🪐Sun Ra's Intergalactic Groove: A Sonic Adventure🪐

The Man, the Myth and his Music - My Encounters with Sun Ra

Photo by Baron Wolman

During the third season of Saturday Night Live, I wrote an article for DownBeat about the show's house band. The band consisted of some of New York's finest studio musicians, including bassist Bob Cranshaw and Howard Johnson, who played tuba and baritone sax on the show. Members of The Blues Brothers' band were also part of the SNL band.

I met trombonist Tom “Bones” Malone at the Brecker Brothers' Seventh Avenue South club. Tom had been in the SNL band since the show debuted in 1975, and he went on to also play with the Blues Brothers. He invited me to attend a couple of Saturday afternoon rehearsals for SNL at the NBC Rockefeller Center Studios. It was exciting to be among the talented musicians and cast members during the production.

The musicians hung out in a small room above Studio 8-H, “The Departure Lounge.”  These skilled players, well-compensated for their talents, often indulged in recreational substances during that era. The “Departure” theme was a nod to this lifestyle. While I was there, I shared a joint with John Belushi, who found great joy in playing the drums during rehearsal breaks. This memory is particularly poignant as it was just a year before the Blues Brothers' fame skyrocketed.  And four years before his tragic demise.

In the early days of Saturday Night Live, Howard Shore, the musical director who later became a film composer, had a strong affinity for jazz and actively sought to feature jazz artists on the show. His efforts led to the unlikely booking of Sun Ra and his Arkestra. At a time when jazz was seldom seen on American network TV, except for the Tonight Show, Shore’s eclectic musical taste played a key role in bringing the relatively unknown Sun Ra to a national audience.

On May 20, 1978, I attended the dress rehearsal for Saturday Night Live featuring Sun Ra. Having seen Sun Ra perform multiple times, notably during his three or four-night stints at the Joseph Papp’s Public Theater, this experience was a fascinating study in contrasts, marked by the other worldly nature of Sun Ra and the Arkestra amidst the backdrop of network television.

Sun Ra, both as an individual and through his music, was a truly unique figure in the world of jazz and experimental music. His very essence was so entangled with his music that it was like watching a cosmic dance of identity and sound. You couldn't tell where the man ended and the music began; it was all a psychedelic blur of expression and experience. His tunes were not just notes strung together; they were extensions of his soul, wild and untamed, spilling out in a kaleidoscope of sounds that felt like they were bending reality itself.

He often claimed he was from Saturn and used his music as a medium to explore and communicate his cosmic philosophies. This eccentric identity was more than a stage persona; it reflected his deep engagement with spirituality, space, and the nature of reality.

Sun Ra, an avant-garde maestro, ventured where few jazz musicians dared, embracing electronic instruments and synthesizers when they were still novelties. His compositions were a cosmic journey, intertwining diverse styles like swing and avant-garde jazz, often within the swirl of a single piece. Fearlessly, he wove a tapestry of sound that married the futuristic pulses of electronic music with the timeless rhythms of Africa and the ethereal echoes of space, crafting a sound that was as enigmatic as it was distinctive.

Sun Ra's band, known as the "Arkestra," was more than a musical group; it was a communal and spiritual collective. Members often lived together, sharing Sun Ra's philosophical and musical explorations. The Arkestra was renown for its theatrical performances, which included costumes and choreography with professional dancers, adding a visual element to their shows.

Sun Ra, a highly productive musician, released a significant number of albums throughout his career. In the 1950s, he established Saturn Records in Chicago, becoming one of the pioneering musicians to own a record label. The total number of albums Sun Ra released is hard to pinpoint because of the unique operation style of Saturn Records. The label was notorious for its limited and sporadic releases. Many albums were issued in small quantities, often featuring handmade covers and lacking conventional catalog numbers, which adds to the challenge of accurately quantifying his discography.

Few creators of this nature appeared on American broadcast television in that era. Today, with streaming so much a part of the viewing experience, if you look carefully, you can find a number of artists with a bold approach to music.  But hardly any who combine the blend of his mystical persona, musical innovation, communal approach to art, and his role as a pioneer in both jazz and broader cultural movements like Afrofuturism. His work challenged conventional boundaries of music, performance, and identity.

In 1978, the Jazz Loft Era dramatically expanded access to groundbreaking groups such as the World Saxophone Quartet, The Art Ensemble of Chicago, and Sun Ra's Arkestra Orchestra. Rooted in the rich soil of bebop, my passion for jazz transcended all limits. Despite the avant-garde's mixed reception in the jazz world, I found myself wholeheartedly embracing these unconventional, boundary-pushing sounds.

