LET THERE BE JAZZ (For Luther Francois) by Dr. Travis Weekes
That Friday they opened the Jazz Festival
CHONKS AND THE WEST COAST BAND
right in the dark sitting room turned dance hall
down Anse-la-Raye, where I watched and listened
Chonks led the tale, voices in sax
the horn end-bent curled to his demand
as he cursed the British; scorned their tracks
creating space where he could stand
One old man head bent in a corner
plucked his courage from the banjo string
rattling his views, he faced the drummer
whose cymbalic tone made their hopes ring
The chac-chac man seemed fast asleep
if you searched his face. His peaceful soul
was slowly drawn, emerged from deep
search in the jungle; more beads to roll
And Chonks rose much higher this time
all the other followed trusting his tone
they scaled new heights, a steady climb
with bass-ic support, birth of rebellion
And Joan rode the rhythm out on the floor
her head held straight and eyes alight
it was back and forth, across and more
Chonks led her on right through the night
He led her back to the sugar mill
where faith had crushed with stalks of cane
then through his horn he blew until
he filled her soul with life again
Those steps she took now without fear
were strides that broke through shackles
now with that horn we all should dare
to fight to win our battles
//
Sunday evening at Pigeon Island
in open air out on the grass
as poopa ATLANTIC rolled in the background
we inhaled deep, more sounds of brass
It was Chonks again thirty years younger
his horn as wide as world acclaim
bringing this time those tales from Georgia
where southern fields bleed black with shame
Blow on Marsalis, trumpet the cause
blow let Rodney wake up frightened
though the history of your cannon roars
those he set are rust and forgotten
blow a note to stretch around the earth
let it reach and seal the links
if it sounds against a heart of worth
it’ll speak for him who thinks
it’ll speak for those deep in this soil
for whom those hills were gods
it’ll spout out all this coiled turmoil
they felt through all these wars
let it glisten the iguana green
and stand alert its spikes
to protect now this lovely scene
new conqueror are in sight
give the music strength to save this coast
from the Wheel of Fortune’s gamble
we don’t need Las Vegas here to boast
their gains now that we stumble
They could have opened the Jazz Fesitval
CHONKS AND THE WEST COAST BAND
The banjo, the chac-chac, the flute and all
Our own, we needed at Pigeon Island.
-END
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