Fresh Air - Remembering The South African Playwright Who Defied Apartheid

Episode Date: March 13, 2025

Athol Fugard's plays, like Blood Knot and Master Harold and the Boys, were about the emotional and psychological consequences of Apartheid. He also formed an integrated theater company in the 1960s, in defiance of South African norms. The playwright, who died Saturday, spoke with Terry Gross in 1986. And we remember soul singer/songwriter Jerry Butler, who sang with Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions before going solo. Jazz historian Kevin Whitehead marks the centennial of the birth of Roy Haynes, one of the most in-demand drummers of the genre.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

There's a lot of news happening. You want to understand it better, but let's be honest, you don't want it to be your entire life either. Well, that's sort of like our show, Here and Now Anytime. Every weekday on our podcast, we talk to people all over the country about everything from political analysis to climate resilience, video games. We even talk about dumpster diving on this show. Check out Here and Now Anytime, a daily podcast from NPR and WBUR. This is Fresh Air. I'm Terri Gross. As a playwright, actor, and director, Athel Fugard defied South Africa's apartheid system, and the government punished him for it. He died Saturday at the age

of 92. We're going to listen back to the interview we recorded in 1986, eight years before the end of apartheid. Fugard was a white South African who wrote about the emotional and psychological consequences of his country's white supremacist system. When Fugard co-starred in his 1961 play, The Blood Knot, with black actor Zeke Mukai, they became the first black and white actors in South African history to share a stage. Soon after, Fugard was approached by a group of black actors seeking his help to start a company. Together, they formed the Serpent Players. The company was frequently harassed by the authorities. A few members were imprisoned. Fugard's reputation for defiance spread. And in 1967, the government revoked his passport. It was restored four years later.

Fugard wrote more than 30 plays, including Master Harold and the Boys and Bozeman and Lena. He co-wrote the plays Sizwee Banzwee is Dead and The Island with the black South African actors John Conny and Winston and Shana. His plays have been staged in the US. Six of his plays were produced on Broadway. He won a Tony Award for lifetime achievement in 2011. When I spoke with Fugard in 1986, I asked him why he remained in South Africa where he lived under the apartheid system he opposed. I suppose it's a question of my continued existence as a writer. I just couldn't see myself writing about any other place or any other time. I have on

occasions in the past described myself as a regional writer, not meaning to be falsely modest or anything like that, but a regional writer in the sense I think that Faulkner was a regional writer in America. And my region is South Africa. Do you feel constrained there at all by limitations of what will be allowed to be performed on stage? I think I've got part, I think I've become so used to living with that danger, with the danger of censorship, and in some ways the situation today is a lot easier than it was in the past. I mean, I had to contend with a South Africa that was much more authoritarian in terms of its control over the arts than is the case today, where the government has attempted

to persuade the outside world that it's moving in a liberal direction by allowing certain things to take place in theater and in the arts generally, which wasn't the case many years ago. I do not feel constrained. I've learned how to live with that. Do you ever feel that if your work is not censored then you're not doing your job? Yes, there is a terrible, there is the danger of a terrible sort of snobbery along those lines, you know? You know, that if you haven't been banned or if your work hasn't been censored or, let's

put it even crudely, if you haven't been to jail at least once, or if you haven't been raided by the security police and searched in the early hours of the morning if you haven't been raided by the security police and searched in the early hours of the morning, you haven't actually earned your credentials. Unfortunately, yes, I think a little bit of that does operate back home. What do you think is the power of theater or art in general to help topple the apartheid system? Do you think of art in those terms? Do you think of art as having an overt political function? Well, it obviously does have that. I mean, I, for example, I heard a story about a South African who had had very, very strong traditional South African attitudes and who for some reason

or the other had been at Yale when I was doing Master Harold, who had come along and had seen the play, and who had been so affected by that production, and who had in fact undergone a change of heart. Now, I have heard of quite a few cases like that in terms of responses to mine and other works of art, other novels and things like that from South Africa. So one has got to reckon with the fact that

apparently art can do be as profoundly effective as that in terms of people. You've had collaborative relationships with many black actors and I'm sure that there are many obstacles in having that kind of relationship in a separatist country. Perhaps one of the first relationships you had like that was with Zeke's Mokai in The Blood Knot. Were there any obstacles in actually getting together and working together on the play and then afterwards on performing it? Oh, yes. Well, firstly, I mean, in just for Zakes and myself to get together as two actors and to go up onto a stage that had never happened before in South

Africa that a black man and a white man had appeared on a stage and a black actor or a white actor had appeared on a stage at the same time. We were the first in that regard and all sorts of complications were attendant on that. I mean, in traveling around the country when we eventually took blood not to different cities. Zeke had to travel third class because he had no other choice. I traveled first class. Life was very complicated.

