Don't Stop the Carnival E-Book

Kevin Le Gendre

• Herausgeber: Peepal Tree Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 842

Beschreibung

Black British Music and the people who made it, from Tudor times to the mid '60s. This is a story of empire, colonialism and then the new energies released by the movements for freedom and independence of the post second-world-war years; of the movements of peoples across borders; of the flow of music around the triangle that takes in Africa, the Caribbean, the USA and Great Britain; of temporary but highly influential visitors like Paul Robeson; and of the settlement of ex-colonial peoples who brought their music to Britain, and changed its forms and concerns in the new context. It is the story of institutions like the military that provided spaces for black musicians, but it is also the story of individuals like John Blanke, the black trumpeter in the court of Henry VIII, Ignatius Sancho the composer and friend of Laurence Sterne in the 18th century, early nineteenth century street performers such as Joseph Johnson and Billy Waters, child prodigies such as George Bridgewater and composers such as Samuel Coleridge-Taylor in the later 19th whose music is still played today. Above all, it is the story of those individuals who changed the face of British music in the post-war period, who collectively fertilized British jazz, popular music and street theatre in ways that continue to evolve in the present. This is the story of the Windrush generation who brought calypso and steelband to Britain's streets, Caribbean jazz musicians such as Joe Harriot and Shake Keane, or escapees from apartheid South Africa, such as Chris McGregor and Dudu Pukwana who brought modernity and the sounds of Soweto to British jazz, and a later generation who gave ska and reggae distinctive British accents. Based on extensive research and many first-hand interviews, one of the great virtues of Kevin Le Gendre's book is lack of London-centricity, its recognition that much important development took place in cities such as Manchester, Leeds and Bristol. As a noted reviewer of black music for the BBC, the Independent, Echoes and other journals, Le Gendre brings together both a sense of historical purpose and the ability to actually describe music in vivid and meaningful ways.

Leseprobe

KEVIN LE GENDRE

DON’T STOP THE CARNIVALBLACK MUSIC IN BRITAINVOLUME 1

https://www.peepaltreepress.com/home

https://www.facebook.com/peepaltreepress

https://twitter.com/peepaltreepress

First published in Great Britain in 2018

Peepal Tree Press Ltd

17 King’s Avenue

Leeds LS6 1QS

UK

© Kevin Le Gendre, 2018

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may bereproduced or transmitted in any formwithout permission

ISBN13 Print: 9781845233617

ISBN13 Epub: 9781845234454

ISBN13 Mobi: 9781845234461

CONTENTS

Introduction

1. Drumming up Business

2. From Street Song to Sonata

3. Africa, America, Victoria

4. War Songs and Hiawatha

5. Dahomey Dance

6. Clubs in the City, Parties in the Valleys

7. Atlantic Crossings

8. Calypsonian Manning, Trumpeter Thompson, Hitman Hutch

9. Charing Cross London and Charing Cross Glasgow

10. From Radio Days to Movie Nights

11. Ocean ’n’ Midlands

12. Clambering on a

13. Calypso, Creole, Conflict, Cricket

14. Scaling Dizzy Heights

15. North by Northwest

16. Oriental Balls for Absolute Beginners

17. British Steel from Abroad

18. Do Start the Carnival

19. Fascinating People, Great Music

20. The Beat Turns Blue

21. Gospel Train: Running All the Way Home

22. Black Rock, Blacks Rock

23. Drums Unlimited

24. Exile on Gerrard Street/ Don’t Stop the Carnival

25. Epilogue: …With that Gun in your Hand?

Index

For Conrad Zeno Le Gendre,a West Indian ex-serviceman

INTRODUCTION

BLACK BRITAIN, IN SOUND, SIGHT AND DEED.

In early 2018, the UK national press carried the story of the facial reconstruction of one of the earliest known inhabitants of Britain. DNA analysis carried out by researchers from the Natural History Museum of a skeleton that dated back at least 10,000 years produced results that unceremoniously overturned long-held assumptions about the ancestry of the nation. Or at least what it looked like.

“Cheddar Man” was black. Whether this was a quirk of evolution or a reminder that modern science needs to look as far back as it does forward, the discovery raised no end of debate. If the “first Briton” was actually not white, then what does that say about successive generations down to today? Is there a spook haunting the family house rather than just sitting by the door?

National identity remains a concern in societies all over the world, and Britain is no different, especially when some politicians and media are wilfully advancing the notion of a distinct, unexpurgated British Britain, a “Britain first” or, as Eurosceptics trumpet, a Britain that craves and deserves its “independence”. Freedom from the fair-skinned technocrats of Europe as well as from the onslaught of dark-skinned migrants from Africa, or even, in the 70th anniversary of the arrival of Empire Windrush, a hunt to find and expel elderly West Indians who have lived and worked in the UK for fifty years, but don’t have the requisite papers.

The existence of an ancestor, or an indigenous inhabitant with roots running so deep that it turns racially polarized stereotypes on their heads, cannot but strengthen the case for asking who exactly we are, and from where we might have come. UCL geneticist Mark Thomas was forthright on the value of “Cheddar Man” in the context of education and cultural awareness. “If it becomes a part of our understanding then I think that would be a much better thing. I think it would be good if people lodge it in their heads, and it becomes a little part of their knowledge.”

This should force us to ask: how much do we really know about the peoples of Britain and their journey through the ages? Cast against the emblematic backdrop of the Union Jack, the flag that was flown proudly around the world to denote the expansion of England beyond its original borders, the perception of our population as mono-racial, a comforting ‘we’ before a discomfiting ‘they’, has long looked absurd.

In keeping with the way historians and scientists continue to bring vital new information to light on the real complexity of the past, Don’t Stop The Carnival is based on the premise that tracing the lives that black people in, and of, Britain may have led, and the forms of cultural expression they devised, can make a contribution to our understanding of the past as not just multi-faceted, but decisive in its contribution to the present. As a pervasive, dynamic, and often exhilarating artform, music has always been an outlet for the imagination of people of vastly differing circumstance, whether from a privileged elite or from a disenfranchised working class. The goal of this book is to put under the spotlight as large a cross-section as possible of the music makers in British history who have been classified according to a range of terms: Negro, coloured, African, Ethiopian, Black American, West Indian, Caribbean. Of course, the geographical range of musics that have arrived in Britain and taken root here is wider than this. However, because the cut-off point in time for this first volume, of what is intended as a two-part study, is the mid-1960s, it does not deal with the emergence of music whose origins were the South Asian continent, the home-grown phenomenon of bhangra, for instance, in the 1980s.

