CEXFUCXs were a truly great live band, but completely unrecordable. I offered to put out a record by them on Mississippi Records. They all were into the idea but were such an anarchic organization that they could not be tamed into a recording session. How the Dundee Campout  managed to wrangle them back together, I cannot imagine....

    Richard and his brother Alan formed The Sun City Girls in 1979. The band was absurdly prolific - putting out at least fifty LP's. They played a beyond classifiable mix of traditional and pop music from around the world - Gamelan, Bollywood, Rai, Thai pop and literally anything else you could think of - all performed with a punk and experimental sensibility. Their versions were the first I ever heard of half the international music styles I now obsess over.

  The Sun City Girls were the original "fuck you" contrarians. They became underground legends by doing everything to subvert their own popularity. When I first saw them play in the early 1990's they ripped through a punked out cover of a Bollywood Song, then a Rhumba, then some Gamelan, then some droney noise. At that point, it was one of the best shows I'd ever seen. A couple months later I noticed they were opening for Sonic Youth, a band I could give less than two shits about. I dragged a friend to the show, promising them that The Sun City Girls would blow their minds, and that we'd leave before the Indie rockers took the stage.

  For this audience of one thousand four hundred people The Sun City Girls decided to go in a different direction than the crowd pleasing show I saw them perform for thirty people a couple months prior. They hit the stage wearing cartoonish 1920's hobo rags and dangling sticks with bundles over their shoulders. The band huddled around a campfire (really just a fan pointing up with red and orange streamers blowing upward), opened some cans of beans, started disgustingly eating them directly out of the cans and told uncomfortable dirty jokes. They did this for way too long and the audience started to turn on them, shouting "we want Sonic Youth" and "fuck you".  Right when it seemed like the audience was about to storm the stage, The Sun City Girls took up their instruments and played a free jazz freakout for ten minutes. They then bowed and walked off, smirking all the way.

  These days Richard Bishop still fucks with his audience way to often, testing their limits. He also plays sublime virtuosic solo guitar.

   Jefrey Brown had a musical instrument repair shop on Mississippi Avenue back when the Record Store first got going. He was outlandishly talented in several directions - a master sax, guitar and bass player. Instead of playing music with the hot shot jazz musicians of Portland who could match him chop for chop Jef elected to play with amateurs picking up their instrument for the first time, punks and oddball noise musicians. He recruited folks to play in The Evolutionary Jass Band - inspiring Keelin Mayer to take up the Sax for the first time and convincing Marisa Anderson, who was a singer songwriter / folk picker at the time, to start playing experimental jazz. Jef was a seer who brought the best out of all the musicians he played with.

   In 2002 I was a punk living in Oakland. A friend handed me a copy of WIRE magazine with the band Jackie O Motherfucker on the cover with Jef as a member. My friend asked, "you know these guys? They're from Portland like you." I scanned over them and realized I had seen them play before in a dilapidated building on Mississippi Ave in the 1990's. Staring at the picture of them, I had what I would call mystical experience. At that moment I somehow knew they would figure prominently in my life. And they did. Four of them became very good and exceptionally influential friends of mine.

   Beyond the personal relationships I formed with them, without Jackie O Motehrfucker there would probably be no Mississippi Records. In 2003, a year after I saw the WIRE magazine cover, I was walking by a building on Mississippi Avenue. I recognized it as the place I saw Jef play with Jackie O Motherfucker and started peering in the window, not noticing the "FOR RENT" sign. The door flung open and Rachel, the building's owner, poked her head out. The following dialogue ensued -

Rachel - "Are you interested in renting the space?"
Me - "No - I was just looking in the window trying to recall a show I saw here long ago."
Rachel (ignoring what I just said) - "What would you do with the space if you rented it?"
Me - "I dunno, start a record store or bookstore or video store."
Rachel - "That's perfect! That's what I want here! I think you'd do great with a record store! You should do it! It'll be $500 a month and I'll give you the first two months free..."
Me - "Uh...okay,. That sounds pretty good. Maybe...."
Rachel - "Let me know in the next two days! Lots of folks want this spot, but you're my first choice!"

