Happy Frisner. Photo by Chantal Regnault, early 1980s, Brooklyn
Tomorrow is not promised, so hurry up and find something ‘health-giving’ that you can love enough to stay awake past the world’s bedtime.
People are too busy with their own issues to care if your shoes don’t match your handbag. So, skip the shoes and the baggage. Bring your troubles to the drums and dance like you’re Jean Léon Destiné and Prince combined.
Master Drummer, Catelus “Ti Tonton” Laguerre. Photo credit: Kesler Pierre
If for ten thousand reasons you find that you must cry, do it with all the joy you can fake.
And if by some necessary coincidence you should find yourself in Brooklyn, NY, tonight, run to Roulette. Lose all preconceived notions about Haiti and Haitian Drum Music.
Ditch that inhibition. Overindulge in rhythm. Tonight’s celebration features the BONGA and TIGA. Father and Son musical geniuses.
Photo credit: Tequila Minsky
Two years ago I found myself at the First Annual Call of the Drum Spirit by accident. I can still feel that night’s vibrations. If you can make it to Roulette tonight, consider yourself among the fortunate.
When Master Drummer Frisner Augustin passed away in 2012, he left a palpable void in the community. Patrick LaFrance, one of the founding members of the Gran Chimen cultural center in Brooklyn, remembers the legend as a humble man with an enormous sense of humor.
Photo by Lois Wilcken, asotò drum image from Alfred Métraux, design by Kesler Pierre,
“He played from his soul,” Patrick said. “Frisner would share his knowledge with anyone who wanted to learn the drum. Sunday afternoons , you know, in Brooklyn, can be tough. With Monday morning’s realities coming, you need a distraction. Frisner would show up at the center, and it was like medicine. We waited all week just to hear him play and teach us a few things. Frisner brought the Lakou to Brooklyn. Sundays were good with Frisner around.”
Well, thanks to Lois Wilkens and a fierce ensemble of drummers, this Saturday night may be the best Sunday afternoon yet.
I’m a wannabe athlete who loves to run. I’ve earned bragging rights for finishing several half- and full marathons, among them two Marine Corps. When I run, I compete only against my shadow–nobody else’s. I aim to do better than I did in previous races; the end. I don’t get an itch, when other runners leave me behind. As long as I finish—however long it takes me to finish—I win. Big.
Some people can hold deep conversations with their buddies while running; I’m not that skilled. When I get out there, the only voice that won’t bug me belongs to Eddy François, the lead singer of Boucan Guinen. He has resided inside my modern-day boombox for years. Boucan Guinen’s Pale Pale CD pulls me through every finish line. People laugh and tease me, saying: “You’re still listening to those same four songs?” I don’t answer anymore. They don’t get it.
I saw Boucan Guinen perform in Brooklyn years ago. It was there that I experienced pioneer racine band, Boukman Eksperyans, for the first and only time. I fantasized about meeting those musicians someday. Someday never came, but Boucan Guinen continued to pull me through more finish lines.
Boukman Eksperyans’s lead’s singer’s son, Paul Beaubrun, now has a band of his own: Zing Experience.
Zing’s message of togetherness by any means continues to gain massive popularity internationally. Paul is a dynamic performer and one of the sweetest people I’ve met. Check out our VoicefromHaiti INNERview.
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Two weeks ago, when a friend told me about the festival in Aquin, Haïti, I was intrigued. When I heard that Boukman Eksperyans, Zing, and Boucan Guinen would be there together, I ran a minute-mile to the airport.
When I reached Haïti and learned that rehearsals would take place at Boukman’s place, I fainted. The first person I saw there was Zing’s first lady, Cynthia C. Beaubrun.
On a front porch not far too away, Zing rehearsed. Everyone was so pleasant. So normal. . .
Zing continued to rehearse, perfecting their sound. When rehearsal turned into a laissez-faire jam session, I threw a song; the musicians didn’t let it fall. They played. I sang. We jammed and laughed and jammed some more.
When the bus to Aquin arrived the next morning, I was in shock. Seriously. Guess who was there!
For three and half hours, I rode to Aquin with several of Haïti’s most talented Racine musicians. A dream bigger than the one I dared dream came true.
Paul Beaubrun and Eddy François sat front and center, laughing and conducting the mayhem. Eddy’s better half and Boucan Guinen singer, Manina François, stayed graceful amid the raucous banter.
Percussionist, Yatande Boko, kept everyone entertained with his mischievous antics. Bass player, Chico Boyer, sat by a window, looking ever so pensive. Jimmy Daniel drummed on the back of the seat in front of him. Paul’s queen, Cynthia Beaubrun, was serene and composed. I managed to sit still, even if I was in Racine Heaven.
We reached the hotel just in time for everyone to get ready for the show.
There was a whole lot of fun going on, but these guys are actually hard-working professionals who happen to love their job so much that it looks like they’re playing. The musicians poured their souls into each number. The crowd cheered. Zing’s set ended too soon. Boukman was next.
Boukman Eksperyans was perfection personified. The dancers moved parts of their bodies I didn’t even know existed. Manzè Beaubrun gave the crowd all she had and plenty more.
Boucan was supposed to play immediately after Boukman Eksperyans, but Rain had a different plan. Everyone hurried to the bus. “I love music, but I’m not ready to be electrocuted for it,” one musician whispered.
It was now 3:00 in the morning. Many of the guys had fallen asleep. It looked as if Boucan Guinen would not perform. But the crowd was relentless.
Boucan Guinen had to go onstage. I went with them, naturally. Yatande Boko and Jimmy Daniel blew me away; those drums were like thunder.
