Most everyone has a favorite song or band or genre of music because music is a part of our lives. Wherever you are, you can find some musical sounds if you listen closely. But no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t able to hear any music on 43rd Street on this gray Sunday morning in April.
What I heard was the screeching of gulls over empty lots filled with trash, the wheezing exhaust of beaten-up cars moving past boarded up buildings, and silence. How could any place seem so forlorn?
This changed as I crossed the threshold of Room 43 (1039 E. 43rd St.). It was here that I met students interested in the arts and two master drummers—Kwame Steve Cobb of Funkadesi and a variety of other groups, and Musa Sutton of the Minianka Ensemble.
In this room with wooden floors and bare brick walls, I learned of the heartbeat of music, of people, of nations. Musa talked about the development of the African drum, the djimbe. I already knew a bit about how it was originally made, but I did not know about its arrival in the United States.
Musa mentioned how the introduction and teaching of African drumming helped many African Americans get in touch with their roots and cultural identity. Drumming and music was a way to understand themselves and their history. This is why it was and still is so important, why Musa continues studying even though he is a master, and why he teaches and performs as they do back in Guinea, West Africa.
Kwame talked about his life as a musician and the changes he has seen in Chicago. Kwame started drumming at age 14, at a time when the African music scene was growing, especially in Bronzeville. He mentioned that there were recording studios and companies down the block and around the corner. One of his friends had sealed a record deal by holding up a phone during a jam session. Music was alive and thriving in the 1960s. But what happened?
Some of it can be attributed to big record companies, seeing the success on the street, picking up artists and pulling them away from the neighborhood. But the main culprits are the people who pushed for the area’s demolition either because of some financial claim, or housing-project worries, or, let’s face it, racial prejudices. Once the music started to fade, everything did.
Kwame, however, is living proof that music did not die. Instead it found new homes and new ears to help keep it alive. Currently, Kwame uses music to teach kids and give them something productive to do after school or on the weekends. He also spreads messages of hope, peace, love, brotherhood, unity, and community.
It was during the drum circle, as all of us were trying to capture some semblance of a rhythm, that Kwame separated everyone into groups according to instrument. He gave each group its own part. After doing so, he told us to “keep our musical integrity.” What he meant, he explained, is that each group must be focused and do what it needs to do. If need be, the group must support the other members and form a strong bond so that a wonderful rhythm can be created. You cannot blame other groups for mistakes, and you must persevere even if you get off beat.
At this moment, I realized that this is not just how to play music, but this is how music defines a community. If every member does as he or she needs to do and everyone helps one another, something beautiful happens. Music can help do this because it connects people and allows them to understand one another.
And we, a group of non-musician students, were able to make an infectious and addictive beat. If we could learn and do it, I have hope for 43rd Street and Bronzeville in the hands of such musical and community leaders of Musa and Kwame.
—Prof. Jacqueline Stewart
