23.02.18
“Father, tell me the story of that night. The night of music, dance, and DJ, and all that happened.”
“Dear Love. It all happened in the land way down south. Mouths profess, “Durrrty, Durrrty,” for the land’s great red clay. Let us sojourn to the city. For within the city’s walls is great music, its capability to draw all kinds of worldly sounds into its hub of drums. I will tell you of the night of music, dance, and DJ.”
“It all began one unseasonably warm night. That night marked the final cycle of BPM. Black Peoples’ Month, the celebration of history & herstory. This was a time for not only celebration, but of reflection, of ancestors and their vast contributions and varied gifts to the world. This too was the cycle when the drum sojourned to the city. ATL’s Alley Cat Music digitally posted the message over a network of platforms. House heads, techno heads, and Afro-lovers all gathered at the city’s, “Edge” to inhale the breath of beating drums in a boombox named…”
Within the belly, located downstairs, celestial beings nestled, delighted, and jumped mid-air to “Pride.” Vocals interpreted by Nadira Shakoor over Osunlade’s heart beating pulse erupted into thunderous soul-claps, the greatest of the night thus far. Tambor’s DJ Stan Zeff’s grip held the crowd in sweet serenade.
“Father. Please, tell me about the DJ. I want to hear about the DJ that night. The one from faraway, from the Motherland.”
“Dear Love. Be patient. For, I will tell you of he. Remember, the Motherland always tells stories. Her stories are told through the drum, dance, body and word of mouth. That night was no different. The Motherland told herstory through the music of history. Her dialect interwoven through his sonic narrative, a force so powerful dancing bodies were possessed, having a…..
“Conversation with God.”
Much has changed for South Africa’s Culoe De Song since his last visit to Atown. The music producer scored major crossover appeal with “Y.O.U.D. ” on Innervisions Recordings. There since, he has re-released anthems on the Berlin based label. He has toured the world over many times. He no longer appears youth faced with a snarl that graced “A Giant Leap.” He now resembles age twenty-something, his face fuller. He stands tall with a wide frame from lifting barbells. Certainly, Culolethu Zulu has come of age.
Cue “Rambo.” One-two, one-two-three counts of pounding drums, wrapped under beeps, and rocking between handclaps. Culoe goes hard.
His sound is minimal yet impacts.
Think afro-futurism’s soundtrack, Culoe plays its heart.
Suddenly, bodies motion to the bar. Voices soften to whispers. The heart asks what happened? The energy ebbs. Culoe plays a track the crowd has already experienced earlier, played by Stan Zeff. No one appears thrilled.
“Father, wait, he pulled a double down on the dancers? What happened next?”
“Dear Love. Culoe’s lastest music offering, the cover artwork for his fourth-full release “Washa,” revealed what happened next.”
Culoe pumps his fist into the air. He draws into his inner black power. He becomes the tornado that shreds the village dance floor. Suddenly, the air is electrified with dancing particles. “Ay-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh,” a voice cries out. Black fist bursts from chest cavities; lunging bodies upward as if dancing feet levitate. Bodies dance deeper into the drum. No Poki. No fear.
“Excuse me,” says the sound guy. Can you get off the speaker? Please?” The body was called to dance on the elevated soundscape by the three-count tapping of percussions, hissing snares, and driving kicks from the bass drum. A Birdseye view of head wraps, ball caps, brunettes, and blondes displayed bodies swaying to hypnotic rhythms.
“Ay-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh.” “Nugwe” brings the African chants. A dancer splits her legs apart and bounces atop the floor. “Wambaba,” voices sing accompanying Thandiswa Mazwai’s calling in native tongue.
“Bang Royales ” is the equivalent to listening to ping pong balls fly into paddles during table tennis. “Washa” echoes. Zaps from ray guns shooting at graphic figures jumping over rising and falling steel beams against electric cicadas singing in mating season appear in mind. Snare kicks. Chants of “Umoya” rise to the occasion.
The body drops to the wooden floor. With arms outstretched-reaching ever further-the knees crawl on the ground. New dance moves spring to life: dancing with the floor. The body lingers for minutes, suspended on a speaker as legs stretch upwards into the heavens.
Behold. The room is in full view. Often the guest DJ plays on the stage. Tonight, CDS plays in a makeshift booth perpendicular the dancers performing standing splits and handstands onstage. Between beams of neon green, electric red, and metallic blue, the strobe lights go black.
A drunken young girl-there is always one or two or three or more-steps off stage. And onto what she thinks is the floor. Instead she steps right on the boot heel of a dancer mid-plank. Ooops!!! Face down. Her left cheek smacks the concrete surface. She lay in a fetal position. OUCH!!! Until she is peeled off the dance floor, seated on a bench, hobbled up the stairs, and helped out the door by security.
“Yeeaaahhhhh” a baritone calls to attention. This is heart music; warmly structured, joyously sounding, that connects dancing feet to dancing hearts. “ I want to fly away” belts the baritone of acclaimed vocalist Busi Mhlongo. “I want to fly away,” The heart agrees. Culoe closes with his classic…
Webaba!!!! Webaba!!! Oh, I now understand. I am “Webaba.” The DJ is “Webaba.” The people gathered are “Webaba.” You are the night of music, dance and DJ. You gathered the people to celebrate. You possessed the body to dance freely. You caused the DJ to shred the dance floor. You are the “Conversations With God.” You are “The Sacrifice.” You are “Washa.” You are “Year of the Underdog .” You are the great ubaba womculo.
words: aj dance
Culoe de Song grphc: aj art
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Tags: afro house music, afro tech music, Alleycat Muisc, Atlanta, Atlanta Georgia, Atlanta GeorgiaX deep house music, Culoe De Song, deep house music, DJ Stanzeff, house music, MR 327, The Music Room