   Inspired by Rachel's weird confidence in me, a punk ass twenty seven year old who did not exude any special energy, two days later I was signing a lease. I never in my life intended to open a business of any kind and had no idea what I was doing. But, the rent was cheap and the wind seemed to be blowing me in that direction so I figured, what the hell? I had nothing else to do and needed a project. And so was born Mississippi Records, thanks to a scrappy Jackie O Motherfucker show and a visionary building owner. Ah, what was possible in Old Portland!

  Helen is made up of two of my favorite record store owners, Jed Binderman who owns Little Ax and Scott Simmons, who used to own Exiled Records. The band teams them with everyone's favorite local musician, Liz Harris (Grouper). All three are ridiculously accomplished musicians. In fact, I would classify this as Portland's greatest and most unlikely Super Group.

  The band came out with a record in 2015 and played maybe one or two shows. Despite the popular pedigree of its members Helen seems to have done everything in its powers not to be noticed. At least that's how it seems to me. I've heard tales of endless lucrative offers made to them to play shows and none taken up.  How on earth did the Dundee Campout get them to play when others have tried and failed so often? Blackmail? Friendship? Kindness?

 ....I could talk about a hundred other musicians involved in the Campout's lineup - Village Of Space Corners, who traveled around in a huge comical looking hobo shack lodged on the back of a truck, The legendary Space Lady who played on the streets of San Francisco and lived in an actual cave, Million Brazillians who had the weirdest parties I've ever been to featuring Michael Jackson Shrines and guys in diapers playing one marathon song for nine hours straight. It's all so much stranger than fiction.

 

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Nomusa Xaba is a storyteller, poet and educator living in South Africa. Born into a musical family in Chicago, she worked for CORE as part of the Civil Rights movement before making her way to San Francisco in the late 1960s. There she met the South African bandleader Ndikho Xaba, in political exile for supporting Nelson Mandela’s ANC. He would become her husband and creative partner, collaborating until his passing in June of 2019. Together with a remarkable collective of local musicians, writers, and photographers (including Thulani Davis and Plunky Branch), they would record the DIY spiritual jazz masterpiece Ndikho Xaba and the Natives in 1971.  

We recently teamed up with Matsuli Records to bring this record back into print, and we called up Mama Nomusa at her home in South Africa to hear more about her art and creative universe. 

Nomusa Xaba: Both of my parents were musicians. My mother played piano and later on, the organ. She played in the church, where she met my father. He was playing trumpet. It's funny because neither of them were religious at all, but that's where they met, and I think that was the end of that. 

My dad was a professional jazz musician. So I grew up in a very musical environment in Chicago. Jazz, we were taught, was our birthright and our inheritance. Friday night you had my dad playing jazz for the whole neighborhood (laughs). He had like, 12 speakers, and he'd turn them all up and you could hear them all the way around the corner. Every Friday night, my house was a party, and I think of Fridays very fondly, because it was goin’ on. 

And then Saturday, our neighbors would play the Blues downstairs. They would buy whiskey and play the blues all day and reminisce about the South. Sundays was gospel music, which was blasting everywhere. I thought everybody grew up like that. Only when I branched out, I realized how rich and wonderful that was. 

It’s no surprise I married a musician! When I told my father I was going to marry a musician he said, “Good, great.” It was all he needed to know, “Oh he’s a musician? That’s fine.” 

Patricia Packard (Nomusa Xaba) as a child, center, with her family in Chicago. From Nomusa's autobiography "It's Been A Long Time Coming..."
Ndikho Xaba and I met at a community center called the Malcolm X Unity House in San Francisco. They would do political education and community dinners once a month, and they would have musical performances. Ndikoh performed, and he was teaching a class in isiZulu. That's how I actually met him. I took the class. 

This was the old San Francisco, when real people really lived there. It was dominated by the Black Panther Party. I think Huey T. Newton had just gone to jail. I had no idea who he was, but I found out. He had quite a following. The Black Panther Party was active. The Soledad Three - Fleeta Drumgo, John Cluchette, and George Jackson - were on trial. Angela Davis was in love with George at that time. They were always writing letters back and forth. The hippies were there, you know, doing their thing. So there was a lot of energy. It was vibrant, it was youthful. It was looking for change. It was anti-Vietnam. It was definitely what I was looking for - something different. But you had to be careful. You had to know how you handle yourself. Cause suddenly everything your mother told you not to do, you could do. I loved San Francisco. It was an opening for me. But it wasn't a place I could stay. 