All of the various epithets noted above reflect the whimsical lexicological shifts through time with regard to the naming and position in society of those who are perceived as the racial “other”. To this day, the chess-playing with words continues. BAME – Black And Minority Ethnic – is an official designation of communities in Britain who to all intents and purposes, trace their roots elsewhere and stand connected to another part of the world, which for the most part, means areas of the globe formerly known as the colonies or overseas territories, or even the “dark continent”, lands that were once part of a UK plc, constructed on conquest and lucrative dominion.

If the assets of the Caribbean islands and African states included such valuable commodities as sugar, cotton, cocoa and tropical fruits, and oil and minerals, then the export of their human resources has been equally important in the enrichment of the British national heritage. These were people who came to take up arms and fight wars for the “mother country”, who served for instance in the NHS, the transport system, on ships, in factories, and – the subject of this book – in the entertainment and cultural “industries”. These people brought with them sound as well as word and deed, and my focus is on the immense range of creative output and its roots in the quotidian experiences of these arrivants and settlers, who were recipients, variously, of adulation and disdain, lightning rods for complex, and often contradictory feelings about what actually constituted entertainment, art, culture, decorum, the emotionally and sexually exciting and the socially acceptable. Music played by Blacks asked questions about what it meant to be a human being, to exist in the world, to stand alongside others, to broach questions of freedom, family, friendship and fidelity, to have trouble in mind as well as joy in one’s heart. There is a deep repository of stories about black musicians in Britain over time, from the minstrels and trumpeters of Tudor times, the street entertainers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the skilful practitioners of western classical music, the exponents of gospel and blues, the forerunners and innovators of what became marketed as jazz, and the pioneers of calypso, ska and high life. Then there are the champions of the idioms built on those ground-breaking foundations: rhythm & blues, soul, rock and rocksteady. The constant is change. The sound moves on. The instruments with which the sound is made also evolve.

All this points to the fact that music made by Blacks in Britain has never been one thing, and we can only understand its artistic scope and social ramifications if we embrace its multiplicity. Part of the creative momentum underpinning musical development has always been its proximity to other forms, including dance, cinema, theatre, literature and even the visual arts. This constant interconnectedness and cross-fertilization makes the story of Black music in Britain all the more vital. What and how a musician plays, the gestures they adopt on stage and the language used all connect to this wider cultural milieu.

With voices came instruments – drums, strings, wind instruments of brass and wood. But there were also devices that did not fit into any existing western musical conventions. There were adaptations, if not adulterations, of percussion instruments, the use of sundry objects assembled for the purpose of rhythm that were initially subjected to the long arm of censure before enjoying the embrace of approval. The development of a music of passion, even of an explosive violence of sound, was part of a spirit of invention – the ability to see something mundane as a blueprint for something ingenious – the genius to make music from what, according to the norms of the day, was condemned as anti-musical. For defenders of received ideas about British or European culture, the music of the non-west was often perceived as noise.

Yet, over time, black people holding strange things from which they ‘magicked’ original music, or invigorating song and dance, have become an integral part of the musical history of Britain. Musicians, lest we forget, are also members of society, and their human story, regardless of any elevated status a small minority enjoyed, is not separate from the stories of their peers who earned their daily bread less glamorously. An immigrant musician is still an immigrant. A black musician is still a black man or woman. They could be visible and esteemed providers of pleasure and invisible outsiders at the same time. Get in, stand under the lights, get out by the servants’ door.

There is no way the story of Black music in Britain can be told without recognising its context of racial discrimination, the arc of which stretches over centuries rather than decades. This has provided a bitter undertaste to all the sweetness of Black sounds filling our green and pleasant land. No portrait of a singer or player would be complete without an insight into the litany of prejudice they encountered – the xenophobia of “swampings” and “invasion”, fear of miscegenation and job loss, the moral panics over the alleged erosion of civilized values, and the actual occurrence of insult, bodily harm, murder, eviction from the home and dismissal from the workplace. All this inevitably became a part of the musicians’ chronicles, not least because they made their music in conscious response to this state of affairs.

To do justice to these histories requires the broadest possible vision of Britain. Not an account of events and life stories in a single location, but a trek from north to south and east to west. In real terms, this means the Black experience in Birmingham, Bristol, Cardiff, Cornwall, Glasgow, Leeds, Liverpool and Manchester, as well as London, all key locations for the growth of Black populations as well as Black artistry. Black music in Britain really is just that: a national rather than a local or even exclusively metropolitan phenomenon, a wellspring of talent that has not been confined to a single place or time. This reflects the fact that Black people have existed in Britain in a variety of circumstances that are not reducible to the cliché of fast living under the neon lights of the sprawling capital.

Although the existence of Black ghettoes in some of the above locations has been a regrettable reality, people of colour have never been entirely isolated from mainstream white communities, and as social relations have crossed racial lines, so have musical collaborations. Music created and developed by black people has been played by whites for at least the past hundred and fifty years, leading to varying degrees of conflict over issues of ownership, copyright, remuneration and authenticity. However, the interaction has been extensive and the prevalence of both racially mixed groups and white ensembles drawing on Black culture to varying degrees forms a vital subtext to the central narrative of Black music performed by black musicians.

Distinctions between black and white bands, certainly in the 19th and early 20th centuries, were often firmly entrenched on either side of the Atlantic, but by the 1930s the racial borders in music were crossed with greater regularity. This was a much more rewarding development than the phenomenon of the repackaging of the work of a black artist by a cynical and bigoted music industry using a white artist, who is perceived as less threatening and more palatable to a majority white audience.

There is, in the case of Britain’s record industry, in existence for around one hundred years, an additional and often fascinating strand to the story. There is the actual physical journey of songs through time and space that we can still hear, that sound across the changes in the nation’s status from colonial to post-colonial times, music which reflects shifts in language as well as instrumentation, that gradually makes the passage from the exotic to the home-grown. The story of calypso as once only a Trinidadian form that became part of the music of popular British culture in the 1950s is one such instance.

