Bassment Deep

by Curtis Bennett

  “Hello, Ms. Cassaneto! Need I say, you’re two minutes off the mark. I was hoping you would be your usual punctual self. But I do appreciate the effort, though,” he greeted her with a charming smile, his sonorous voice uncharacteristically soothing for someone late for an appointment with him.

  “Hey, when Abdullah Zoe has something to say, I want to be the first there to hear it,” Margo said cheerfully, as she sat in the chair facing his desk. “Just got a little tied up in traffic.”

  “Understood,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Listen, I have a project…one you immediately came to mind when it came across my desk.”

  “Thanks Abdullah for thinking of me. But frankly, I’m not sure I’m ready to take on a new assignment.”

  He eyed her considerately. “I hear you’re tops in the running for the H-P award. Congratulation! I’m pulling for you. You’ve earned it. I also heard that you were honored at a dinner last week sponsored by the NAACP for your contributions to the community, especially for your articles covering the struggles of African-American women. I’m so proud of you. We all are.”

  A humbled Margo smiled, though she felt as though he was buttering her up. “Thank you. I think I have a chance to win this year. It certainly would be a career enhancer. Now, please tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Margo, I know this project will have little or no impact on your award. But I need you.”

  With a hint of strain in her voice, she said, “Abdullah, surely you have someone else who can accept this project. I was really hoping that I could take it easy the next two weeks.”

  “Listen, Janice is out on maternity leave, Carla is out of state on assignment, and Preston is currently on assignment in Key West. That leaves Brad. Brad’s too green for this assignment. I need someone with experience. Someone with keen interviewing skills. Someone with class and a charming personality. Of course, there’s Ollie. Though a great featured writer, Ollie doesn’t have your charming personality, beauty or insight. Like I said, this is a special assignment. High profile type. And I need my best.”

  “Your best, huh. For how long?”

  “Just a couple of weeks, that’s all.”

  Margo stood abruptly, her head slightly tilted at an angle. She wasn’t about to miss her H-P awards ceremony. “Dammit Abdullah! I’m sorry! But I don’t have a couple of weeks.”

  Abdullah leaned back in his chair, shifting uncomfortably. “Look Margo, I need someone to cover this assignment. I’m tell’n you, this is the assignment of a lifetime I’m offering you. Hell, it practically has your name written all over it!”

  “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “And you’re going to hear it again. Now just hear me out, okay! Please!”

  There was a pause.

  “Let me get this right. You say this is the assignment of a lifetime. Made just for me, huh? And more importantly, you say you’re sure of this.”

  Abdullah leaned forward. “Yes, I’m sure. Like I said, it has your name written all over it. Well, what do you say?”

  “This better be good.”

  “I’m tell’n you, this is choice stuff.”

  “Okay! Okay!” Margo exhaled, suddenly realizing why Abdullah had not made a bigger deal out of her tardiness. He really needed her. That gave her a hand up in the situation. And if it was that urgent and that important an assignment, perhaps she could compromise, though on her terms, she reasoned. “Look, I’ll consider doing this assignment as long as it doesn’t interfere with the upcoming awards ceremony. Understand that this gives me just a little over a week I can devote to this assignment. Can you live with that?”

  “I imagine I’ll have to.”

  “Good! Now, what have you got for me?” she said, pacing the floor.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned back into his office recliner, his hands clasp behind his head. His expression was more relaxed. Behind him was a wood paneled wall on which hung a plaque he recently received after completing his term as President of the American Society of Newspaper Editors. Positioned perfectly to the decorated wall hung numerous other certificates, plaques and degrees in journalism.

  He was about to utter a response when the phone rang. As he talked, Margo approached the wall to see if he had added any more awards since her last visit. There appeared to be one other additional plaque.

  “Listen, there’s an up and coming jazz musician named Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee pulling into town in April,” he bellowed crisply, setting the phone down. “Ever heard of him or his Eu’Tabee Jazz Ensemble?”

  “No. Can’t say that I have,” she said, returning to the far side of the office.

