Music is a rare thing. Left to lone interpretation, sound in the form of music, has no dedicated form. If music is to have any future significance beyond pop culture relic, it should have no formula at all. And if authenticity is defined by honesty, the improvisers creating unrelenting radical music are honorable. Perhaps to a fault, since society, with its narrow-minded classifications and cliched impressions, punishes honorable men. Has Kalaparusha Maurice McIntrye been punished? Answering that would require you have an educated opinion on whether Charles Gayle was punished, whether Henry Grimes was punished, and whether Grachan Moncur III was punished. I have an opinion, but it means little unless you disagree or agree with me. If you are indifferent, well, indifference has punished this music for far too long. And that being said, perhaps McIntrye was punished. But it is a burden we should all carry, since the bed was ours to make. The following is my conversation with Kalaparusha Maurice McIntrye, unedited and in his own words.
Fred Jung: Let's start from the beginning.
Kalaparusha Maurice McIntrye: The influence was my parents. My father was a pharmacist and my mother was a school teacher. They were upward mobile people and Warren Smith, the drummer, lived right down on the first floor. He is a great drummer. He is here in New York and has been here for years and years and I have known him since I was three years old. My parents asked me what I wanted to do and what instrument I wanted to play. So I started with the drums, but I couldn't make it with the drums because the drum teacher said my wrists were too stiff. A couple of years went by and then they asked me again, what kind of instrument I wanted to play and I told them, saxophone. They got Mr. Smith to teach me how to play the saxophone and Mr. Smith gave me an old steel clarinet and I didn't want to play that. Mr. Smith told me to play the saxophone, I had to play good clarinet, so I dealt with this clarinet for six months and they said that if I would deal with it for six months, they would get me a saxophone. I was about nine years old when I started. I played for a couple of years. My father was an athletic type of fellow and I would try to impress him, so I ended up playing football and stuff. I really got deeply into football. I played defensive end and I wanted to become a professional football player, but I never got any larger than a one hundred and sixty-two pounds. That was kind of impossible to play pro ball at that weight. I got knocked out a couple of times and I realized that I didn't have the power to be a professional football player. I had some problems with my personal life and I ended up off about eight or nine years worth of dust off my saxophone when I got about seventeen and started playing the saxophone and I haven't stopped playing it since. The horn was something I could go to and meditate and forget about all the problems that I had in life. I ended up playing my saxophone again. That was how I got into the music.
FJ: What was your involvement with the AACM?
KMM: I was at the first meeting of the AACM in 1965. I was around Chicago jamming with people and then Muhal Richard Abrams had started this band called the Experimental Band and I was going down to the Experimental Band rehearsals. In May of '65, they came up with this idea, the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians and Muhal told me that they were going to start having meetings and so I went by Philip Cohran's house. He was a trumpet player.
FJ: He played with Sun Ra.
KMM: Yeah, he did. This was in May of '65, they started having these meetings and that is how I got involved with the AACM. I was at the first meeting. There was a lot of stuff going on where black musicians were not really taking care of their own destiny and they had attitudes toward each other and people were fighting trying to win a war. How you going to win a war if you are fighting amongst yourselves? We were all together trying to win the war.
FJ: Are you winning the war?
KMM: No, no, this war is ongoing. We haven't won the war. This type of situation has to do with artists and artists are different from anything that is like a political situation. This is not like a political situation. This has to do with artists and the sense that what we are doing is not really recognized. If a white person learns how to do what we are doing, then they are recognized. Consequently, there is a war that is always going on.
FJ: Why did you leave the fight in Chicago and journey to New York?
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