Shamek Farrah - 1977 - The World Of Children

Shamek Farrah

1977

The World Of Children

01. The World Of The Children 9:58

02. Conversation Piece 6:28

03. Milt: A Bass Solo 2:57

04. People Puttin People Through Change 7:17

05. Juluis 5:22

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Alto Saxophone, Producer, Liner Notes – Shamek Farrah

Bass – Kiyoto Fuiwara, Milton Suggs (tracks: B1)

Drums – Freddie Wrenn

Percussion – Tony Waters

Piano – Sonelius Smith

Trumpet – Joseph Gardner

Recorded at Sound Ideas, April 1976.

The Enigmatic Alto Whisperer and the Piano Philosopher: A Deep Dive into Shamek Farrah, Sonelius Smith, and Their Cosmic Jam Session, The World of Children

In the annals of jazz history, where legends like John Coltrane and Miles Davis strut like cosmic peacocks, there lurk quieter figures—shadowy virtuosos who drop a masterpiece or two and then vanish into the ether, leaving vinyl collectors weeping into their turntables. Enter Shamek Farrah and Sonelius Smith, two souls who collided in the funky, spiritual haze of 1970s New York to birth The World of Children in 1977. Farrah, the alto saxophonist with a tone that could melt butter or summon spirits (depending on the humidity), and Smith, the pianist whose keys danced like they were arguing with Thelonious Monk in a fever dream. Their album? A Strata-East gem that's equal parts soulful groove, freewheeling exploration, and "what just happened?" wonder. It's the kind of record that makes you nod sagely while secretly wondering if the bass solo is code for the meaning of life. Buckle up, dear reader—this is their story, warts, wonders, and all, with just enough whimsy to keep the ghosts from getting too serious.

Shamek Farrah: From Bronx Streets to Baptist Pulpit, Via the Alto Sax Highway

Picture this: It's 1947, and in the bustling heart of the Bronx, New York City, a baby named Anthony Domacase enters the world. No fanfare, no prophetic saxophone wail—just the usual urban symphony of taxi horns and neighborly arguments. Little Anthony picks up the alto sax at age 12, studying under the watchful eye of Garvin Bushell, a Harlem Renaissance survivor who'd blown with the likes of Fats Waller and Cab Calloway. Bushell, ever the taskmaster, drills the kid in the fundamentals: scales, breath control, and probably a side of "don't quit your day job." But Anthony? He's got fire in his reeds. By his teens, he's gigging in Latin jazz bands, rubbing elbows with salsa titan Willie Colón at sweat-soaked spots like the Palladium Ballroom. Imagine a 16-year-old Farrah (as he'd soon rechristen himself—Shamek meaning "gift of God" in Swahili, because why not go full cosmic?) dodging conga lines while sneaking peeks at Coltrane records, dreaming of scales that bend time itself.

The late '60s hit like a fever. New York is electric—Vietnam protests, Black Power rising, and jazz fracturing into free-form rebellion. Farrah, now in his early 20s, dives headfirst into the scene. He jams at after-hours spots, absorbs Cannonball Adderley's soul-jazz swagger, and Coltrane's spiritual fury. But life's no smooth solo: By day, he's hustling odd jobs; by night, he's chasing that elusive "it" factor. In 1972, at 25, lightning strikes. He signs with Strata-East Records, the Brooklyn-based haven for uncommercial jazz dreamers founded by Charles Tolliver and Stanley Cowell. It's a label that birthed Pharoah Sanders' outer-space explorations and Gil Scott-Heron's proto-rap prophecies—perfect for a saxman with Farrah's blend of grit and grace.

His debut, First Impressions (1974), is a revelation: jagged edges of post-bop meet spiritual quests, with Farrah's alto weeping like a street preacher over Milton Suggs' thunderous bass and a percussion section that sounds like a Harlem block party gone astral. Critics swoon—AllMusic calls it "spiritually intense new jazz"—but sales? Meh. Still, it puts Farrah on the map, or at least on the radar of fellow travelers like pianist Sonelius Smith. They cross paths in the mid-'70s, likely at a Village Vanguard jam or a loft session where the air smells of weed and enlightenment. Farrah, ever the collaborator, credits Smith as a key influence, saying in a rare 2025 New York Times interview that the pianist "opened doors I didn't know were locked." Their partnership yields The World of Children in 1977—a buoyant follow-up to Farrah's debut, trading some of the jaggedness for funky grooves that could make even a tax auditor tap their foot.