In music and life alike, I adopt the philosophy of maintaining a 'beginner's mind', a concept rooted in Buddhism. This mindset is characterized by a sense of openness, enthusiasm, and freedom from preconceived notions. I have developed this perspective due to the remarkable individuals I have met and the unique experiences I have had in various parts of the world during the last seventy-four years.

Forty-five years ago, I found myself in the throbbing heart of a cosmic odyssey - a Sun Ra dress rehearsal for SNL. It was an otherworldly experience, one that transcended time and space. That studio was brimming with raw energy and unbridled creativity, every inch was a testament to the frenzied genius that comes alive in the face of limitations.

On that fateful Saturday afternoon, I was squeezed in like a sardine among the high-and-mighty of NBC's executive pantheon. Standing there, I was an astronaut on the fringe of a supernova, witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle of interstellar jazz.

A wave of bewilderment washed over the faces around me as Sun Ra unleashed his sonic fury. They were like deer caught in the headlights of a musical UFO, their carefully coiffed expectations trampled by the Arkestra's cosmic stampede. I watched, a fly on the wall witnessing a clash of cultures, as whispers of "unsuitable" and "too avant-garde" began to ripple through the ranks.

I wasn’t present at the negotiations that followed, but with just hours before the live show, there wasn’t time to find a suitable replacement.  The solution?  Put Sun Ra on for the last ten minutes of the show, at ten minutes to one.  Most of the audience was gone by then, anyway.

Yet, in a baffling twist during the performance's final moments, the focus shifted away from the band. Instead of their live presence, viewers were greeted with a show graphic featuring guest host Buck Henry, a surprising and unconventional choice.

And that was how Sun Ra was able to tear it up on Saturday Night Live. He didn’t edit or compromise his music. The band sounded great, even though the clips climax was compromised by the stupid graphic they chose, as the band was on fire. Thankfully video documentation of this remarkable moment on network television exists.

A few weeks after that, I pitched my editor at DownBeat with an idea for another article, an interview with Sun Ra.  Once again, nothing but enthusiasm for the idea.

Photo: Veryl Oakland

At the time, Sun Ra, and a number musicians from the Arkestra, were living in a row house in Philadelphia, at 5626 Morton Street in the Germantown neighborhood​.  I drove down there one Saturday to meet with Sun Ra and we ended up spending the day together.  After the interview, we had dinner, and then went over to the Painted Pony for a performance by the Max Roach Quartet.  When Max and Sun Ra spoke, it was obvious they had a great deal of respect for each other and their music.

The house itself mirrored the maestro's enigmatic presence. It hummed with a chaotic energy, wires dangling like forgotten constellations against the dusty ceiling. Our introduction was brief, a handshake exchanged in the dim light, before Sun Ra, with a regal air, chose his interview throne: his own bed. He sat on the bed for the next five hours, beneath a steel rod on which hung some of his more colorful attire.

As we were about to begin, I noted how the symphony of his daily life played out around us. John Gilmore, tenor saxophonist and Sun Ra Arkestra mainstay, wove his mournful melodies through the air, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of voices. It wasn't an interview room; it was a microcosm of Sun Ra's universe, a bustling hive of creativity where art breathed in every corner.

The contrast was stark - the raw intimacy of the setting juxtaposed with the celestial grandeur of Sun Ra's words. He spoke of Saturnian rings and intergalactic journeys, his pronouncements punctuated by bursts of infectious laughter. In that moment, I wasn't just interviewing a musician; I was glimpsing into the soul of a cosmic traveler, a being who spoke the language of stars.

Up to that stage in my career as a journalist, I had conducted interviews with approximately fifty musicians, yet none of them were comparable to Sun Ra. I'd encountered a kaleidoscope of creators, each etching their unique melody in my notepad. Yet, stepping into Sun Ra's orbit felt like entering a portal to another dimension. My senses were bombarded, my expectations rearranged.

I posed a single query to Sun Ra, a succinct one-word question: "Why?" His response unfolded over five hours, unveiling the vastness of his universe. He truly captivated me for an extensive duration. Regrettably, my recording was limited to a 90-minute cassette. Looking back, I wish I had preserved that, along with all the other interviews I conducted in that period.

