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Mar 18, 2018 Features / Columnists, Freddie Kissoon
I had a superbly rich introduction to music. I grew up in Wortmanville with rock steady, ska, reggae, soul, rhythm and blues, and pop in general. But I also liked soft rock and easy listening genres. I embraced soft rock artists like the Beatles and crooners like Engelbert Humperdinck with the same intensity as I did the Drifters, Sam Cooke, Boris Gardiner and Jimmy Cliff. Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole stirred me emotionally. They still do.
Bob Marley remains my favourite composer of philosophical pop music. Linton Kwesi Johnson is special. I am mentioning his name here and come to think of it, last week, my wife was humming her favourite Johnson melody in the kitchen – “Fite Dem Back.” That is a song and poetry to behold.
Quincy Jones definitely has a touch of genius. I know of no one who is familiar with contemporary pop and jazz that would not concede that Jones is an exceptionally brilliant music icon. But in a wide ranging interview, Jones made a nonsensical statement about the Beatles for which he later profusely apologized. He said the Beatles were the worst musicians ever. The Beatles have given the world some outstanding music, of which four of their songs are stupendous philosophical reflections that we each should continue to pay attention to, even though they were popular more than forty years ago – “Eleanor Rigby”, “The Fool on the Hill”, “Nowhere Man”, and “Let it Be.”
If you follow Jones’ career, you will know he can put his foot in his mouth. There are times that you do not know what is fact from fiction, when Jones describes his life experiences. Jones said recently he knows who killed John F. Kennedy. There is a trait in Jones that I admire him for, and it is a great trait in his character. He believes in speaking his mind and he doesn’t care what others think, once he speaks of things that he deeply believes in.
Quincy Jones may be one of the most candid persons in the world. Of course, Jones can take that position because he is hugely wealthy and he doesn’t carry his plate to others. That is a perspective I cling tenaciously to. If you do not feed me I don’t care if you resent what I have to say, once I believe I am speaking the truth and I have facts to back me up.
Going back to my teenage days in Wortmanville and my love for soft rock, I had this ironic love for a song that was untypical of me. It was “Don’t Let Be Misunderstood” by Eric Burdon and the Animals. If there was a song I loved when I was eighteen it was that tune.
There was a Freudian reason for my attraction to it. I thought my father was a good man who was never understood by the White folks he worked for in two Portuguese outfits – the cricket outfit – Georgetown Cricket Club (GCC) and the lawn tennis entity, the Portuguese Club opposite the Government Technical Institute in Woolford Avenue. My dad was dismissed from both places because he was too outspoken, and it had terrible consequences for the standard of living of his family. I vowed to follow in his footsteps, but armed with an education. But I wanted others to accept how I was thinking. I guess that explained at the Freudian level why I loved that song so much.
I grew up and became outspoken like my dad and rejected any thought of being understood by others. I didn’t care. I was armed with that education I so badly wanted, so I didn’t have to have my mouth shut by the hand that fed it.
This column was motivated by a letter published a few weeks ago (Feb 12) in this newspaper in which Carl Veecock says that he constantly defends me against government supporters in the diaspora who are calling me names because I criticize the present regime in Guyana.
Indians said I was a self-hater when I accused an Indian government in Guyana of hurting Africans. I expect (and it is happening already) that African supporters of APNU will call me an Indian racist for criticizing their government. I guess Veecock has heard that already. Don’t defend me Carl! I don’t care who misunderstands me. I have little faith in the rationality of Homo sapiens.
I will end on a weird note. Forty five years after I enjoyed, “Don’t let me be Misunderstood” my daughter’s eyes lighted upon one of my CDs – “The Best of Santa Esmeralda.” She hijacked my CD because she fell in love with Esmeralda’s version of “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.” She plays it all the time.
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