Zeke, on a point of principle, refused to carry his reference book. He wanted to make a political statement in his personal life. I knew that if we didn't have that book around with us that we'd be in trouble. Zeke's would be in jail and the show couldn't go on. So I carried the book for Zeke's and whenever the police stopped us, I presented it and pretended that Zakes was working for me, things like that. Yes, there have been lots of complications along those lines. Did that affect the relationship that you had with each other since when officials asked you had to be in the superior employer relationship?

No, you're quite right. Well, no, you've learned to play those games as part of your survival mechanism in South Africa. I mean, you know, many, many times in order to bail Zakes and myself out of a tight spot, for example, with the police, I would put on a heavy Africana act and talk to the policeman as if I was a good Africana and Zakes was

my boy, my employee. And Zakes knew that I was doing it in order to keep the two of us out of jail. Danielle Pletka You also in the 1960s were a co-founder of a group called the Serpent Theatre, which was also integrated. What were some of the difficulties then of rehearsing together? Were you allowed into the black townships? Were they allowed into the white communities? Well, Serpent Players were a group I worked with in my hometown of Port Elizabeth. And Port Elizabeth has always been a difficult area for me because the authorities there have consistently refused

to allow me to go into the black ghetto areas to into the black townships. So in order to work with serpent players, we had to find a sort of neutral territory halfway between their black world and my white world. And in fact, in one of the Twilight Zones in Port Elizabeth. And that is where we would get together and rehearse and meet. And I was faced with this sort of rather unhappy situation where sometimes I would direct a

play and not be able to attend performances of it. Your play Master Harold and the Boys is based in part on the relationship you had when you were young with a black man who was a waiter, I think, at a cafe that your mother ran. There's an incident in the play that I think is based on an incident in your life where the young white boy who's the son of the mother who owns the cafe, who's really very close with the waiter, spits in his face. From what I understand, it was very difficult for you to write that part in. Can I ask about the personal significance that that event had for you?

Yes, that did happen. Tragically, regrettably, a moment of cauterizing, traumatic moment of shame in my life that I still live with, that was there at a point in my childhood coming out of I can remember the day, a spasm of bewilderment and confusion. I can't remember what had upset me so much that day, but I turned on the one person I had in my life, the one true friend I had, and he was a black man, and he worked for my family, he worked for my mother as a waiter in this little tea room we had. I spat in Sam's face. And the moment I had done it, I knew what

I had done. A second after I had done it, I knew that I had most probably done one of the truly ugly things of my entire life, even though I was only 13 years old, I knew that I was going to be very, very hard for me to ever equal the ugliness of what I had done, because I mean I had sullied, I had dirtied. What was one of the most beautiful things I had in my life was that friendship. And I've lived with that, I lived with that shame and still do live with the shame of that act.

And when it came to writing the play, I didn't write the play just for that reason in an attempt to finally deal with that moment. I'd been trying to write about Sam and another man that worked for the family as well, also as a waiter, a man called Willie. I'd been trying to write about Sam and Willie for a long time in my life, just to celebrate them because they were two very very beautiful human beings and very instrumental very important in me finally starting on a process of emancipation from the prejudices of my country of the traditional South African way of life. I just wanted to celebrate

those two men and when I finally put the little boy in there with him, I realized that I potentially had an opportunity to do both that and also deal with this unbelievably ugly thing that I had done. And in writing the play, I thought for a long time that my craft as a playwright would stand me in good stead and that I would not necessarily have to sink so low as to actually have up there on stage a moment when the white boy spat in a black man's face. But the deeper I worked myself into the play

and the more I developed the play and wrote it, the more I realized that there was just no avoiding that moment. Is there a moment when you can point to and say this is when I realized that the system of apartheid was evil, was unjust? Yes, I mean, I knew it was, the process of discovering that it was evil and unjust, that it maimed and mutilated people, destroyed them, was something that happened, you know, more or less from the time I spat in Sam's face.

