Traveling the Universe: A Conversation with Bill Summers (Part One)

The obsession of many in the music industry to categorize art frequently overlooks the shared tree upon which so many “styles” branch. In reality, so much of today’s music, including “jazz”, “hip hop”, “R&B” and “rock” reach back to tried and true concepts and ancient rhythms. On Forward Back, Vol. 1, percussionist Bill Summers asks listeners to reexamine the music with which they are familiar and see its origins; to discover its core.

The album itself is deceptively modern. One passively listening may hear yet another hip hop record. The looped moments on “Yellow Flowers” certainly exude that aesthetic. Or one may notice the funkier aspects of the album. After all, Dr. Funkenstein himself, George Clinton, appears on “Buttafly.” But deeper listening suggests something older – African rhythms – underscoring the entire affair. The message becomes clear; no matter how modern the music, it all ties back to the source. The record is a compelling advocate for the position that groove and intellectualism can not only peacefully coexist but mutually reinforce one another. Forward Back Vol. 1 is the type of album that drives a listener to consider approaching other recordings in their collection with a new perspective.

Marking over four decades of exploration and reflection, the newest release draws hues from moments across Summers’ diverse career. These include his time learning rhythms in a special fraternity, his work with Herbie Hancock and groundbreaking jazz-funk outfit the Headhunters, and his time with his band Summers Heat. In this first of our two part conversation, we discuss all of the above and more. 

PostGenre: How did Forward Back come together? It is fascinating how you tied ancient rhythms to more contemporary popular music.

Bill Summers: Yes, showing those connections is the heart of this project. To answer your question, in some ways, it goes back to a band I had 40 years ago with Scott Roberts.

PG: Summers Heat.

BS: Right. Scott played trumpet and percussion with that group, and I played sax, percussion, and various other instruments. And on Forward Back Volume 1, Scott is on keys and drums, and I am on percussion. There is certainly that link back to Summers Heat. 

I am also in a fraternity called Anya. It is one of only two African fraternities which survived the TransAtlantic slave crossing and are still intact today. We’re not talking about Greek fraternities like Alpha Phi Alpha. What I am referring to is an organization built upon ancient tradition and playing ceremonial music. 

PG: How does one enter the fraternity?

BS: To be in this fraternity, you have to commit to two or three hundred rhythmic changes in a specific order. You have to have your hands baptized. You must learn from a master musician all kinds of little stipulations that go along with being in that fraternity. From being in that fraternity, I know these ancient rhythms. Man, I fell in love with these ancient rhythms just from hearing them. 

PG: What got you interested in joining the fraternity?

BS: Early on, I was in the conservatory studying classical piano. Starting as a kid, I spent ten years playing Chopin, Bach, and Beethoven. One day, I brought some music in to show my music teacher. It was “One Mint Julep” by Ray Charles, a popular song at the time. I remember vividly that she took the music, folded it in half, then folded it again. She handed me the folded paper and told me there was time for that music only when I finished playing so-called “real music.”

PG: Wow. “One Mint Julep” is a great song too.

BS: Yeah, it pissed me off. I was 14 or 15 years old at the time and left there fuming. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t know much about Black composers or African music, really the origins of jazz, funk, and R & B. So, I started researching the history of the music. And, when I did, I uncovered something fascinating. Do you know Desi Arnaz?

PG: Sure, he was a musician but probably best known for playing Ricky Ricardo on I Love Lucy (CBS, 1951).

BS: Right. I was in love with the music on that show from the beginning. [Starts vocalizing the melody of the show’s theme]. Ricky’s signature song was called “Babalú.” But what the hell does Babalú even mean? As I was doing my research on African music, I also started to try to figure out what Babalú actually meant. It took me a while to figure out, but Baba means “father” and lú means “owner” or “chief.” So, Babalú is, basically, the owner chief of the world. I did a little more research and found that Babalú is an African saint of infectious diseases- smallpox, malaria, leprosy, gonorrhea, syphilis, really, any infectious disease. 

