SOUNDCHECK
by Sun McElderry

In the kitchen of his Brooklyn apartment, Charlie Hunter is stirring the pot. Seasonings tumble into his wife Tahi's homemade stew and give off a piquant aroma, mingling with a bittersweet Brazilian voice that wafts from the stereo. Throughout the sunny flat, the ingredients of Hunter's own cultural gumbo are evident: Spanish, French and German books; assorted percussion instruments; and a wall of CDs that might be a compendium of music in the Americas. Amiable and unassuming, at home Hunter shows no sign of the intensity he exudes while performing onstage.

Take, for instance, a moment from the opening night gig at Makor, a small club on Manhattan's Upper West Side. With all ten fingers crawling along the neck of his eight-string bass-guitar hybrid, Hunter boils with energy as he weaves a syncopated backbeat with drummer Adam Cruz. For his part, Cruz snakes his left hand out to a steel drum and coaxes a sly melody from the metal, his right hand slapping the cymbals ruthlessly, his feet bumping out a steady pulse. There's so much sound it's hard to believe that it's coming from only two men.

Over the past decade, Charlie Hunter, 32, has combined the sounds of his late seventies and eighties upbringing into a distinct interpretation of the American musical catalog, creating his own singular interpretation of jazz, blues, funk and Latin music. In the process, his groups have introduced a new generation to the legacy of artists such as Charles Mingus and Thelonious Monk, while at the same time keeping an eye and ear on the contributions of more contemporary talents, such as A Tribe Called Quest and Caetano Veloso. In so doing, he and his Bay Area peers sparked a resurgence of interest in jazz music among young audiences in the early nineties (often mislabeled as acid jazz, the sound was more of a precursor to what is now categorized as groove or neo-funk).

Raised in marginal neighborhoods in and around Oakland and Berkeley, Hunter's musical education evolved alongside older players in a number of cover bands and as a street musician. "I would play anything," he says. "R&B, rockabilly, blues, rock 'n' roll -anything." So respected for his individuality and musical diversity -essentially his ability to play out of the box -Hunter's talents are such that they called for the creation of anew instrument altogether: a self-designed eight-string concoction, part bass and part guitar, that demands an uncommon dexterity to play.

At the outset of Hunter's recording career, his work with Michael Franti (who now leads Spearhead) led to a spot on U2's 1992 "Zoo TV" tour, as a member of The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy. Since then he has focused mostly on original material, though he's made occasional clever and convincing forays into the works of James Brown, Bob Marley and Kurt Cobain. He's also a collaborator on D'Angelo's recently released and much-praised album, Voodoo.

On 1999's Duo with acclaimed percussionist Leon Parker, Hunter stripped his music down to the basics as he explored his evolving talents on the eight-string. This June, Hunter will release Charlie Hunter (which he was in the midst of writing at the time of this conversation) on the Blue Note Records label, his seventh CD as a leader. It finds him hitting his stride with a new group, a new focus and the self-confidence that he's gained, having finally "gone from being a boy to being a man." As Hunter picks up a Brazilian pandeiro drum and skillfully taps out rhythms, the sizzling in the pan reaches a crescendo.

Sun McElderry: You can really play that thing.

Charlie- Hunter: When I started messing around with Afro- Cuban rhythms, my drummer, Adam Cruz, said I needed to get a conga drum and learn the tumbaos and montunos, the fundamental rhythms. I have, and it's helped my [guitar] playing immeasurably. The problem these days is that people aren't really dealing with the drums, or with the spiritual " I¥;'COmmunication between music and people. They're dealing ,too much with computerized music. It's like turning on the fjmicrowave: You come back and the food is done. It's food, but it's rubbery.

SM: How are you feeling about going into the studio with your new project?

CH: The duet thing that I did last year was a blast, 'cause it fucks people up; but I think now I'm strong enough to really lead a band and make an impact. I'm really excited about this record, and I have a lot of new material. It's going to be me, Leon Parker and two other percussionists -Steven Chopek and Robert Perkins -for a rhythm section that really kicks, with Josh Roseman on trombone and Peter Apfelbaum on tenor sax.