That was, but the full extent, the sort of, the moment of certainty, the moment when I realized the extent of a court, of a criminal court that sent, that tried black people for offenses in terms of the past book that they are compelled by law to carry. And it's when I sat in that courtroom, five days a week for a period of about six months

and watched a black man or woman and sometimes a child being disposed of at the rate of one every three minutes being sent off to jail, when I saw that tidal wave of humanity being processed by this diabolical machine at the full extent of the, of the, of what apartheid meant and does and was doing dawned on me when it was brought home to me. Now that was one of the, if I can talk about spitting in Sam's face as being the traumatic personal moment, that was the traumatic social moment. That was a moment in terms of my political conscience. Was that about the time that you started writing plays also?

Yes, yes. That is in fact the period when my very first published play was written. I still think of it as an apprenticeship work and it precedes The Blood Knot, a play called No Good Friday. It was also the first play, it marks the first meeting with Zeke's Mokai, who is in The Blood Knot with me. Danielle Pletka I know one thing that drives a lot of white people who live in South Africa crazy is that every time you sit on a bench or board a bus or enter into certain stores, you are in a way making a complicit act with apartheid if that is a segregated bench or bus or store.

And I wonder how you reconcile that now. The thing that you have to live with constantly in South Africa is a white South African who opposes the system. He said even in opposing the system, even in doing what you can by way of writing plays or protesting or doing this, your daily life is still rotten with compromise. And you're involved in that very, very dangerous exercise of hoping that what you do at one level outweighs that, that the way you live, the fact that you live in a whites only area among a fluent white people, you hope that those

compromises haven't irremediably stained or poisoned your life, that you somehow are still making some Contribution towards an eventual decency in that society. It's it's it's it's a danger dangerous lifestyle I mean, but there's no way of avoiding it other than to get out and if I get out How am I contributing to anything then I? Still have got to believe That being inside that country inside inside that society, even though I have to live with these compromises that somehow I still contribute more by being inside

and doing my thing than I would be by going into voluntary or enforced exile. Do you feel that yourself and other white people who oppose apartheid end up feeling that they have to shoulder a lot of guilt for being there or for acts that may seem compromised from your youth before you gain the awareness that you have now? That's very important. You really are touching on one of the most, one of the major factors in the psychology of the white South African is the operation, the presence of the genesis of the hoped-for elimination of guilt. Major, major factor. God knows, I think that, I mean I lived with that as one

of the most potent factors in my psychology, as I've said before, 53 years old now. I must admit that as I'm getting older now, I'm getting a bit tired of being guilty, of feeling guilty, and I'm beginning to ask myself just how guilty am I? Haven't I in fact laid a lot of those guilts on myself? Am I as guilty as I thought I was? And, well, let me just leave it at that. Let me just say that I'm in the process of really addressing the question of my guilt and that I think that possibly a lot of my writing in the, some of my writing in the future might be an examination of that fact.

Do you have to ask yourself how productive guilt is at a certain point? True guilt, the admission of true guilt, is very important and can only be productive. To operate, to act out of false guilt is stupid and pointless. Your plays have been performed in South Africa and in America. I was thinking that American audiences might find it easier to give themselves over to your plays in that the kind of racism that is addressed in your plays is the kind of

racism that exists in South Africa. And what I'm saying here is that I think American racism is a more covert kind of racism than the apartheid kind. And because it's happening over there and we are not directly implicated in it, it's easier to perhaps not internalize some of the statements that you're making within your place. Yes, very interesting. You're you're you are absolutely right I mean I would go along with with what you have just said 100% it's very interesting actually to sort of examine in what respects racism in the two countries racism in South Africa and America are

similar and dissimilar the way racism in South Africa, because it is institutionalized, because it is in a sense the system, it is built into the system, the way in a sense it frees the individual of having to, you know what I mean is South Africa has never produced a lynch party. You get my point? The lynch mob is something unknown in South Africa for the simple reason our system does it for us.