The crowd loved Manina, and behaved as if they’d known her for a long time.
When the night sky started to shed tears once again, the musicians’ faces registered fear. Rather than end the show, Paul Beaubrun and his dad joined Boucan Guinen on stage for the ultimate jam session.
I put my camera down, and bounced. I owed myself a dance, and it was payday.
Boucan might have finished last in the festival, but the people of Aquin won big. (I did, too.)
Less than a month after his 46th birthday, Lénord Fortuné of Racine Mapou de Azor went the way of the ancestors. Our sincere condolences to his family, his friends, and the wide audience that will always treasure the man and the genius he so willingly gave.
News of his passing shook the ocean floor, sending tremors throughout the known world. Haitians and fans of Rasin Mizik mourn the transition of this Voice. Life may be ephemeral, but the art Azor produced is everlasting.
Haiti has lost another national treasure. Nou pèdi yon kokenn trezò. The roots of this Mapou run deep in the ground, however. In good or bad weather, they must sprout again. Somehow.
A favorite song is like a soul mate: there can be only one. At any given moment, someone somewhere is crying out, “This is MY song!” 15,000 people could be making the same declaration at exactly the exact same time, but what does that matter?
All you know is that you heard the song once (or a thousand times), and there was a surge of something that felt a whole lot like entitlement. Ownership. You could have written the lyrics and the musical arrangement yourself.
Perhaps you were completely conscious of your surroundings at the time you fell for the song. Perhaps it is now a distant dot of some long-time-ago night when that song coincided with a dramatic moment. No matter. It happened.
You now own the rights to this song. You sing it in the shower, at the checkout line, any time you wish. You hum it unconsciously. You sing it when you’re happy and when tears start to pop out of your eyes. It’s your personal theme song.
You become protective of the song’s particular musical arrangement. If another artist hints at a remake, you’re offended. You feel infringed upon. The version you fell in love with must not be desecrated. You share your devotion with your e-friends. For proof, you even post a video of yourself singing your song with a wooden spoon for a microphone. And then you “Like! Like! Like!” it your darn self.
——
Long before ‘friend’ became a verb, I met a gem of a girl from Ireland who introduced me to a few of her favorite musicians: Bob Marley, U-2, B.B., David Bowie, Roxy Music.
Roxy Music?
Strange name for a man, I thought; but it turned out the singer’s name was (and still is) Bryan Ferry.
My Irish friend played her songs. There was a forbidden-fruit feel to the moment. These singers were not exactly angels. My traditional Haitian parents would not have approved of me going around the house singing “I shot the Sheriff. . .” or “. . .Your kisses drive me delirious. . .” or even Roxy Music’s ever so subtle little song: Avalon.
Bryan Ferry’s vocals are insistent, provocative, mysterious, breathy–the kind of voice that can get a girl into a whole lot of trouble. The lyrics barely hint at seduction, nothing blatant. It’s just a simple, harmless description of a romantic incident. The listener is the one adding the meaning and insinuations and whatever else he/she wants to add. The song is as innocent as loves songs can be.
When the party’s over
I’m so tired
Then I see you coming
Out of nowhere
Much Communication
In a motion
Without conversation
or a notion. . .
Bryan pauses here. The melody has to breathe. 8 counts later, he starts again. “When the samba takes you out of nowhere. And your destination. . .You don’t know it. . .”
His breath trembles as he sings. You can feel the longing. You start to add meaning of your own. Yes. Ooh. You can’t deny what the song is doing to you. Until he reaches the bridge. The unforgettable bridge comes and the world stands still.
Yanick Etienne appears out of nowhere. The spotlights focus on her. She will take over now. Thank you, Bryan. Yanick doesn’t mean to steal the show, but everyone in the house will stop whatever they’re doing. They don’t want to miss this experience.
Yanik Etienne sways a little, taking in the music until her part comes. She stands under the blinding light, seemingly alone.
“Avalon. Avalon. Avalon. . .” she begins in an entreating voice. “Avalon.”
You tell yourself that since no human being’s voice can be so powerful, Yanick must have back up; and these backup singers–hundreds of them–must be hiding backstage somewhere. Maybe those backup singers were like angels hovering above the stage, assisting Yanick through her song, making her sound like a legion of angels.
I recall the room becoming still. Time stopped. This was going to be my song—the one I would never forget. Luckily, there was no loss involved. No emotional trauma. No soap-opera goodbyes—just two girls listening to forbidden-fruit songs, which by today’s standards are like Gregorian chants.
There have been other favorite songs since I heard Yanick Etienne—songs that my parents forbade to hear simply because I was born female. Now, I can declare that I love those songs, too.
I like Tabou Combo, Bessie Smith, Charles Aznavour, Marta Jean-Claude, Celia “Azukar” Cruz, Manno Charlemagne, Jon Lucien, Emeline Michel; Beethoven, B. Obas singing “Ou fout dous; ou gou, ou bon, epi ou bòn ankò!” I like Nina Simone, Michael Jackson, Mahalia Jackson, Boukan Ginen, Ram, Coco Breeze, Grace Jones, Tiga, Pauline Jean, and Katia D. Ulysse;-) I Like, Like, Like many singers. But whenever I heard Yanick Etienne’s voice in Avalon, something inside always shouts: “That is MY Song!”
Yanick sang but a few words in the song, but critics worldwide agree hers is rare talent and a gift to every listener. Yanick is still holding those notes. The girl is amazing, and getting more fierce everyday. If you don’t believe in angels, listen Yanick Etienne’s voice just once. And then you will.
Rumor has it that Ms. Etienne’s new single will drop soon. Get ready for an exciting experience. I can’t wait.
