“Music is medicine,” the poetry professor, literary scholar, and music historian Andrea Benton Rushing used to tell me. Her words ring true. Volume up:
“Impeach the President,” by the Honey Drippers, immortalized an uptempo funk beat so irresistible it’s been sampled hundreds of times since 1973: “Behind the walls of the White House there’s a lot of things we don’t know about. Behind the walls of the White House there’s a lot of things we should know about…Impeach the president. Impeach the president. Impeach the president.”
Immortal Technique, the Afro-Peruvian hip-hop musician, adapted the Honey Drippers’ classic: “How many times I gotta state my position before y’all say, ‘This lip service, he’s wishin’?’ I been organizing. I got a thousand petitions, been up before sunrise, writing. I’m on a mission.”
“Impeach,” by Confab, is a rock riff recorded in Alabama for a 2017 album with another resonant song: “Reason Will Not Save Us.”
“Impeachment With Honor,” by Joe Grease and the Dump Dubya Band, recorded (with honor!) in 2007: “What say our forefathers? If they were around, this White House would crash on down. A disgraceful Bush administration. Cheney seems to want world domination. The president’s fate and Halliburton is on the tape—folks are wonderin’ who’s running our nation…Many times I wonder about Bushie and the lies he’s tellin’ me. With no congressional expense he wants a long Texas fence.”
“Impeach,” by Tom Chelston in 2007: “Well hello, George! The framers of our Constitution, fresh on the heels of revolution, must have seen the writing on the wall. They secured for us an open door in Article 2 Section 4 to commence a presidential overhaul. Now we’ve run this play a few times before. With thousands dying and Bush go lying—illegal torture, illegal spying…I-M-P-E-A-C-H.”
Long before the Capitol attack brought into wider view the far right’s assault on fundamental freedom and democracy, another siege on statehouses had been gathering—an attack on reproductive rights. Legislatures across the country have eroded abortion access with chilling consequences, particularly in the South, where Mother Jones’ Becca Andrews has been reporting extensively on the immediate impact and broader historical implications.
On Thursday, Andrews joins legal scholar Mary Ziegler in a livestream about Ziegler’s new book, Abortion and the Law in America: Roe v. Wade to the Present. The free conversation, in partnership with the Booksmith, starts at 6 p.m. PT / 9 p.m. ET. RSVP here. Andrews’ own book, No Choice, on dwindling access to abortion, is forthcoming from Hachette’s Public Affairs imprint. And catch Andrews’ on-the-ground coverage of the historic win by Sen.-elect Raphael Warnock, whose campaign in Georgia she closely followed and expertly framed in a series of interviews and dispatches. The Capitol attack dominated the headlines and eclipsed the senator-elect’s victory lap, but Andrews’ reporting is in the books, and Warnock’s movement continues.
Max Roach would have turned 97 yesterday. After last week’s deadly Capitol rampage, when the escalating effects of Trumpism laid bare the atrocities of American history, Roach’s insistence on political engagement and justice resonates. The drummer’s 1960 We Insist! Freedom Now Suite, with Abbey Lincoln, acutely protested injustice and set the stage for his affirmation that “I will never again play anything that doesn’t have social significance.”
In a poem for the drummer’s 75th birthday, Amiri Baraka painted the picture: “Max is the highest, the outtest, the largest, the greatest, the fastest, the hippest…When we say Max, that’s our word for artist, djali, nzuri ngoma, Señor Congero, leader, mwalimu, scientist of sound, sonic designer, trappist definer, composer, revolutionary democrat…Papa Joe’s successor, Philly Joe’s confessor, AT’s mentor, Roy Haynes’ inventor. Ask Jimmy Cobb, Elvin, or Klook, or even Sunny Murray when he ain’t in a hurry…Barry Harris can tell you…Ask Bud if you see him. You know he know even after the cops beat him Un Poco Loco.”
“I mean you can ask Pharoah or David or Dizzy when he come out of hiding. It’s a trick, Diz just outta sight. I heard ‘Con Alma’ and Diz and Max in Paris just the other night. But ask anybody conscious who Max Roach be. Miles certainly knew and Coltrane too. All the cats who know the science of drum, know where our last dispensation come from.”
