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George Benson

Photo: Tabatha Fireman/Redferns

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George Benson Talks Tribute Album To Chuck Berry & Fats Domino: "The Songs are Still Ripe"

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The guitar great discusses his latest project honoring two of rock ‘n roll’s founding fathers by digging into their deep cuts
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
Apr 23, 2019 - 5:10 pm

When Provogue Records asked GRAMMY winner George Benson to record a covers album of Chuck Berry and Fats Domino, he enthusiastically jumped into what could have been a tired set of oldies -- and recorded a fresh romp through the origins of rock ‘n roll.

Not that the singer, songwriter and guitarist hadn’t tackled standards before. His body of work is filled with renditions of the Beatles, Miles Davis, Sam Cooke, and dozens more; his last album, 2013’s Inspiration, paid tribute to Nat King Cole.

Berry and Domino are a heady pair to pay tribute to, but Benson’s masterful touch makes it look like a breeze. Their outsized personalities made them early rock icons -- and much like Benson himself, they transcended musical lines of race, color and genre. And to him, the songs still have “poetic value” in 2019.

“They’re talking about the basics of life,” Benson says with a hint of awe. “Things that people come in contact with every day. And they put those lyrics together in a genius way.”

Berry and Domino are Rock ‘n Roll 101 at this point -- but as he dug deep, Benson found plenty of surprises. Producer Kevin Shirley suggested Berry’s “Havana Moon”; Benson had never previously heard the song. “It sounded very strange to me,” he admitted. “Like something Harry Belafonte would sing.” He let out an irresistible laugh. “But every woman who heard that song loved it!”

His covers of Domino, too, display an affection for the foundations of rock. When the record company asked him to tackle his “Walking to New Orleans,” his ears pricked up; he knew that would be the title.

“It gives them a little hint of what they’re going to be listening to,” he says. “It’s going to have a blues tint.” If you want a fun, breezy crash-course on how that blues sound shaped early rock, Walking to New Orleans is your trusty guide.

Here Benson talks more about about his musical roots, the challenges of covering Berry and Domino and how he balances his music career with being a family man of faith.

What made you want to honor Chuck Berry and Fats Domino in 2019?

The record company are the ones who inspired this record. They’re the ones who made the request for me to do this music. I thought it was strange at first, but after a while, I said, “You know, what a great idea!”

Because these were two icons who crossed over in a day when that was almost impossible. They crossed over in a big way, because they were two very, very strong personalities and their music was highly unique.

These two composers and musicians already had their hands on the vibe. Just to bring that forward is already a big reason why the record is successful so far. I think that’s the main thing. That people think you meant to play this record. You lose that vibe, I think you’ve lost them.

The lyrics to the songs were ripe for the time, and they’re still ripe. Because they’re talking about the basics of life. Things that people come in contact with every day. Their trials and tribulations. And in a genius way, they put those lyrics together. These guys were poets, you know? The stories have a poetic value, and they translate and communicate very well.

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What inspired you to cut this music in Nashville?

In Nashville, they wouldn’t question what you were doing. You wouldn’t have to make up things like you would in L.A. They know me too well. They know what I can do. And they would want to be on something different in L.A. In Nashville, they never ask one question, except “What are we playing next? What key is it in?” That’s about it.

There’s a crackly energy between you and the players. Were you trying to let your hair down and play some rock ‘n roll this time?

No, that was another decision on the record company’s part. They had heard me in that context. I couldn’t until it came back to me, because I used to play a lot of that type of music way back in the day, in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s.

We had to play a little bit of everything and listen to a little bit of everything, because that was what was on the radio and on the jukebox. I kind of filed that into a bag that I had gone through. I thought that was the end of it!

Do you remember the first time you heard Fats and Chuck? Did you ever come in contact with those guys?

Only once. I came into contact with Chuck Berry at a music store in L.A. I was doing a video interview and he was in there buying some strings or guitar picks or something like that. I went over and I said, “Mr. Berry, my name is George Benson.”  He turned around and shook my hand. “Yeah. Hi.” And then he went right back to what he was doing.

I had to quickly think of something to say. I asked, “Mr. Berry, in my show, I do the duck walk. Do you mind that I do the duck walk in my show?” And he turned around very quickly and said, “Can you?” And then he went right back to buying his guitar picks and his strings. That was the end of that.

Fats Domino, I had the offer to join his band many years ago. I think I was about 16, 17 years old, maybe. One of the guys who was working with him saw me playing somewhere and said, “Man, how’d you like to go on the road?” I never liked that idea, because I never saw anyone on the road who had anything. They all looked like they were tattered and broken-down.

So I said, “No, I never thought about going on the road.” And then he said, “Well, how would you like to gig with Fats Domino?” And I said, “Wow, that’s too heavy for me. I’m not that good a player. No, I couldn’t.” So I didn’t take the gig.

You picked some deeper Chuck Berry cuts, like “Nadine” and “Havana Moon.” Were you trying to honor his more lyrical side?

