I was standing in the driveway, just home from work, watching the snow fall. I was still numb from the news about my dad. The flakes were big and gentle, floating on the breeze and slowly yielding to gravity. The tension I’d been carrying in my neck and shoulders began to melt. It was the first time since 1943 snow fell without my dad somewhere on the planet.
***
I once worked with a school psychologist who visited my class once a week. Each time he met with the class he started with deep breathing. He talked about the difference between respirating—what a healthy body does involuntarily—and breathing—inhaling and exhaling at a more deliberate pace, slowing things down to be more present. “Sparrow,” from James Brandon Lewis’s For Mahalia, With Love, sounds like a band breathing as one, especially the opening passage. Lewis, on tenor sax, calls the congregation together. He plays beautifully brackish swirls, melancholic and celebratory, slowing down and lifting up. Bassist William Parker, cellist Christopher Hoffman, and cornetist Kirk Knuffke circulate long tones while drummer Chad Taylor sprinkles in gentle cymbal swells with occasional toms. Healing sounds abound.
***
When my dad passed away, Casey and Becky, my brother and his partner, were bedside, each of them holding one of my dad’s hands. They were playing a Bonnie Raitt CD in the background. The same one from the previous weekend, which made me laugh.
***
I first saw James Brandon Lewis at Quinn’s in Beacon, NY about ten years ago. He wasn’t the bandleader that night, but his closing solo left an indelible mark. I remember watching two guys walk into the bar, as if setting up a joke, oblivious to the band. Of course their baseball caps were on backward. Of course they talked too loud as they crossed the room. But when they got to the bar, they stopped and stared at Lewis. They exchanged incredulous looks as he scaled higher and higher. Even the unsuspecting take notice of James Brandon Lewis.
Since then I’ve seen Lewis numerous times and absorbed a number of his albums. His distinct and ever-evolving voice rings loud and clear whether he’s playing a duo (with Jamaaladeen Tacuma or Chad Taylor), a funk-tinged trio (with Luke Stewart and Warren Trae Crudup III), collaborating with punk legends (Fugazi’s Brendan Canty and Joe Lally) or co-leading a P-Funk-size ensemble (Heroes Are Gang Leaders). Lewis hit an all-time high with 2021’s Jesup Wagon, inspired by George Washington Carver and fueled by the most remarkable of bands, the Red Lily Quintet. That line up returns in even finer form on For Mahalia, With Love, which draws on songs performed by the iconic gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson.
***
James Brandon Lewis: “Both Jesup Wagon and For Mahalia were first inspired by the idea of honoring Black influential historical figures, an idea inspired by visual artist Jack Whitten and his Black Monolith series. I originally wanted to make Jesup Wagon with a kora player. I thought it would give the album a totally different sound and connect it to an instrument I dig rooted in Africa. But I had trouble finding that so I decided on strings and horns with drums. This was “Red Lily,” the concept of the band. Earthy, organic folk vibes. When I say ‘folk,’ I mean of the people, of storytelling, of folk melodies.
“For Mahalia the process was different in the sense I am trying to capture the essence and words of a song without a vocalist. I spent a lot of time listening to Mahalia Jackson trying to capture the inflection of her voice—no easy task—her vibe, her rhythmic sense, via my saxophone while still maintaining my musical identity. Not sure I captured it but I tried.”
***
My dad spent his last days hospitalized, anesthetized and fading from dementia. That’s where my uncle and I saw him for the last time. Dad had stopped eating and didn’t respond when we spoke to him. We kept talking anyway and played music we knew he’d like, a Bonnie Raitt CD, Souls Alike. I barely noticed the songs. After an hour my uncle said he was enjoying the CD. “Me, too,” I replied, “a bit samey, though.” That’s when I noticed I’d pressed “repeat.” We’d been listening to the same song the whole time.
***
When asked how he selected songs for the album, Lewis replied, “These songs, minus ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot,’ were among the songs I remember my grandmother singing as well as being her favorites. ‘Swing Low’ is one of my favorite songs and I actually could not find a recording of Mahlia singing that, but I am sure she must have. It’s a ‘standard’ within gospel music.”
In his liner notes, Lewis elaborates in the form of an open letter to Jackson:
“My grandmother told me the other day that she heard you sing live in concert when she was 6 or 7 years old. I was blown away with excitement: I wondered what that felt like, maybe it was the closest thing to hearing the voice of God. I can only imagine what she must have experienced. Maybe hearing your voice ceases to be about like and dislike but powerful enough to force acknowledgement. It is important to be seen rather than liked or disliked because a presence moves past subjectivity.”