Watch Baraka read the full poem at Roach’s funeral at the end of an interview on Democracy Now.
“A drum master for freedom,” tweeted the saxophonist Charles Lloyd yesterday in celebration, “who stood up and marched alongside Hawk, Monk, Bird, Diz, Bud, Sonny, Clifford, and Booker Little, fighting for all of humanity. He metered out his protest with each beat of his drumstick.”
Roach’s Emarcy best with Sonny Rollins is here. Baraka’s video is here. The drummer in conversation is here.
Each Friday, we pull articles from our archives to propel you into the weekend.
On January 6, a white mob attacked the Capitol fueled by the words of President Donald Trump. It was unprecedented in many ways, but also deeply resonant with much of American history, and predictable. White violence against even the sniff of a more equitable system is not new. Nor is the championing of violence by purported half-jokes like Trump’s. We’ve written about this at length. I wanted to unearth a few of those articles, which may help put into context why this week, while harrowing, does not seem out of place. It’s not good news itself, but the reporting is worth reading.
From the start, there have been warnings about Trump and his lackeys fanning the flames of white supremacy to—in that falsely neutral phrase—“play to the base.” In 2016, we reported on the deep connection between Trump and hate groups, and his ability to turn them increasingly mainstream. We know that Trump only furthered what has long been a deep root of Republican power: racism. We know Jeff Sessions is a bigot, and he was fundamental to the Trump administration. As was Steve Bannon. We wrote about how Trump was inciting violence over the election, and then it happened. We’ve written about how this isn’t Trump uniquely but instead the outgrowth of a racist Republican Party.
There is also a broader view. We’ve written about how the current vigilante and racist groups tie back to the same grievances that led to the birth of the KKK during Reconstruction. Just the day before the attack, we published an essay arguing that many white opinion-makers and historians have been slow to understand the danger of Trump’s racism (and the racism of liberal institutions and their versions of history) in favor of a more pacifying “this is not us” narrative. We’ve written about white backlash and Reconstruction and how it should not be assumed that revolutions always progress forward toward a better world.
Making sense of what happened yesterday, January 6, when a mob stormed the Capitol after President Trump ordered them there to overturn his loss in the 2020 election, takes context. Start by reading our coverage to help you wrap your head around it. Catch up on the basics with our liveblog here. You might’ve missed, for example, the tweet at 4 a.m. from a Trump staffer that the president plans an “orderly transition.” Hard to know if that’s true, fake, or even written by Trump; remember that his own Twitter account has been suspended. Our reporters are keeping you updated on growing calls for a second impeachment and how the movement has spread to other states. We’ll keep it up.
Also on this day in history, good news here (Galileo! Purvis! Gershwin! Globetrotters!) and here (First Nations and Metis protest a Manitoba Hydro project). And if you missed yesterday’s Recharge and want a soundtrack to the countdown, 17 spins of Georgia’s official state song:
And, because many media colleagues didn’t link to the actual music, here it is, celebrated 17 ways. The song was written in 1930 by Hoagy Carmichael and Stuart Gorrell. It was designated in 1979 as the state’s official song and performed that year by Ray Charles before a joint meeting of the Georgia Senate and House of Representatives. Soundtrack with a few videos:
One spot after another has been toppled by the pandemic. Birdland, the historic New York City venue, could be next. But the club’s fate isn’t sealed yet. It’s a living shrine to the music, memory, and resilience of Charlie Parker and the continuum of bebop innovators throughout history. The venue launched a GoFundMe campaign two days ago after nine months of dormancy and another lockdown order that’s pushed it toward extinction. Crowdfunding is coming in.
The club aims to raise $250,000 to stay afloat. At last check, it’s pulled in nearly half. It’s seeing some of the support reciprocated that it’s shown the world over 72 years as a birthplace of revolutions in harmony and rhythm. “On March 16 we were given the order to close,” the club’s owner, Gianni Valenti, told WBGO’s Nate Chinen. “I thought it would be a couple of weeks, and I kept everybody employed through March.” After laying off almost 60 workers but keeping a small part-time staff, the owner invested more heavily—before the latest lockdown order.