  Abdullah waved a hand, signaling her to take a seat. He leaned forward and pushed himself up from his recliner. Putting on his reading glasses, he lifted a recent press release from his cluttered desktop and walked over to where she sat. He handed her the release and returned to his desk. “Like I said, he’ll be in town next month to perform at our auditorium. He’s one of the hottest and most anticipated jazz musicians since Grammy Award winner Wynton Marsalis hit the jazz scene some seventeen years ago. Hell, his first CD sold over 1.8 million copies. That’s unheard of for a new jazz artist.”

  “Where’s he from? Africa?”

  “No. Matter-of-fact, he’s from Indianapolis, Indiana. His christened name is Walter Ronald McRae. He’s a pioneer and innovator, along the lines of Miles Davis and Charlie Parker. Like Miles, he thrives off of being on the cutting edge.”

  Abdullah walked over to the window.

  Margo tossed a thoughtful gaze his way. “Indiana man, umm. What’s his instrument of choice? Trumpet? Sax? Piano?”

  “He’s a bass player. String bass and bass guitar,” Abdullah said, as he peered through the vinyl blinds down onto the busy streets below. Turning to face her, he added, “Like I said, they’re scheduled to close out the first leg of their tour here in Jacksonville with a performance at our fabulous renovated performing arts center. I want you to join him and his band on tour and get me everything you can on this man. I want to know what time he wakes up in the morning, what time he goes to bed, what he likes to eat, what sport he’s into, what’s his favorite color, that sort of thing.”

  “Anything else, while I’m at it?”

  “Yes, I want to know what’s in his head, Margo. His views on morality, his politics, that sort of copy. Hell, I even want to know how often he passes a gall stone, if he has any. I know he’s an up and coming musician, but I have a gut feeling he’s going all of the way to the top. After all, word has him in the same league as jazz greats Dizzy, Armstrong, Coltrane, Monk, Ellington and Charlie Parker. They say this man can do things with his bass guitar that no one else can do. We’re talking Jimmy Hendricks type things. That’s why I want us to position ourselves so that we’ll be ready to stake our claim to his fame. I want people to remember they read about him in our paper first. Margo, you’re one of our best feature writers for hire, if not the best. As always, I’m counting on you coming through…and with a scoop, hopefully.”

  “Sounds interesting enough,” Margo added, rising up. “Is he married?”

  “I don’t know.” Abdullah answered. “But by all means, find out!”

  “I was just curious. Wives get leery when another woman starts spending time with her man, whatever the reason. Anyway, my usual contract?”

  “Yes, your usual premium packaged, all-expense paid contract.”

  “I thought you said this was a special project,” she said. “Special projects means special pay, don’t you think?”

  “Okay! We’ll pay you five percent over your usual pay. How’s that?”

  “Great! When do you want me to start?” she asked, returning her gaze to Abdullah who was watching her over the rim of his glasses.

  “Day after tomorrow!”

  “That’ll work. But with the award ceremony only a week and a half away, I’ll be cutting it awful close.”

  “You can do it!”

  “Thanks for the v
ote of confidence.”

  “By the way, Margo. I’ve heard that Ma’Kentu’s quite a lady charmer, if you know what I mean. Watch yourself, okay?”

  Pausing, she regarded him before saying, “Abdullah, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl. I’ll be all right. But thanks for the heads up.”

  On the way out of the building she ran into her colleague Bernardo again. “Well Margo, what’s Abdullah got for you now?”

  “I’m going to do a cover story on a musician named Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee,” she answered, hoping that perhaps Bernardo was familiar with the name. “Ever heard of him?”

  “Ma Kemp Ta who?”

  “Look, here’s an article on him,” she said, showing the press release to Bernardo with Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee’s name written on it. Bernardo gazed at it then shook his head. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

  “That was my exact response to Abdullah.”

  Once at home, she logged onto the Internet to research her new assignment. To her surprise she got at least twelve hits on Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee and his ensemble. Her curiosity grew even more. With her printouts and a small lawn chair in one hand, she grabbed a cold bottle of spring water from the refrigerator and headed outside and onto her beachfront property to read up on her new subject. One particular article grabbed her attention. After reading it twice, she found it interesting what Dr. John Fatima, the Chairman of the NAACP, had to say about Ma’Kentu. The article piqued her interest more than ever.