By the time I met Ndikho, I had a community already established, and I wanted to go to Africa. I wanted to go to Africa like, yesterday. 

Cyrus Moussavi: And can you tell me more about how Baba Ndikho arrived in San Francisco? His journey was a long one…

Nomusa: He was kind of a nomad. His father was a minister and they grew up all over South Africa. He lived in many different places. He was a preacher's kid, you know? And when he became political, it was right around the time Mandela was arrested and the ANC was banned. That's when he joined, and he immediately came under the radar of the special branch of the South African police. He had a bad incident where they chased him from a meeting looking for minutes to the meeting, which he didn't have. He ran from the police. It was quite traumatic for him. And right after that, they came to look for him at his house. 

He became kind of a refugee in his own country, moving around in order to avoid the police. Because he didn't want to give up his political beliefs. So when he found an opportunity as an actor, he took it. Alan Paton had a play come up, Sponono, and Ndikho got a part. And that play got a Broadway deal. And that's how he came to the US. The play was a great success, ran for six weeks, you know how it is. But after that, then what do you do? There were 22 people in the cast. 11 went back to South Africa, 11 stayed and applied for political refugee status, which they did not get (laughs). 

So he ended up again kind of in exile within a country. He was traveling all over, trying to get his music to work. He loved New York because New York was where he landed and it felt like home. Miriam [Makeba] was there. Hugh [Masekela] was there. Oh, my goodness. Jonas Gwangwa, everybody you know and don't know was there. They were a small but very tight artistic community. But after the play, everybody went their own way, trying to find their way musically. And he did the same. He ended up in Texas for a while and he ended up in Arizona for a while. And then he came to San Francisco all the while trying to further his music. He had very strong musical ideas, very strong political ideas. He was looking for fertile ground for his music when he got to San Francisco. 

What impressed us as a community was that the piano at the Malcolm X. Unity House was very out of tune. Terribly out of tune. When Ndikho arrived, he played that piano like it was a grand piano. We couldn't believe it. I mean, everybody knew it was out of tune, but he just ignored that, the energy that he brought to it. He had a friend who danced, so they danced and he played piano. 

Ndikho was self-taught, purposefully. He did not want anyone to influence what he heard. So besides sitting next to his mother on the organ when he was a child, he didn't have any formal training. I don't really know how he learned the piano. He never really talked about it because he was playing trumpet when he left South Africa. And then by the time he got to Texas, he was playing piano. You know how musical geniuses are. It just happens.

I thought he was the most vibrant man I had ever met. Energetic. And he had very peaceful eyes. I've heard people say that later, but he had very innocent, kind eyes. You know, when somebody talks to you and they really look at you? They don't look past you, or up in the air. Some people are just comfortable looking another person in the eye, it depends on their culture. The attraction was there. 

Ndikho Xaba and Nomusa at a protest against Ian Smith and the situation in Rhodesia. Lafayette Park, Washington, D.C., October 9, 1978. Photo M. Vasquez.

 CM: Shortly after meeting, you were part of this incredible record. Can you tell me more about the process? 

Nomusa: I was totally involved, and my daughter, everybody. I was introduced to Plunky [Branch] by a friend from the Civil Rights movement. He was a draft dodger. He had been drafted into the Army and he had left, so he was AWOL. We never knew his name or where he was from. We knew nothing about him because he was on the list of people being looked for. 

When I met Baba Ndikho and he played piano, I said, “Oh, I know this saxophone player, and you got to meet him.” And so I took him over to meet Plunky and it was instant. I mean, I think they said hello and sat down to the piano and started playing. I don't remember a lot of talk. It was just like, “Well, have you heard this?” They connected as immediately as he and I did. They're both very strong musicians and artists, and they merged very well. And then the others, we just put together this band.

We were all young, we're all in our 20s, except for Ndikho, who was older than us. He was 34, he was ten years older than the rest of us. So he's kind of a father figure in that sense. And certainly much more worldly than the rest of us. So the band came together. 