By critiquing and celebrating these odysseys in sound we are able to ask and hopefully answer some questions about the role of music in a society at different stages of cultural transformation. Blues, jazz and calypso have incredibly rich vocabularies, a database of sound and word, that hold up a mirror to the world, and provide insights into human nature shaped by actual lived events, whether that be the euphoria of carnival or the oppressive policing of it.

But this is not just a story of the meeting between black and white, or of music in Britain seen as an isolated country. Part of the story of the post-second World War migrations to the imperial centre was the meeting of musicians from those then colonies: West Indians, Ethiopians, West Africans and South Africans all played together and influenced each others’ musical languages. And even before these colonial migrations, the story of Black British music is always one of trans-Atlantic exchange – what Paul Gilroy named the Black Atlantic – as musical birds of passage from the USA sometimes became long-term stayers or even permanent residents, but invariably left their imprint of British musical culture. These encounters are of the greatest interest to me.

Calculating how many sounds fall under the umbrella of Black music made in Britain is a nigh impossible task. Songs and music were being performed long before the birth of the modern music industry and the large-scale manufacture and distribution of commercial recordings. Nevertheless, in the early part of my study, I make what I hope are insightful observations on the basis of available written material on the lives of singers and players who at some level secured their place in history. It was the technology of sound reproduction, the 78 rpm gramophone disc that evolved into the 33 rpm album and 45 rpm single, which brought new convenience for consumers, as well as sizeable profits for producers, that offers a significantly broader database and scope of inquiry. Scores of recordings made from the turn of the 20th century onwards provide us with a wealth of evidence to examine and interpret.

Two horrific world wars formed a bloody background to this period of relentless, frenetic musical experimentation and sustained mutations in the frameworks and agencies that played the role of gatekeepers in recording and distributing music.

The advent of new media such as radio as well as the arrival of television makes the post-1945 period one of the utmost importance and proportionately more of the book is devoted to it. It was a time of recovery, of re-evaluation after the blood-letting of the war and particularly of dealing with the UK’s changed status as Empire ended and independence came to former colonies. Mass migration from the Caribbean was only one of a series of fundamental jolts to British society, and the music of black musicians, and sometimes its cross-over into the work of white music-makers, provides some of the most sensitive antennae to pick up these social and cultural changes. It is another reason why, to make this study as illuminating as possible, I have chosen not to look at the work of artists beyond the late 1960s; I did not want to sacrifice analytical depth for the sake of bringing the narrative up to the present. What has happened since the 1960s has been equally noteworthy and, to my mind, deserves an in-depth examination by way of a second instalment. There is, I believe, much in the period I have written about that still informs music today.

We still live in times when people leave one territory to settle in another in precarious circumstances; when attack-dog popular newspaper editors still engage in political scaremongering about the threat to “ways of life”, and flash teeth with the kind of pearly-white menace Louis Armstrong evoked in the immortal “Mack The Knife”. Party like it’s 1918? Or 1948? Or 2018? The choice is yours. Good songs are great time travellers.

Vocal versions of this song by Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, to name a couple, are timeless, as is the instrumental rendition by saxophonist Sonny Rollins (“Moritat”). The continuum of Black music, brought to life with and without words, is fundamental to my story. But this is a story that goes back to the British 18th century, because Bertolt Brecht’s and Elizabeth Hauptmann’s play the Three Penny Opera (from which comes “Mack the Knife”, the melody written by Brecht’s great collaborator, Kurt Weill) was inspired by John Gay’s, The Beggar’s Opera, which premièred in 1728, introducing the characters of Macheath, the Peachums and Vixen, among others. As I have noted in the book, this was a time when enslaved black children were bought as decorations for rich households, but also when black street performers became part of the everyday scenery.

Just recently, the Three Penny Opera ran at the National Theatre in 2016, adapted to reflect the Britain of recent times. Its depiction of a world mired in poverty, immorality and corruption resonated with the widespread public contempt for a political and business class besmirched by sleaze and expenses scandals, insider trading and financial market manipulation. This was another instance of old stories coming back home, adorned in new clothing and inflected with new accents and rhythms.

At the time of the NT production, the call for diversity in the arts had reached a fever pitch, with echoes of the “Oscars So White” campaign ringing in the ears of anybody interested in real social equality. It was a sign of the continuities with the period I have written about that the presence of black performers in the cast still had to be noticed. Chief among them was the pivotal figure of the balladeer, played by George Ikediashi, whose rendition of “Mack The Knife” and other songs was exemplary.

Apart from Three Penny Opera, Ikediashi has a hugely impressive list of credits that straddles the worlds of opera and theatre, from La Traviata to Porgy and Bess to Anxiety Fanfare, and takes his place in a long lineage of black singer-performers who have trodden the boards in works reaching right back to Showboat in the 1920s.

An ex-law student who grew up in Nigeria before moving to Britain, Ikediashi became a national sensation in 2010 when his version of Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger”, captured by hidden cameras at Heathrow’s Terminal 5, was selected by T-Mobile for one of its television adverts. That the performance should have taken place in an airport, a gateway for past, present and future generations of black musicians, was fitting.

Ikediashi embodies a uniqueness that chimes with many artists discussed in Don’t Stop The Carnival. He has a provocative cabaret alter ego called Le Gateau Chocolat. It is larger than lycra, a nouveau black sweet to the ancient savoury of Cheddar Man.

Seven Sisters,

London,

February, 2018.

1 DRUMMING UP BUSINESS

These blacks – as they were designated on the muster rolls – displayed great ability and agility in the handling of their ‘tools’, as Wagner would have said.

— Henry George Farmer

Perched on metal stands, thin and straight as a stork’s legs, the silver half-circles of the steel drum can sometimes be heard on the concourses of shopping centres from Kent to Yorkshire, Lancashire to Essex, Sussex to Tyneside. People may stop and listen to a lone ‘pan man’ on a pavement. They might throw a coin into the leather basket which serves as a carrying case for the instrument, which was initially much maligned when its homeland of Trinidad was under British rule.

It is also not uncommon for bigger bands, steel orchestras, to play an afternoon programme of soothing Yuletide themes as shoppers enter Westfield or Bluewater on Christmas eve to secure last minute gifts. Pan is a staple of the urban consumer experience in the UK.

A competent player will play anything from mainstream pop, jazz or calypso. Music by Sparrow, Kitchener, Miles Davis, The Police, Gnarls Berkeley or Billy Ocean may be supplemented by improvisations that highlight the tonal richness of the instrument, which, when played well, can attain the warmth of a church organ or the piercing clarity of a vibraphone.