I really want to incorporate the rhythms I enjoy in an organic way, and to reach an audience that's excited about coming to see some music they can be apart of. If they want to dance, they can get up and dance. If they want to listen to the intellectual aspect of the music, they can listen to that. If they want to see a show, they can see a show. I just want my music to feel like communication with the audience -and to make people happier. SM: Art Blakey said: "Music should wash away the dust of everyday life."

CH: Exactly. Music is a treat. Our lives are about communication: We have different forms of communication, language being the most direct, but there are others. Like communication with music and art, which people don't get to exercise enough. You don't exercise that part of your ability by watching MTV, because that's just a one-way street. No one is really communicating with you; they're telling you to buy something, or they're beating you over the head with computer-generated images.

But when you play music in front of people and they're receiving it and communicating with you through how they're feeling, that's when you get into calling up the spirits, and you make something happen. That's what it's all about. Monte Croft, myoid vibraphonist, said it best: "You have to use the science to make the magic." Don't make people think what you're doing is some great big deal -that's not the point. The point is to make something that is above and beyond the everyday occurrence. Put the joy in music, and try to take out a little bit of the dogma. The less I try to impress people with the wrong things, the happier a person I am.

SM: When you made Return of the Candyman in 1998, you incorporated "young lion" Stefon Harris on vibes, but you said you were trying to apply a hip-hop approach. What was it? CH: I think as jazz musicians, we're taught to try to make records, but that era is long over. It's CDs that we need to learn to make now. And the hip-hop people -the good ones, mind you, like A Tribe Called Quest and The Roots, people with a real artistic, organic, musically-rooted concept -they make really good CDs. The CD is a different concept and medium than vinyl. The vinyl thing is an art in itself; you would have nine or ten songs on it, five tunes to a side. You'd figure out song order and where to turn it over. And they could only be around 45 minutes long. CDs can be 75 minutes long, and you don't flip them, so you have to tell a story differently. What I admired about hip-hop was how these younger people had perfected the art of making a CD: the way the CD would flow, the order of the songs and the way it was put together as a package.

SM: You've made several critical remarks about technology in music, but part of your sound comes from electronic effects for your guitar.

CH: I could have done everything I'm doing now in the fifties- not that I care if something is new or old, just how it sounds. An ancient Fender Tweed tube amp, which I often use, has intense limitations built into it, but limitations are a good thing; they make you get the most out of your surroundings. You have to look for things you otherwise wouldn't have, which makes new things happen.

But whenever something new comes out, people don't know what to do with it. When the Pilgrims first came here they would throw lobsters in the fields and plow them over to use as fertilizer. They didn't think of eating them.

Programmed beats just sound mechanical. It's like having sex with a dead person -not the style of the music, but just the fact that it's computer-made. It has gone from the spiritual, sublime communication of music to the blatant communication of what a car horn says to another car; it's lost that spiritual component of having a desire to communicate something different, beautiful and honest with your fellow man.

Something that is almost strictly commerce- and technology-driven only exists in the world of the trivial, the coupon world. It communicates on the level of a television commercial. Almost everything I've seen on MTV, with few exceptions, is very producer-oriented, and it doesn't communicate on the level you need to make music exist. Jennifer Lopez, she might be a beautiful human being, but as an artist, I don't think she exists in the same way that Marvin Gaye or Alvin Ailey or Charles Mingus do -people who have something urgent and special to say and have taken serious journeys to the spiritual core of what they want to communicate. Puff Daddy: It doesn't communicate; it's a product. It's material as opposed to spiritual. When people are given only the material art, maybe that's what they become used to. But when you put the spiritual art in front of them, and they're willing to accept it and communicate on that level, there's no going back. But maybe it's important to have Puff Daddy and the New Kids on the Block, or whoever the newest kids on the block are at a given time.

SM: Maybe it makes you hungry for something more filling.

CH: I think it can, but people have to be exposed to the right stuff. That's why I go places in the middle of the country where no one plays. You get in front of people who've never heard "jazz" or whatever they think "jazz" is, and you play some music for them -whatever the hell you want to call it -improvised, rhythmic music. And people just get so excited about it: Everyone has a good time, we always get encores, the audience is almost always with us. It's a blast. The most powerful thing we can do is to make our art and to follow our honest intentions. It's a gigantic world full of people; chances are, your audience is out there.

SM: So is the idea of "mainstream" something you move away from?