We rehearsed every day. Every day. We were almost like Sun Ra you know, we rehearsed every day. And so the music was there. We had good audience participation. Back then we had been to the Berkeley Jazz Festival, played for like 10,000 people. We were on an up, we were on a high. And we used to perform at a club with Sun Ra in Oakland. We would open for Sun Ra. Can you imagine? (laughs) 

Sun Ra and Ndikho Xaba, via theband's fb page

There was a lot going on. And very, very quickly. I mean, you couldn't blink your eyes. Everything was happening. And my daughter was the mascot. They absolutely would not perform without her being there, she was almost three years old. It was family - we were an artist collective without knowing we were an artist collective. We had musicians, we had writers, we had photographers. Thulani [Davis] was a journalist at that time. She worked for the newspaper. Ntozakay Shanday, who became very prominent later, was teaching poetry at the university.  There was an ethnomusicologist. It was just about 20 of us or so. And it wasn't formal. That's just the way it was, you know? And everybody was feeding off of it. Thulani would always write poetry while they were playing music. I was just beginning to write, and so both of us would sit there and write poetry to the music. It was extremely vibrant, energetic. Creative. That's the word.

We were a community band. When Ndikho and I got married, it was like the whole community got married, you know? People were very excited about this coming together of South Africa and African-America. That was great. Some of the guys were a little pissed off. You know, like how does this guy come in and get her, thinking I'm like their property. I was like ‘You guys were here before, you paid no attention!’

The audience was always right on it. They were very much a part of the performance. We always had people at our rehearsals who were not musicians. Always! It just seemed like the way to do things. We never had really large audiences, besides that one gig, but it didn't matter to us. What we wanted was the essence of what we had. We didn't want to sell out to corporate interests. And Ndikho, he never did jazz standards, purposefully. Not because he didn't like them, but he didn't want to be known for that. He did his own music.

The recording was pretty quick, because we had to go to L.A. We stayed at another musician’s house, all of us. I did the cover. What I remember is being at the kitchen table trying to get this album cover together. And the guys were in a garage up the street somewhere trying to get the music together. It was done very quickly, like a weekend. 

CM: What was your inspiration for the album artwork? 

Nomusa: Africa was everything. As Africans growing up in America and not really knowing we were Africans, when you discover that it's okay to be African, there's no disgrace, you know, Africa was everything! So, I just did Africa and put our pictures in there. Thulani, as you can see, was a great writer, she wrote up notes. And you can see those pictures are just little snapshots. Everybody gave me a little snapshot and it was cut and paste. Even the handwriting, it’s all organic. 

CM: You said that Baba Ndikho had very clear political and musical ideas. Can you describe more about what he was aiming to do with this record, what the vision was? 

Nomusa: Well, his point was to expose the South African government to the entire world and let everybody who would listen to him know what apartheid really was and what it was doing. It's like being a Palestinian or something - you're in the middle of a very repressive, ongoing, but socially acceptable system that nobody really knows about. You gotta remember this is 1970. There's no Internet. We've barely heard of South Africa, let alone knew about what apartheid was. Even the most political person. Baba Ndikho was naming this. And actually he was giving names to any African American who wanted a name. Everybody who came into the circle got a name. He thought the whole world should have Zulu names.

CM: And what does Nomusa mean?

Nomusa: Nomusa means the mother of kindness.

CM: Now that’s a beautiful name. Can you tell me more about the song “Nomusa”?

Nomusa: Not much more. It’s a love song, a love song for sure. I was always very honored to have that. I mean, not many people have songs made for them, and by the love of your life? It felt like an honor. There were words at one point, but in those days, you had to copyright the words. And when we sent them into ASCAP, they told us they weren't long enough. I don't know, we kind of got discouraged. Plunky had a singer that used to do it, but that was never recorded. I wish it had been, he really sang beautifully.

CM: What was the aftermath of the record?  You self-released it or was it released by a label? And then what? What happened after?

Nomusa: Self-released. Trilyte Records was the brother or cousin or whatever that recorded it’s company, in his basement. We could not have produced more than 100 copies. I can ask Plunky, maybe he remembers, but I just don't remember us producing very many. Because we had no money and the major labels, I mean, who knows. Everybody was trying to do it themselves in those days anyway. And we didn't want the approval of the establishment. We were revolutionaries. That was it. 