***
My dad struck fear in me as a kid. As I got older my subconscious attempted to counter with contempt, or attempted to anyway—You can’t hurt me if I look down on you—but that didn’t work. Later, when I became a parent, he was excited about being a grandfather, but as my kids became increasingly mobile and vocal, interrupting his stories and jokes, he started snapping at them, scarring them like he’d once scared me. Standing up to him was hard, but my therapist helped me figure out how to confront my dad and get him to ease up. We needed to see each other in different ways.
***
There’s a beautiful moment in Summer of Soul, the concert film set in Harlem in 1969, where Mahalia Jackson realizes she needs a break and asks Mavis Staples to spell her for a few minutes. It’s moving to see Jackson hand the mic to Staples, nearly thirty years her junior, passing the torch to the next generation. I see parallels in the way Lewis’s grandmother passed on her love of music.
I hesitated to extend that analogy to my dad and me. My love for music definitely comes from him, but the exchange was indirect and unspoken. I remember him playing guitar and listening to music, but I don’t recall him talking about music or showing me things. Still, the baton analogy fits us, though differently. The actual act of passing a baton is really challenging. Perfectly smooth transfers are rare. Even Olympic relay teams mess up exchanges. The runner receiving the baton has to time their take off and commit to reaching back without looking—Can you trust your training? Simultaneously, the runner passing the baton can’t let up; they have to maintain their momentum while lining up the hand off. Slow the moment, be hyper present. What’s the best way to set them up for success?
***
Even as Lewis interprets the songs of Mahalia Jackson and pays tribute to his grandmother, he adds to his own narrative. I love the way he and Knuffke speak to and over one another, especially on “Go Down Moses.” Their dialogues blend like the conversation of old friends whether they’re moving with the elegance of ballroom dancers or jabbing and landing like boxers; control and balance the throughlines.
Moments later Parker redirects the tune with a New Orleans pulse while Lewis and Knuffke continue to redefine the space with ever-expansive lines. And it keeps getting better as Parker and Taylor link up for a bass and drums strut, leaning into funk, flashes of George Porter Jr. and Ziggy Modeliste from the Meters. Parker’s ensuing solo is relatively brief, but serves as another example of his genius for composing and arranging melodies in the moment. To close, the brass section resumes their solos and the rhythm section marches on.
***
We didn’t see how much dementia was impacting my dad until he drove out of town one night and got lost an hour from home. He pulled over to ask for directions and fortunately the convenience store clerk recognized my dad’s confusion and called for help. The cops showed up and took my dad to the hospital. Thankfully they wouldn’t let him drive home and my brothers and I realized he could no longer live on his own.
To buy time, the three of us each spent a week with my dad until we could piece together a plan. I was surprised how much I enjoyed the time. He wasn’t listening to or playing music anymore, but we quickly fell into a routine—going out to an early lunch each day, watching CSI reruns, and rooting for the Bucks in the NBA finals. He let me drive and he didn’t mind the 90 degree days which were far beyond his normal comfort zone, and exacerbated by my car’s busted AC. Dementia had softened him, he didn’t get agitated so quickly. I was no longer afraid of him and I was done venting about him. We found a way to just be in each other’s presence despite, and in some ways because of, the circumstances.
***
Should you find your way to For Mahalia, With Love, I hope you’re able to listen to the album on good speakers. Laptops and earbuds won’t do justice to the full range of these performances, especially the bass and cello on tracks such as “Calvary.” Parker and Hoffman open with sustained tones, heads bowed in reverence. Then comes the soft, distant thunder of Taylor’s mallets rolling across the snare and toms. Even at subdued volumes no one rises from snare drum to rack tom and swoops down upon the floor tom like Chad Taylor; he can roll back and forth with the power of the tides.
Lewis and Knuffke match that opening mood, somber and serene, while the low end rumble of bowed strings and booming mallets steps to the periphery of the mix, inviting us to lean in to make out the details. Knuffke zooms along in close proximity to terra firma, on the mournful side of bluesy. Lewis soars and shrieks, cuts loose rapid fire ideas. For all his striking ability to play tender and sweet, Lewis is never one for the straight and easy. He volleys between tension and release, implores us to explore the complexities.
***
I listened to From Mahalia, With Love a lot when my dad passed, sometimes while commuting, more often as the last album of the day before lights out. I wasn’t ready for the handoff, but this multifaceted gift of an album did and does help in many ways—a deep expression of gratitude to family, a reverent look back to musical forebears, a deep reflection of the times, and fuel for what lies ahead.
Follow Vol. 1 Brooklyn on Twitter, Facebook, and sign up for our mailing list.