But here's where the plot thickens into full-on mystery novel. After The World of Children, Farrah jumps to RA Records for 1980's La Dee La La, a rollicking reunion with old Latin jazz pals that's basically a "buddies night out" in musical form—think congas, laughter, and zero pretension. He guests on a handful of Strata-East sides, blows with trumpeter Norman Person on the raw, cassette-only Live (1991), captured during '80s-'90s gigs that feel like time capsules of hard-bop nostalgia. Then... poof. The trail goes cold. No scandals, no comeback tours—just silence. Vinyl hounds scour Discogs for originals fetching $300+, while forums buzz with "Who is this guy?"

Fast-forward to September 2025: The Times outs him as Rev. Anthony Domacase, 78-year-old pastor of Jerusalem #1 Baptist Church in sleepy Kingsland, Georgia—population 20,000, zero jazz clubs. For 17 years, he's been preaching fire-and-brimstone Sundays, playing sax in local Christian bands without a whisper of his past life. "I don’t toot my own horn," he quips, pun unintended. No "Hey, congregation, remember that Strata-East banger?" Just quiet integration: blending gospel hymns with subtle Coltrane echoes, fitting into the scenery like a chameleon in a choir robe. It's the ultimate jazz plot twist— the avant-garde alto slinger turned soul-saving shepherd. In a genre full of junkies and jet-setters, Farrah's arc is refreshingly humble: He chased the muse, dropped gold, and chose peace. As he told the Times, "Music was my first church." Who needs encores when you've got eternity?

Farrah's output is slim—three leaders, scattered sideman spots—but potent. Influences? Coltrane's sheets of sound, Adderley's bounce, a dash of Latin fire. His tone: Warm as cognac, sharp as a switchblade. And that mystery? It's catnip for crate-diggers. In 2025, remasters of First Impressions and The World of Children hit digital platforms for the first time, courtesy of his own Shamek Farrah & Folks imprint. Finally, the ghosts get streaming royalties. But knowing Farrah, he's probably tithed them to the church roof fund.

Sonelius Smith: From Mississippi Mud to Manhattan Keys—A Pianist's Perpetual Motion Machine

If Farrah's the vanishing act, Sonelius Smith is the eternal sideman—the pianist who's played with everyone, composed for titans, and still finds time to paint abstract canvases that look like jazz transcribed onto canvas. Born Sonelius Larel Smith on December 17, 1942, in Coahoma County, Mississippi—deep Delta blues territory, where the cotton fields whisper Muddy Waters riffs—he's pure American gumbo: Southern roots, Northern hustle, cosmic aspirations. At six, his family hauls him to Memphis, where classical piano lessons commence under stern-fingered tutors. It's rote Bach and Beethoven, but young Sonelius sneaks bebop on the side, fingers flying like escaped fireflies.

By high school, he's a prodigy, snagging a music scholarship to what was then Arkansas Agricultural, Mechanical & Normal College (now University of Arkansas at Pine Bluff), a historically Black powerhouse. There, he majors in music education, studies theory with Josephus Robinson, and jams in a campus combo with future sax giant John Stubblefield. Graduates in 1969? Boom—off to Europe with The New Directions quartet, touring smoky clubs from London to Lisbon. It's his first taste of the big leagues: Stubblefield on sax, Benjamin Jones on trumpet, all backed by Smith's percolating keys. Back stateside, the '70s unfold like a Roland Kirk fever dream. Smith tours a year with Kirk himself—Blacknuss (1969), Rahsaan Rahsaan (live frenzy)—then freelances with the gods: Kenny Dorham's trumpet fire, Charles Mingus' volcanic bass, Elvin Jones' polyrhythmic thunder, Archie Shepp's revolutionary roar, Freddie Hubbard's golden horn, Art Blakey's hard-knock wisdom, even Lionel Hampton's vibraphone swing. It's a resume that reads like a jazz family reunion: Rashied Ali on drums, Warren Smith on vibes, Donald Byrd on flugelhorn. Smith's not just playing; he's the glue, the spark, the guy who keeps the chaos coherent.