My encounter with Sun Ra wasn't an interview. It was a baptism into his philosophy, a sonic and visual symphony that redefined the very notion of music. It was a memory etched not just in my notes, but in the very fabric of my being, a reminder that amidst the mundane, the extraordinary awaits, whispering tales of faraway galaxies from a simple bed in a room buzzing with dreams.

After we finished, I suggested to Sun Ra that we have dinner together on DownBeat’s dime, and inquired about his preferred local restaurant. To my astonishment, he chose a Hunt Club-themed eatery inside a nearby Holiday Inn. For the occasion, Sun Ra donned an extraordinary outfit, complete with headphones adorned with a square silver design, despite them not being connected to any device. This was a good four years before the Walkman's debut. While not connected to a conventional music system, Sun Ra seemed to be totally in tune with the universe itself.

Joined by two members of the Arkestra, we dined in an establishment predominantly frequented by Caucasians. Being in Philadelphia, there were no negative reactions from the staff or fellow patrons, only intrigued glances. Sun Ra enjoyed a Manhattan cocktail and a medium rare filet mignon. Later, we listened to a set by Max Roach, whom I had interviewed a few months earlier at his Greenwich, Connecticut home. I was very busy in 1978. What a day!

Fourteen years later, I embarked on a train journey from Chicago to New York. I chose this travel method because a friend had generously offered me a significant amount of exceptionally potent cannabis that he had grown, which clearly couldn't be shipped. My journey began at Chicago's Union Station, but we experienced a delay. The conductor announced that we were awaiting a connecting train from Los Angeles. About fifteen minutes later, a group of Black men dressed in African garb, boarded the train and sat in the car I occupied. Initially, I thought they might be a dance troupe, but then I recognized an old acquaintance from my days at the Tin Palace in New York, the trumpeter Ahmed Abdullah. Reuniting with him promised an enjoyable overnight journey. Ahmed had been playing with Sun Ra off and on for several decades.

Ahmed informed me that the Arkestra was in coach, while Sun Ra had a sleeper car. Just before midnight, Ahmed, Marshall Allen, and I discreetly enjoyed some of the Chicago cannabis in the train's bathroom. Other passengers stumbled upon us but didn't seem bothered. Our conversation lingered long into the night.

The next afternoon, as Albany crept into view, two hours shy of Manhattan's clamor, Ahmed ushered me into Sun Ra's carriage, a portal suspending time. His gaze, sharp as ever, pierced through fourteen years, weaving the threads of a conversation that never truly ended. Words tumbled, cascading for two hours, a cosmic river unburdening its secrets until the steel silhouette of the George Washington Bridge pierced the horizon. I stood and expressed my gratitude, and returned to my seat in coach. Though frailty whispered at the edges, Sun Ra’s warmth bloomed like an alien sun, a supernova of kindness against the twilight of his days. Sun Ra died the next year.

For an insightful and comprehensive exploration of life alongside Sun Ra, Ahmed Abdullah's autobiography, "A Strange Celestial Road, My Time in the Sun Ra Arkestra,” is a must-read. This book isn't just about music; it's about a feeling, the raw energy of rebellion, the joy of artistic freedom, and the camaraderie of creating something truly unique. Reading Ahmed’s profound personal memoir, you dive deep into the heart of New York's avant-garde scene and lose yourself in the thrilling sounds of Sun Ra's Arkestra. This book is a time machine, a wormhole, a passport to a world where Sun Ra's Arkestra paints the Milky Way with sound and the streets of New York City throb with the pulse of a thousand musical revolutions.

Although Sun Ra departed this plane in 1993, his legacy continues through the Arkestra. Marshall Allen, who has been a stalwart alto saxophonist with the group, now leads it at the remarkable age of 99.

Marshall Allen

In a whirlwind of cosmic euphoria, I count myself among the blessed, having plunged headfirst into the sonic universe of Sun Ra, not once but on a multitude of occasions. These experiences were not just auditory feasts but holistic encounters, where I mingled with the maestro himself, basking in the glow of his musical genius.

In the vibrant tapestry of musical innovators, Sun Ra, the cosmic alchemist, stood apart, ablaze like a celestial forge. Weaving the very fabric of the universe into his sonic tapestries, he was a riddle cloaked in starlight, an enigma that spun symphonies from stardust. His legacy stands uniquely in the world of music, serving as evidence of his exceptional talent. It reminds us that when influenced by a truly skilled individual, even the universe seems to resonate with a kind of musical harmony.