CH: American culture, when you think about it, has so many facets; so many things that came out of, say, Irish, African and Jewish cultures are in mainstream culture. Mainstream -but this is just my own theory, I'm not really educated -is kind of an Esperanto. It's not something that anyone actually is, but it's something that people pretend to be, and use as a tool to communicate with one another in a neutral way, with only those preconceived notions.

SM: You were in the close vicinity of the mainstream when you toured with U2, though. What was that like?

CH: It was a strange, surreal existence, a caricature of itself. It's hilarious, because it was such commerce; it was all about selling something. I got the feeling that no one's motive was really pure, except for the people who were doing the rigging, the lights and the video stuff. Music was a very, very small part of that whole thing. It was like a theater act: the exact same show every night. But shoot, I'm not playing giant stadiums, so J probably shouldn't talk.

i SM: So from the vantage points you've had, where do you ,see the music industry going? :

CH: Oh, it's a ship that's sinking, but only half of it is underwater. Everyone knows it's going down; it's probably going to be sunk in the next two or three years. I think it's good, because the industry has failed to do its job in a way: It's failed to provide quality music. The industry types have gotten so greedy, they won't even spend a year developing an artist. It's a joke. And in a way it's karma: If you sow the fields with salt, all you're going to get is salty dirt. It used to be that the majority of what they sold was garbage, pure and simple, stuff devised in a corporate boardroom -"pet-rock" music. But for every pet-rock musician, there were ten people being developed who were really good. So there was always good music accompanying the crappy stuff. I think at that time, there were more "music people" in the music industry. Now it's just business people. It's all money, so now all you have are the pet-rock bands. They're putting all their money into trying to sell a Jennifer Lopez, who is beautiful and not a bad actress, but is not a musician. They've done that for many years with people who couldn't sing, but there was always somebody else. Now, there's nothing else. There's almost no one in the public eye who would qualify as "musical" without the record industry. And I don't mean a great technician on their instrument, I just mean musical. Neil Young is musical -he writes great tunes. Take him away from the industry, and you've still got something. Stevie Wonder: obviously, super-musical. Take him away from the industry, you've still got beautiful stuff. But almost all the people making music today -take them away from all that power apparatus -there's no there there.

SM: So what does this mean, specifically for the future of the industry?

CH: It means people have to be more self-sufficient, to make their own careers happen. They're not going to be able to rely on the myth of a record company taking them out to some nice meals, signing them, and having everything be peachy keen. SM: Isn't that the way it's often been, though, for really creative artists?

CH: Yeah, you have to do things on your own. And that's good, because I think the music industry is going to cease to exist as an important entity in real culture. It won't disappear, but it's not going to be what it used to be. With the Internet and the access to the means of production that everyone has, it's a more level playing field. Industry is having less and less power, and the power that they do have, they're not using to develop artists, which is stupid. If they were smart, there would be ten D'Angelos. He's a one-of-a-kind person, a great musician, and he's real, a real artist. In a way, he has the perfect balance of the intellectual and the visceral -that's what I look for in the music I like, and strive for in my own music. He's not so intellectual that people can't relate, or so visceral that people are going to toss it aside as a flavor of the moment. The industry should be developing people like that, or a Leon Parker, or someone like me [laughs]. Even in the pop world, they could do something like that, but they're not. They're putting all their money on Puff Daddies. That stuff is karaoke. Literally. Like that thing with the Police song -was that a fucking joke? Pop music, across the board, is really at an all-time low. But it needs to get that way, so that people out there who are really struggling to make some real music will have a chance to be heard. The older I get, the more I realize that things are constantly evolving. I just have to believe they'll be better than the day before.

SM: So how does music fit into things evolving?

CH: It's really important. Music, through time, has always been about cultures coming together. Take the banjo: How did an instrument of African origin get to be considered the number-one instrument in southern, white, American music? Or the guitar, probably an African, then Spanish instrument: How did that get to be the number-one instrument in rock music, soul music, everything?

It's because when cultures come together, whether it's in a good way or a bad way, music is always the good thing that comes out of it. And music propels us forward; it's proof that people are good. I know it's a corny way of saying it, but it's proof that people are striving to make beauty out of whatever their situation is.

Sun McElderry is aNew York-based writer and photographer. This is his first piece for MADISON.