Why Ricky would have anything to do with the saint of infectious diseases, I have no idea. But one of the suites I learned for my initiation into the fraternity was Babalú. Because I used to watch the show, the fact that we were using that song started to make me connect some dots throughout my life. From that, I started focusing on both the substance of ideas and where they came from originally. And, of course, that led to more research. 

PG: How did you research these sorts of connections?

BS: Well, I studied at the University of California at Berkeley. When I was there, I met a professor who was a famous anthropologist named William Bascom. I didn’t know how well known he was at the time, but he gave me access to his entire library, including his studies on African culture and music. 

PG: And what did you find through your research?

BS: I learned a lot about the origins of jazz. Also, many people say that to understand the origins of R&B and rap you have to go back to the Negro spirituals. I learned that was not true; you have to go back to Africa a couple of thousand years before that. It was those realizations that gave rise to Forward Back. Over forty years, Scott Roberts and I kept experimenting and trying to put the ancient rhythms on more prominent display in music that developed from them – jazz, R&B, Hip Hop, whatever. It took us four decades to figure out how to do it correctly. 

PG: What is it about these ancient rhythms that still resonate with people?

BS: There is a universal truth to them. People call me to play ceremonies. When you play a ceremony, you have to do specific things and play rhythms for every aspect of the universe. There is a suite of rhythms that we play. It may take me about 45 minutes to play the whole thing, but they have to be committed to memory. Those are written for every aspect of nature, so I can play for the trees or I can actually play for the grass outside. It is natural for these rhythms to shape things like rap and hip hop as well.

When it comes to hip hop, I like the music. Young Jeezy and Keyshia Cole even sampled my song, “Dreaming.” But I don’t like the messages of a lot of rappers. They’re not playing for nature or speaking to creation. They are calling women bitches or talking about blood running down the front of their shirts. Those messages are not for me. I don’t want to disrespect anyone and I am not glorifying violence. Music has given me a greater respect for all my brothers and sisters on this planet. That’s true regardless of whether they are white, Black, Asian, or whatever. Everyone is a part of this big puzzle of the universe.

PG: What messages do you prefer to emphasize?

BS: I want to leave something that respects the history of Black music in America. When you look back to the swing era, Count Basie and Duke Ellington were making incredible music. But we were told that Benny Goodman was the king, despite never really reaching their level. Take it a few decades later, and Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley were creating rock and roll while the media obsessed over Elvis instead. That story of Black artists being overlooked in favor of white ones continues today. We must keep the truth alive. As George Clinton told me, “we are keepers of the frequency.” What he means is that Black artists must preserve the tradition. George gets it; his deep reverence for funk is more than just propping up dance or popular music. To him, the music has spiritual meaning. 

PG: George also appears on “Buttafly.”

BS: Yes, years ago George and I got together at my home studio. At the time, I was working on a project called The Essence of Kwanzaa (Monkey Hill, 1997). Over 10 to 12 hours, George and I recorded a lot of things. When we were putting together Forward Back, Scott went through some of these recordings and pieced them into what appears on “Buttafly.”

PG: Since you mentioned your home, you have lived in New Orleans for a long time.

BS: I’ve lived in New Orleans for thirty years now. 

PG: New Orleans is a city with an incredibly rich musical history, everything from bounce way back to Congo Square. Do you feel that living there gives you a unique perspective in approaching a project like Forward Back?

BS: Definitely. All of my family is from Louisiana. Everyone in my family for hundreds of years has been from this spot. My parents moved to Detroit during the great migration to escape Jim Crow laws, but I’ve always maintained a relationship with Louisiana, from the time I was a child until now. And, so, when I moved to New Orleans thirty years ago, I was moving home.

You must also understand that New Orleans is not in the United States. In reality, it is the northernmost Caribbean country. The people there have their own food and dance. Several types of music have originated here. That music almost always traces itself back to Congo Square. Congo Square is where the prisoners, I call them that because I don’t think most people were slaves, would congregate and make music.

