Bringing Jazz Back to the Alley
By Bridget Vaughn and Kyle Oleksiuk
August 28, 2018
This article was a finalist for the 2018 “Best Arts Reporting and Criticism” in a non-daily newspaper or magazine Peter Lisagor Award from the Chicago Headline Club
On 73rd Street and Paxton, toward Merrill, at least one hundred people marched: past cars, over puddles, into alleys and across the block. As they marched, they held bundles of herbs in the air, played percussion, danced, and waved flags. This scene was the beginning of the Back Alley Jazz Festival—and the man at the front of the crowd, who rode in a mint-green Pedicab and wore a sash that read “Grand Marshall,” was Jimmy Ellis, a saxophonist who has been playing in Chicago since 1948.
Ellis and alley jazz go back a long way: the tradition began as a record-listening session in the three-car garage of Arthur “Pops” Simpson on 50th and South Champlain, but Ellis was the first to bring live music to the party. He’s since made a career in live music: though the first record under his name appeared just two years ago, when he was eighty-five, he’s had a reputation as a master player for decades. So it was fitting that he be the “Grand Marshall” of Back Alley Jazz, which was intended to bring live music back to the South Shore community.
The festival, which was sponsored by the Hyde Park Jazz Festival, took place in the backyards of 7330, 7337, 7326, and 7343 South Paxton Avenue. Zenja Vaughn, who hosted the party at 7343, told the Weekly that her friendship with co-creators Norman Teague and Fo Wilson led to “a lot of hours and commitment from myself and from my fellow neighbors, just to host musicians coming on to our block and entertaining and inspiring us with legacy, the legacy of jazz.”
As the first performance began, 73rd Street was packed. Chairs and tables were set up on the blacktop for people who’d brought food from home, or from one of the restaurants nearby: there was no official catering, though a taco truck arrived surreptitiously later in the day. As the driver set up a menu on the sidewalk, somebody stood on top of a folding chair to shout: “Everybody! Quiet! There’s tacos!”
Beside the tables were a make-your-own poster stand and an open tent filled with dozens of photographs—black and white and in color, framed and on posterboard— of performances from the seventies to today. Many were taken by Mr. Ellis himself. The photos weren’t up for sale (nothing was): they were there to give the festival a sense of the heritage it belongs to.
This focus continued into the backyard performances. The first performance of the day was a bomba set in the backyard of 7330 by a group called Bomba Con Buya. Four drummers laid down the beat, while the singer told the audience that bomba music can only exist in a community context. She taught us to clap and snap in time with the drums, and then to sing a Creole chorus: “biyo biyo biyando.” The backyard filled up quickly, and people began to watch from adjacent yards as a woman danced to the beat with her baby. Of the twelve or thirteen babies in the crowd, the only frown to be seen was on the face of a little boy who wanted to move closer to the music.
Then came performers—they had been a big part of the march around the block—from the African Dance and Music Institute. Their director, Uche Omoniyi, explained the origins of djembe drums and the use of the sente dance from the Mali Empire. In the empire, which flourished in West Africa between the 13th and 17th centuries, the sente dance was used toteach adolescents that they were important to their communities. It’s still valuable for communities to teach their children this, Omoniyi said, just as it’s important to continue passing on African culture. He and his group then presented proverbs for the audience: “Seek not to impress, but to express.” “Empty most people of material possessions and behold: an empty shell.” “If you want to go quickly, go alone; but if you want to go far, go together.”
At the end of their performance, Omoniyi invited elders of the community to stand up and share any wisdom they might have. Unable to resist, event co-organizer Richard Steele advised the crowd on how to make it to the next house, and then pronounced this wisdom: “Never take a laxative and a sleeping pill at the same time.”
After a big laugh, the audience, musicians and performers all paraded across the street to the backyard of 7337. There, a jazz band shared the stage with a team of young women called Sydney Chatman and The Fly Girls, the youngest of whom wore an astronaut helmet and space suit. At the end of each set, they addressed the audience about Black women from different perspectives: as cosmic and universal (hence the space suit), as creative forces, as pillars of the community, and as warriors. The Fly Girls spoke about women living and past, including those who had been the victims of police violence. They said the names of Sandra Bland, Rekia Boyd, Kendra James, and many others.
It was a poignant moment—and took place on the same day that a Black barber, Harith “Snoop” Augustus, was killed by a CPD officer on 71st and Chappel Avenue. The South Shore community would not know about Augustus’s death until later in the day, but in this moment, it was gathered to mourn the ongoing tragedy of police brutality on the South Side.