Mid-'70s: He joins Stanley Cowell's ensemble, a cerebral crew blending post-bop with African rhythms. Then, enter Shamek Farrah. Their collab sparks on The World of Children (1977), but it's no one-off—Smith's mid-decade work with Farrah's Flight to Sanity group lays the groundwork, trading ideas in lofts where rent was paid in improvisations. Smith's comps get covered by heavyweights: Ahmad Jamal records his tunes, David Murray blows them big-band style, Robin Kenyatta adds fire. By the '80s, he's in the Piano Choir collective, dropping Handscapes 2 (1975, reissued later), a percussive piano orgy that's equal parts Cecil Taylor cluster-bombs and Herbie Hancock funk.

But Smith's no one-trick pony. Post-jazz prime, he founds the Sonelius Smith Trio with bassist Adam Kahan and baritone saxist Claire Daly—still gigging in Brooklyn basements and Soapbox Gallery nooks as of 2025. At 82, he's a force: 45+ albums under his belt, from Strata-East obscurities to Mingus sideman glory. Offstage? He's a painter, filling his Brooklyn brownstone with three pianos, an upright bass, guitars, drums, and canvases splashed with improvisational fury—bluesy abstracts that mirror his keys. "When not making music," his bio deadpans, "Sonelius is a prolific painter." Understatement of the century; the man's a Renaissance whirlwind in sensible shoes.

Smith's style? Incendiary yet patient—fiery clusters à la Taylor, soulful Monk angles, Hancock pocket grooves, all laced with silence as a co-conspirator. He's the "greatest pianist you've probably never heard," per Soapbox Gallery, because he thrives in the shadows, elevating others. No ego solos here; just profound, puzzling beauty. In 2025, with The World of Children remastered, Smith's legacy gleams anew—a Delta-born sage who's outlasted trends, collaborators, and probably a few pianos.

The World of Children (1977): A Strata-East Sermon on Funky Hope

Ah, 1977. Disco's glittering like fool's gold, punk's snarling in CBGB toilets, and jazz? It's splintering into spiritual soul-funk hybrids that sound like church on a street corner. Enter The World of Children, co-led by Farrah and Smith on Strata-East (SES-1971), recorded April 1976 at Sound Ideas Studios in NYC. Producer: Farrah. Engineer: George Klabin (Strata's sonic wizard). Cover: Ron Warwell's ethereal photo of kids in a sun-dappled playground—innocent, yet laced with that '70s "save the children from the man" vibe. The lineup? A murderers' row of underground aces: Farrah on alto sax, Smith on piano, Joseph Gardner on trumpet (crisp as autumn leaves), Kiyoto Fujiwara on bass (deep and roiling), Milton Suggs on bass (for his solo spotlight), Freddie Wrenn on drums (propulsive, never flashy), Tony Waters on percussion (the secret sauce, all shakers and congas). Five tracks, 32 minutes—lean, mean, and mystical.

This ain't your grandpa's bebop; it's spiritual jazz with a side of soul strut, blending Coltrane quests, Latin bounce, and funk undercurrents that prefigure '80s smooth jazz without the cheese. Farrah's alto is the heart—lyrical glides one moment, exotic wails the next—while Smith's piano is the brain, darting from elliptical clusters to melodic runs like a philosopher dodging paparazzi. The rhythm section? Locked in like a well-oiled protest march. Critics adore it: Jazzwise calls it a "joyous, Latin-tinged workout"; Rate Your Music dubs it a "super soul jazz" sampler of Strata's magic; UKVibe praises its "celebratory buoyant tempo." AllMusic's milder: "Soul jazz in a spiritual vein, delivered with passion." (Subtext: Solid, but the sidemen steal the show.) Me? It's a banger that sneaks up on you—like finding $20 in an old jacket, but the jacket's on fire with groove.