There was a leader named Becher who spoke the traditional language of Africa. Becher also had some other roots in West Africa. When he would come to Congo Square, he read everything and led the drums, dancing, and singing. Sidney Bechet, often credited as starting jazz, claimed Becher was his great-grandfather. And so, Congo Square is the mecca for music. Of course, I go to Congo Square frequently.

PG: When you go to Congo Square today, you can still feel that it is a special place.

BS: Yeah, but it’s not what it once was. The city put up bricks and built the Municipal Auditorium there. Back when, Congo Square was massive. What we call Congo Square today is infinitesimally small compared to what it was in the 1800s. Congo Square is still holy land to me, but only a very small part of it.

PG: Since you have focused on the connections between contemporary music and ancient African rhythms, and Congo Square as a connection between the two, let’s dig into some specifics. The African drum tradition is passed down through the generations and not written in the sense of Western notation. Is there a specific connection between that tradition and improvisation in jazz or rapping in hip hop where both are created in the moment and less reliant on a written score?

BS: You’re a pretty deep guy, man. That’s a hell of a question. 

The African drum tradition is indeed not written in the Western European sense. Instead, it passes through teaching and memorization. Anthropologists and people at music colleges have attempted to write the rhythms down but, in my opinion, they have done a poor job at doing so. 

PG: Why do you find their attempts lacking?

BS: Well, often you must be initiated into the society before you will learn the rhythms. For instance, when I went to Africa, I wasn’t allowed to touch the drums until they baptized my hands. Because of that exclusivity factor, many people who study this music are not going to get the real information on how it is made. Unless you join in, you won’t get the real secrets, just some preliminary shit. Anthropologists may get some of the parts out, but they certainly couldn’t play a ceremony because their drums aren’t consecrated. 

Now, back to your earlier question, what is the difference between European notation and learning from a priest? When I studied classical music. I learned Chopin from books. The written music conveys articulations; it indicates pianissimo with a P and forte with an F or uses a crescendo to get louder or decrescendo to get softer. But you don’t truly know from the written text how Chopin actually performed a particular piece. The written symbols let you try to simulate it, but it is just a simulation. With the African drum tradition, you are actually learning the rhythm itself as it has existed for generations. The rhythm is guarded millisecond by millisecond. It is significantly more accurate than anything written. That is just a fact.

As to the rest of your question, I hate the term improvisation. I think it is inaccurate and does not do justice to what a musician does when he or she takes a solo. Let’s stop saying what they are doing is improvised and start saying that they are performing a miracle because that is truly what they are doing. Improvisation as a term came from when Europeans looked at African musicians, were amazed by what they saw and decided to minimize it. If they could pretend the musician is just making it up as they go along, then it is all too easy to diminish their music. The musician is performing a miracle, and he or she can do that only from deep learning.

Think of someone like John Coltrane or Charlie Parker; how can anyone say that they didn’t know their shit? They were geniuses. That someone could take all sorts of information, put it into their brain, and then spit out something new with machine-gun fire speed, that’s a miracle. The musician must know the music well, the chord changes, and the rest. He’s not making anything up when creating; he’s organizing it.

And the same thing happens with rappers. It doesn’t matter whether it is jazz, funk, or hip hop; if you hear excellence you can identify people who have heavily studied rhythmic language, expression, and how to put them with music. I have a great deal of respect for musicians who do that.

PG: Do you sense rhythm in everything in life?

BS: Yes. Life would not exist without rhythm. Period. But what is rhythm? I don’t want to get into a long thing about this, but it is difficult for many people to define rhythm. Ultimately, rhythm is a succession of events. When you play a melody on a horn or piano, it’s nothing but rhythms with notes; rhythms with different pitches. It is still a rhythm. You can’t have a melody unless you have a rhythm established. If there was no rhythm on the planet or in the universe, you would have only one heartbeat, and it would never stop.

Scientists have pointed to the big bang as having created our universe. Even that idea focuses on a “bang”, a rhythm. And with that also came a thing called time. And so, it’s natural that rhythm will be in everything.