That might have been the conscious choice by the producer and the record company executive. I think they made a good choice of tunes. I had never heard “Havana Moon” before. It sounded very strange to me. Like a song that maybe Harry Belafonte would do. I didn’t think it particularly meant that much, but every woman who heard that song loved it. So they made good choices!

The title track is a poignant version of Fats’ “Walking to New Orleans.” What struck you about that song?

They had a name for the album. I can’t remember what it was. But when it came around to me, I said, “No, the obvious to me is Walking to New Orleans.” It gives them a little hint about what they’re going to be listening to. It’s going to have a blues tint to it and some very basic ideas. I thought that worked better. And they loved the idea. So that’s what we named it.

You’re a family man and a longtime member of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Is music still a big part of your daily life in both respects?

Keeping the balance was, is, difficult. Trying to get to the meetings when I was home. We put in our time every month. In forty years, I missed maybe one or two months, because I was out on the road. But yeah, music in my house every day. I practice almost every day, because it’s been the best way for me to keep abreast of things.

I learn something from every project. But music moves around a lot. You can’t depend on something you did 40 years ago. You’ve gotta keep coming up with something. They’ve already got those albums on their shelves. To try to keep new ideas going forward has been the challenge. We’ve been very successful at that.

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Jon Batiste

Jon Batiste

Photo courtesy of Verve

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Jon Batiste Talks New Album 'We Are,' His Brain-Breaking Itinerary & Achieving "Freedom" From Genre

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Stay Human bandleader and Stephen Colbert foil Jon Batiste is a respected pillar of the jazz community. But as his new album 'WE ARE' and his litany of other projects attests, he's something much more significant: A fully-formed American artist
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
Jun 10, 2021 - 12:05 pm

What has Jon Batiste been up to since his last album, 2018's Hollywood Africans? That's like asking an entire town, "What have you been up to for three years?"

For Batiste, even summing up three days is rather impossible. In that timespan, he's had an incalculable number of irons in the fire—his symphonic premiere at Carnegie Hall, leading his band Stay Human on "The Late Show With Stephen Colbert," a collaborative song with Diane Warren, and scores of other things. Still, he's found a 15-minute window for a Zoom call. Therein, the 34-year-old dynamo lovingly deems his life "a madhouse."

"It's hard to even encapsulate in one presentation of a thought," the three-time GRAMMY nominee admits to GRAMMY.com. "I'm also in the process of, while doing these things, developing other things."

This Möbius strip of a life—projects and projects and projects, blurring on a continuum—speaks to Batiste's boundless drive and work ethic. In a pandemic year, when so many lost motivation and momentum, he sped up. Not only that, he's showing the uncategorizable nature of his artistry. 

Just as he can't be summed up as a bandleader, music consultant or TV personality, on his new album WE ARE, which was released March 29, Batiste combines half a dozen styles in fresh, unhackneyed ways.

"I don't even think genre exists," he declares later in the interview. "Self-curation and the free exchange of information and content creates a lack of genre adherence. That kind of diversity and access changes listening habits and changes the way people perceive music."

This paradigm, he says, exposes and deconstructs notions of genre, which, Batiste asserts, stems from race-centric marketing prevalent in the early music business. Read on as he holds forth on that subject, his Oscar-winning work on the 2020 Pixar flick Soul and what he has in store as live performances return.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

What's been going on in your life since Hollywood Africans, up to and including the daily grind of TV and working on Soul?

I'm involved in so many different types of things that so much of my life is balancing the amount of things I have going on and maintaining artistic integrity and keeping my values intact. It's hard to even encapsulate in one presentation of a thought.

Looking at my day-to-day: I just finished working on a score last night. The day before, when I was working on that score, I did a symphonic composition for an NBA Playoffs ad, which is their official ad that's out now. We did that in a matter of three days and recorded an entire symphony orchestra. Then, before that, I was working on a song in collaboration with Diane Warren. Today, I was hosting "CBS This Morning," and I wasn't even playing music. I was the host [with] Gayle King.

Today, I'm doing "The Late Show." And then tonight, after that, I'm going to work on some things for a foundation I'm part of. This is just in the last three days, which is a microcosm of the type of madhouse that my life is and the variety and range of different things I'm part of, that I care about deeply.

This is [about] focusing on a few things that are offered to me that I care about the most in a moment. That's maybe five out of 500 opportunities to do things or be part of things. It really becomes a question of what matters most to me and what I want to put on everybody's plate at this time, and how much time I have to do it.

I'm also in the process of, while doing these things, developing other things. Developing shows and developing a symphony that I'm premiering at Carnegie Hall in May of next year that's called American Symphony. It will be my largest work to date. It's a 40-minute, four-movement symphony, and it has not only the orchestra, but a choir and marching band and guest musicians. It's a very expansive work.

I've got to mention Soul, because I really got the impression that It wasn't a writer's room guessing what that world is like. It seemed like jazz musicians were deeply involved with the film.

Oh, absolutely. You've got one of the greatest living jazz musicians being a consultant on the film—Herbie Hancock—a consultation that was from the beginning of the film. And you have Terri Lyne Carrington, one of the greatest musicians living, who also consulted on the film. I consulted on the film as well as working on the score with Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross.