If not every Briton has seen a pan player on the street, there can be few who have not watched the spectacle of a steel band on TV during the Notting Hill carnival – “Europe’s biggest street party”. Many children have experienced pan workshops in their schools. There are pan groups of pupils in Seven Sisters, North London and pan groups of pensioners in Gateshead, in Tyneside.

Now a national phenomenon, steel pan is an emblem of something distinctive in the cultural life of the UK that came from outside. Most associate its arrival with mass migration from the Caribbean beginning in the late 1940s, part of our national culture shaped by the arrival of people of colour.

But pan is not the beginning of the story, and this book sets out to answer the question about when, how and with what effects black musicians reached these shores. Even so, the lone pan man who busks on the street is a good place to start. Busking implies entertainment by performers who are generally unknown, rarely documented, and the paving stone on which they stand is anything but spotlit. For the most part, theirs is a hidden history and this book sets out to uncover what can still be found, remembering that much is forever lost to view. Black street musicians are a significant part of the story.

How far back does the story go? Who were the first musicians to be seen and heard on these shores? What instruments did they play? What were the first melodies, harmonies and rhythms brought to life by the hands, feet and breath of earlier black arrivals in Britain?

One thinks of jazz trumpeters in the 1920s and 1930s, gospel singers in the 1890s, or maybe fiddlers in the 18th century, but what of Africans at the time of the Roman Occupation?

There is convincing evidence of a black presence in Britain during the Roman Occupation, quite probably North Africans enlisted in the legions (dispatched to ‘civilize’ the local unruly tribes), who may well have brought their music with them. Indeed, documentation for this period is much better than for the ‘Dark Ages’ after the Romans left, when a researcher intent on uncovering the presence of the first black musicians in Britain hits silence rather than sound.

For the earlier period there is written evidence, albeit sketchy, of the lives of the earliest arrivals from Africa, a vast territory, whose cultural and ethnic spectrum is so wide that qualification is required when identifying an individual as an African. The differences between North and South Africa are as marked as those between East and West; Tunisians, Nigerians, Ethiopians and Ghanaians: the diversity is immense.

The Romans in Britain had access to peoples from around the world, and many were co-opted for military service. In Staying Power, The History of Black People in Britain, Peter Fryer notes that ‘Among the troops defending Hadrian’s wall in the third century AD was a “division of Moors” [numerus Maurorum Aurelianorum]from North Africa. This unit was stationed at Aballava, now Burgh by Sands, near Carlisle.’1

The word ‘Moor’ has been enshrined in the English language by way of Shakespeare’s powerful tragedy, but before we picture Ira Aldridge, the legendary 19th century London-based African-American stage actor (or latterly Chiwetel Ejiofor) in the title role of Othello, we should clarify what is meant by the term. It referred to the inhabitants of a vast geographical region rather than a single country, covering Morocco, Western Algeria, Western Sahara, Sicily, Malta and that part of the Iberian Peninsula once known as Al-Andalus. In the popular imagination, the Moors were Muslims against whom valiant Christian crusaders waged war in the Middle Ages. But their existence reached much further back in time. Classical literature tells us that the Romans led military campaigns to Mauritania as early as the second century AD, which is why there could have been Moorish soldiers enlisted in the Roman legions sent to retain control over British territory, whose conquest began in AD 43.

Ethnically, the Moors were Arabic or African. Whilst this is sketchy and imprecise, what mattered in Britain was that the Moors were not white. They did not look like the Romans, Celts, Norsemen, Angles, Saxons or other people who inhabited early Europe. Moor, which may be an adaptation of the Latin word Mauri, became common currency in Britain over time and the orthographical variation of Mor, More and Moore reflects its passage into the formal written language.

While the presence of Africans in Roman army units appears an historical fact, there are no accounts of how the Moors acquitted themselves in service, what responsibilities they shouldered, or what relationship they may have had with their Roman colleagues, how they were regarded by the native Britons or what became of them after the fall of the empire in 410 AD.

What is known is that the Romans used brass instruments as a means of communication. The straight trumpets and tubas, cornu – g-shaped with a supporting bar between the two curves – and buccina (a smaller cornu) sounded the orders of charge and retreat, gave signals to adopt a specific battle formation, and featured in grand victory parades and funeral processions. Military historians think that the different units or divisions of the Roman army was each assigned at least two or three drummers or horn players, so it is very likely that a division of Moors – of some 500 persons – would have had musicians.2

Between the fifth and eleventh century, there came wave after wave of invasions from Frisians, Saxons, Angles, Jutes, Danes, Norwegians and the Normans who landed in 1066. How many Moors might have remained in Britain during that period is something on which historians cannot agree. Some take the view that there were very few. Others believe there was a residual community from Roman times, perhaps bolstered by the arrival of Moors from parts of Spain, Portugal and France.

Moorish culture, and music in particular, exerted an influence on Spain and Europe that survives to this day. What is considered to be classical Andalusian music has its roots in Arabic music introduced in the 9th century, when Cordoba was a caliphate. There is evidence that by the 11th century a wide variety of string instruments such as the oud, rabab quithara and naquereh were all in fairly regular use. Knights returning from the crusades carried some of these devices back to England, but what also furthered their dissemination were minstrels, itinerant musicians who criss-crossed the land performing for king and queen at court, the lord and lady of the manor as well as the serfs in the public square or the market place.

The term “minstrel”, derived from the word menestrellus, did not particularly denote a singer or player of an instrument. Originally meaning a minor court servant, the term encompassed entertainers of all kinds – acrobats, dancers, jugglers, actors, conjurers, puppeteers, oral poets and tellers of tales.3 The Register of Royal and Baronial minstrels in the 13th century mentions Conrad the geige player, Gillot the harper, Bestrude the vieille player as well as numerous players of the tabor, a small hand drum. Minstrelsy was not an exclusively male occupation. Mathilda, a saltatrix – acrobat or tumbler – appeared at a 1306 Pentecostal feast. There was no rigid separation between these different skills; poetry and storytelling were often performed by or with a musician, which was in the lineage of the poets of antiquity who accompanied their stanzas with instruments such as the lyre.4

Players could give “the men light hearts by thy pipe and the women light heels by thy tabor”, but not everybody viewed minstrels benevolently. There was a sharp divide between religious and secular song and harpers or tumblers were, in the eyes of the church and the pious, to be scorned. The 12th century scholar John of Salisbury lumped together court entertainers with other figures of ill repute: “Concerning actors and mimics, buffoons and harlots, panders other like human monsters, which the prince ought to exterminate entirely than foster.”5

Even so, because they were in demand for social events, the numbers of minstrels increased to the extent that the state felt it necessary to legislate the conditions of their existence. Minstrel guilds thus formalized what was hitherto informal. There were specializations. Players had to take tests in competence after a minimum of four years training. An officially recognized trumpeter under the patronage of the King or another member of the royal court was a post of prestige, and the principle of high standards was enshrined in the practice of various guilds.

