One Great Heart Can Change The World – Some Memories of DB Hawkes
Living inside our head we become trapped by generalities, but the world is made of real specific people and events, and can sometimes, with the right kind of effort, become truly magical
Hey Folks
I must begin with a small apology. I know I must write about war and economics again very soon (pressing issues both, and more so still, within a few hours of publishing this, no doubt). I also have another epic piece in the works, looking at the fraught, always oversimplified and misunderstood issues around immigration – one of those places where both false tribes got dumber for decades, and are now pretty much insane. (another great case for anti-tribalism).
But today my duty as a lover of human stories and striving, and as a friend, calls me to something which is way more personal, but also sheds light on many of our modern problems, usefully.
As thousands of dedicated Toronto radio fans and lovers of Reggae, African, Brazilian and Jazz music especially, already know, the great DB Hawkes passed away in January, at the age of 76.
When I say great heart, I speak from direct personal witness as his friend for almost forty years. When I say change the world, I mean that, too – and thinking about how he did that is not only inspiring, but might (I hope) help some of my younger friends, who feel stuck in endless frustration and futility, access an infinitely more powerful approach – cheerful relentlessness!
I first met DB Hawkes in 1987, when I was still trying to put my head back together after escaping a crazy cult, and going to community college to study electronics repair. As incredibly mixed up young people go, I was extremely lucky to meet and befriend a lovely cohort of artists and self-styled revolutionaries (of the now-vanished inspiration, rather than indignation, type). I had been making and recording improvised music for a few years already, with junk equipment salvaged from the garbage, when I met the unstoppable improviser Maury Coles at an epic house party that one of my artist friends put on. I knew at once that Maury was a very serious musician, and felt embarrassed when he said we should play music together sometime, because I was (and am) not. To be clear, I absolutely love music and love making it, I just understand that some put way more work into the skill-set than I, and would never want to pretend I think myself the same.
But Maury said something to me at that party, which I have never forgotten to this day. I told him that I was so bad, I couldn’t even play my own songs the same way, twice in a row (true). He smiled and said, “As long as we don’t end up doing any Beatles covers, we’ll do just fine.”
He came over to my tiny basement junk studio that Friday – and we kept playing together every Friday night for a decade after that, usually with a third guest improviser – sometimes at the Subway Room in the basement of the old Spadina Hotel (downstairs from the Cabana Room), sometimes in my basement, sometimes at my friend Wendell’s beautiful bed and breakfast, with as many as twenty guest players (and often his paying guests joined-in, as well – so cool!), and twice, live on-air on CIUT Radio – thanks to the always daring and curious DB Hawkes.
A lot of Toronto musicians will fondly remember the lovely old victorian headquarters of CIUT, before they moved into (architecturally, even more outstanding) Hart House. The old place was cramped, overheated, and had the sense of a plate-juggling act – creating consistently fantastic programming from resources which seemed awfully sparse, for such a task. Of course, the only way you do this is with the energy and dedication of volunteers who really mean it.
I have heard it said that online, sincerity is uniquely appealing – but this was also true long before we all got so buried in symbols of life, and disconnected from the feel and the work of it!
It took some heaving and hauling to get all our gear into the studio and set up (lets just say everyone likes a Fender Rhodes, until they have to get it up a fire-escape), and by the time we did, we only had a few minutes before going live on-air. So we ducked out to the fire-escape to enjoy a few minutes of slightly cooler summer evening air, and every single player and DB himself produced a joint, which we had brought for the special occasion. Great minds, and all that.
But the funny thing was, unlike a lot of improvising groups that actually improvise around deliberate compositional structures (admirable, highly sophisticated, and wondrous to behold) we really were an ensemble of true free improvisers – and no one wanted to start the first (almost always lame) motif, only to be corrected by someone else’s better musical idea. I remember looking up at the control room and seeing DB’s expectant face and thinking “Guess it’s me...” just because I felt the intensity of his interest – and his professional obligation to listeners, too!
