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    The Music Thief
    The Music Thief
    The Music Thief
    Ebook133 pages1 hour

    The Music Thief

    By Andrew Laties

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    IN 1980, A WHITE KID SAW TWO CORRUPT COPS KILL A BLACK MAN IN CHICAGO.

    THEN HE HELPED SEND THEM BOTH TO JAIL.

     

    "Don't worry about us."

    Monster-man opened his eyes wide and growled, "We're just CRAZY!"

    When 19-year old Andy Laties m

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMythoprint Publishing
    Release dateAug 10, 2020
    ISBN9781953465016
    The Music Thief
    Author

    Andrew Laties

    Andrew Laties (1959- ) co-founded Urchestra, Easton Book Festival, Book & Puppet Company, Vox Pop, The Children's Bookstore, Chicago Children's Museum Store, and Eric Carle Museum Bookstore. His Ur Sonata performances with Lynn Book were honored in the Museum of Contemporary Art's retrospective Art in Chicago: 1945-1995. He shared the 1987 Women's National Book Association's Pannell Award for bringing children and books together. His Rebel Bookseller: Why Indie Businesses Represent Everything You Want to Fight For-From Free Speech to Buying Local to Building Communities won the 2006 Independent Publisher Award and is available in a 2nd edition from Seven Stories Press.

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      Book preview

      The Music Thief - Andrew Laties

      PROLOGUE—BLACK AND WHITE

      APRIL 2012

      Are you George?

      I had dashed past the distinguished customer while he browsed, then done a double take.

      Yes. Do we know each other?

      I’d started a month before as manager at Park Place Bookstore, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

      The last place I saw you was Chicago, in AACM School—thirty years ago. You had one kid calling out the colors of passing cars, while another played the piano notes assigned to each color.

      I did that?

      I was stunned to be chatting so casually with this man who with his 1977 George Lewis Solo Trombone Record had inspired my youthful Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM) odyssey.

      And, I had caught you in Paris, the year before—with Derek Bailey.

      Uh-oh. He had zero memory of me.

      I gamely continued, I studied with Douglas Ewart.

      Now we were on terra firma. You know Douglas? He’s one of my closest friends—I saw him a few months ago.

      How’s he doing? Wait—just a second. I darted to the office and dug out a scrapbook from my years at The Children’s Bookstore. I’d brought it in to show my twentysomething employees. I flipped through, located what I needed, slipped this from its protective sleeve, and returned to the sales floor.

      Take a look. George examined the photo of Douglas Ewart playing flute, flanked by a young drummer and three other child instrumentalists. That’s the AACM School Small Ensemble, performing in my bookstore, in 1986.

      He was smiling. I’m looking for a book for my son. Can you recommend something for a seven-year-old?

      An hour later, when I looked up George Lewis on the Internet, I saw I’d lost track of his career. He was an endowed professor at Columbia University, a few blocks away. He’d received a MacArthur Fellowship. And, in 2008, he’d published a scholarly history of the AACM, called A Power Stronger than Itself: The AACM and American Experimental Music.

      I ordered a copy.

      This thick book was eye-opening. I found myself skipping halfway through, to where the early eighties were covered. Wow, I’d had no idea what was happening behind the scenes.

      I read the whole thing. Interesting: Bob Dogan—a white piano player—had been invited in 1965 to AACM’s third meeting, to attend but not to join. An audiotape documented co-founder Muhal Richard Abrams explaining that one benefit of convening an all-Black group would be to support healthier interracial collaboration: We’re not fighting a racial fight. We’re promoting ourselves and helping ourselves up to the point where we can participate in the universal aspect of things, which includes all people.

      Throughout the book, oral history was unbelievably thorough. Additional research analyzed dozens of never-before-translated articles from European jazz magazines; these ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. (In fact, the entire opus was laced with dry wit.) The capstone was a remarkable imaginary conversation, a ten-page unstable polyphony of quoted voices, a kind of virtual AACM meeting. There, I read these frank, Black-power-inflected comments—which built on Muhal Richard Abrams’ includes all people comment to Bob Dogan:

      [Kelan said], It’s my thinking that music is the language of a people, and I was interested in what the language could do for black people. I wasn’t interested in what it could do for whites.

      …Maia was pensive. Racism has not gone away. We have more opportunities in some ways and we have less in other ways.

      …Our idea of bringing the AACM together was to control our destiny as a people, Sparx said. …That was predicated on what has happened in the past to a lot of artists, in terms of their creations, and what they got from that materially.