“I needed people to realize that we’re still alive, that we’re going to be there, that we’re part of the landscape…It’s heartwarming to see the outpouring for the club. I don’t care if someone gives a dollar or a thousand dollars. It’s that they made an effort to help.”
In the first few minutes of United We Play, a short new livestream from musicians’ living rooms and distanced bandstands, the pianist and narrator Marcus Roberts makes a familiar point that bears repeating as the pandemic stretches on: “In jazz, we play the blues to defeat the blues in life.” In different contexts, this can sound like a totalizing theory that not every jazz innovator identifies with, but in the moving words and music of Roberts, it’s a foundational truth and the creative core of his life. It’s also the timely theme of the film, “inspired by the current turbulent times.”
United We Play is free and powerful. Catch it here. Roberts joins the American Symphony Orchestra and the Modern Jazz Generation in a premiere of three works: America Has the Blues, Seeking Peace, and United We Play. “This is a very politically charged time in our history,” he says halfway through. “It’s so important that we do everything we can to listen to one another.” If you’re new to Roberts, start with his brilliant solo spin of “Blue Monk.”
Pharoahe Monch and Th1rt3en; Marcus Machado and Daru Jones
On the morning after media outlets reported that Joe Biden had won the 2020 election, Pharoahe Monch tweeted a parting message to the dearly departing 45th president: “SIMON SAYS! GTF(OUT)!” The hip-hop luminary shared a video of voters dancing in the streets of New York City to a verse made immortal by Monch, with everyone chanting, “Simon says, Get the fuck up! Throw your hands in the sky.”
“It’s an honor to be a part of the global soundtrack” of celebration and repudiation, Monch said, telling me days later about the thrill of hearing his signature sounds lit up by voters affirming “their choice in a democracy with this record.”
His latest single, “Fight,” expands his range as emcee and filmmaker in a fiery collaboration with Cypress Hill. It’s an explosive song set to a short film of a Molotov cocktail hurling in slow motion. The lyrics and visuals are all flames—action, horror, vengeance, Klan robes set ablaze. But what makes “Fight” so intricate, and Monch so subtle a storyteller, isn’t the imagery alone; it’s the scrambling of storyline, themes, and characters. Just as the Molotov is thrown in what looks like the direction of a cop’s house, with his family inside, there’s a hard pivot. The plot changes. Targets and concepts move. The near-flattening of action into a binary—heroes and monsters, saints and sinners—takes a detour. “Fight” becomes a call to action, but it’s a call to get the targets right.
The originality of “Fight” is in its use of an external fight to wage an internal one, an unpacking of what justice can look and sound like. “We were shooting this scene of a young lady lighting a Molotov,” he tells me. “It’s shot really slow. She throws it a couple times. She’s apprehensive, tired. She’s lighting it, lighting it.”
“Cut!” Monch approaches her. “When you throw this bottle, throw that shit! Throw it with who you are.”
After another take, “she started to tear up. She broke down. There’s a young kid on the set looking at me, and she’s crying too. The assistant director was like, ‘Do you know what we just got here?’ Then I started crying. It was powerful.”
The production coordinator, Zoi Ellis, tells me about the pin-drop silence, the emotional and historical weight of the moment: “It was the most incredible production I’ve ever been a part of…There weren’t many dry eyes on the set.”
“That’s what we were dealing with,” Monch says. “They’re like, ‘Yo, Pharoahe’s crying too.’ That was just another fucking dope thing. We were all in tears. I still feel this energy, the vibrations and rhythm that feel like a pendulum swinging back and forth. America is so divided right now.” Asked how to build a movement of unity through music, he points away from the trappings and tripwires of social media: “So much nuance is lost there, but music can bring that conversation with nuance. It feels like we’re designed to be divided purposefully.”