As Henry George Farmer, an authority on early music in Britain, observes: “The minstrel guild system of Medieval and Renaissance times played a notable part in the development of wind music, since the organizations were not only protectors of the artists but also conservatories of the art.”6 This more regulated existence raised musical standards at a time when the arrival of new instruments and musical ideas from abroad led to a growth of particular types of players. Generally speaking, the Middle Ages were marked by the rise of trumpeters and kettle drummers, both in the court and in the battlefield. The trumpeter announced the arrival of a nobleman, signalled meal times or indicated specific hours during his watch, and was an essential cog in the machine that kept order in a royal life.

This is the context for one of the earliest and most iconic images of a black British musician, or at least a black musician in Britain. In 1511, Katherine of Aragon, two years into her marriage to Henry VIII, gave birth to a son, Henry. To mark the occasion a tournament was held at Westminster and a gorgeous hand-painted scroll shows the pomp and circumstance in fine detail. Mounted on horses are three trumpeters adorned by splendid royal livery with ornate fleur de lys banners strung across their golden horns. One of these men is black.

His name was John Blanke7 and according to the ledgers that contain the salaries of Royal personnel, he was paid 8d a day for his services. Further biography on his life and family is sadly not in existence but his presence on the scroll, where his dark complexion stands in contrast to the almost ghostly pallor of his colleagues, shows that at least one black musician was at the heart of the British establishment. Blanke would have learnt the heraldic fanfares that were performed on state occasions. This was music whose raison d’etre was grandiosity. The airs had to imply the characteristics of royalty – munificence and splendour. Depicted on the Westminster roll, his left arm holding the horn, his right the reins of his mount, Blanke could have been playing either a rousing or solemn melody.

Placed in a wider cultural perspective, the image of the black trumpeter also questions our perceptions of musicians of African descent and the instruments with which they have become closely associated over time. His skill on the trumpet may have been passed on by a family member, as was often the case in an age when formal education was nowhere near as widespread as today. It is worth considering that the western device he is playing is part of a larger, far-reaching tradition of non-western wind instruments, which includes horns in Asia and Africa, some of which were made of ivory and wood such as the Mbuti molimo, for example.

Blanke had probably come to Britain with Katherine of Aragon in 1501. In addition to the pictured tournament, he performed at important Court events such as coronations, pageants, banquets and a range of popular entertainment, including jousts. His sense of self-worth is underlined by the fact that he asked for the same salary as one of his fellow musicians, Dominic Justinian upon the latter’s death.

The anecdote says much about his degree of wherewithal, but if Blanke was what today might be called an “ethnic minority” in England he was nonetheless just one of many people of colour to be seen and heard at the greatest courts of Britain and Europe, notably those of Spain, Portugal and Italy.

Italian dancers also performed with several “Black Moors” for the Shrove Tuesday celebrations in 1505 at the court of King James IV of Scotland. Miranda Kaufman sheds light on a black drummer among them who discharged important duties.

“This musician, who is known only as the ‘More taubronar’, not only played the tabor drum but was something of a choreographer. He devised a dance with twelve performers in black and white costumes. This may have been a boisterous event, resulting in some wear and tear to the instrument because the following month he was given 28 shillings to pay for the painting of his taubroun.’8

It was not until the 1650s that slaves were shipped from West Africa to the West Indies in substantial numbers, and to Britain in smaller quantities. It was a trade that peaked in the mid 18th century. Consignment registers show that the first ships bound for West Africa to exchange textiles, cutlery and weaponry for slaves set sail from ports such as Bristol and Liverpool. Whilst the major purpose of the trade was providing enslaved labour for the West Indian islands of Barbados, Jamaica, St Kitts and other smaller islands under English control, and the American colonies, it was not only such commodities as sugar, rum, cotton, tobacco and spices that made the return journey to England, but Africans too. The vestiges of the slave trade and sugar production can be seen written into place names up and down the country. There are a multitude of lanes and public houses, containing the generic name Black Boy in London, Banbury, Bristol, Headington, Winchester, Oving and Sevenoaks. Some of these establishments can be traced right back to the sixteenth century as evidence of presence of blacks in Britain.9

There was also hysteria. As early as 1601, Elizabeth I ordered the lord mayor of London to expel the small population of slaves who were largely, as Sukhdev Sandhu asserts in London Calling, ‘employed as servants, prostitutes and court entertainers. Their visibility far exceeded their physical presence.’ Nevertheless, the monarch decreed the removal of: “The great numbers of negars and blackamoores which [as she is informed] are crept into the realm… who are fostered and relieved here to the great annoyance of her own liege people.”10 The panic of being “swamped”, by the ethnic other, raised by politicians over the years, in racially charged language, has a long history. The epithet “blackamoor” entered the English language around the middle of the 16th century, interchangeably with the terms Ethiopian, negar and Moor. One text states that “a blake Moor” is “borne in Barbary”, and this specification is present in Shakespeare’s Othello (1604). Complex and mercurial as is the eponymous Moor, who as a captain in the Venetian army stands as a distant scion to the “numerus maurorum” of Roman Britain, there are nonetheless several manifestations of a casual but spiky racism running through the text. Othello is described as having “thick-lips”, a “sooty bosom”, and Shakespeare clearly draws on public attitudes when he has Iago describe Othello as an “old black Ram [tupping the white ewe]”, and a “Barbary horse.”11

People of colour were often marked out as villainous in popular culture in subsequent decades. For example, “The Blackamoor in the Wood”12 is a folk story that has been found in a number of guises around the country, the earliest of which dates from around 1690. A woodcut of the tale was sold at a printing office in Bow churchyard in 1750 and other versions were found in Newcastle Upon Tyne in 1796 and Edinburgh in 1819. The subtitle of the piece describes it as: “A lamentable Ballad of the Tragical End of a gallant lord and a vertuous lady, together with the untimely end of their two children, wickedly performed by a heathenish bloodthirsty villain, their servant. The like of which cruelty was never before heard of.”