Our system hangs them. We don't have to get together as a mob and go out after the black man. Is there a time that you have in your mind when you think you would actually leave South Africa, if things reached a certain point? I would never leave South Africa. I'd like to believe I would never leave South Africa. But in making that decision, I mean, I sort of commit my wife to it as well. I haven't quite resolved that one for myself yet. My interview with Ethel Fugard was recorded

in 1986. He died Saturday at age 92. After we take a short break, we'll listen back to an interview with soul singer Jerry Butler, who died last month, and we'll remember jazz drummer Roy Haynes, today is the centennial of his birth. I'm Terry Gross, and this is Fresh Air. This message comes from Wyze, the app for doing things in other currencies. Sending or spending money abroad, hidden fees may be taking a cut. With Wyze, you can convert between up to 40 currencies at the mid-market exchange rate.

Visit wise.com, TNCs apply. The great soul singer Jerry Butler died last month at the age of 85. We're going to remember him by listening back to our interview from 2000. He first recorded with the group, The Impressions, which he co-founded with his friend Curtis Mayfield. Butler sang lead on The Impressions' 1958 hit, For Your Precious Love, which he also co-founded with his friend Curtis Mayfield. Butler sang lead on the Impressions 1958 hit

For Your Precious Love, which he also co-wrote. After leaving the group, Butler went solo and had the hits He Will Break Your Heart, Let It Be Me, Make It Easy on Yourself, I Stand Accused, What's the Use of Breaking Up, and Only the Strong Survive, which is the title of his memoir, which had just been published when we spoke. The Philadelphia radio DJ, Georgie Woods,

nicknamed Butler the Iceman because his style and stage presence were so cool. Butler was born in rural Mississippi in 1939. Three years later, he moved with his family to Chicago where he continued to live. He became politically active in the city, serving on the Cook County Board of Commissioners from 1985 to 2008. When we spoke, he was serving his fourth term. We started with his 1969 hit, Only the Strong Survive. He co-wrote the song with

Kenny Gamble and Leon Hough. Boy, boy, boy, boy Oh, I see you sitting out there all alone Crying your eyes out Because the woman that you love is gone Oh, there's gonna be, there's gonna be A whole lot of trouble in your life A whole lot of trouble Oh, so listen to me Get up off your knees

Cause only the strong survive That's what she said Only the strong survive Only the strong survive Yeah, you gotta be strong You better hold on Don't go Go Jerry Butler, welcome to Fresh Air. You better hold on, hold on, hold on

Jerry Butler, welcome to Fresh Air. Thank you, Terry. Tell us the story behind this song. Actually, this song, the lyrics, were actual conversation that I had with my mother when I was about 16 years old. I was in love with an older woman, if you can believe that. And naturally she said, this is a kid, I've got to move on with my life and do some other things. And so she just kind of dropped me like a hot potato. So I went, told mama, hey, look,

this is the end of the world. She said, boy, let me tell you this, that you have not seen half of the beautiful, lovely women in this world and for you to be going through these kinds of changes this early in your life is absolutely ridiculous. Get out of here, you'll get over it and only the strong survive was really created out of that conversation. Kenny Gavilan, Leon Huff were the co-writers on it but the introduction

that was recited was really from that conversation with my mother. What would you say is the importance of this song in your career? You know, first of all, it was the first legitimate gold record. And when I say legitimate gold record, I mean, For Your Precious Love and He Will Break Your Heart probably were gold records, but I never received one for it. Only Strong Survive was the first record that I actually got from a recording company that said you are certified as having sold over a million copies of this song. But more important than that was that it

was during the period of the Civil Rights Movement, it was near the end of a lot of things were happening. The Black Power Movement was in vogue, and as a matter of fact, I realized that the song was a hit doing a concert at Prairie View College in Prairie View, Texas. And the kids had kind of adopted the slogan, Only the Strong Survive, as their theme song. And then there were a bunch of soldiers who came back from Vietnam who told me

that Only the Strong Survive was helpful in seeing them through some very trying times and they believed that it had helped them to come out of those foxholes. Now you first sang gospel music. You were part of a group called the Northern Jubilee Singers and Curtis Mayfield was in that group too. and of course you also sang together in the impressions.

