As a child, my mother rocked me to sleep in a rocking chair and sang a song about ‘going to tell Aunt Dinah.’ It went on…. “the old grey goose is dead… the one she’s been savin’…. to make a feather bed.”
Who was Aunt Dinah, and where did this song originate? I have no clue, but I remembered it, and sang it to my children, and again, a generation later, to my grandchildren. These are the arts that live in the everyday; they are the family recipes, the songs, the music we listen to even now, I believe, that tie us to the stories of where we came from, even when there is no written history.
Jack McCray, author of “Charleston Jazz,” wrote a piece in the Charleston Post & Courier about James Jamerson, the legendary bass guitarist, who lived from 1936 to 1983. On March 19 of ’09, largely unnoticed, at the State Capital, State Rep. Wendell Gilliard presented a South Carolina House of Representatives resolution to Charleston musician Anthony McKnight, honoring McKnight’s late cousin, James Jamerson, an American music innovator.
To borrow from a tribute written by Allan Slutsky, his biographer, “James Jamerson was a jazz musician born on Edisto Island and grew up in the city of Charleston. Before he finished high school he moved to Detroit, Michigan. Like many other jazz players, Jamerson, a bassist, took to playing pop music to earn a living and he ended up a charter member of the Funk Brothers, the legendary house band for Motown Records, the sound of young America, as it called itself, during the 1960s and 1970s. That period was its prolific heyday. He took the rhythm and aural textures of the Lowcountry to Detroit and made major contributions to one of the greatest phases in the evolution of American music. Jamerson played on virtually all of the hits by acts such as the Supremes, Temptations, Four Tops, Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and Martha and the Vandellas. He played on more No. 1 records than the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Beach Boys combined.
This story is long overdue.
Jamerson began playing music as a little boy on Edisto Island, with one string in the sand, “to make the ants dance.” John Michael Vlach, professor of American Studies and Anthropology at George Washington University has written much about American Folk Art, and he reveals the interesting history of many instruments that owe their history to “Afro-American instrument makers….one of these is called the “one-string” or “one strand”.
Early African Americans made this into a banjo, which was built from a gourd. He goes on to say, “It is clear that the banjo as it was first known in America was an African instrument. It remained a black instrument until the 1840’s when minstrel shows took it on as part of their black face farces. Only then did the banjo become a badge of ridicule for Afro-Americans; they generally gave it up, allowing white southerners to claim it as their own invention.” For an in depth discussion of this and many other traditional folk arts of the Lowcountry I highly recommend Mr Vlach’s book, The Afro-American Tradition in Decorative Arts, University of Georgia Press.
The one string instrument that James Jamerson played as a child was one his ancestors most likely played. This was his Aunt Dinah song. Music heals and soothes us, and her history in the Lowcountry is a large part of her soul. I can only imagine the sounds of the boatmen who sang in rhythmic time, during long travels over these waters, and the metaphoric music of work songs, and spirituals, songs that often spoke in secret codes. The music worked to communicate one message to the master and another to the enslaved, yet all along it continued to be music, to soothe and heal the spirit. How many more stories like James Jamerson’s exist? Do you have songs passed down in the family whose roots may tell you something about your ancestors?
To borrow again from Jack McCray, “The next time you hear the soulful bass introduction to “My Girl,” the thunder-and-lightening licks to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On” or the rollicking romp of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” remember Jamerson and the pulse of the Lowcountry.”
Now, this is pretty close to church, I say. Amen, brother.
All day he’d been working like a locomotive, I mean he was painting, the brush strokes coming like clockwork. Then he called home. And that was that. That was all she wrote. He shook like a leaf. He started smoking again. He lay down and got back up. Who could sleep if your woman sneered and said time was running out? He drove into town. But he didn’t go drinking. No, he went walking. He walked past a mill called “the mill.” Smell of fresh cut lumber, lights everywhere, men driving jitneys and forklifts, driving themselves. Lumber piled to the top of the warehouse, the whine and the groan of machinery. Easy enough to recollect, he thought. He went on, rain falling now, a soft rain that wants to do its level best not to interfere with anything and in return asks only that it not be forgotten. The painter turned up his collar and said to himself he wouldn’t forget. He came to a lighted building where, inside a room, men played cards at a big table. A man wearing a cap stood at the window and looked out through the rain as he smoked a pipe. That was an image he didn’t want to forget either, but then with his next thought he shrugged. What was the point? He walked on until he reached the jetty with its rotten pilings. Rain fell harder now. It hissed as it struck the water. Lightning came and went. Lightning broke across the sky like memory, like revelation. Just when he was at the point of despair, a fish came up out of the dark water under the jetty and then fell back and then rose again in a flash to stand on its tail and shake itself! The painter could hardly credit his eyes, or his ears! He did just had a sign-– faith didn’t enter into it. The painter’s mouth flew open. By the time he reached home he quit smoking and vowed never to talk on the telephone again. He put on his smock and picked up his brush. He was ready to begin again, but he didn’t know if one canvas could hold it all. Never mind. He’d carry it over onto another canvas if he had to. It was all or nothing. Lightning, water, fish, cigarettes, cards, machinery, the human heart, that old port. Even the woman’s lips against the receiver, even that. The curl of her lip.
Such a joy to see today the preservation of one of the earliest African-American owned tracts of land near Point of Pines. Thank you to the Edisto Open Land Trust for making this happen. Open to the public! Makes my heart happy.