“This Trump guy, knowing who he is and how he riled up his base, I have a more spiritual and global humanity and want to think collectively, like how do you exorcise the darkness that has transpired?”
Our conversation veers from rap to film to jazz in a three-way call with another filmmaker, Nat Livingston Johnson of the directorial duo Peking. I invited Johnson into the call to hear two of today’s talented filmmakers trade notes about their storytelling styles: similarly raw emotional depth, intricate detail, tense pacing, cinematically tight story arcs. Answering a question from Johnson about how to reconcile rap’s roots of justice with a few hip-hop stars’ endorsements of Trump, Monch doesn’t single anyone out. Instead he critiques the warping effects of fame and fortune: “We’re all jaded with the pretentiousness of hip-hop and art in general right now. When you look at art, you have to ask yourself, ‘Are you trying to fool me? Are you trying to get me to buy something? Are you trying to get me to click somewhere? What is this?’”
“If you’re this huge star and live in the hills and have a mansion, I don’t understand what I’m even looking at,” Monch says. “I don’t understand why I’m supposed to be invested in that. I’m like, yo, let’s go heavy art instead and campaign with it and move to the person who appreciates that type of musicianship that evokes that I’m serious about this shit.”
Monch has built the loyalty and trust of diehard fans by opening up about his struggles and growth. “But it took me time to be like, yo, I’m not lying. I’m sending this shit to all my friends. I discovered some shit and I want to share it with someone. I want that feeling.”
“Fight” is both hip-hop power and rock-star eruption, fueled by the guitar of Marcus Machado and the drums of Daru Jones. Beyond rap and film, Monch has recorded with jazz musicians Robert Glasper and Marcus Strickland and absorbed elements of John Coltrane’s tenor. “Coltrane was one of my main influences when I was developing my voice. His bending the note, breath control, his sheer expression of emotion.”
Breath control means survival for Monch, who’s lived with asthma since childhood, a condition he raps about in “Still Standing”:
13 months old with a lung disease That almost took my life twice, Brought me to my knees, A system not designed for you to achieve.
If “Still Standing” is a story of breathing to survive, “Fight” is about surviving to breathe, persevering under the threat of cop corruption away from cameras:
This little piggy killed a minor. Same piggy got paid to stay home. This next pork chop removed his bodycam And he aimed his Glock at my dome.
Monch moves “beyond the pen and paper,” he tells me. “It’s how you express yourself in the literature and tones.” He welcomes “coming to your own conclusions” about whether “Fight” resolves or reinforces the tension it shows. “I like that about art generally. At its best, you’re standing in a museum looking at a painting for 15 or 20 minutes and think about what it means to you, and someone can look over your shoulder and see something completely different.”
For nearly a century, the musicians playing and promoting old-time string band and bluegrass music have tended to be white. That’s not merely a cultural trend, explains Jake Blount, a Black fiddler and banjo player who also has a degree in ethnomusicology. As he told me for a recent piece:
In the 1920s, record labels began differentiating between “race records” and “hillbilly music,” sometimes erasing Black musicians from the hillbilly records by not crediting them. “They recorded Black people playing blues and jazz, and white people playing fiddle and banjo music. They marketed the Black people to Black people and the white people to white people,” Blount says. “By doing that, they created a financial incentive for those traditions to stop interweaving with one another and stop communicating.”
This segregation catalyzed a Black exodus from old-time music during the 20th century, even though Black musicians were the ones who had helped alchemize the homegrown concoction of English ballads, Celtic fiddle songs, blues and spirituals, and African instrumentation that eventually gave rise to country and bluegrass music.
Blount is part of a new generation of artists picking up where their ancestors left off. With his 2020 album, Spider Tales, one of my favorite of the year, Blount summons a rich history of American folk songs written and sung by Black and Indigenous musicians, tunes that have been there throughout the history of this country even if they were obscured, underpromoted, or drowned out, or audiences simply weren’t paying enough attention. “I see my role as someone who’s in the middle of all of those genres,” Blount says, “to start to undo that damage and put these things back in dialogue with one another.”
Listen to some of Blount’s songs and read my interview with the musician here.