This is no exaggeration. The story involves a fiendish black servant who when his Lord is away, rapes his wife. The husband rushes back in a vain attempt to save his beloved. The assailant is seen as an animal worthy of only inhuman retribution:

Hold thy rude hand, thou savage moor

To hurt her do forbear

Or else as sure that I live

Wild horses shall thee tear.

Then, in a bloodcurdling sequel, the black servant dashes the head of the first of the lady’s two babes against the wall, while other has his throat cut and “down the brains did fall”. If “The Blackamoor in the Wood” was an extreme case of racial stigmatization in popular culture, it was not isolated. The existence of regional variations of the story attest to its national spread, and the longevity of this monstrous caricature was still to be found a century later. In 1776, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, patrons could enjoy “A new comic opera” with the jolly title of Airs And Ballads In The Blackamoor Wash’d White by Sir Henry Bate in lame and vapid verse. Its racist premise is flagged up in its prologue in the opposition of “Christians and Negars”. There is little plot except dandyish gentlemen singing of the fun to be had from asserting the superiority of whiteness. The foreigner in their midst has to be bleached to respectability:

No never mind little Jerry

Let your heart be merry

British boys will still be right

Till they prove that black is white.

The final part of the play has a more stark tone.

Mayhap the nabob that brought the poor creature

From his father, and mother, and all,

Is himself of a blackamoor nature

Dark within as the tribe of Bengal.13

Almost a century separates “The Blackamoor in the Wood” and The Blackamoor Wash’d White, but they are connected by form and content; the racist metaphor of washing the black white continuing in satirical prints and a Pears soap advert of as late of 1901 in which a black child is washed white. However, such representations do not necessarily tell us everything about the relationships between the white majority and black minority of the time. Without documentary evidence, it is hard to reconstruct attitudes at any given point in time with certainty, and one of the failings of the discussion of race in history is precisely the tendency to look for absolutes rather than nuance and elements of contradiction. Relationships between races are never simple.

According to reliable records, the black population of London had reached 20,000 by 1787,14 so it is likely, given what is know about the presence of black communities in other urban centres, that the black population nationally was around 50,000. Describing the relationships between black and white is not straightforward because records of the lives of people involved in contact are scarce, which is why the testimonies of ex-slaves Olaudah Equiano (1745-1797), Ignatius Sancho (1729-1780) and Ottobah Cugoano (1757-1791) are so valuable. All of the above became published authors – Equiano’s 1789 autobiography, The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano was a best seller that ran to nine editions – evidence of widespread interest.

As for Ignatius Sancho15 he is notable for the great breadth of his activities. Like Equiano he was an indefatigable campaigner against the slave trade but if the pressing matter of social justice greatly exercised him then that did not distract him from artistic pursuits that gave lie to the notion that the Negro lacked the same intellectual faculties and emotional sensibilities as the white man. Sancho was a composer as well as a man of letters. Luckily scores of his music have survived and are still performed to this day, revealing an impressive command of the vocabulary of European classical music, particularly the minuet, the delicate skipping dance music of noblemen whose light, dainty rhythmic patterns required precise choreography.

Dance played a prominent role in Sancho’s composing, and it’s interesting to note that in one of the four collections of music he published in his lifetime, “Les Contes Des Fees”, circa 1767, he also set themes to other popular steps of the day such as the cotillion. Also worthy of attention is the fact that Sancho wrote melodies for lyrics, such as “Sweetest Bard”, an adaptation of “Mr Garrick’s ode”. What stands out from these examples, with their flighty allegro pulse, is Sancho’s complete embrace of highbrow European culture.16

A Negro who penned musical works of the kind that had charmed the French and English courts flew in the face of a racial hierarchy that placed people of colour on a very low rung. Enjoying the patronage of the wealthy Montagu family, and the friendship of the novelist and clergyman Laurence Sterne, Sancho had been able to receive an excellent education that stood him in good stead in British society, and the magnitude of his cultural output, his writings and compositions, presented an image of an ethnic minority that was anything but morally contemptible.

But if there were “Moors” who endeared themselves to liberal sentiments, then there is still plenty of evidence to suggest that such approval went against the general grain of perception. When Shakespeare describes Othello as a “noble Moor”, is he responding to a more general assumption that a moor must be ignoble?

Critics were still uncomfortable with the interracial romance at the heart of the play two centuries after it was written. In Notes and Lectures Upon Shakespeare and Other Dramatists (1808), Samuel Taylor Coleridge contended: “As we are constituted, and most surely as an English audience was disposed in the beginning of the seventeenth century, it would be something monstrous to conceive this beautiful Venetian girl falling in love with a veritable Negro.”17 This was a writer who, as a younger man, had risked injury preaching against slavery in Bristol. A similar objection came earlier. In Absurdities in the structure of Othello (1692), Thomas Rymer criticises a lack of verisimilitude: “The character of the state is to employ strangers in their Wars, but shall a Poet thence fancy that they will set a Negro to be their General or trust a Moor to defend them against the Turk? With us a black-a-moor might rise to be a trumpeter but Shakespeare would not have him less than a Lieutenant-General.’18

This is the prejudice of its time, but Rhymer’s statement makes an interesting and early connection between race and music, with music as the vessel in which white Britain felt able to accommodate black people. It suggests that Rymer had actually seen Blacks as musicians in the military. Even if admired, at this point in history, generally musicians had an anomalous standing in society, so fitting in other people who were also on the margins because of their race involves no contradiction. Our search for players of instruments of African descent thus appears to continue with the ranks of the armed forces. These were not necessarily musicians who earned a living through music, but soldiers who played music.