You have real jazz musicians at the helm of this thing. Roy Haynes played the drums with me on the score. I put together another multigenerational band there with real jazz musicians. Roy Haynes and Harvey Mason, Sr. on the drums, and Marcus Gilmore as well, who is Roy's grandson. Then, you have Linda Oh and Tia Fuller on the bass and saxophone, respectively.

I think it's really amazing when they have these opportunities—for whatever it is—to have a big studio use their megaphone to speak to something that is more countercultural and less mainstream. This is a great example of the power of a big studio—one of the biggest studios in the world, Disney-Pixar—to use their megaphone and speak to something. It can have a lasting impact.

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That was a big win for the jazz community. 

Yeah. Anyone who says otherwise, I think, missed the big picture. I think it's hard to look at that and not see it as a win for jazz and for culture. In particular, when I'm thinking about culture, I'm thinking about the ways that American identity and Black culture have been at odds in cinema. This movie was allowed to come through the cracks of a very marginalized history, when it comes to jazz in film.

As a journalist, I have to reckon with the word "jazz" and the periodic need to obliterate it. WE ARE has many of those elements, but when I listen to it, the word never crosses my mind. Do you even consider genre when you write?

I don't even think genre exists. I think it's a construct. The construct of genre was really created in order to help sell and organize music and to train the public to think about music in that way, in order to market it easier. 

I think that's what it was from the beginning, and then, even earlier than our modern era of genre organization, what it was was all those things and race, which created these different forms of segregation. Segregated radio stations even had colored records versus non-colored records, and all kinds of crazy shenanigans. People would have songs that were done, and there would be a white version and a Black version. As you know, the history of all the stuff we've dealt with.

Then, you'd have R&B records and rock 'n' roll, and that became a way of segregating music. You have Chuck Berry and Little Richard, and then you have Elvis and the Stones, and all these different blues musicians. Blues and R&B were really the origin of what had become known as rock 'n' roll, but because it was Black people doing it, they didn't want to call it rock 'n' roll.

It's very interesting to see the evolution of that. That's a whole other story. But it's always been a construct. We've just always accepted it. And I think the more that we look at the way things have unfolded with streaming in the early 2000s, we see how the genie popped out of the bottle when people started to pirate, stream and download music and curate it for themselves, even though that's not even what it was called back then. 

Self-curation and the free exchange of information and content creates a lack of genre adherence. That kind of diversity and access changes listening habits and changes the way people perceive music. It changes the taste of what they want from artists. We're just [now] starting to see the impact of that as the generation who grew up with streaming.

You know, my generation was the last generation in that when we were 11 and 12 years old, we didn't have it. By the time we were 13 and 14, it was taken over. It's the generation after us that grew up where that was the only thing they had. That's how they understood music consumption. There are pros and cons to it all, but it definitely was part of what is more and more exposed about genre, which is rooted in marketing and race.

When you crash together hip-hop, jazz, blues, R&B and soul, it exposes that they're all made of the same DNA.

What's totally interesting is that the more time that the construct of genre has persisted, it's created different approaches to these genres that are identifiable. You have artists that have created music to fit into a system that is a construct. And even with that being the case, the music is still not able to be separated.

I'll give you the perfect example. If you listen to what's known as smooth jazz and then listen to something from the '70s, like Grover Washington or Stanley Turrentine or post-bop music like Horace Silver or Bobby Timmons or something like that, the only thing that separates that music—besides the actual musicians—stylistically is the production concept.

Some beats, where you hear something Art Blakey might play, that could be a hip-hop beat if it was an 808 or it was sampled. It could be jazz—vice versa—if it was played on two-inch tape and recorded at Van Gelder Studios. A lot of stuff that separates genre now is largely sonic production approaches. 

I feel like that's the new innovation in music. I see a lot of people trying to break genres in how they blend sonic and production approaches.

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James Brandon Lewis

James Brandon Lewis

Photo: Diane Allford

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James Brandon Lewis On Evoking George Washington Carver Through Sound, The Wisdom Of Nature & His New Album 'Jesup Wagon'

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The emotionally and intellectually gripping saxophonist James Brandon Lewis did his homework while conceptualizing 'Jesup Wagon,' an album that manifests George Washington Carver's essence into today's world
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
May 17, 2021 - 5:57 pm

Jazz history is full of musicians immortalizing people through sound. John Coltrane did it with "Cousin Mary" and "Syeeda's Song Flute." Miles Davis did it with "Back Seat Betty." Charles Mingus's "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" is a eulogy for the tenor giant Lester Young. The problem is that if we couldn't flip over the LP and read about it, we might never know—and tenor saxophonist James Brandon Lewis is well aware of the gulf between music and PR copy.

While paying homage to agricultural scientist and inventor George Washington Carver on his new album, Jesup Wagon, Lewis conjured his essence and wrenched it from his horn. Even if you might need to read the bio to get who he's driving at, there are more profound forces at play. Even as he interpolated spoken word to illuminating effect, Lewis told a story in a way language never could. 

