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| Eugene B. Redmond, Amiri Baraka, October 23, 2005 |
Well, my input was minimal. I was mostly listening and learning.
Redmond and Baraka were going back and forth about a million and one thises and thats. Then Baraka spotted a photograph that Redmond had on his wall.
"Who's that?" Baraka wanted to know.
"Who do you think?" Redmond said.
Baraka looked at the image, and said "Hmmm, he's relative of Miles."
Redmond snapped his finger and pointed at Baraka, as if to say, that's it; you got it. The photograph was indeed one of Miles Davis's relatives.
That photograph launched Redmond and Baraka into a couple hours conversation. We were just standing in that one place in front of the image discussing jazz, Black music, Black musicians, albums, the friends and relatively of the musicians, places where Baraka and Redmond had listened to music, cities they traveled to to listen, people who died, and various things that happened.
By the way, those two never used the words "jazz," "Black music," or "Black musicians." Why would that need to within the context of their conversation? So much was understood.
Throughout the conversation, one of them would momentarily forget a name and then ask the other one. Baraka would go, "who's the one who [did this or that]?" Redmond would respond by listing names, and when he got the right person, Baraka would snap and point his finger, signaling: that's it; you got it.
Then later, Redmond would ask a similar question trying to remember someone. Baraka would list names, eventually landing on one, and Redmond would snap, point his finger: that's it; you got it.
Every now and then, Redmond would turn to me and ask about an obscure writer associated with the 1960s and 1970s, as I was deep into my research on what would become my first book, which focused on the Black Arts Movement. Somehow, I managed to fill in the blanks for everyone Redmond alluded to.
A few years back, I started developing a term for this idea of Black writers making dozens of references to people, places, and historical events in a single setting. I called it concentrated cultural cataloging, or simply cultural cataloging.
Looking back on that October 2005 conversation between Redmond and Baraka, they were providing me with an early extraordinary blueprint for what I had in mind. These two Black men -- Baraka, who had recently turned 71 and Redmond, who was 68 -- were producing this fantastic cultural catalog right before my eyes.
They weren't just listing names for the sake of listing. No, every person or group of people mentioned were characters in a large, wide-ranging story or series of stories.
Aspects of the discussion was an act of remembering. They were telling each other stories so he (the teller) would remember. It was like they needed to say things out loud that they had been thinking about just so it would be real for them in a way. When Baraka would tell a story about a person, it reminded Redmond about that person and one other person, who he'd then speak on. Next, Baraka would pick up from there and mention a few other people.
What's fascinating is that the conversation was probably not a big deal for Baraka and Redmond. That is, they likely had those type exchanges with each other and others all the time. But it was a memorable moment for me. I had followed Baraka for years, but I had never had this level of access to him as he was talking freely about music.
Let's be clear, we're talking about Baraka, arguably our most important poets, who's at the same time one of our top cultural critics of all time. Oh, and he's the author of possibly one of the foundational texts in ethnomusicology. And he's just here talking extensively about the music and musicians.
And then there's Redmond. Poet, editor, photographer, and author of our greatest single history of Black poetry.
That conversation was a living archive -- a deeply, layered memory in-motion cultural catalog.
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