mourning Mama Afrika: Miriam Makeba dead at 76

I no longer remember how to dance the Pata Pata; in fact, I am not sure I ever learned. I have strong memories of the song, however. My mother, a fan of African drumming and dance, almost certainly had the album and played it often, but it might have been a single of Pata Pata that my sister used to rehearse an elementary school routine that permanently carved the tune (whose words I still don’t really know) into my brain.

Hearing Pata Pata always takes me back—way back.

The woman who gave voice to this musical madeleine, Miriam Makeba, passed away this morning, apparently of a heart attack after giving a benefit concert in Italy. She was 76.

That Makeba used some of her final breaths to help another—in this case, investigative journalist Roberto Saviano, whose life has been threatened by the Camorra—is as fitting as it is predictable. Barred from her native South Africa after participating in the anti-apartheid documentary Come Back, Africa in 1959, Makeba used her music and the notoriety that came with it to keep her people and their oppression in the spotlight: “I kept my culture. I kept the music of my roots. Through my music I became this voice and image of Africa, and the people, without even realizing.”

Makeba, who earned the nickname “Mama Afrika” (or “Africa”—I’ve seen it both ways), testified against apartheid at the United Nations as a private citizen on multiple occasions. And, after her marriage to civil rights activist Stokely Carmichael (Kwame Ture) caused US bookings to dry up and the couple moved to Guinea, Makeba would eventually return to the UN as that country’s delegate.

Makeba’s marriage to Carmichael ended in divorce, as did three other marriages, one of which was to South African trumpeter Hugh Masekela. She also survived an abusive first marriage, cervical cancer, and the deaths of her only daughter and grandson. Throughout all of this, Mama Afrika kept singing out and speaking out.

Makeba performed for President John F. Kennedy at his famous 1962 birthday concert at Madison Square Garden. She won a Grammy in 1966 for an album she recorded with Harry Belafonte.

My mama’s also got a great Harry Belafonte story, but that’s her memory—you’ll have to wait till she gets her own blog.


(cross-posted on The Seminal)

early morning show tunes: Cyd Charisse

Not to worry, I don’t plan on making this a regular feature, but I wanted to note yesterday’s passing of musical legend Cyd Charisse.

Here’s my favorite part of the New York Times obit:

Looking back on her work with Kelly and Astaire during a 2002 interview in The New York Times, Ms. Charisse said that her husband, Mr. Martin, always knew whom she had been dancing with. “If I was black and blue,” she said, “it was Gene. And if it was Fred, I didn’t have a scratch.”

Though the clip above is with Gene, I usually prefer Fred. And you?

in memory of. . .

Copyright © 2003 J.B. Handelsman

This is the last “cartoon of the week” to adorn the website of J.B. Handelsman during his lifetime. Handelsman died June 20th at the age of 85.

Handelsman was a prolific cartoonist (almost 1,000 cartoons for the New Yorker since the early Sixties, plus additional work for Punch, Playboy, and a host of books), and a witty one, but I note his passing because, as this and many others of his cartoons show, his heart was in the right place.

I also note it because, when I hear or read about the death of someone who undoubtedly had doubts about the current regime and its policies, or who was just disgusted by the war in Iraq, or America’s various other injustices, post January 2001 (bet you thought I was going to say “9/11”), I get sad. Or, rather, extra sad. . . because I think it sad that these people—in this case, J.B. Handelsman—did not get to experience the satisfaction, joy, or maybe just simple relief of seeing this chapter of American history come to an end.

I know that when the current collection of crooks, cretins, and crazies moves out of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I will heave a millennial sigh. And, should I be lucky enough to see the end of US-influenced hostilities in Iraq, I will party like it’s 1999 (as they say).

Too bad we can’t turn back the clock for those already departed.

another chance to reflect on the legacy of Vietnam

David Halberstam, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the Vietnam War over forty years ago, was killed in a car crash earlier today. He was 73.

Though Halberstam had not worked as a daily reporter since the late Sixties, his boundless curiosity, his intense work ethic, and his unfailing attention to detail continued to serve as a model for what all journalists should aspire to be. Of course, some found Halberstam’s attention to detail to be more unceasing than unfailing, earning him the not always affectionate nickname “Halberstammer,” but in an age where access is often valued over accountability, and many in the media give the impression that an invitation to the right cocktail party is more rewarding than weeks spent doing the less glamorous detective work that used to be considered the meat and potatoes of investigative journalism, Halberstam’s obsessive voice, stammering or otherwise, will be sorely missed.

For instance, here’s Halberstam’s voice talking about a certain disastrous, bloody, and futile foreign military entanglement:

The crueler the war gets, the crueler the attacks get on anybody who doesn't salute or play the game. And then one day, the people who are doing the attacking look around and they've used up their credibility.

The war David Halberstam is referring to there is not Iraq, it is Vietnam, but his words of warning could echo through the corridors of power today.

Would that anyone in those corridors could hear them. Would that an obsessive Halberstam was still around to repeat them. . . as often as he wanted.


(cross-posted to Daily Kos)

Update: David Corn says it even better. . . .