The fascinating thing is that, from studying African rhythms, I have been able to have my consciousness travel from one end of the universe to another. Most people don’t understand that because they’ve never experienced it. And, look, my friend, you can’t experience that with a machine. We need to think beyond technology to get from one end of the universe to thousands of lightyears away. When I’m playing those drums, I’m traveling the universe like you wouldn’t believe. And where I go, that’s where everybody needs to go to see the real miracle of the universe. If they did, we would all become one. We wouldn’t be killing each other because we’d be too happy having fun.

PG: So, with rhythm built into everything, it must have seemed natural to use a water-filled garbage can at certain points on Bennie Maupin’s The Jewel in the Lotus (ECM, 1974). 

BS: Well, Bennie was the saxophone player in a group I was also in called the Head Hunters. Both of us spent hundreds of thousands of hours together as part of that band. When Bennie started putting together The Jewel in the Lotus, he asked me to play on it and to come up with an idea for something to add to one of the compositions. He was looking for something different. I started looking around the room at all kinds of different instruments. None of them seemed right. But I saw the trash can across the room and had an idea that if we were to fill it with some water, we could get a pretty cool sound. I poured some water into it, and we started recording. That is how that came together.

The whole thing kind of came out in the moment. But, to say I improvised in the moment minimizes what I did. In reality, I played a type of drum known as a water drum before that. And water, in general, is extremely special. 75% of our body is water. We can’t exist without water. And as far as it being a trash can, I love that is what I used. I’ve been all over the world. I’ve slept with the poor. I’ve fed the poor. I’ve contributed and given back. In America, we may throw things out, but in poor countries around the world some of those discarded phones, cars, or whatever, may be a luxury. The reality is that there is no such thing as trash. 

PG: Do you see a parallel behind your use of the garbage can, in terms of using a mostly disregarded household object to make music with a broader message and your work with water-filled bottles on “Watermelon Man” [Herbie Hancock’s Head Hunters (Columbia, 1973)]?

BS: I think my work on Headhunters is one of the most interesting things in my musical career. There is a lot of controversy about the parts I did on that album. I don’t talk about it too much. But I do want you know the truth.

PG: OK. 

BS: Herbie had called me to go down to his house to jam. Herbie was there along with Paul Jackson on bass, Harvey Mason on drums, and Bennie Maupin. And that ended up being the band. Herbie took a long time, about a year, I think, to put that band together. Bennie was in Herbie’s band immediately before the Headhunters.

PG: Mwandishi

BS: Yeah, but most people mispronounce the band’s name because they don’t speak African languages. The M is less of a hard consonant sound. Even Herbie mispronounced the name at first since he didn’t speak Swahili. Anyway, that was the band Herbie picked, and we went to a studio in San Francisco called Funky Jacks. Funky Jacks was set up in an engineer’s apartment. We would all go over there and jam. That’s how that first album took shape. There was one point where Herbie and his manager, David Rubenstein, were listening to a version of “Watermelon Man” and I told them that I had an idea for something we could do with the song. 

The whistle parts, as they are sometimes referred to, are mostly done by instruments made by the Mbuti people of the Ituri forest of the Congo. Back then, people referred to them as pygmies. But, today, we recognize that term is offensive. I had learned from the Mbuti people a technique called Hindewhu where you take a small one-note whistle and manipulate it with your voice. It is a combination of your voice and the one note.

When we were recording my parts over that track, I ran out of one of the little pipes. I was doing four parts and I didn’t have the right whistle for the main one. It needed to be what would be interpreted in the European twelve-tone scale as a C. So, I took a Heineken bottle, filled it with water, and tuned it to a C. That’s why people went off about me being the guy playing the bottle. I got famous for being the guy who played the beer bottle! But that wasn’t all of the story; only one drop of the music came from that bottle.

Click here for Part Two of our Conversation with Bill Summers

Forward Back Vol. 1 is now available on Ropeadope. It can be purchased on Bandcamp.