How did you first meet? Curtis's grandmother, the Reverend Annabel Mayfield, was the pastor of this little congregation called the Traveling Soul Spiritualist Church. And Curtis's older cousins had this little group called the Northern Jewelry Singers. I wound up at this church one afternoon with a friend of mine, a fellow by the name of Terry Williams, because we just had singing in common and loved to do it. And he said, I want you to meet these people

and get to know them, and maybe you'll decide to get involved with it. And he said, I want you to meet these people and get to know them. And maybe you'll decide to get involved with the group. In fact, I did. We used to kick Curtis to the side because he was probably nine years old. He was the little guy. I was 13. I was an old man.

And so we kind of kept shoving him to the back, shoving him to the back, until he learned how to play the guitar. And then he kind of kept shoving him to the back, shoving him to the back, until he learned how to play the guitar. And then he kind of just took over because he was the real musician out of the group. Had your voice changed yet? As a matter of fact, it had. My voice went into the baritone register when I was about 13, and it has never come up again. What about Curtis Mayfield?

He's good enough. He was only nine. How did he sound? Well, you know, Curtis was just the opposite. Curtis always kind of sounded like a little girl, you know. Gotta keep on pushing. Can't stop now. Move up a little higher. So he always had that kind of thing going. And I think over time, he effectively, as Smokey has done, used it to the point that

it became really kind of his natural sound. Now, did you and Curtis Mayfield leave gospel music for rhythm and blues at about the same time? You know, we were never big and famous, as was Sam Cooke or Lou Rawls with the Pilgrim Travelers and Sam Cooke with the Soul Stirrers. And so when we started singing rhythm and blues, nobody was really affected by it, but maybe the people who belonged to the church and us. When Sam left, that was an uproar throughout the whole country in most of the churches

because here was this gospel icon that had gone from singing the sacred music to singing the secular music. But Curtis and I, we really made the, and I would like to say we made an extension rather than a transition because even in Curtis's music throughout the Civil Rights Movement or what have you, you can still hear the strains of the gospel. And he really wrote kind of inspirational songs as opposed to what I call hope to die love songs, which are the kind of things that I was writing. What's an example of a hope to die love song? Your precious love means more to me than any love could ever be.

Whereas he was writing, gotta keep on pushing, can't stop now, move up a little higher. You see? Yeah, yeah. The difference in attitude. Well, I think it's time to hear your first hit. For Your Precious Love, which was recorded in 1958 when you were with the Impressions.

And you say that this was, that the lyric was originally a poem that you wrote when you were in high school. Yes, a poem called They Say, as a matter of fact. As you will hear it in the lyric. Was it changed at all for the lyric, or is it exactly the same? The only thing that was changed

is the title, For Your Precious Love. Okay, this is 1958 Jerry Butler and the impressions. That any love could ever be For when I wanted you I was so lonely and so blue For that's what love will do And darling I Oh, would I Be glad that you

Were truly me And darling They say And, darling, they say that our love won't grow, but I just want to tell them that they don't know for as long. My guest is soul singer Jerry Butler. That's his 1958 hit with the impressions for your precious love. Now let's talk about how you recorded that song. You had been with a group that was I think called the Roosters. Actually the Roosters became the impressions. Right. So who changed the name to the Impressions? It was Curtis' idea. Curtis said one day after we had decided that...

Well, let me give you a little history. The Roosters was Arthur and Richard Brooks and Samuel Gooden, who were from Chattanooga, Tennessee. And while they were living there, they had a group called Four Roosters and a Chick, which was very cool for Chattanooga, Tennessee. They came to Chicago hoping that they were going to get a recording contract because at that time, Chicago was one of the music centers of the United States. Lots of record companies here. The Chick and one of the Roosters decided that these other three Roosters had lost their marbles,

and they weren't coming to Chicago on this fool's errand Curtis and Jerry Butler then become the other two roosters and Then one day we were doing something at at my wife's home as a matter of fact down in the basement and One of the little smart alec friends of hers said One of the little SmartElec friends of hers said, Cogadoodledoo! And that kind of wiped out the rooster name. We said, no, man, we've got to change this name. And Curtis said, well, wherever we go, what we want to do is to leave a lasting impression.