"I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying my best to evoke a deeper thing," he tells GRAMMY.com.

Getting on Carver's wavelength meant digging deeper than the aspects most people learn in public school, like his 300-plus uses for the peanut. Lewis more than did his due diligence, poring over Carver's correspondence letters and bulletins for farmers as well as a litany of biographies of the man. Want to read about Carver yourself? There's plenty of literature out there. But Jesup Wagon, which came out May 7 on the up-and-coming TAO Forms label, can help you feel his presence.

Far from dry history lessons, Lewis' wrenching compositions like "Lowlands of Sorrow," "Fallen Flowers" and "Experiment Station" may act as first steps to lifelong education on and communion with the historical figure. Most importantly, Lewis has a monstrous sound on the horn. Plus, he has simpatico accompanists in the Red Lily Quintet, which consists of cornetist Kirk Knuffke, bassist and gimbri player William Parker, cellist Chris Hoffman, and drummer and mbira player Chad Taylor.

GRAMMY.com caught up with Lewis over Zoom from Switzerland—where he's already plotting his next album—about his journey through a Black genius's universe and his place in the pantheon of the saxophone.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.

You clearly had such a vision for Jesup Wagon, and I can't think of a way you fell short of executing it. How did this idea germinate, and would you consider this album your breakthrough?

Definitely. All the parts kind of fell into place. I definitely didn't have any intention, initially, during this COVID period, to do anything to mark the time period. Just because of personal stuff. Losing family members and different things. Not feeling like creating work was necessarily the right thing to do just because people were losing their lives; people were losing work.

But then, eventually, I was like, "I can't sink my own ship. I've got to be strong for other people." So I just started creating music. This came about very organically. The label reached out—for Whit Dickey to have the courage to start TAO Forms during COVID is like, "OK, cool." [They asked me,] "James, do you have anything?" "Sure, I do."

I'm always creating and thinking about the next thing and the Carver project [and my interest in him] was something that had been on my mind for quite some time. So I thought, "Why not?" Maybe people will gain a little bit more insight into him other than, like, "He's the peanut guy." These kinds of watered-down notions of him. Which happens over time to people. I don't think it's done in a malicious kind of way.

And then, the cast. It's everyone that I've worked with over the years. I've only worked with Chris Hoffman once, but that was good enough. It's interesting because when you create, you don't know what the response is going to be. I thought, "This sounds like some pretty good music," and I put my best foot forward with every project, but you don't know which project is going to resonate with people the most.

I'm sure you've done innumerable interviews about George Washington Carver at this point. I'm interested in the tension between the music and the press kit—how you can evoke someone through sheer sound without necessitating that the listener read the one-sheet.

For me, it was a natural process. The older I get, the more I reflect on my past. Just growing up and being interested in many different things. Reading Emerson, being interested in science and jazz. I was just this kind of kid. Now, as an adult, the most authentic or original ideas I can pull from have to be from thinking about my own personal experiences.

In two years, I'll be 40. I think I have a little bit of life that I can talk about. So I think in choosing to do any project, I'm fully immersing myself in being in history. Checking out the bulletins he made for farmers. Checking out several different biographies as well as correspondence letters. Seeing clips of him on YouTube. Fully immersing myself gets me in tune with a little of his vibe.

The more I dig in, the more I feel like it may translate. How it resonates in my soul, I can map that and remember that feeling and then pick up my horn and proceed to play, remembering the feeling of a passage he said or his exchanges with Booker T. Washington at Tuskegee [Institute].

All of these different things and also the idea of him going against the grain in science when that's not necessarily the field [where] you're supposed to go against the grain. You're supposed to be all factual. He's presenting spirituality and telling people he's talking to the plants and they're letting him know what's going on.

It's always a challenge when you're playing music. To have a concept and then [wonder], "OK, well, it's instrumental music. Does it translate?" I think when you immerse yourself in a topic … It's no different than if I was writing a piece and I wanted to evoke, maybe, what love feels like. That's just knowing the characteristics of how to paint emotion with particular sounds.

That's up to the listener, but I feel like I'm in tune with his spirit, with his vibe. As you say, away from any PR or whatever. Any of the PR or any of the things that are out there is stuff that I've disseminated about him in the most truthful way. It's just like my dealings with Robin D. G. Kelly [who wrote a 2009 biography of [Thelonious Monk.] He's such an amazing writer. I've had a relationship with him since, like, 2016, when my No Filter project came out with my trio.

He was familiar with the process of me choosing titles and knowing that the titles were not just random. They kind of guide you. He was able to depict the titles in a really beautiful way that is truthful. They're based on me reading his correspondence letters and checking out his documents. A lot of real research. 

The music is one aspect, but to firmly immerse yourself in something is another thing. I could easily come up with a song and call it "The Peanut"; I don't know if that would be that interesting. I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying my best to evoke a deeper thing. The musicians help that, too. It's not a bad crew to work with!

James Brandon Lewis

James Brandon Lewis. Photo: Diane Allford

It's a co-creation. You've got the best minds on it! And I think I understand now. You don't need to be able to materialize a person, somehow. You're not writing a book. You're just manifesting Carver's essence in an emotional or spiritual way.