I wish we had had better equipment. I wish a lot of things, because the music was so much more dynamic than that album. But people seem to get a lot out of it, so I'm grateful.

CM: And then did the band stay together long after that?

Nomusa: No. No! Once we did that album, that was it. There became a leadership clash between Ndikho and Plunky. And you can see all that Plunky has done since. Plunky had all these ideas, places he wanted to go, and Ndikho couldn't understand them. They had a clash of where do we go from here? And they couldn't solve it. And so as usual, they played a song. And that song was just magnificent. And after the song was played, then they all agreed to go their separate ways, but to remain friends, which we did. And I'm still friends with Plunky today, and Shabalala. Lon passed away. The drummer, I lost contact with him. So that was it. It was like the record and then that was it, everybody left San Francisco and went back to New York and Rhode Island. Everybody went back East. 

CM: What was the song that they played when they broke up? That's the best way I've ever heard of a band breaking up. 

Nomusa: Ndikho called it Mad Mad, and Plunky called it.. Oh, I forgot. I'll have to research that for you. But it did get recorded. Plunky had to have recorded it.

CM: How did you feel when people came to you so many years later and said, oh, we're into this record or the record is collectible or people like this music. What did you think?

Nomusa: Oh, very pleased and very happy that people so much younger than me could still hear. Because we knew it was classic. We know it was incredible, but we didn't know if anybody else was going to know that. So when the re-release came to be (via Matsuli in 2015), we were very honored. By that time, Ndikho was ill. He had Parkinson's at the end of his life and couldn't play. So we were on cloud nine, that we had another venue in which to communicate with young people. Because in our minds, all of this was being done for future generations. We didn't want you guys to grow up in the same world we had grown up in. We wanted to make a difference. Black, white or green, purple, didn't matter what ethnicity. We wanted young people to be proud of themselves and to aspire to whatever their highest calling was. So yeah, it was great. It still is wonderful.

Baba Ndikho and Mama Nomusa, Durban, 2009. Photo: Mary-Ann Daniels

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Mississippi Records Portland Store
We are now open Thursday - Sunday, 12 to 7 PM!
(our stereo repair and retail shop is open Friday - Sunday, 1 to 6 PM).
WE ARE EXCITED TO BUY YOUR RECORD COLLECTIONS! Please drop by anytime to sell stuff. We always have a buyer on duty and you do not need an appointment. Paying out 50 - 60% of our retail price (NOT - dumb internet prices though....Mississippi store prices)
Email [email protected] if you have any questions about the shop.
 

Mississippi Records Website
Visit the site to get our label's records and tapes direct from us - we are constantly rotating our selection of mixtapes, new records from labels we distribute, and discounted out-of-print records, so be sure to check in often! We ship twice a week, every week.
www.mississippirecords.net
 
Mississippi Records CSR
Our Community Supported Records program directly supports the label. Get each Mississippi LP at a discount as it's released, no matter how limited, plus special schwag and gifts on occasion. Limited to 300 spots. The CSR contributions help us pay for record pressings and generally stay afloat.
More details here:
https://sites.google.com/site/mississippicsr/

Mississippi Records Bandcamp
There are hours and hours worth of albums available for free listening, and a whole lot of the releases are "pay what you want" if you want to download em. Check it out -
https://mississippirecords.bandcamp.com/

Mississippi Records Special Products Division 
Alice Coltrane For President and Mississippi Wreckers T shirts and tote bags! Post cards! Posters! Coozies! Oddities! Check us out weekly for new additions.
 www.mississippiwreckers.com 

Toody Cole / Junkstore Cowboy
Toody Cole has shuttered her Junkstore Cowboy Shop in our basement, but that does not mean you can't get your Dead Moon / Pierced Arrows / Rats / Range Rats / Tombstone schwag and records still from her badass online store.
https://www.deadmoonusa.com/

Humboldt Neighborhood Association
The neighborhood association for the zone the Mississippi shop rests in recently got taken over by some social activists who are working on mutual aid projects, youth programs, anti gentrification / tenants rights activities, and a community child care circle. If you are in the neighborhood and want to get involved, our first general membership meeting takes place on November 23rd. Check in with the website for a link! We got some work to do....
https://humboldtneighborhood.org/

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3231 S Halsted
#197
Chicago
IL
60640
United States of America

 

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