And we said, that's it. That's what we're going to call ourselves, the impressions. And that's how it came about. We're listening back to the interview I recorded with Jerry Butler in 2000. He died last month at age 85. We'll be right back with more of the interview after a short break. This is Fresh Air. Were there any squabbles about who would get to sing lead on your first recordings? You know, it kind of came with the song.

For instance, if Curtis wrote the song, Curtis sang the lead. If I wrote the song, I sang the lead. There was a squabble after Four Year Precious Love was released because Vivian Carter, who owned VJ Records, and she decided having had an experience with a group called The Spaniels, where she wanted to take the lead singer and give him a career of his own, but he was so interwoven with the fabric of The Spaniels that she was afraid she would destroy the whole thing, made a promise to herself that the next time someone came through

that door that had a unique sound and had a unique voice in it that she was going to build that unique voice along with the group so that in later years if there was a breakup or she won't decided to Move one of the parts toward another career. She could take one act and make two another career, she could take one act and make two. The impressions happened to be that act and Jerry Butler happened to be that voice. And so when the recording was released, it was released as Jerry Butler and the impressions and the group never recovered from it. We argued and fought about the billing from that day until the day I left, which was about seven months, eight months later. Did that have to do with your leaving? Yes

Explain more about that. Well here we were five young guys walked into a recording studio as the impressions Walked out as Jerry Butler and the impressions the other four guys were wondering Well, what did Jerry do to get top billing? How did all of a sudden it start to look as though we're working for him as opposed to him being just part of the group? When we get to the Apollo Theater in New York,

they have Jerry Butler in great big letters, the impressions in small letters. By the time we get to Miami, Florida, there's just Jerry Butler on the marquee, no impressions at all. And in each one of those places, the other guys refused to perform because their feelings were hurt, their pride was hurt. They just never could understand it And no matter how much I told them that I hadn't done anything that this was a decision that had been made by the record company

They just never bought it Let's hear the what I think was the first hit you had when you went solo. He will break your heart Yes, yeah, Curtis singing in the background. So even though it's a solo record is not really it's more of a duet And how did this become the song that you made? What happened was my wife, Annette Curtis, a young fellow by the name of Eddie Thomas, who was at that time working as a roadie, we were driving from Philadelphia to Atlantic City and we were talking about how the girls would hang at the backstage door to get a chance to say hello to the stars and hopefully they would get a chance to be invited out and etc. etc. And then the next morning the artists would leave town and those same girls would go back

to whoever they were dating, whatever they were doing before the star came to town And that was the concept behind he will break your heart. He uses all the great quotations He says the things I wish I could say but when he takes his bow and makes his exit You know, I'll be there to take you home Because I'm Jerry. I'm Jerry always be be here. That guy is Jerry. Gonna be gone in the morning. Okay. Recurred in 1960. This is Jerry Butler with Curtis Mayfield. It's been so much fun to talk with you. I want to thank you so much.

Thank you. He don't love you like I love you If he did he would break your heart He don't love you like I love you He's trying to tear us apart. Farewell. I know you're leaving me. My interview with Jerry Butler was recorded in 2000. He died last month. He was 85. Jazz drummer Roy Haynes, who played with jazz luminaries from Lester Young and Charlie Parker

to Gary Burton and Pat Metheny was born a hundred years ago today. Jazz historian Kevin Whitehead will have an appreciation after a break. This is fresh air. Today is the centennial of the birth of jazz drummer Roy Haynes. He almost made it to the occasion. He died in November at age 99. Haynes was one of the most in demand drummers in jazz, working with Lester Young, Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, Stan Getz, and Sarah Vaughan, and many others before he turned 30. And later with Gary Burton, Chick Corea, Pat Matheny,