Recharge is getting a recharge this week and will return after the holidays. Enjoy yours safely. If you’re looking for a boost, the blog awaits. Send good news and New Year’s resolutions to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Recharge is getting a recharge this week and will return after the holidays. Enjoy yours safely. If you’re looking for a boost, the blog awaits, and if you’re curious what became of my colleague Ben Dreyfuss’ New Year’s resolutions from last year, right this way. I’ve read his list and checked it twice, found it to be very nice, with a bit of spice and honest about vice, and, to keep this concise, it is—as his words of support and creativity are—full of good advice. His resolutions got me thinking about the media zeitgeist and what in 2021 will suffice. On that you cannot name a price, so I’m off now to close this device, prepare some rice or a pizza slice, and search for not quite paradise, but a pair of year-end dice. 2020 belongs on ice. I’ll finish this Recharge, and the year, with a classic: Roses are red, violets are blue, 2020 can go *$#% itself, and if that ain’t true…
Alto saxophonist Frank MorganJazz Services/Heritage Images/Getty
“The last time I saw Frank Morgan onstage, he, at one point, put down his sax and asked the crowd, ‘It feels great to be alive, doesn’t it?’”wrote Tempo magazine’s Deonne Kahler in 2006, perfectly summing up the alto pioneer’s approach to sound and connection. Morgan got his start as Charlie Parker’s protege and shared stages with Billie Holiday and Lionel Hampton, sculpting alto improvisations that were ethereal, loosely lyrical, and conversational. He played with ease. He soloed like speaking, and he had range, from the uptempo pivots of bebop to the quieter ballad touch on collaborations with Abbey Lincoln, who sings on his Antilles album A Lovesome Thing. (Morgan also plays on her 1997 Who Used to Dance, worth catching, with saxophone turns by Oliver Lake and Steve Coleman.)
In honor of Morgan’s birthday today (he died in 2007), the Frank Morgan Taos Jazz Festival premieres online, entering its fifth year remotely during the pandemic, at 9:30 p.m. ET / 6:30 p.m. PT. Keep an eye out for Grace Kelly with George Cables. Here’s a start, if you’re new to the alto giant. Birthday wishes welcome: email@example.com.
Who in their right mind throws a soda at someone working in a fast-food restaurant’s drive-thru window—a worker who is six-months pregnant, during a pandemic, no less—all because they didn’t want ice in that drink? Tips rolled in from across the world after a witness saw what happened and asked if she could help. She’d approached the worker in suburban Atlanta, saw that she was shaken and soaked, and offered to support her. A social media post drew a huge response, reported by Tricia Escobedo of CNN. “I have a surprise for you,” the witness told the worker before mailing an envelope of cash.
“She gave me the envelope and I couldn’t do nothing but cry because I wasn’t expecting that,” the worker said. A hat tip to Escobedo for amplifying the story. I’d shared this summer the news of a customer berating a barista for asking her to wear a mask, followed by $32,000 in tips; a $1,300 tip for a Texas server; an Arkansas worker landing a customer’s $1,200 stimulus check; bakery workers scoring a $1,000 tip in Florida; $93,000 for a server who’d defended customers on the receiving end of drunkenly spewed racist comments by another customer; $3,000 on a $124 tab for a New Orleans bartender; $1,600 on a $99 tab in Ottawa; $1,000 on a $43 tab at a New Jersey restaurant; $330 from one server to another; and a pizza deliverer welcoming $100 on a less-than-$30 tab.
But the underlying pay structures, working conditions, and health care access aren’t equitable or sustainable, giving occasion to these headlines in the first place. If you have stories of support and solidarity, send them this way: firstname.lastname@example.org.