Right. Does it relate to someone on an emotional level? Even when I'm listening to it—which I rarely do after I record it—I go, "Yeah." If I hear "Experiment Station," just visualizing George Washington Carver with students, the newness, the childlike behavior of discovery [mimics exuberant melody] then it's like "Wow, this is about to take me somewhere." It's also just about the contour of the line and how you shape things. Descending, the overall arc of things. 

Hey, if it can also reach people emotionally—I'm at a place now where I'm like, "Let me play it for my family." If it resonates with them, then, cool. I think I'm OK. I'm on the right track. If Grandma's movin' and groovin', then that's a good sign.

How did Kelley come into your life? What a great asset.

I had released [No Filter] on a small label called BNS Sessions. He just reached out to me and said he enjoyed the album, and we sparked up a friendship. I also got involved with reading other books he was involved in, [like 2009's] Black, Brown & Beige, which was a surrealist anthology that he edited. That book specifically was influential on the UnRuly Manifesto project I did in 2019.

It's just been a healthy exchange. He's been to some of my gigs. We just sparked a real vibe. I'm thankful. He wrote some ace liner notes.

What tools were in your toolbox while making Jesup Wagon? Which artists were swimming through your mind?

I think I naturally draw from the canon of great saxophone players, just because I listen to them. But for this sound and vibe—I initially wanted to have a kora player on this project. That didn't quite work out, but then, I said, "OK, William Parker plays the gimbri. Chad Taylor plays the mbira. If I get a cello, then we have this earthy [quality]."

Me and Kirk [Knuffke], we definitely have similar interests in terms of all the great Ornette Coleman vibes and tunes. Just the way he plays and I play and we interact with each other, that's definitely a headspace in the ether. Strings, horns, no harmonic instrument, drums.

I definitely feel like I'm in the lineage of a lot of different players, but I don't know if I was thinking of that, necessarily, other than trying to convey the music in a way that felt connected to the tradition. The Coltranes, the Aylers. The Ornette Colemans. The Dewey Redmans. That vibe. Julius Hemphill. All these folks who have these different ensembles. The cello and bass.

My introduction to cello happened in 2009. I was at Banff [International Workshop in Jazz & Creative Music] and I met [cellist] Hank Roberts, who plays with Bill Frisell. And then, later on, I met [composer and cellist] Tomeka Reid when I got to New York. It was a natural progression of sounds.

And then, William Parker! He's also a huge influence [on my] sound. He's had a lot of different ensembles with a lot of different kinds of instruments and things. And Chad Taylor, who's worked with Pharoah Sanders and [tenor saxophonist] Fred Anderson. I think there is a sound universe. I definitely feel like I lean toward a lot of different influences.

James Brandon Lewis

James Brandon Lewis. Photo: Diane Allford

All in all, you may not be able to build a person out of sound, but you can push a hole in the universe and something might come out the other side. Who knows how Jesup Wagon will cause a ripple effect in global awareness of Carver and his contributions?

You know, it's interesting, because I've had different people from Alabama, from the South, who listened to the record, and they're like, "Wow. You really evoked this. We knew Carver when we were kids, growing up in this specific area. This is amazing." That's always a really cool thing. It's nice.

It also manifests itself, because I was just a kid who was curious about this individual, as I am with many other people. We'll see what happens, but I'm glad people dig the music. I don't think this is just a one-time [thing]. I don't know if I'm creating Carver, Part Two, but I will continue to study him. It's manifesting in my own life. He, as an individual, definitely got me thinking about nature. Maybe [making me] a little more concerned with nature as opposed to "This is over here and I'm separate from it and I'm so sophisticated." Caring about it, thinking about it. Contributing to it in a way that's healthy.

Maybe a seed is growing inside me to get some plants of my own and appreciate them. Especially during this time period, it seems like nature is the most calm and sophisticated and knows how to conduct itself.

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Delbert Anderson

Delbert Anderson

Maurice Johnson

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Meet Delbert Anderson, A Native American Trumpet Master Interweaving Navajo Melodies With Jazz

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Native American trumpeter Delbert Anderson started playing straight-ahead jazz, but admits it was difficult to stand out. Once when he began exploring his Navajo heritage for material, things became truly interesting
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
May 13, 2021 - 3:39 pm

The universe of Native American heritage contains a fount of traditional melodies. There's just one problem: Hardly anyone remembers them.

When New Mexico trumpeter Delbert Anderson needed new inspiration for his jazz trio, he rolled out to an Aztec library and looked for Indigenous music. As a man of Navajo descent himself, he wanted to dig deeper into his ancestry. What Anderson found was a tape of “spinning songs”—essentially, songs dictating social interaction—chanted by Navajo chiefs. "It was really hard to pick out a melody," Anderson admits to GRAMMY.com. "The melodies that caught my ear were what I focused on."