  Later, she reached down and released her cellular from her belt and called her best friend. Before ending their daily chat, she asked D’Sandra if she had ever heard of Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee.

  “Mo Tabee who?” D’Sandra replied.

  It wasn’t Carnegie Hall but it was right up there with it and almost as famous, as far as Ma’Kentu was concern. The place - the Philadelphia Academy of Music, better known in the past as the home of the late conductor Eugene Ormandy and the world renowned Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra. Though he had not quite achieved headline status, he was certain his day of recognition was just around the corner. A few more classy gigs like this, along with his newly released CD, would certainly put his ensemble over the top. Right now, it was a thrill being the opening act for headliner, Ne-Kay Parker and Philadelphia’s own jazz sensation Jazz Tyme.

  An attractive and buxom Jamaican emcee stepped forward onto the stage and positioned herself before the mike. Every pair of eyes in the vast auditorium swung towards her. After a slight acoustical adjustment she began an exuberant introduction of the musicians. “Good evening Philadelphians and friends!” she said wearing a lovely tropical smile. The audience responded enthusiastically. “And a warm City of Brotherly Love welcome to you all!” she continued. “Believe me, this is definitely the place to be tonight. You are all so fortunate. We have a magnificent lineup of musicians for you starting with Grammy hopeful, Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee and his Eu’Tabee Jazz Ensemble. We also have Philadelphia’s own, Jazz Tyme in the house. And finally, we have jazz legend, recording star, and Grammy Award winning, Ne-Kay Parker!” There was another roar of applause from the audience. “We would like to thank you all for coming out tonight to hear and experience these great musicians.” There was another spirited round of applause.

  “At this time, I would like to introduce to you an exceptional group of musicians hailing from Indiana. No, my darl’n. I’m not talking about the Jackson Five,” she directed at a tuxedo-clad man seated two rows into the hall. The audience roared with laughter. The lovely emcee continued. “But they are well on their way to becoming just as famous and as successful as that famous Motown juggernaut. I would also add that these men are some of the most gifted and talented musicians you’d ever want to hear play. Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure and honor for me to introduce to you Indiana’s very own Eu’Tabee Jazz Ensemble!”

  Turning, she departed the stage. Slowly, a huge wall of curtains parted exposing Ma’Kentu and his band to an ocean of applaud and the glare of a dozen rapid moving spotlights from above. Many were in soft jazzy hues of cool blue, purple passion and an occasional flamingo pink. A dapper Ma’Kentu stepped before his tuxedo-clad band, still balancing his string bass. With a smile, he snapped his fingers and tapped his foot and started a slow count…”Ah one-two, two-two, ah three-two, four-two.” On the upbeat Johnny Woo, the pianist and only non-Black in the group began playing several crisp jazz bars, kicking off the long anticipated concert. Seconds later, Ray ‘Dr. Smooth Cream’ Rollins, his long brown dreadlocks partially obscuring his face, busted a funk-inspired rhythm on a Djun Djun drum, a large two headed drum of West African origin. To his right stood a smaller Kinkini and Songba drum.

  Stepping forward Al Newman, on trumpet, broke in with a melody that was as crisp, seductive and as jazzy…his technique and horn skills rivaling that of Grammy Award winner Wynton Marsalis. Less than a minute later ‘Little Maceo’ Parks, who missed being labeled a midget by three inches, joined in on alto sax, which sent the audience wild with applause. Within seconds of this outpour, the auditorium finally resonated with the full complement of the band, as Jamal ‘BlowFly’ Warner, already a critically acclaimed tenor saxophonist in his own right, and Ma’Kentu, the genius behind the group, joined in. The tune, an original piece co-written by Ma’Kentu and percussionist Ray Rollins, was entitled Zulu Nation Groove. It was a song that incorporated a blend of African bush-land tribal music, heavy on drums, and funk jazz, a la Miles Davis.