As we close the books on 2020, we asked our editorial staff to reflect on newly published reads that they loved. We also wondered what books, from any year, they turned to for help processing everything that’s happened, from a pandemic to the climate crisis to electoral politics to a renewed push for racial justice—a decade’s worth of content in just 52 weeks, as one Mother Jones engagement editor put it. The resulting list, “The Books That Got Us Through 2020,” is wide-ranging and surprising, with everything from highly publicized picks like Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste and Elena Ferrante’s The Lying Life of Adults to an unconventional “speculative narrative about wayward Black women at the beginning of the 20th century,” Saidiya Hartman’s Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Riotous Black Girls, Troublesome Women, and Queer Radicals.As the coronavirus continues to exert its deadly toll and winter lockdowns descend, our reading list offers an escape hatch.
Each Friday, we pull articles from our archives to propel you into theweekend.
“I knew no black people—young or old, rich or poor—who didn’t feel injured by the experience of being black in America,” wrote Roger Wilkins in his 1982 biography. In 1973, he won a Pulitzer Prize for his editorials about the Watergate scandal. In the 1960s, he worked in the Lyndon B. Johnson administration. His close personal mentor was Thurgood Marshall. Wilkins was also a regular contributor here at Mother Jones.
He wrote for this magazine in 1992 a piece titled “White Out.” In it, he describes “an even bigger hurdle” than 1960s segregation, to his mind: “the power of whites to define blacks.” (Throughout, when quoting, I am adopting Wilkins’ use of a lowercase “b” for Black; our magazine’s style now, and my belief, is that an uppercase Black is better suited.)
He describes how he’d noticed, from talking with his white students (Wilkins taught at George Mason), that “many suburban racial attitudes have actually rolled back to something like the fifties.” He remembers how in more “innocent” days, before integration, racism would be thought of not as systemic, but as “individual.”
“We believed that the power to segregate was the greatest power that had been wielded against us,” he writes. “It turned out that our expectations were quite wrong. The greatest power turned out to be what it had always been: the power to define reality where blacks are concerned and to manage perceptions and therefore arrange politics and culture to reinforce those definitions.”
It reminded me of the argument made in a recent essay for this magazine that so-called “cultural” concerns cannot be so easily cleaved from the material. They are intertwined. For example, Wilkins notes that the Black unemployment rate in the United States in the early 1990s had never gone below 10 percent since the early 1970s.
I looked up the current numbers. That’s no longer true. It has gone below 10 percent. But, still, look at the vast gulf over the past 50 years between the Black unemployment rate and the white one.
Except at the very peak of the pandemic, the Black unemployment rate is close to double the white one. As the economy has pseudo-normalized into its active inequality, that gap has reasserted itself.
Wilkins, in discussing racism, never separates these two concerns; he wants to change material policies: “For me and other black people, there is nothing to do but stay the course. That means, more than anything else right now, fighting to get decent jobs for poor blacks, fighting for support for poor families and for good education for black children,” he writes. And he wants to enact cultural change. “What can I say to decent white people? I think the best answer is what so many whites invariably preach to us—self-help… We can’t save white folks’ souls. Only they can do that.”
Just 14 days left in 2020. Speed things along with a round of recharges:
1. Michaelangelo Matos’ phenomenal new book is out. Can’t Slow Down: How 1984 Became Pop’s Blockbuster Year is a detail-rich read on the constellation of music that shaped a moment, and how a moment shaped the music. His scene-setting, pattern-matching, vivid turns of phrase, and historical vision are every bit as electrifying as the music he’s immersed in. A deeper-dive review in the weeks ahead.
2. Gabi Yetter, a Recharge reader and founder of “The Good in Us,” a Facebook group dedicated to deeds of solidarity worldwide, has published her first novel. Whisper of the Lotus is set in Cambodia, where Yetter used to live. All proceeds from the first two months of book sales go to the antitrafficking organization Justice and Soul.
3. In a crowded field of candidates for funniest folks of 2020 who’ve made the best of an excruciating year, comedian Leslie Jones stands out.
4. If you haven’t spelunked yet through Yesterday’s Print, dig in. Archival news clips with a bite. From 1918: “The man who is unwilling to wear a flu mask usually is of the kind who expects everybody to listen to him when he speaks.” Also from 1918: “Don’t throw away the masks. Two of them tied together will make excellent ear muffs later on.”