Maciej came in behind me with one of his insanely complex guitar riffs, Wendell rumbled in with his toms and we were off to the races. Only, Maury set up one of his special techniques, before he came in with his horn (alto sax). Back in the fifties, he had discovered that the aluminum pie-plate from a small meat pie would cover the bell of his horn exactly. By cutting a couple of notches in the rim, and using an elastic band of the right tension (and optimal kind of pie plate) he created a perfect buzzing snare which he could engage on certain notes, for marvellous effect.
I always sort of swooned, musically, when he did that (urban timbre par excellence) but when I glanced up to the control room window again, I saw DB frantically checking his mixing console, with a panicked expression! Only at the end of the hour could he laughingly explain, “When that sax first came in, I heard that buzz, and thought one of my channel strips was burning up!”
Quite honestly, I was afraid we hadn’t lived up to his expectations, but DB was not only generous in words, he invited us back to do it again, a few months later (which was a much tighter and better showing, all ‘round). Flattery is one (basically meaningless) thing. Opportunity? Everything.
Thing is, he was just as sweet and encouraging to me when I published a colouring book for adults a few months later, (a decade before that became a thing), and even struggled through his dyslexia to read a few of my wordy early essays, and offered me superb and incisive feedback about my often unusual ideas and takes (being a man of much original thought, himself).
But the really amazing thing was that DB didn’t just have this kind of genuine enthusiasm to offer for the kinds of art making and weird creatives which interested me – he was this specifically knowledgable and encouraging to people in all kinds of areas of art, which usually had very little to do with each other. A cheerful bridge between cultural silos, who could obliterate the distance in an instant, and allow new and interesting cross-pollinations of ideas. Strange as it may be to say, for a man with no formal schooling in the arts, he had a bigger range of artistic intelligence and interest than any other man I have ever known (and I’ve known such intellectual and artistic people my whole life – to my incalculable fortune).
People in Toronto’s Reggae scene first fell in love with his relentless enthusiasm when he began recording concerts at the old Bamboo Lounge on Queen St W (way back in the 80s) then broadcasting them on his Friday night radio show. He kept doing this, at many venues and live concerts – but not ever as an exploiter – only because he saw his show as a way to give hard working artists a much bigger audience – which he absolutely did, for DECADES. Not just bringing faithful listeners back to his radio shows again and again, to discover new acts and check in with local favourites and touring bands they might never hear of, otherwise – but also to help them get people out to their live shows – which ultimately means helping them pay their rent!
People in the African disaspora all over Ontario and the Northern states fell in love with DB because of his live radio (and later online also) broadcasts of Afro-Fest, which grew from a small and lovely event in Queens Park, to an epic international show which attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors annualy, in no small part thanks to DB’s extraordinary efforts, to make it heard widely.
I can still see him, the first time I was able to introduce him to my sweet wife, sitting in the stuffy sound truck, grinning his head off like a little kid at Christmas, utterly thrilled with the sounds and performances – and transmitting that enthusiasm, live!
But though this last might surprise, people in the avant garde community regard him with great and enduring fondness also – his series of recordings of concerts from Hart House (fabulous acoustics) brought listeners local talents like pianist Anne Southam, whose genius is far too rarely appreciated in her home town. Sublime!
To list the number of musicians he introduced me to, that I have never stopped listening to since, would be impossible. DB was the man who first played me Jobim’s “The Waters of March” – which I still consider the most perfect song ever (that wasn’t written by Jaques Brel). He opened my eyes to tons of Jazz, even though I thought I kind of knew Jazz, he made me crazy for Brazilian music, and he blew my mind with high-energy ensembles from all over Africa.
In one especially memorable Wednesday Afternoon two-hour radio show, DB did a fantastic review of the weird catchy old American novelty songs we all remember from the fifties, back to back with the far naughtier Caribbean pop songs from which each and every one was stolen – not just smart as can be, but so damn much fun!
As I’ve mentioned before, I became an audio technician because I wanted to be a musician, but didn’t expect that would ever pay my bills (because I wanted to play weird music, only). So over the decades, I worked on DB’s gear many times with my technician hat on – which is how I knew how he operated, on a technical level, as a recordist – much like me, but on a far grander scale! That is – ultra tight budget (no subsidies or direct returns), make every bit of gear count, and be as flexible, durable and compact as possible. I don’t want to say working cheap and dirty, because his achievements as a live recordist are astounding (especially considering his volume of work), but definitely thinking on his feet and constantly improvising, rather than arriving lavishly supplied – or even entirely authorized, in advance!