  Afterwards, Ma’Kentu spiritedly introduced the band members. “Thank you, thank you for being such a great audience, thank you!” he bellowed. “Our next tune is another Eu’Tabee original entitled Bassment Deep. I wrote this jazzy piece with a contemporary hip-hop urban flavor for our young listeners. However, I’m sure it will appeal to our older audience as well. So feel free to clap your hands or tap your feet.” Ma’Kentu gave another spirited short count and the ensemble began to play. The song was such a crowd pleaser that by the time he began his bass solo, the entire audience had leaped to their feet with another burst of wild applaud. It was party-tyme, as they say in Philly. Ma’Kentu basked in the adulation. And so did the rest of the band.

  From a coveted vantage, six rows center of the wide concert stage, Margo Cassaneto enjoyed the show to the fullest. She had arrived in Philadelphia earlier that evening with just barely enough time to bathe, dress, grab a bite to eat, and make it to the Academy before the opening performance. It was her second visit to the City of Brotherly Love. She was here to cover the Million-Woman March of ’98. And as exciting and as historical an event it was, this new assignment appeared poised to take the term excitement to a new level.

  As a concert-goer the music appealed to her senses, and in ways she had not dreamed of. Still, the journalist inside of her found time to concentrate on the questions she would likely want to ask Ma’Kentu on her initial interview with him. As a journalist on assignment, she had been extended an exclusive invitation to join the performers backstage after the concert. From what she had seen and heard, she could not wait to meet this handsome rising star.

  At five-seven, in a sea of men six feet plus, her figuring had been right, as she gently forged her way backstage towards a small group of musicians talking and laughing. She was certain this was Ma’Kentu, though his back was partially turned away from her. Like most great men, you could always find them at the center of any gathering. People seemed to migrate towards greatness, wealth and power. Raising her hand, she touched him delicately on the shoulder. “Mr. Ma’Kentu, I presume?”

  Upon hearing his name, Ma’Kentu spun around and when he did a smile spread wide across his face. Mother of God! What an angel, he thought. Furthermore, who’s angel? Leveling his warm gaze at her, he said, “My, my, my! Heaven is definitely missing an angel. And yes, I’m Ma‘Kentu Eu’Tabee.”

  What a charming and handsome man, she thought. His voice was deep and sexy. His cologne, mild and intoxicating. The whole package was enough to make a woman go weak
in the knees. And Abdullah was right. The man was a real charmer. He just forgot to mention that he was a walking dream, too. Keep it professional, she wisely reminded herself.

  “And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” Ma’Kentu asked, as he gave her a very manly and generous appraisal.

  With a self-assuring blink she said, “I’m sorry, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Margo Cassaneto. I’m here to do a feature article on you for the Florida Times-Union of Jacksonville, Florida. I’ll be joining you and your ensemble on tour. Well, most of what’s left of it.”

  “Yes, I remember now. My agent told me about you the other day,” he said, still studying her, a twinkle radiating from his eyes. “What she didn’t tell me was that they were sending a woman of such beauty and obvious class.”

  Margo blushed mildly as a delicious shudder heated her body.

  “I’m curious, though. Why are you unable to complete the tour with us?”

  “I have a prior commitment, Mr. Eu’Tabee.”

  “I see.”

  “If I could I would stay on to complete the tour.”

  There was a pause.

  “When do you expect to make your exit?” he asked, as his eyes roamed over her figure a third time.

  “I’ll be with you through your performance at the new Scope concert auditorium in Norfolk, Virginia,” she answered, struggling desperately to keep her deep gaze at the professional level.

  “The Scope, huh.” Ma’Kentu turned and looked in the direction of his band members. “Hey Blowfly! When do we head into Norfolk? What day?” he shouted.

  “Norfolk? I’m pretty sure it’s next Monday, on the 29th. We’ve got that two night gig in Baltimore and the one nighter in DC before we head into Norfolk.”

  “He’s right, Bassman,” Little Maceo added, gripping his sax.

  “Hell, that’s barely a week away,” he almost snapped with mild disappointment in his tone as he faced her again. “Oh well,” he sighed, his voice trailing. Then with one of those gigantic James Earl Jones grins, bellowed, “So, you kind people in the sunny state of Florida want to do a feature article on me and the boys, huh? I know I must be doing something right. Hey, are they still cooking those great country breakfasts down there?”