Pharoah Sanders Musings from 1969

Pharoah Sanders

The Cricket was a short-lived "Black Music in Evolution" magazine/fanzine created in 1968 by Amiri Baraka, Larry Neal and AB Spellman. It ran until 1969.
Larry Neal wrote an "out-there" review of Sanders' record, Karma in 1969. Needless to say, he loved it. In the same edition, Larry Neal also reviewed New Grass from Albert Ayler. That record was most definitely slated; "the rhythm on this album is shitty" and "this album is a failure". To be honest, it's hard to disagree since Ayler's new direction did not work. I'll post the New Grass review in a future blog.

karma/PHAROAH SANDERS

The temple had a round spiraling dome and I stood with my father's spirit listening to Pharoah cascade through alcoves and spectrums of light; and yes the light came in many colors, the black shatterings full released, some under spirits churning too. My father had never heard Pharoah in his time so he wept upon hearing him, and raised his hands in prayer; he then said some words I couldn't understand, but the dome was spiraling gold figures filterings and flickerings in the shattering black love. It was a good place to be, in the temple again and yes the light breaking against mosaic, wind song and Dahomey memories; father, the sun, the energy principle.
Pharoah, the purest spirit sings to us on this album. Takes us to beautiful places. Your brothers and sisters are there; it is sunday church picnic time in Mali or Dakar; or alabama talk, revivai time perhaps. Saw you in Timbuctoo, remember? Or Chicago on 72nd street. It was all about spirals of energy my father said over my ear in the temple while listening to Pharoah's cosmic chorus of daddy and mommy tribe. Pharoah, the purest spirit is our vision. When these bodies pass, one great desire we should have is to become a phrase in one of Pharoah's songs, to dance all inside of them feeling total and holy. we are Timbuctoo memory. Camel walking prophets and soothsayers. Malik, the warrior god. We are one long song of love. Teach Pharoah. Teach us Pharoah. Teach how to live.
Pharoah has become one long beautiful song. What we get here is a tribal chorus; the sum total of a people's song. There is memory here and future realities. Some of your cousins and the folks on your mother's side lurk here too, doing the belly rub in dark corners. Holy sinners march through this song singing Allah; and the Great Serpent churns there too. Hey, remember lemonade Sundays and the first smell of love-body? Remember the star night, some explosion shattering love come. Perhaps in a time before this time. Lady wonder magic toy; and the drums Oba gave you. Timbuctoo memory, and Dahomey smiles. Sweet Aisha and Helen and fiery Evelyn and Great Mamma floating skyward and sea-chains and the dead devil language and Nat and Sojourner and cotton and moonshine and Buddy and Jelly Roll and Bessie and Lester and Billie and Bird and Brownie and Johnnie and Trane and Paul and all of the yous doing ju-ju dance and cakewalk and lolligagging under a God crowded sky. Pharoah speaks to the whole experience, we need to protect him. He needs a temple to pray in, that's what my father's spirit said to me. He needs the children of Lenox Avenue to dance-fly on his songs. He needs to be played in the ears of cop-out negroes. He would rescue Eldridge and Bobby. He would tear away our weaknesses. He would give us the sun strength; let the real panther bellow out, speak the wisdom of the black stone, some cycles we travel passing from mother to mother and father to father. He would make us dig ourselves. He would verify our instincts, telling us really what we have always knew but were too afraid to sing.

Herbie was doing the slow drag
on a johnny ace record;
the avenue was switchblades
and porkchops.

He would make us dig ourselves. So be careful how you talk about the blues; they are here too, Leon moan talking, ghosts of dead musicians riffinq. Pharoah takes us to a beautiful place, Leon's ancestor leaps out of his mouth. The Great Ra tumbles pyramids like dice. The East is green shimmering places, heavy Orishas weigh in upon you, Oba gave you a drum; your father sings tales near the altar; my father's spirit hovers in the Temple.

Larry Neal