Needing to know more, Anderson, a faculty member at San Juan College in Farmington, New Mexico, consulted traditional Native families, but their memories were hazy. What they could hum from memory, despite not knowing the origin, he connected to the Navajo spinning songs and learned two things. One: They were mostly in pentatonic, or specifically, minor pentatonic. Two: They were sticky and memorable enough to create stellar jazz tunes—ones that respectfully approach Native American musical tradition while also fostering an accessible experience for listeners.

Thus, Anderson has staked his claim on an almost-untouched corner of music: Native American jazz. Along with bassist Mike McCluhan and drummer Nick Lucero, joined by a succession of hip-hop MCs, he skillfully braids Indigenous melodies and syncopated grooves in a way that can appeal to purists in either camp. This is evident on his albums like Manitou (2014) as well as his 2021 virtual concert series throughout New Mexico and Colorado, which earned a $30,000 grant from the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation.

GRAMMY.com gave Delbert Anderson a ring about his straight-ahead jazz beginnings, how he began communing more closely with his Navajo roots and how he mourns the melodies lost to time that double as a fertile source of mystery.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

I'm amazed by the melodic strength and integrity of some of these Native American tunes you transmuted into jazz. Where did they come from?

We started out playing jazz standards, and we weren't getting anywhere. We sounded like every jazz combo in the world! [Laughs.] So, we decided to dig a little deeper into everyone's culture. Mike [McCluhan], the bass player, obviously, is white. [Drummer] Nick [Lucero] is Hispanic, and actually comes from Peruvian culture. At the same time, both of them were urging me, "We need to do something Native American, with that kind of influence."

So, I went to this Aztec library that's 12 miles from where I live right now. I found this tape of Navajo spinning songs. At that time, I didn't really know what spinning songs were. I knew of them. But after doing a lot more research and speaking with some of the elders that are still on the reservation today, [I learned] they were basically social songs that taught their children or outsiders manners or how to operate. It's really neat that they used music to teach those things.

Just an example: When the song starts, it's the male who would have to ask politely for the lady to dance. There was a certain gesture they would make. They would dance, and that was a time they would get in a conversation. They had a very specific dance. It seemed pretty intense. It wasn't like today, [where you're] both dancing however you feel like. There were certain structures to it. It was really well-disciplined.

They had songs for everything. They had songs for love, songs for war, ceremonial healing-type songs, but there were also just spinning songs. The Navajo spinning songs that I started to be influenced by were those social ones. The reason why I chose those songs was that I didn't want to be playing ceremonial, sacred music and then get in trouble by someone who says that it's too sacred to share. [Laughs.] We ran into a lot of that stuff all the way through.

The melodies that caught my ear were what I focused on. We paid attention to how we mixed those together with the Latin [melodies] that Nick brings and the jam-band that Mike brings. We found out the hard way that when we create really heavy Navajo melodies, we lose the audience a bit. We lose certain people because it becomes a little too native; we fall into a hard, general category of being just Native American music.

We paid close attention to fusing those songs together to where it blends better or has a more palatable sound to everyone versus a particular demographic.

I feel like the average American may be aware of Native American history, but not be able to subdivide it. I'd like to place these melodies at a specific point in history. In the context of Navajo people, at which point did these tunes spring up?

This is something that's always been a little weird for me. Because, to tell you the truth, I didn't really grow up 100% traditional.

The only traditional music I know probably comes from my grandparents when they were traditional. Actually, both sides of my grandparents [converted] to Christianity at a later time in their lives. However, they used to be traditional, and they made this decision to follow a Christian faith instead of their traditional spiritual faith that most Native Americans follow right now.

I was still a baby when they were traditional. I would say when I was 14 or 15, that's when they decided to [convert] to Christianity. They never allowed me to go to ceremonies or put that on me to go and learn them. However, when I started, in 2013, I started to do research. I went to some of the more traditional families and asked, "What is the earliest melody you guys can remember?" A lot of them couldn't recall, but they did some humming for me and I recorded it on my phone.

My paternal grandfather was really heavy [into] tradition and still remembered his great-grandfather's melodies. One of those—we haven't released it yet or anything—but he did the same thing. He hummed it out and said he had no idea where it came from. It's just something that his great-grandfather would sing around.

However, when I paired that melody with the research I found on the tapes from the 1920s [era], it was a bunch of chiefs singing chants. There were no words. It was just pure chants. I found some similarities. One was that everything was pentatonic. Most of the time, they were in minor pentatonic. In that tape from the 1920s—who knows when it came from—it was really hard to pick out a melody.

I honestly don't know how long these songs have gone back. There are a lot of musicologists, and even Native American musicologists, that say they've been way, way early. Like, as back to as far as we can trace. The thing that I found out is that everyone has a different story. Everyone believes it came about differently. It's hard to say when or where.

There are historians that have really hard dates. But even then, to figure out the music portion is very complicated. Nothing was written down. Nothing was preserved.

Delbert Anderson

Delbert Anderson. Photo: Maurice Johnson

When you think of the knowledge that might be lost forever, do you process that in a grieving way or as a mystery to explore?

