Paul Kaufman (wonderful fat irrepressible performer). Now—here in this quiet quiet timeless place where he liked to come and stay and learn and settle himself—he would write about Grandpa’s performances at children’s parties and how he taught Huey to follow suit. Grandpa showed cartoons, of course, and did a strange song and dance involving
noodles and wore fangs as he did so. He also had a wind-up phonograph, a Victrola, on which he played funny old-fashioned records, next to which he
stood in place, bobbing his roly-poly body up and down, pointing his finger in the air and wriggling it to and fro in rhythm with the music. In the middle of the song, the record had a scratch … and a phrase kept repeating several times as he just kept bobbing and wriggling his finger, until he smiled to attract the attention to his face …
He followed with magic tricks which he intentionally messed up which made the children laugh because his face was creased with
utter dismay which he put on for their benefit.
Also he produced a large peculiar musical instrument called the Wamagadoon and he
started banging it in such a silly, untalented way, but with such technique that it fascinated the kids and had them totally entertained.
Later, very movingly, in a private moment, he revealed to Huey
all his tricks and secrets … how to keep up the people’s attention and fascinate them. He showed him the “art” of playing the Victrola so that people would watch, and last but not least, he showed him how to play the Wamagadoon.
All of it was pretty much the way it really happened, except the part about the Wamagadoon. But this stuff wasn’t supposed to be completely true, anyway.
Ponpongaba, ponpongaba. Now came the thumping, and with the thumping came the rest of everything. Babatunde Olatunji, enormously tall, draped in dashiki, flamed of fingertips, mystical Nigerian—he appeared like a miracle, unprecendented, without warning, performing for school assembly in the auditorium of Baker Hill Elementary
(most unusual booking)
in the spring of 1959. It was, maybe, a divine intervention. Virtuoso of West African percussion, first and most famous exporter of such, Olatunji had just made his best-selling debut album,
Drums of Passion,
for Columbia Records—an awakening sound, all new, deeply ancient—whose liner notes explained inexplicable primitive beliefs: “The drum, like many exotic articles, is charged with evocative power … [it is] not only a musicalinstrument, [but] also a sacred object … endowed with a mysterious power, a sort of life-force which has been incomprehensible to many missionaries and early travelers, who ordered its suppression by forbidding its use.” And so Olatunji brought his forbidden drums to school that day—drums of hollowed trees and stretched ramskins, congas large and small, over which he leapt and pounced, danced and chanted, beating his rhythms of
gangan
and
dundun
and
bembe
and whatever else they were called. Grades one through six beheld the exhibition, some of whom endured squirmingly, others most certainly rendered agog.
One member of the fourth grade, in particular, could not believe his eyes or ears. “That was definitely an epiphany moment,” said Gregg Sutton, a very new friend who would become much more. “I was sitting right next to Andy and we were both completely entranced, mesmerized. If we had been bored for a second, we would have started doing stupid shit. We never even looked at each other—except to say ‘This is pretty great!’ We had never seen a black guy like that. The only black people in Great Neck we had contact with were domestics that worked for our parents and grandparents or else the occasional cab driver. So here all of a sudden was this giant black man with a different vibe—and his music was wild! That’s when Andy probably went,
Hey, I could do that!”
Olatunji’s thrall engulfed him entirely. Those sounds—he couldn’t get them out of his head,
noodles and wore fangs as he did so. He also had a wind-up phonograph, a Victrola, on which he played funny old-fashioned records, next to which he
stood in place, bobbing his roly-poly body up and down, pointing his finger in the air and wriggling it to and fro in rhythm with the music. In the middle of the song, the record had a scratch … and a phrase kept repeating several times as he just kept bobbing and wriggling his finger, until he smiled to attract the attention to his face …
He followed with magic tricks which he intentionally messed up which made the children laugh because his face was creased with
utter dismay which he put on for their benefit.
Also he produced a large peculiar musical instrument called the Wamagadoon and he
started banging it in such a silly, untalented way, but with such technique that it fascinated the kids and had them totally entertained.
Later, very movingly, in a private moment, he revealed to Huey
all his tricks and secrets … how to keep up the people’s attention and fascinate them. He showed him the “art” of playing the Victrola so that people would watch, and last but not least, he showed him how to play the Wamagadoon.
All of it was pretty much the way it really happened, except the part about the Wamagadoon. But this stuff wasn’t supposed to be completely true, anyway.
Ponpongaba, ponpongaba. Now came the thumping, and with the thumping came the rest of everything. Babatunde Olatunji, enormously tall, draped in dashiki, flamed of fingertips, mystical Nigerian—he appeared like a miracle, unprecendented, without warning, performing for school assembly in the auditorium of Baker Hill Elementary
(most unusual booking)
in the spring of 1959. It was, maybe, a divine intervention. Virtuoso of West African percussion, first and most famous exporter of such, Olatunji had just made his best-selling debut album,
Drums of Passion,
for Columbia Records—an awakening sound, all new, deeply ancient—whose liner notes explained inexplicable primitive beliefs: “The drum, like many exotic articles, is charged with evocative power … [it is] not only a musicalinstrument, [but] also a sacred object … endowed with a mysterious power, a sort of life-force which has been incomprehensible to many missionaries and early travelers, who ordered its suppression by forbidding its use.” And so Olatunji brought his forbidden drums to school that day—drums of hollowed trees and stretched ramskins, congas large and small, over which he leapt and pounced, danced and chanted, beating his rhythms of
gangan
and
dundun
and
bembe
and whatever else they were called. Grades one through six beheld the exhibition, some of whom endured squirmingly, others most certainly rendered agog.
One member of the fourth grade, in particular, could not believe his eyes or ears. “That was definitely an epiphany moment,” said Gregg Sutton, a very new friend who would become much more. “I was sitting right next to Andy and we were both completely entranced, mesmerized. If we had been bored for a second, we would have started doing stupid shit. We never even looked at each other—except to say ‘This is pretty great!’ We had never seen a black guy like that. The only black people in Great Neck we had contact with were domestics that worked for our parents and grandparents or else the occasional cab driver. So here all of a sudden was this giant black man with a different vibe—and his music was wild! That’s when Andy probably went,
Hey, I could do that!”
Olatunji’s thrall engulfed him entirely. Those sounds—he couldn’t get them out of his head,
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