The O'Zone | Ofrenda: Murder Songs for the Slain
This is an observance of musicians who met with untimely deaths, while we honor their lives. I have dealt with the murders of two of my friends and there is a lingering memory that time never completely heals. It is a scar that aches when memory triggers, but I have found the customs of Dia de los Muertos and the Second Line procession both help with the ache of loss. This is by way of honoring those who are walking in The Lands of the Remembered as Ancestors.
In doing the research for the following poems, I discovered a shockingly long list of fatalities so there may be some omissions and this is by no means meant to disrespect those who I don’t elaborate about here. In some cases, the phrases unknown causes or suspicious circumstances will appear and lead to speculation and stories. I’ve left them in and leave it to you, gentle reader, to decide what conclusion to come to.
Robert Johnson: “Don’t ever knock a bottle out of my hand”
The King of the Delta Blues Singers
Born in Hazlehurst, Mississippi
Lived a soap opera childhood bouncing around
between parents.
He picked up a love of the blues in Memphis.
Later living on a plantation in country Mississippi
His desire to be a walking man with the blues and a guitar
Sent him to the midnight crossroads.
Some say it was Charlie Patton
others say it was Big Ike
but Robert said it was the devil.
Tuned the guitar under a blood moon
like Tommy Johnson before him for the price of his soul
to be paid in full at age 27 near Greenwood, Mississippi.
They called it “unknown causes”
According to one theory it was a jealous husband outside of Itta Bena when Johnson flirted hard with the man's wife
She handed him a bottle poisoned by her man
When Honeyboy Edwards knocked it out of his hand
“Don’t drink it ‘less you opened it” says he.
“Don’t ever knock a bottle from my hand”
Another bottle of poison later the Devil collected.
The 27 club opened for business
A trap for troubadours
Up jumped the devil
And a half dozen alleged graves mark his final rest.
LEE MORGAN: Search for the New Land
Philadelphia prodigy
Working at 15 influenced by Brownie
Five years later he’s a Jazz Messenger
Composer and virtuoso trumpet king
Cornerstone sideman
Makin’ Hard Bop swing
Hear that sweet horn sing
graceful or blistering
Vintage Messengers with Shorter
heroin downfall
time stolen
Rumproller on the radio
Searching for the new land
Procrastinator Tom Cat
Some Cornbread please
Sidewinder, Joker, Gigolo!
One snowdriven February night at Slug’s Saloon
In the East Village between sets
Helen with a handgun
Jealousy driven spat leads to a flesh wound
Ambulance stuck in the snow
Edward Lee Morgan bleeds out.
On the stage where he lived.
ALBERT AYLER: East River Ghost
He said “Music is the healing force of the universe”
So many thought he played free because
He couldn’t play
Pure nonsense
Albert spoke bop and bar walkin’ sax honkin’
Before he deconstructed Free Jazz right out from under
The shapers of jazz to come
His ghostly cries from a martial tenor
His spiritual coarse rugged angelic tones
frightened some and fascinated his peers
He played at Trane’s funeral along with Ornette
He played beyond notes in a microtonal land
Where spiritual unity mattered more than modes
Albert was beyond notes
He and John Coltrane influenced one another
ascension into each other’s dreaming
He suffered his brother’s debilitating nervous breakdown
as if it were his own and he was ever labeled
unstable after
Flinching from the laughter
squares don’t know any better
The label told him to adjust
In labels we trust
Somehow unjust…
Albert disappeared in November
weeks later they found him
A Ghost in the East River
suicidal dementia or mafia hit
The cops wrapped it up quick with two words
Too busy to check just another crazy jazzman
“Probable suicide”
More improbable
He didn’t leave a note.
Albert was beyond notes.
JACO PASTORIUS: Continuum
He was too good for his own good
Mowgli in the water
Shirtless on the beach
his mother called him Jaco
teenage phenom on a 62 Fender
Driving the C.C. Riders
Confident like Ali
The greatest in the world
Bright Size Lifer, Weather Reporter, Bi-Polar
Superstar then homeless
Beaten by a bouncer until his children became orphans
He left harmonics and funk and lyricism in his wake
John Francis Pastorius did it with four strings
He was more than his troubles
So was VanGogh.
CURTIS OUSLEY: King of Riffs
King Curtis, tough Texas tenor
Soul Serenader
Jazz journeyman
King Riff syncopator
The authenticity needed to make a record
Memphis Soul Stew
Ode to Billie Joe
Have Tenor Sax, Will Blow
Soul Battle survivor until that day
A junky on his Manhattan stoop
Stabbed the Soul King to death
His legacy is hundreds of songs
Stories of cheaters and lovers
Always a ready riff.
On the day of his funeral Atlantic Records
Closed their offices
The Kingpins played one last Soul Serenade.
EPILOGUE:
It’s always a tragedy when a murder interrupts
Life cut short
What if what if what if.
This has been a Murdersong for the Slain.
A second line in print
Our hearts flags at half mast
Legacies of song and influenced
Empty seats at the table
We light the candles in their names.
Stay connected to KUVO’s programs and our community! Sign up for the Oasis E-News today!