It's a little bit of both. I wish I could know straight out what a certain era sounded like. But the thing that keeps me going is that whole mystery aspect, too. I don't even know if I'm going to find anything else, more, but I'm starting to listen to these earlier tapes I found a little more closely. I'm trying to figure out, "Is there anything I'm missing?" That stuff is really encouraging; it keeps me going.

I am somewhat sad that there isn't a recording or a piece of paper that says what happened back then. I tend to stay more on the mystery side of things—figuring it out maybe later down the road.

I've also been looking into number sequences. The number four is really important to Diné culture as well as a lot of other cultures. I was trying to listen to the music and find a significance for [the number] four in their piece.

More in-depth research like that is what I've been clinging to. I'm still writing my own tunes, but [they’re] inspired by what I'm finding in the earliest recording I can find. That's as deep as I'm going. I don't know if it would make sense to visit some more places or talk to more elders. I've only been able to get, maybe, two generations back.

Anything like three or four [generations back], it's really hard. Everyone at that point is like, "I don't remember," or "I have no idea. I was too small." We never had historians. We kind of go on a telephone system.

I don't want people to walk away from this article—and this subject—simply saying, "Oh, that's cool." How can people interface with Native American jazz and support it?

I honestly never thought of it. One thing I try to do, especially when filling out grants or anything like that, is that I want to get to the core of the healing process of music. I think Native Americans share a lot of similar history with African Americans.

I think one thing is that our African American ancestors were able to get through the worst time ever in U.S. history. Not "get through it"; I know some were lost. But for the majority, a lot of African American ancestors got through that period of time, and they did it with music; they did it with self-expression. In fact, a lot of people now aren't calling it jazz. They're calling it "Black liberation music."

Liberation music itself is what I really wanted to focus on because I think there are similarities. The Native American tribes, we have the history of genocide and all that stuff. But there are people that got through it, and I'm wondering if any of those used these songs. Obviously, there are healing songs in our ceremonies and stuff like that, but I wanted to find the core reason for it.

It's a very tough question. We're kind of the only ones doing it, you know? There's not a lot of people that are trying to preserve this music. That's what I would say: We really want to highlight the healing components of this Indigenous music to everyone. I think the support would be to these areas of research of how liberation works, or how music really heals people.

People say it's good for the soul and it makes you happy, but there has to be more than that. If somebody wanted to support it, I would go with historian research, and almost like medical research, on this type of Indigenous music.

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Tomoko Omura

Tomoko Omura

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Tomoko Omura On The Universality Of Japanese Folktales & Her New Album, 'Branches Vol. 2'

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Violinist/composer Tomoko Omura's new album, 'Branches Vol. 2,' splits the difference between Japanese folk songs and originals inspired by them—and it all crescendos with "Urashima Suite," which exclusively premieres on GRAMMY.com
Morgan Enos
GRAMMYs
May 10, 2021 - 9:53 am

How can people bridge cultural gaps without obsessing over ethnic differences? Maybe the answer lies in feelings and stories as much as music or cuisine. Tomoko Omura, a violinist, composer and arranger, is aware of the role of the intangible in battling xenophobia. This potential for immaterial connection especially applies to Japanese folktales, which deal in the primary components of the human condition—love, death and mystery—in a way anyone can grasp.

"They're stories you can relate to, those folktales," Omura tells GRAMMY.com over Zoom. "They've been told for a long time for reasons, right? Because we're humans at the end. Those children's folk songs and folktales have lived so long because the messages are strong. I think it's a great way to connect us as humans. It's an easy way to communicate."

For instance, the folk song "Come Firefly" is about the magic of those starry insects. "To Ryan Se" conjures visions of irreversible loss. And "Bow's Dance" is a song of the dwindling Ainu people, an indigenous group from northern Japan. "The culture diminished and the people had to adapt to Japanese culture," Omura explains. "Not so many people know about them."

These three traditional songs appear on Omura's immersive new album, Branches Vol. 2, which arrives June 18 via Outside In Music. "Urashima Suite," one of the album’s three original tracks, premieres exclusively below, with illustrations by Noah MacNeil.

Featuring masterful performances by guitarist Jeff Miles, pianist Glenn Zaleski, bassist Pablo Menares and drummer Jay Sawyer, Branches Vol. 2 marks the latest installment in Omura's Roots series, which pays homage to her Japanese background. (Roots [2014] and Branches Vol. 1 [2020] precede it.) This elegant album braids jazz with the collective unconscious, using centuries-old melodies to travel from darkness to light.

GRAMMY.com caught up with Tomoko Omura to discuss the inspirations behind Branches Vol. 2, the Japanese traditional songs she used as both framework and springboard, and the role of the folk canon in fostering racial harmony.

Tomoko Omura

Photo: Desmond White

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Tell me about your ongoing musical homage to Japan and your relationship with the country.

I moved here, to the States, in 2004. I went to Berklee College of Music in Boston. I [initially] went to university in Japan and started playing jazz over there at the college with my friends. Then, I really, really fell in love with jazz, and I decided to pursue it. I wanted to study more, so I decided to come to the States. Being at Berklee, I decided to do more.