That last bit, is an incredibly important thing about living our life and making it count, which DB exemplified in an unusually powerful way. If you wait around for permission, or to have someone else to endorse your ideas before you try them (even online), you’ll end up waiting your whole damn life away. If you think something should be done, try doing it, see what happens, learn and do it better next time (or sometimes, realize it wasn’t really worth doing at all).
We learn by doing – not thinking and worrying and planning and fretting and posting.
The world is the teacher – our brains are dumb and empty (even brains that seem full). And again, I love how DB demonstrated this – with all his knowledge of and interest in music, he was never ‘done’. But always interested in something he hadn’t yet heard. Like the finest art teachers I sat for, as a model, his genius was that he never stopped doing the things that made him a genius in the first place.
But how far back does an eccentric begin to find their thing, anyhow? I tore apart a lot of gear that I found in the garbage when I was a kid. Probably had at least a hundred attempted repairs under my belt, before I ever studied to became a technician. I played improvised music my whole childhood, too (to the frustration of my classically-trained multi instrumentalist father).
DB had a similar early inkling. One sweet summer afternoon he told me all about his favourite childhood toy – a brand new Remco Radio Broadcasting Set! Almost like an easy-bake oven, but for radio. It was a very low power device, your AM station, right on the edge of the band, might reach as far as a few nearby houses on your street, might – but the point is that it actually did broadcast real radio signals, and with a little plastic announcer microphone and a very simple mixer to switch to music, he could do his first radio show, from his childhood bedroom.
I still smile at that image, and picture him playfully dedicated already, in that magical way children can so effortlessly be, and dearly wish I had had the skill to paint it for him, as I saw it.
If you were to judge a man by the company he keeps, you might be even more impressed, and also understand better how he was able to be so brilliant, in so many areas. The man really knew how to listen when smart things were said, and he often randomly hosted the most intellectually advanced Salon I ever witnessed.
I mentioned earlier, the way DB could often be an inspiring bridge between worlds, by bringing artists together, who would never have met, let alone become friends and collaborators, except for their knowing him and his great enthusiasm, in common.
Particularly memorable were a long series of discussions of the history of English tumult and popular revolt in the 15th century, with expert carpenters (cabinetmakers? or if there’s a higher rank, that) Reggae musicians, a couple of reformed Bagpipe players and the odd television producer. But the scope and expertise was magnificent – inspiring proof that the working class intellectual yet endures, even if they (still) don’t get any air time or respect at all, on BigMedia.
My own favourite insight from one of these impromptu Salons came from a travelling musician, who talked about the way different countries did foreign aid. Americans and Europeans, he said, liked to build big expensive fancy looking things that weren’t well suited to the conditions, and inevitably cost too much to maintain, and so fell to ruin far faster than anticipated. Only the Cubans got it right, he remembered, with eyes shining, still awestruck, all these years later. They worked day and night – cheerfully, to build a school with a farm, which farm would feed the staff, the students, and generate enough income to maintain the school building indefinitely. Perfect.
(This remains my favourite anecdotal demonstration of what positive revolutionary spirit is all about – practical enduring advance in material conditions for thriving!)
But it wasn’t just listening to smart people, and asking them smart questions, which kept DB full of lively new ideas themes and projects, and powered his relentlessly positive work, he also knew how to listen to the world when it wasn’t saying anything in words at all.
After CIUT moved to Hart House, DB had to pre-record his epic all night Saturday show “Club Ned” so instead of being at the station, he went out on his bike all night, to listen to his show over the air, and see how it interacted with the late night hours during which it ran.
So – if you are one of those legions of grateful all-night workers or party people who noticed that the tone of the music changed in phases, especially as dawn approached, that was always deliberate. He wanted the music to register right in the listener – and never stopped thinking about the way his audience listened, not just what he wanted to say and have them hear and be inspired by.
(Another fantastic reminder for our too online moment – sending is less than half the battle – how a message is received is ultimately the only thing which decides if it lives, or falls flat and fails).
