Twenty-six years after Sun Ra's ascension beyond, the bandleader's magnetism continues to control the universe. Generation after generation gets sucked into his orbit, drawn by his culty communality, his outsider independence, his relic totemism, his racial mythology, his hieratic intergalactic costumery and even his music.
Marshall Allen's 61 years of immersion in Ra lore uniquely qualify the alto saxist to perpetuate the Arkestra tradition. At nine members, this traveling incarnation of the Ark is half the size of yesteryears' battalions. But these warriors constitute a core of indoctrinated graybeards whose ensemble-interlock renders a bigger complement unnecessary.
Jettison that metronome: The group's rhythm transcends tightness in the same way your heart and lungs do, the instruments rubbing gently against one another and incorporating the audience's bodies subliminally into the same organic respiration. The scientifically selected "dissonant" horn harmonies do the same, although affecting synapses rather than arteries; all notes are welcome, listeners feeling included by analogy. And let us not omit Space Chant, that ancient trance inducer and crowd uniter. When you've got that many methods going, transcendence is virtually guaranteed.
And so it was on this second of two Zebulon nights, sold out to double capacity. Braving the claustro conditions, we responded with enthusiasm to each mash-up of musical history as the Ark juiced chugging '40s big-band charts (Ra scored arrangements for Fletcher Henderson) with brain-scouring squalls from Allen's alto sax, beefy riffs from Ray Scott's baritone sax and precise boplicity from Yahyah Abdul Majid's tenor. For the songier numbers, Tara Middleton served up a more soul-centered version of the late June Tyson's almost classical regality. And Farid Abdul-Bari Barron must have unearthed a cheapo keyboard from the dawn of synthesis to replicate Sun Ra's crazy sci-fi improvisations so accurately. (Hope I got the names right; found 'em on the Ra site.)
Early in the set, a woozy rendition of "Stranger in Paradise" paid homage the great city in which the spacemen had landed. And yes, the hornmen did follow tradition by wedging a procession through the audience, huffing, singing and squealing all the way -- a truly heroic feat for the 95-year-old Allen especially.
More heroic than your reporter, certainly; I had spine and arches enough to last only the first hour. But then, I've been a Ra mutant since the '70s, and periodic exposures to the stardust suffice to refresh my alien chakras. Born again!
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PHOTOS BY DAVID TAUHID.