Track-by-Track Breakdown:

The World of the Children (Smith, 9:58) – The opus, the anchor, the "why this album exists" jam. Opens with Smith's clangorous piano chords clashing like cosmic cymbals, Waters' percussive washes evoking a rainy-day playground. Then—bam—Latin-tinged eruption: Wrenn's drums gallop, Fujiwara's bass roils like a Delta storm, and Farrah/Gardner horns lock in joyous tandem. Smith's solo? A Cecil Taylor fever dream meets Herbie Hancock house party—askew yet perfect. Farrah's blowing: Powerful, lyrical, Arthur Blythe-esque (think Lenox Avenue Breakdown). It's 10 minutes of pure uplift, building to a peak that feels like hugging the universe. Highlight? The horn unisons—soulful enough to make cynics believe in tomorrow. Downside? If you're late for brunch, this track will hold you hostage. Score: 10/10 – The banger that birthed David Murray's big-band cover.

Conversation Piece (Smith, 6:28) – Funky lollop alert! Bass line grooves like it's late for a date, Wrenn's percussive snap keeps it radio-ready (in an alternate '77 where jazz ruled FM). Farrah and Gardner trade tandem lines—alto exotic, trumpet crisp—while Smith shape-shifts: Monk quirks to Hancock funk, slipping "out to lunch" for delicious dissonance. Waters adds conga spice; it's tight, conversational, utterly alive. Imagine a barbershop quartet if they traded clippers for horns. Score: 9/10 – Effortlessly cool; you'd bump this at a block party with ghosts.

Milt: A Bass Solo (Suggs, 2:57) – Uh... yeah. Just Suggs, alone with his upright, plucking a meditative monologue. No horns, no keys—just deep, swaggering thunder that rumbles like a bassist's therapy session. It's bold (Strata loved these unaccompanied detours), and Suggs owns it with swagger. But in a septet album? Feels like the band stepped out for smokes. Charming interlude or awkward pause? You decide. Score: 7/10 – Respect the strut, but pass the aux cord.

People Puttin' People Through Changes (Farrah, 7:17) – The leader's lone comp, and what a mood: Striding bass, laid-back drums create a soulful glide for Farrah's glissando alto—exotic shadings over social commentary (title's a nod to life's BS, natch). Smith's melodic runs dance delicately, Waters' percussion whispers empathy. It's the album's emotional core—funky yet reflective, like venting over cognac. Subtle modulation keeps it fresh; no bombast, just heart. Score: 9/10 – Farrah's finest hour; changes indeed, but the good kind.

Julius (Gardner, 5:22) – Closer with swing: Fujiwara's walking bass, Wrenn's shimmering cymbals set a low-key jam. Farrah dips low-register for moody hues, Gardner trills crisply, Smith licks soulfully. Subtle shifts modulate like a sly wink—ends communal, unresolved yet satisfied. A nod to Julius Watkins? Who knows, but it grooves. Score: 8/10 – Swingin' sendoff; leaves you humming, not preaching.

Overall Verdict: 8.8/10. The World of Children is Strata-East distilled: Passionate, precise, profoundly human—spiritual jazz that grooves without selling out. Farrah and Smith's chemistry elevates the ensemble; it's buoyant where First Impressions was jagged, a "celebration" per Farrah. Flaws? The bass solo's a quirky detour, and leaders sometimes lurk backstage. But that's jazz—imperfect, alive. Remastered in 2025 (Pure Pleasure/Bandcamp), it sounds pristine: Analog warmth, no digital chill. Seek it for the uplift; stay for the mystery. In a world of auto-tune, this is hand-crafted hope. As Farrah might preach: Play it loud, love it deeper, and remember—the children's world is ours to groove.

There you have it: Two jazz nomads, one eternal album. If Farrah's the quiet exit and Smith's the endless encore, The World of Children is their shared hymn—funky, fleeting, forever. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to spin it while pondering my own "changes." What's your excuse?