and others. Jazz historian, Kevin Whitehead says, Haynes was a powerhouse who liked to prod his fellow players. Drummer Roy Haynes, what saxophonist Stan Getz in 1961. Haynes was on one of his several hot streaks in the early 60s, enlivening a few classic records with drum intros that grabbed your attention and sparked the action. Here's Roy Haynes kicking off a tune by Oliver Nelson. And one by pianist Andrew Hill. Behind the drums, Roy Haynes displayed power and intelligence. He was a quick and highly interactive listener who knew when to support a soloist and when

to provoke them. He grew up in Boston, picking up the sticks around age seven, and started playing professionally before he even had a full drum set. His parents were from Barbados and a variety of Anglo and Latino Caribbean rhythms would inform his phrasing. On a 1951 Charlie Parker record date with a Latin flavor, Haynes on drum set seamlessly blends with Afro-Cuban, Conga, and Bongo players, then swings and straight jazz time on his own, moving easily the music uptown and down. He landed a choice two-year gig with saxophonist Lester Young in 1947, and by the early 50s,

leaders were vying for his services. Haynes left Miles Davis to join Charlie Parker. He did a season backing Ella Fitzgerald, then five years with the even more acrobatic singer Sarah Vaughn. I.D.ing the members of her trio on stage, Vaughn took to giving him an introduction fans would echo ever after. Roy Haynes. He liked smart clothes, fast cars, and staying in shape. Roy Haynes prided himself on his fluid beat. He wasn't one for practicing the rudimental exercises drum students learn early. Like other heavy swingers at the drums, he'd give two-beat patterns a triplet-y three-beat

feel for tumbling headlong momentum. Haynes could be crafty, playing behind Philonius Monk live in 1958, sometimes matching the pianist and transigents with a bit of his own. In the early 60s Roy Haynes subbed in John Coltrane's quartet when Elvin Jones was unavailable. A few years later he connected with a young pianist whose father he'd known in Boston, Chick Correa. His trio album, Now He Sings, Now He Sobs, with Miroslav Vitos on bass was an instant classic that had spawned a few sequels. Check out Roy Haynes' creative work on cymbals, hi-hat, and snare drum on Matrix. He's a sleek modern designer and sound. ["Symbols," by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Band, by The Bumblebee Roy Haynes at age 43, 1968. By the 1990s, Roy Haynes was a widely respected jazz elder known for his unfailing good taste.

He was choosy about who he recorded with, not just anyone who had the money. Besides leading his own bands, he'd reunite with former comrades like Chick Corea, Sonny Rollins, and Pat Matheny and connect with young bloods like Christian McBride, Joshua Redmond, and Roy Hargrove. In the new century, Haynes assembled his so-called Fountain of Youth band, which featured a series of up-and-coming players. That band's last release session comes from 2011, when Roy Haynes was 86, capping a 65-year recording career studded with more jazz classics than we have time to even hint at. He was a heavy hitter whose limber beat could lift a bandstand. Kevin Whitehead is our jazz historian and author of the book Play the Way You Feel,

the essential guide to jazz stories on film. Roy Haynes Centennial is being marked today with a Jazz Memorial and Centennial celebration at St. Peter's Church in New York City. If you'd like to catch up on fresh air interviews you missed, like this week's interview with comic and actor Bill Burr or with journalist David Enrich whose book Murder of the Truth is about how freedom of the press is being threatened by tech billionaires, corporations and political figures, check out our podcast. You'll find lots of Fresh Air interviews.

And to find out what's happening behind the scenes of our show and get our producers recommendations for what to watch, read, and listen to, subscribe to our free newsletter at whyy.org slash freshair. Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our managing producer is Sam Brigger. Thea Chaloner directed today's show.

Our co-host is Tanya Mosley. I'm Terri Gross. Hey, it's A Martinez. A lot of short daily news podcasts focus on one story, but sometimes you need un poquito más. For Up First on NPR, we bring you the three top world headlines every single day in under 15 minutes because no one story can capture all that's happening in este mundo tan grande on any given morning. So listen to the Up First podcast from NPR. Neuroscientist Ethan Cross says, you may think it's healthy to vent about what's

bothering you, but the problem is you often leave that conversation feeling really good about the person you just communicated with, but all the negative feelings are still there. Sometimes they're even more activated. Tools for managing our emotions. That's on the Ted Radio Hour podcast from NPR.