      This highly-charged white-theft-of-Black-music narrative—and my evolving understanding of it—had shaped my life. Over the years, I’d heard various white musician friends protest that it was an unfair cliché. I had never before encountered so many nuanced analyses from varying Black perspectives. Then—I was looking in the mirror:

      For a while, Ann reminded everyone, the AACM School had white faculty and students, which was considered problematic by some members.

      That was me: white…student…problematic.

      1-SIXTIES KID

      APRIL 4, 1968

      Martin Luther King Shot… Martin Luther King Shot… Martin Luther King Shot…. The words were scrolling over my Bugs Bunny cartoon. I went to get Daddy. He was upset.

      A week later, we went to a church concert for Martin Luther King. I sat on the floor, in front of four men playing fast music on huge golden saxophones. A woman sang, I been to the mountaintop / Hail the justice of the Lord.

      I didn’t know much about Martin Luther King, but the concert was so good that I felt something important was happening that I was a part of, and I wanted to be more a part of.

      I began to learn about the Civil Rights movement. From a flat box, Mommy took out pictures by Ben Shaun, showing Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner. Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were Jewish like us; their friend James Chaney was Black. They were killed by the Ku Klux Klan, during Freedom Summer, in Mississippi, for helping Black people vote.

      *     *     *

      Mommy said nobody should make kids say prayers in school. She ran MCPEARL—Monroe Citizens for Public Education and Religious Liberty—which told congress it should be public funds for public schools only. On her wall was a framed plaque of the First Amendment. When she wrote newsletters, there were parties with her friends stapling pages and stuffing envelopes. If I did it too, I got a penny an envelope.

      Mommy was an atheist, so I was too. One night at bedtime I told her I was worried that after I died, God might be mad at me for not believing in him. She recited a poem:

      Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

      Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

      And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

      Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

      An angel writing in a book of gold:—

      Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

      And to the presence in the room he said,

      What writest thou?—The vision raised its head,

      And with a look made of all sweet accord,

      Answered, The names of those who love the Lord.

      And is mine one? said Abou. Nay, not so,

      Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

      But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

      Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

      The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

      It came again with a great wakening light,

      And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

      And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

      There was starvation in Biafra. TV showed children whose stomachs stuck way out. I asked if I could donate some of my allowance. CARE sent mail with pictures of kids I was helping.

      Every night at dinner we watched the six o’clock news with Walter Cronkite. It was the Vietnam War, direct from the battlefield: helicopters, guns, explosions; villagers and soldiers wounded and killed.

      Walter Cronkite started by saying how many: One-thousand-four-hundred-and-twenty North Vietnamese dead. Eight-hundred-and-seventy-one Viet Cong dead. One-hundred-and-nineteen South Vietnamese dead. Forty-two Americans dead. The numbers were always in the same order, and they showed a lot more people on the North Vietnamese side were being killed than on the South Vietnamese, so our side was winning. I didn’t know how so many Vietnamese could be killed but more could still be left.

      There were interviews with American generals about how the US Army was planning such-and-such an attack. We were keeping the North Vietnamese out of South Vietnam. The problem was the Viet Cong. These were communists who lived in South Vietnam. They fought by sneaking out of tunnels and killing Americans from behind.

      One time, Walter Cronkite said the war wasn’t going right. It was different, that night when he told what he really thought. My family agreed: Mommy wanted Gene McCarthy for president, so we’d get out of Vietnam.

      As 1968 went on—with the assassination of Robert Kennedy, who was on our side of civil rights, and then, with the anti-war protests at the Chicago Democratic Convention, where police beat up long-haired students—I developed strong opinions about who I was in the world.

      That summer, I grew my hair long against the Vietnam War. By the time I started fourth grade this protest had made me look like a girl and earned me the insult, Laties is a lady, and the names homo and faggot. Some kids did ask why my hair was long; when I said I was protesting the Vietnam War, they yelled I was a commie hippie.

      On the school bus, kids would call me out, saying I had to meet them in the woods. I’d refuse because I was in favor of peace. They’d call me a sissy.

      At one point, I counted forty-eight nasty nicknames. When they’d start in, I’d rattle off all the names they’d invented back in their faces. I’d say I was reminding them, so they wouldn’t skip any.

      I also worked out a way of staring at them without blinking—like Max in Where the Wild Things Are. No matter what they said, I’d keep staring.

      The other boys wouldn’t let me play baseball, but they did make me permanent catcher. One afternoon someone yelled, The kid who gets the last out gets pantsed. I didn’t know what this meant. When there were two outs in the bottom of the ninth, they handed me the bat and said, Okay Laties, if you get a hit you don’t have to be permanent catcher anymore.

      I struck out. They yelled, Get him! I ran through the trees, but they caught me. Five kids held me to the ground while two others pulled off my

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