5. A headline that sands down the cynicism of any cold news-junky heart: “Over 900 Cars Paid for Each Other’s Meals at a Dairy Queen Drive-Thru in Minnesota.” What? What? And no one called me? I don’t like Dairy Queen anyway. “What started as a random act of kindness…resulted in over 900 cars also taking part in the pay-it-forward chain,” reports CNN’s Alisha Ebrahimji.
6. The Arizona Daily Star and ProPublica teamed up yesterday to host a livestream of stories about developmental disabilities, boosted by the National Center on Disability and Journalism.
7. “A small dam but a big deal,” a colleague told me in celebrating the news of a 100-year-old dam’s removal from a former golf course to improve salmon migration.
Thank us later, but right now you have some gifts to unwrap: 15 below, one for each day left in this dumpster fire of a year, and each, it so happens, is a bitingly funny video by the comedian and Saturday Night Live alum Leslie Jones. Your mileage will not vary; these are guaranteed howlers, home recordings of Jones watching cable news and adding piercing commentary about broadcasters’ home-video backgrounds:
Take 1, to which her target and friend Tim tweets back, “Every time you tweet about my ponytail it only gives it more strength.” Leslie: “You can be you Tim you can be you the schuchie ain’t you.”
The timing couldn’t be better for Through the Night, released days ago as an intimate and urgent portrait of three women crossing paths at a day care center. Directed and produced by Sundance fellow Loira Limbal, the story highlights a mother working overnight at a hospital, another working three jobs to support her family, and a woman who’s been caring for kids for 22 years. As personal and situational as the story is, it’s a call to action for supporting the millions of front-line workers outside the film’s frame. The pacing, arc, and treatment of themes around economic and social struggle, and the mutual recognition and resilience, are a fitting mirror to the tail end of 2020.
The trailer and full film are here. A portion of ticket sales is donated to the Essential Care Fund in support of child care providers nationally.
Just 17 days left in 2020. Enter the final lap with a story from reader Tammy Maitland of Albuquerque, New Mexico, who writes in to say that instead of trading holiday gifts, she suggested her family “make donations to nonprofit organizations in each other’s names.” But she accidentally emailed a different person with her brother’s name. The unintended recipient was 5,200 miles away in Stockholm (her siblings are in Boston). “He let me know, and I apologized, but a few days later he wrote back to say that he was inspired to make his own donation to an organization that helps homeless children.”
“It really gave me a boost that he did that,” she said. “Maybe this story could help people get inspired to make donations if they are able.” And if you’re not able, forward this to one person you know or don’t know. More lifts to enter the week:
100th birthday. Happy centennial to Clark Terry. The trumpeter lit up more than 900 recordings as one of the most prolific musicians in jazz, sharing stages with Count Basie and Duke Ellington, and mentoring Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock. “Since your phoenix-like recovery from serial ills—one of the more astonishing and upbeat stories of the year—I’ve found myself thinking a lot about what you have meant and continue to mean to jazz,” Gary Giddins wrote in 2002, when he saluted Terry as musician of the year. “The dramatically launched high notes, the terse, bent tones that round the corner from one note to the next like a motorcycle zooming around a curve…My wish for you on this birthday and every one to follow is good health, good chops, and a full dose of the joy you have given the rest of us all these years.” Here’s Terry with Peterson in 1965.
Northern lights. The Guardian has published a selection of “the best images” of the breathtaking sky. Photos here.
Cracking the code. A Zodiac breakthrough of sorts. One of the serial killer’s cyphers has been solved, thanks to a code-breaking team from the United States, Australia, and Belgium. Not much to go on; his letter is light on disclosures and clues, and characteristically boastful, but it’s one fewer mystery, a small step in breaking his shield. I was on the Chronicle staff when the Zodiac film was made and interviewed one of the original detectives and an eyewitness. While re-reporting the story, I discovered something curious stuck between archival photos in the newspaper’s library. I turned it over to top editors and we agreed to pass it along to handwriting experts and forensics authorities, all on the record and reported. Have a backstory if you’re into not-so-cold cases. I’ll fill you in if you drop a note to email@example.com.