There is evidence to support this view such as the mezzotint engraving of a ‘Negro Tambourinist’ of the Coldstream Guards that dates from the late eighteenth century. He is wearing a large white turban with black beads running right over the fabric and holding a very large tambourine with small bells clasped on the rim. Next to the bells are large, broad pins with flared heads. This elaborate paraphernalia looks designed to create a high-pitched clanging sound when struck by the musician. This instrument could be what was known as “the Jingling Johnnie”, which was an anglicized corruption of the Turkish word chaghana.19

The adoption of this tambourine in the British army was a sign of the considerable influence exerted by what was known as Janissary music. This referred to percussion such as the above and the low sounding bass drum. Poland, Russia and Austria all hosted Turkish bands in the early 18th century, but eventually musicians from the Ottoman empire were replaced by Africans whose skills on the above instruments did not go unnoticed. Henry George Farmer notes: “These blacks – as they were designated on the muster rolls – displayed great ability and agility in the handling of their ‘tools’, as Wagner would have said.”20

For us today, that picture of the ‘Negro tambourinist’ in the Coldstream Guards in the 18th Century is a priceless historical document, as is the one of the black trumpeter, John Blanke on the Westminster painted roll in 1511.21 They make black people visible.

More to the point, they outline a hidden history in which three key components interlock – Africans, music and the military. When the most popular acts of modern day pageantry – the trooping of the colour and the changing of the guard – appear in primary colours on television screens, it may leave many incredulous to think that centuries ago similar events unveiled some of the earliest known Blacks in Britain.

John Blanke and the Negro tambourinist may not have been harbingers of mass migration, but they were real people who either travelled here, or may even have been born here. They denote the tiniest of shifts in the demographics of the United Kingdom, but other black musicians followed them, some of whom moved in circles that were more rarefied than army barracks.

Notes

1. Peter Fryer, Staying Power (London: Pluto, 1984), p.1.

2. Henry George Farmer, Military Music (Parrish, 1950), pp. 8-9.

3. Farmer, op. cit., p. 10.

4. John Southworth points out that in Beowulf, the Old English Anglo-Saxon epic of the 10th century, there is a description of the synthesis of the two artforms – when the lord’s harper rises in his accustomed place: “A fellow of the King’s/ Whose head was a storehouse of the storied verse/ Whose tongue gave gold to language/ Of the treasured repertory.”

5. Farmer, op. cit., p. 11.

6. Quoted from Salisbury’s Policraticus in Paul Dalton, “John of Salisbury and Courtiers Trifles” in The English Medieval Minstrel, ed. David Luscombe and Paul Dalton (D.S. Brewer, 1989).

7. This account of Blanke is indebted to Miranda Kauffman, Black Tudors (London: One World, 2017), p. 11.

8. Kauffman, op. cit.

9. https://www.ordinancesurvey.co.uk/getoutside/guides/the-history-of-pub-names/

10. Sukhdev Sandhu London Calling (Harper Collins, 2003) xv.

11. William Shakespeare, Othello (Penguin, 1980).

12. British Library, National Library of Scotland, LC 2838 (17).

13. Sir Henry Bate, Airs and Ballads (including “The Blackamoor wash’d white”), (London: Cox & Bigg, 1776)

14. Mayerlene Frow, Roots of the Future: Ethnic Diversity in the Making of Britain (CRE, 1996)

15. For Ignatius Sancho see Reyahn King and Sukhdev Sandhu, Ignatius Sancho: An African Man of Letters (London: National Portrait Gallery Publications, 1997).

16. To hear some of Sancho’s music and for further information go to http://sanchomusic.synthasite.com/.

17. Samuel Taylor Coleridge Notes And Lectures Upon Shakespeare And Other Dramatists, 1808. (Quoted in Othello [Bantam Classic, 1962]).

18. Thomas Rymer Absurdities in the structure of Othello. Quoted in the Bantam Classics edition of Othello.

19. The term was also sometimes shortened to ‘jingler’.

20. See Farmer Military Music (Parrish, 1950) p. 35. The man was called John Fraser.

21. Blanke was also known as ‘the blacke trumpet’; see Peter Fryer, Staying Power (Pluto, 1984) p. 4.

2 FROM STREET SONG TO SONATA

Master Bridgetower, son of the African Prince, who had lately figured so much at Bath on the violin, performed a concerto with great taste and execution.

— The Times, 20 Feb, 1790.

The late eighteenth century was an important period for the articulation of the ideas of democracy, the rights of the individual and the injustices of inequalities of wealth and power. But if in the early nineteenth century Lord Palmerston is reputed to have said that “there is no such thing as permanent friends only permanent interests”, he might also have added there is such a thing as a permanent, self-serving flexibility in ethics.

It was not merely that the old landed interests across Britain and Europe held onto power and defended it mercilessly, but when those who overthrew that power in America and France had power themselves, they behaved no better, particularly towards Black people.

Settlers in America waged the War of Independence in 1775 over unfair taxes levied by the colonial power, Great Britain, but showed little concern over the existence and condition of the slaves on the tobacco and cotton plantations. As the French fought for ‘liberté, égalité et fraternité, and aristocratic heads rolled, other bodies remained bound and chained for export from West Africa. Nine years after the French revolution, the 1798 slave uprising in San Domingo, otherwise known as the Haitian revolution, shared the same revolutionary objectives, but the new French government was not prepared to end slavery; the maritime bourgeoisie had too much to lose by recognizing the human rights of Africans. Frequently otherwise at odds with France, Britain supported France in putting down the insurrection. Revenues would decline and spheres of influence shrink if “the black Napoleon”, Toussaint L’Ouverture, were to prevail. The triangular trade of manufactured goods, enslaved human labour and raw colonial produce had been too important to capitalist accumulation in Western Europe.1

Even as a Frenchman, Victor Schoelcher and an Englishman, Thomas Clarkson, were winning popular support for the moral case for abolition, they struggled to be heard above the demands of the West Indian interests for the protection of their investments.

If the creation of the West Indies as plantation societies with imported populations (after the original Amerindian inhabitants had been largely exterminated) was the main legacy of the enterprise of sugar and slavery, there were also lasting impacts on British society and culture. Fortunes were made (and lost) and a good many “noble” families and stately country houses such as the Lascelles and Harewood House outside Leeds in Yorkshire have their origins in the profits of slave-grown sugar and the slave trade.2 Along with these architectural displays of landed wealth, one of the most striking fashion statements for the well-to-do lord or lady was the little black boy who would be in attendance at social functions. In a good many paintings of the landed gentry from the late seventeenth to the late eighteenth century they appear as mascots or pets. Mostly (but not always) shown in deferential poses, these black children reflect a duality in eighteenth century attitudes to race, namely that the African was lauded for his appearance in youth but mistrusted for the threat that he might pose in adulthood. The benign presence of the Negro boy emphasises of the absence of the Negro man.

