"On the Gig" with SJW Faculty Member Joe Gilman

Pictured: Joe Gilman on piano (with student Laila Smith at the 2007 Stanford Jazz Camp)
(Photo: Scott Chernis)

Joe Gilman is a full-time professor at American River College. He has received bachelor's degrees in piano and jazz studies at Indiana University, a master's degree in jazz and the contemporary media from the Eastman School of Music, and a doctoral degree in education from the University of Sarasota. Joe has performed professionally with Eddie Harris, Bobby Hutcherson, Woody Shaw, Richie Cole, George Duke, Chris Botti and Slide Hampton, and has recorded with Joe Henderson and Jeff Watts. Joe recently won the 2004 Great American Jazz Piano Competition in Jacksonville, Florida and has twice been an International Jazz Ambassador through the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and USIA, traveling to West Africa in 1999 and East and Southern Africa in 2000.

I've been fortunate enough over the past 20 years to play thousands of gigs, and to have many great musical, personal and professional experiences. One of my most treasured memories occurred in 2000, when I was a member of a trio that toured Southeast Africa as a part of the USIS/Kennedy Center Jazz Ambassador program.

I made it a personal project to collect indigenous instruments from every country we visited, and had had a large degree of success in most countries. When we arrived in Malawi, I was having difficulty in finding truly native instruments, or even anyone who knew anything about traditional instruments from Malawi.

We happened upon a rattan shop on the side of the road near Lilongwe and stopped for a look. In a conversation with the owner, I mentioned that I was looking for native instruments. A sixteen-year-old boy named Dave Banda (his Christian/African name) told me that he had made a guitar and would happily sell it to me if I would only give him a lift to his village. We had the day off and this sounded like an adventure, so we all hopped in the jeep.

Ten minutes down the road, we happened upon a small town with about seven little huts, each flaunting a corrugated tin roof, the most modern structural amenity. The village turned out to be matriarchal, with the Grandmother making all community decisions. Dave ran into his room and reappeared moments later with the guitar; a Pennzoil oil can torn in several corners, strung together with fishing wire, and a shank of driftwood carved to fashion the neck. The four wires could also be tuned with primitive pegs at the head. My first reaction was that this was an interesting adventure, but my hunt for an instrument was far from over.

Dave threw the can to his brother, who immediately strummed three chords in clever rhythm. Within seconds the footpath was filled with family and friends from the community, listening to the pulsating harmony, smiling, laughing, and beginning to make up words. The three American visitors were the excitement for the day, but the can that came to life in the hands of Dave’s brother had brought our two worlds together, if even for only a few minutes.

Standing in the background, Grandmother observed quietly.

The songs continued for a while and we sang along with them as best as we could, trying to learn the phrases and improvise harmonies. Then my friends and I asked if the villagers would like to hear some American Jazz. With their approval, we launched into an a cappella version of "Anthropology," complete with head, scat, bass, trades, and "bebop hambone" in place of the drum kit. Most of the community was dumbfounded. Some stood with their heads bowed to the ground, others looked to a sibling for guidance. There were no words that they understood. No recurring rhythm for dancing. The "oo-pop-be-dah" meant nothing, and left them mystified. Were we playing a trick on them? When the song was over and we ended with a clean "bah-bah-dee-op" and a slap to the knee, the crowd maintained their silence, except for an older sister, who exclaimed "HEY HEY" and put her hands together. We all stood in collective embarrassment.

The awkward moment was soon forgotten as Dave's brother speedily initiated another happy vamp on the can, again bringing the crowd to its feet with a favorite song and step.

After a tune or two it was obvious that I had indeed found my indigenous instrument from Malawi; the experience was far too remarkable to leave without the Pennzoil appliance. I started the customary negotiations with Dave, which in virtually every African country begins with a “high price” from the seller and a “low price” counter offer, with the “best price” agreed upon after several minutes of friendly debate. We ended at 200 kwacha, which equates to a whopping four dollars. It seemed like such a steal, but the USIS director assured me that the price was fair. Two hundred kwacha would put Dave through school for the next four months.

Everybody turned to the matriarch in anticipation of her approval of the compensation. After a few minutes, she nodded, and the guitar was passed to me.  I became the proud owner of a fetid oil container that had brought happiness to a village for months and had left me an experience to share for a lifetime.

As we drove away from Dave’s village, I was reminded of a twelve-year old boy from New Orleans who despite equally humble beginnings, began playing a four dollar trumpet that eventually transformed American popular music and brought joy to millions of people throughout the world.