion, though, it did lead to fisticuffs. It was usually a declaration beginning with “Yo Mama” that caused it. The one that was the best at the “sport,” was often the one who caused the ruckus.
I dropped out of school at sixteen, and later passed the GED and got a college degree. Sandwiched between those years was an Air Force career. It was during those four years that my love of poetry really deepened. Following a month of Basic Training at Lackland Air Force base in San Antonio, Texas, I shipped out to the “Jim Crow”
South for technical training in Biloxi, Mississippi — bot-tom of the United States. Go any farther south and your feet are dampened by the waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
There was an orientation on day one, instructing “col-ored” Airmen on the do’s and don’ts of behavior off the base, like the “whites only’ water fountains and which side of the streets to walk on. It was early June when I ar-rived there for Radio Intercept Operator training. Classes wouldn’t end until late November. It appeared that it was going to be a long hard slough.
I can’t recall exactly how it all began, but one of the fellas in our squad had checked out this book from the base library titled “This is my Beloved,” by Walter Benton. It was a small book about thirty-some pages in length ded-icated “To Lillian.” The flow of the words was so remi-niscent of the cadence of King Pleasure, but void of any rhyme scheme. Still, it was rap, as rap was defined back in the day, long before that which was derived from hip-hop. After less than a week the entire group had read through the passages.
In what was tantamount to a poetry slam, someone of our group of five or six brothers would sit around the barracks and each would recite from memory some lines from a favorite passage from that book until words escaped his memory. The slightest pause would trigger another broth-er to jump in and either continue from there or showcase his own favorite passage.
With “This is my Beloved” no longer in print, the library was our only resource. We made several trips to that library over those months between June and late No-vember when I completed training, to arrive home on Thanksgiving Day. Fast-forward about thirty years later, Joan, my now late and endearing wife, surprised me with a gift copy of the book, which by then was in a second or third reprinting.
I attended City College as a Speech and Theater major.
English and Humanities courses were heavy on writing assignments, and I received high grades on my essays. In those days there was no cost for tuition, only a six-dollar registration fee. However, as a student under the GI Bill, Uncle Sam paid $430 per month for full-time attendance. What had begun at Southeast (CVS at night), then Ol-ive-Harvey and finally Kennedy-King, ended after about six years of taking every available course to accumulate full-time hours. Having absorbed most academic classes, and after piano and swimming, among other courses to makeup the required complement of credit hours, I was forced to graduate.
Working at AT&T as a Project Manager, a great deal of report writing was required. Although my manager could not find fault with my performance, he did make it a point, on more than one occasion to speak somewhat negatively of my writing skills, saying my writing tended to be more creative than business-like. At the time I had probably written a book or two of poetry and was work-ing on a stage play. My similes and metaphors may have been too much for his depth of field. Besides, he couldn’t argue with my results.
During that time, I was also serving on the Board of di-rectors of Jazz Unites and The Chicago Theatre Company (CTC). Creativity was in my soul. I attended Black Writ-er’s Workshops, Playwriting Workshops, stage plays, and jazz concerts and festivals. Throughout that time, I also completed three poetry book manuscripts and a script for a Miles Davis stage play, all listed with the Library of Congress.
Through it all, though, what I consider to be my magnum opus, is a play I’ve written called Christmas Joy. It was a work-in-progress when I used its opening scene as sub-mission to the Chicago Dramatist Workshop’s “Saturday Series,” a ten-minute workshop for “playwrights of color.” I received enough positive feedback to inspire me to con-tinue in its further development. I’m proud to say that it’s very close to completion — as it should be, for this work-
shop was held on March 5th, 1994.
When you serve on the board of a not-for-profit creative arts organization, you serve on a working board. Serving on two such boards, there was much work to be done. I devised a plan to blend the essence of both genres in a way that I thought to be both fun and fund raising.
The Saint Louis Black Repertory Theatre Company (Black Rep) was one of national notoriety. The city of Saint Lou-is, home of jazz great Clark Terry, was a jazz mecca with jazz joints all over town and just ripe for a pub-crawl. The Jazz Bistro was one of the most popular, and allowed free entry if shown a theater ticket stub from that evening’s performance at the Black Rep. What a deal! Among other amenities of the tour was riverboat gambling aboard the Casino Belle in East Saint Louis, a visit to the courthouse where the Dred Scott decision was rendered, and a visit to his grave. It was a three-night stay, leaving Thursday afternoon and returning early Sunday evening.
There was a different adventure each year that we re-turned. The $99 price never covered the entire cost, and no funds were ever raised. In fact, there were some out-of-pocket expenses for which I footed the bill. But it was worth the trip. From 1995 through 2000 — and near the end of March and my birthday — it was also a celebration that I was willing to finance. The attractive group rates with Holiday Inn and AMTRAK helped ease the burden.
I made a personal trip to the area in 2001 — to the Il-linois side of the river, East St. Louis — the city of birth of the late great Miles Davis. I was there to celebrate his 75th birthday. Herbie Hancock, pianist for Miles’ “second great group,” was the leader of the band that occupied a bandstand in the parking lot of the Casino Queen. Wyn-ton Marsalis blew his horn. It was a glorious day.
All praise is to my muses: Walter Benton, King Pleasure (Clarence Beaks), The Last Poets and Gil-Scott Herron.
King Pleasure recently had a birthday, and so I’ll end my story with this poem, dedicated to the man himself:
A Pleasure to Remember
King Pleasure, a jazz hall treasure
Was the master of the rap
Not that sound you hear that irritates your ear
And sung by some ghetto chap
I’m talking ‘bout sound that’s so profound
That a fella lays down to his lady
Not about drive-by killin’ or Black blood spillin’
Or a gangsta bitch who’s shady
He would use the word with a poetic verve
While painting a picture of bliss
Then put a flow on the afterglow
While each sentence seemed sealed with a kiss
Before Curtis Blow brought you his show
Or hip-hop and Snoop Dog was here
King Pleasure – Clarence Beaks – gave us “jazzspeaks” And his words rang crystal clear.
Like the tides of the ocean his words spoke with motion And he said what we wished we could say
Not with earth-shaking sound that could wake up the town
But he did it in a jazzy way.
So if you should hear false words in your ear
That rap is a dying ember
Not the rap that I’ve heard – spoken in the jazz word It’s a lasting Pleasure to remember.
Fred Dunham is a writer, author of three books including a book of poems called “The Jazz Storyteller.” A playwright, and jazz lover, Fred has served on many jazz and theater-related boards and is a professional photographer and an enthusiastic fisherman.