Young black boys and girls were part of a vogue for exotica that also included the use of fabrics from the Far East as well as perfumes and spices from Asia and the Middle East. Dressing the servant in finery reflected the ample means of the household in which he appeared.

Among the most notable paintings in this manner is Captain Graham in His Cabin by William Hogarth. Painted in 1745, the canvas was intended to celebrate the capture of valuable cargo after Graham had launched a raid on a squadron of French ships outside Ostend in Belgium. The conquering hero is the central focus of the image and his imperious pose – back straight, leg outstretched and gaze firmly trained on the viewer – denotes a man of stature, self-confident in his privileged place in society. Clad in a gold brocade waistcoat, breeches, stockings, white cravat and a red fur-lined cape, Graham is puffing on a long tapered pipe and he affects something of a dandyish demeanour in the way his head is cocked slightly to the side. On a chair in front of him is a small dog, rearing up on its hind legs, head practically drowning in Graham’s cascading white wig, and standing right behind the animal is a Negro boy. He is holding a small naker (kettledrum) under his arched left arm and is beating it with a straight wooden stick.3 The young black is an elegantly attired music-maker. Both the dog and the servant are presented as subservient references to the master, who dominates the picture. The pet, by dint of the wig, is made lordly in a ridiculous way. The boy is decked out in a yellow waistcoat and a blue velvet jacket studded with large gold buttons, a brilliant red cravat round his neck, a beige cap upon his head. Like the Captain, he also has a long pipe hanging from the side of his mouth. Negro boy and dog appear as playthings fashioned in the image of the master and, as much as the painting tells us about hierarchy and the place of blacks among those with power, it also connects to other images of black musicians in British society. Indeed, Graham’s servant vividly recalls the mezzotint engraving of the Negro tambouriner in the Coldstream guards discussed in the previous chapter. It is tempting to think that the difference is that Graham’s player is now outside the military environment, but the location for Hogarth’s painting is a ship, possibly part of the fleet used for raids on the French, which suggests that black drummers were used on British war vessels as much as they were in infantry units.

Another common denominator in these images is the headgear of the two black figures. The Coldstream Guards drummer wears an elaborately designed wrap modelled on a turban and the Graham drummer sports a puffed, voluminous, rounded hat whose provenance is not easy to pinpoint. It may be European. It may be Middle Eastern. Both look exotic. The sophistication of their clothing reveals the convention of adorning slaves in ways which would have enhanced their function either as musicians performing practical duties in the armed forces or entertaining polite society in the drawing room or parlour.

Consider the case of David Marat. He was a servant who absconded from his ‘Master’, one Edward Talbot, known to reside in King Street near Soho in central London. From a broadsheet advertisement issued in early 18th century we learn this:

A black about seventeen years of age, with short wooly hair. He had on a whitish Cloath livery, lin’d with Blew, and Princes-mettal Buttons, with a turbant on his head. He sounds a trumpet.4

Again the contiguity of the exotic and a black musician. Whatever his musical ability, David Marat also reflects the trend of dressing Negroes, or more precisely young Negro boys, in non-western headgear that creates a kind of Ottoman-African continuum in eighteenth century Britain.

If such figures existed on the fringes of cultural history, they nonetheless make the point that black people were playing instruments in various circumstances in the eighteenth century. They were both seen and heard.

Apart from the battlefield and the parade ground, the other setting in which black musicians were present was the street. The picture that emerges of life for Africans in Britain, if they did not have the security of an army or household post, was of a hand-to-mouth existence. For the most part, apprenticeships do not seem to have been offered by distrustful masters, so hawking and entertaining were prevalent trades.

One of the most popular outlets was bare-knuckle fighting. Tom ‘The Moor’ Molineaux, Bill Richmond and James Wharton were among the celebrated black prizefighters who plied their trade in the capital, but for those who were not blessed with the constitution and stamina of a successful pugilist (who had to endure bouts that could last well over an hour), there was the chance of amassing pennies by finding a ‘pitch’, throwing a hat on the pavement and singing songs or ‘scraping the catgut’ i.e. fiddling.

These street musicians should not be seen in the same context as modern day buskers, whose performances have a degree of novelty because they take place in an age when music is widely available by way of recorded media and broadcast communications. As noted in the previous chapter, news and song were much more closely aligned in the days when minstrels and itinerant players wandered the land.5

For sheer visual panache, it seems that few black street players could match Joseph Johnson, who worked in rural villages and market towns such as Romford or St. Albans. He sported a model of a ship, the HMS Nelson on his head and cut a striking figure as he performed a number of patriotic songs such as “The Wooden Walls of Old England”, a song that references a naval ship.6 A drawing of Johnson (1817) gives him something of a circus performer’s curiosity by virtue of the ship on his head, as if he was a mythical giant sea dweller who had risen from the depths of the ocean, a dark Neptune carrying mast, sail and hull onto dry land.7

There was a more prosaic reason for the elaborate prop. Johnson was a former merchant sailor who had sustained injury during his working days, as indicated by the wooden crutch under his left shoulder and a walking stick in his right hand. Because his injuries were suffered in peace-time, he was given no pension. Johnson, facing destitution, had no choice but to take to the streets. The existence of black beggars in Britain in the eighteenth century reflected the precarious nature of life for people of colour. Johnson displayed a pragmatic resourcefulness. Whilst the picture with a ship on his head may have freak-show connotations, it was actually part of the tradition of Jonkunnu masquerading in the West Indies, and it becomes a memento of ingenuity when the eye is directed towards the crutch that is holding him up.

Disability is the common denominator shared by Johnson and another musician who was well known on the streets of London. Billy Waters was an American-born Black, a peg-leg fiddler who plied his trade on the streets around Covent Garden. According to a broadsheet from the 1800s, he was maimed while in “His majesty’s service”, for which he did receive, unlike Johnson, a modest pension. Pictures of Waters show a flamboyant character who, like Johnson, had an eye for millinery. His broad-brimmed cocked hat, its central peak rising high into the air, streamed with ribbons and feathers, the gaiety of which was enhanced by an act that would see the fiddler discard his wooden peg and dance on one leg.8