We plan, God decides, so the saying goes. And the man kicked the bucket—never to be heard from again in this earthly realm—no concerts—no comeback.
I was introduced to the Jackson 5, hence Michael Jackson, by my urbanite, relatively sophisticated first serious girlfriend. Me, I was a village hick come to town! I had, of course, read about the slave trade and the Negroes of America, but never really connected to them emotionally. The Jackson 5 and Mohammed Ali were the primary connecting channels. My girl friend had a Jackson tape, and I played it over and over on my analog recorder-player.
Come the eighties, when I could see more clearly, the excitement about the man had waned just as he was hitting the mega stardom. Why? There was something that did not jive right about the man for me. Jackson lacked what Prince (as in The-Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Prince) had—raw unabashed manhood. That effeminate voice and the way he carried himself just wasn’t for me. The self-hate, projected in nearly fifty surgeries to Europeanize the contours of his face, spoiled it all.
Now, like a dream, he is no more except in our memories. What lessons can we, still around here, learn? The Grand Reaper can come at anytime. Now is the only time we have. So, we have to do our utmost best at whatever floats our boat—tuning our Adungu, not too tight, not too lose so that the music brings joy to all and sundry. There are rarely second chances. Hopefully, in the process, we will find the ultimate reality thereby spending the rest of our time beyond mere quest for power, wealth and fame.
I overheard a couple of elderly African-Americans at a neighborhood concert: It was time for him to go and rest.
I was introduced to the Jackson 5, hence Michael Jackson, by my urbanite, relatively sophisticated first serious girlfriend. Me, I was a village hick come to town! I had, of course, read about the slave trade and the Negroes of America, but never really connected to them emotionally. The Jackson 5 and Mohammed Ali were the primary connecting channels. My girl friend had a Jackson tape, and I played it over and over on my analog recorder-player.
Come the eighties, when I could see more clearly, the excitement about the man had waned just as he was hitting the mega stardom. Why? There was something that did not jive right about the man for me. Jackson lacked what Prince (as in The-Artist-Formerly-Known-as-Prince) had—raw unabashed manhood. That effeminate voice and the way he carried himself just wasn’t for me. The self-hate, projected in nearly fifty surgeries to Europeanize the contours of his face, spoiled it all.
Now, like a dream, he is no more except in our memories. What lessons can we, still around here, learn? The Grand Reaper can come at anytime. Now is the only time we have. So, we have to do our utmost best at whatever floats our boat—tuning our Adungu, not too tight, not too lose so that the music brings joy to all and sundry. There are rarely second chances. Hopefully, in the process, we will find the ultimate reality thereby spending the rest of our time beyond mere quest for power, wealth and fame.
I overheard a couple of elderly African-Americans at a neighborhood concert: It was time for him to go and rest.
3 comments:
On a recent trip to Uganda I bought an adungu for friend, only to be asked how it is tuned and promptly told that "by turning the wooden pegs" was not a sufficient answer. (The friend is a musician, I am very clearly not.)
Can anyone provide me with or point me to an answer my friend would find more helpful?
I am not a musician either. But I have seen Adungu tuned just like any finger-picking stringed instruments, such as the guitar. I know of a some Acoli musicians. I will attempt to get their contacts for you.
Thank you. Apparantly the issue is not how to change the pitch on any particular string, but how to determine the correct pitch for each string.
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