Then, I ended up in New York in 2010. When I went to New York, everyone was doing their own music. I didn't know that was the thing, but then I realized everyone brings their different thing to create new music. That was the time when [I realized], "OK, I have to bring my own thing." That's when I [got in touch with] my Japanese roots.

I started writing a lot of arrangements of preexistent Japanese melodies—Japanese folk songs, Japanese popular music, TV songs—and I had a lot of fun, so I decided to continue with it. That's how I got here, and I have three albums dedicated to my Japanese roots.

What do the traditional songs on Branches Vol. 2 mean in Japanese culture?

"Come Firefly," the first track, is a Japanese folk song. I always liked this song. There are a lot of famous choir versions of the song. It's a song that everyone sings. In the early summer, you see fireflies everywhere, and it just lights up. That's how they communicate with each other, right? And I thought, "Wow, that's pretty sci-fi, communicating with lights." Humans don't do that, but they do.

I had a sci-fi image, so I combined this Japanese folk tale about the firefly into this sci-fi element.

How would you describe that "sci-fi element" in musical terms?

Well, the solo form is open. I use a lot of effects, and the instrumentation is a five-string violin with pedals and electric guitar. I have a keyboard in it also—keyboard, piano, bass and drums. It kind of goes into an electrifying, frayed, extreme, free zone. I told them to imagine a UFO coming above you to take you up. So, everyone was doing that sci-fi theme.

"To Ryan Se" is also a Japanese folk song. It's from that era. Children play the song as they sing. They hold their hands together to make a bridge, and at the end of the song, the bridge goes down and one of the kids gets trapped inside. The lyrics are very vague; it's kind of haunting.

If I had to explain it, it's like, “Passing through, passing through, I am on my way to the shrine in Japan, and it's easy to go there, but it's hard to get back.” But people have imagined in the past, "What does that mean? Does that mean that you might not come back, ever?"

It's very vague, you know what I mean? It's not very obvious. I wanted to have some sort of crazy adventure with the music.

Once again, how did you and your accompanists achieve that?

It's a fast-swinging version of that. Everyone plays in unison, instrumentation-wise. Everyone's playing the theme together, then it gets to a solo section and goes to the piano section. It opens up wide. It slows down, then it comes back to the fast. Then, it goes to a fusion-rock kind of section when the electric guitar takes over, and an epic end.

What can you tell me about "Bow's Dance"?

"Bow's Dance" is a Japanese folk song, but, I should say, an Ainu folk song. Ainu is a tribe in Hokkaido, somewhere in the northern part [of Japan]. They have their own language and culture. They have history on their own; it's sort of connected to Russian ones. But then, the Japanese, early on, took over their territory. There were small wars a long time ago.

The culture diminished and the people had to adapt to Japanese culture. It was almost like the Native Americans to American people. Not so many people know about them. My friend showed me this music of Ainu sung by Umeko Ando. I really loved the sound. It was very unique. It's not typical Japanese folk. I was intrigued, so I was listening to this CD a lot. Recently, I went back to it, listened to it and [thought], "Wow, I should make my version of it." 

"Bow's Dance" is a direct translation. They literally danced with a bow. At the end, it gets sped up, sped up, sped up and people sing together. That's how my arrangement goes at the end. Many repetitions on the same melody.

I just looked up the Ainu. It looks like there are approximately 20,000 of them according to official estimates, but unofficial estimates say there could be many more.

Yeah, they had to adapt and live as mainland Japanese at one point. They were suffering poverty, too. The Japanese gave them a very bad deal after the leader of the Ainu got murdered. It's a sad history, and not so many people know about it anymore. I think it's good to remember, though.

Okinawa is a similar type. They have their own culture, their own language and their own musical instruments. They were in the southern part of Japan and the Ainu were in the northern part. Some historians believe that they are, in fact, derived from the same tribes of mainland Japan before they moved to the North and South, as a lot of people from Eurasia entered Japan and spread in the North and the South and occupied the land.

They had very similar cultures—their own musical instruments, like jaw harps and string instruments; a very similar type. It's a very interesting history.

Branches Vol. 2 gives me a sorrowful feeling—sorrow, but in a good way. Were you intentionally trying to convey that?

Interesting! I didn't intend it to be. "Urashima [Suite]," at the end of the album, gets kind of happy. I think it starts dark. I didn't want it to end dark, and that's why the end song is a little bit optimistic, musically. Vol. 2 is definitely sadder than the first one.

Obviously, right now, there's a conversation about xenophobia in America in the wake of violence against Asian-Americans. I've been thinking that by sharing folk songs from other traditions, their humanity and history can make people from other countries seem less like interlopers.

Definitely, music can be the savior for that. I think people can connect [that way]. I've performed these songs a lot, and I've often had to explain what the songs are about. They're Japanese folk tales, but people relate to the folk tales a lot! Especially people who are not Japanese. They were fascinated by the story and related to the story and felt, "That's funny," or "That's scary."

They're stories you can relate to, those folk tales. They've been told for a long time for reasons, right? Because we're humans at the end. Those children's folk songs and folk tales have lived so long because the messages are strong. I think it's a great way to connect us as humans. 

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