He was also into epic walking and bicycling adventures, even into his late sixties. When I told him about my wonderful photography walks with my dear friend Nada, he suggested we should take the Go train out, then walk along the lake from Guildwood to Pickering – and we did it – a crazy twenty K hike through beautiful fall colours on the bluffs that neither of us will ever forget.
His idea of a holiday was very much like that – but he would go for days at a time. Following old highways abandoned by newer routes, checking in on quiet sleepy towns, left behind by modernity, either on foot (with a hand cart and pup-tent for roadside camping) or a bicycle.
He always came back refreshed, inspired with whimsy and ideas – like the time he took the train out, then walked back to Toronto, from Kingston Ontario (which hike makes me jealous). He had plenty of great photos to show – but also a new insight “between all the prisons and the Royal Military college, Kingston must be the push-up capital of Canada, hands down!”
He also gave me the best head-picture of the visit of the Giant Rubber Duck to Toronto harbour. Of course Nada and I had been to see the beast for ourselves (national party time, anyhow), but DB was out by the lake on his bike at three AM, listening to his show and seeing how it hit the moment, when he came across a blissed out cluster of club-kids tripping on E and dancing silently, almost worshipfully, in front of the epic (and genuinely hilarious) totem of cute absurdity.
As a writer, I must also note – he was both bold and fair minded, in his own use. Many times he smiled at me and said, “You know I’m going to have to use that in my show, Paul,” and I smiled and nodded and said, “I wouldn’t have said it, if I didn’t mean it, and anyhow, I owe you for a thousand times more inspiration, at least.” Which is, and will always remain, quite simply true.
Rich people have ways of doing things which used to be pretty well hidden (yikes!) and middle class people have ways of doing things, which are broadly reflected in popular culture and BigMedia, albeit always distorted in a commercial direction. The working class gets very little representation indeed, but the counter culture/underclass? Das ist verboten, except as a fetish object for the occasional fascination of the bored bourgeoise.
But people who aren’t fancy, but just do stuff anyhow, recognize others who find their way there and find the strength to keep showing up, and keep fighting their corner, with a genuine smile.
As a writer with a weirdly good memory, I have a million other stories and memories of DB which I am tempted to add – but the most crucial thing about the man by far was always his magical quality of spirit, and any other telling, would be doing him a great injustice.
So let me give you just one last snippet, which sits very sweetly in my memory.
The Toronto Jazz festival is one of those things which was insanely awesome and long-thriving and then ran afoul of the well-meaning idiot class, who decided that it was wrong to let a cigarette company sponsor it (same wretched impulse which killed the amazing symphony of fire, festival).
Don’t get me wrong – Jazzfest is still a good festival, even much scaled-back and underfunded as it now is, and I still love any excuse to hear great music from famous names and up and comers – live music is best, more please! But now you have to watch carefully for the highlights, when before it was a gluttonous cornucopia of non-stop excellence brilliance and exuberence.
Problem is – tickets ain’t cheap anymore, especially for the big acts. On the other hand – performance tents ain’t thick – so, when a great show is staged in Nathan Phillips Square, poor jazz fans from around the city congregate outside the tent to savour rare performances, even while the well-heeled who actually can afford the tickets, sit inside the tent taking selfies and looking bored (blasphemers!) ;o)
A few years ago (pre panD) I had a long day on the model stand, and was excited to finish it by walking up to the square to listen a jazzfest concert by John Scofield, who brought a whole band full of all-star sidemen with him. Living legends making music, just a few feet away – absolutely thrilling stuff.
And I’m sitting there on a cold concrete bench in the big open square outside the tent, but only a few feet away, opening myself right up, to let the music fill me with joy and pleasure and make my soul full and happy (the way great music does better than almost any speech there is) when I hear DB’s voice – perfect Neumann Microphone timbre – all warm bass and crisp snare – “Hi” and I turn to see him leaning down his bicycle with a warm smile, to join me in sweet wordless and transcendent communion with the unerring groove.
I will never stop missing and loving and being grateful to you, my dear friend.
My condolences to your amazing son Lamont, and the ever radiant and magical Mary Ann. (Giant love for you both – I hope I did him some small tribute here, in a way your beautiful hearts will approve of)
¯\_(ツ)_/¯