Across the decades, Meshell Ndegeocello has worked with many consequential jazz figures: she’s voyaged with Herbie Hancock, fed the fire with Geri Allen and soul-danced with Joshua Redman.
But her music has a beating pop heart — and not just because she’s also collaborated with Madonna, Chaka Khan and the Rolling Stones. Accordingly, she’s fully aware of pop’s inherent power and limitations.
“I love pop music, but I didn’t want to entice people with a turn of phrase,” the GRAMMY-winning bassist, multi-instrumentalist, singer, songwriter, and composer says of her new album, The Omnichord Real Book. “I wanted them to hear something that is: wake up, return, balance, align.”
The Omnichord Real Book is Ndegeocello’s first album of original material in nearly a decade and her debut on Blue Note Records. True to her stature in jazz and jazz-adjacent spaces, Ndegeocello is joined by some of their best and brightest: pianist Jason Moran, trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire, harpist Brandee Younger, and many others appear in its grooves.
But Ndegeocello has evaded categories from the jump, and “jazz” can’t box her in. Midway through the interview, she stresses that the high-profile guests weren’t “curated” for cred. Ndegeocello even announces that she’d like to collaborate with Taylor Swift.
Like its creator, The Omnichord Real Book is a Pandora’s box. The title refers to the electronic instrument, which she took to during lockdown. The African diaspora runs through songs like “Georgia Ave” and “Omnipuss.” The passing of both her parents formed the album’s wounded center — but also its sense of overcoming, and starting over.
As you listen, read on for an interview with Ndegeocello about the state of her musical thinking, her blossoming capacity for collaboration and why it’s important to “cherish your voice — your uniqueness, your touch.”
This interview has been edited for clarity.
This is your first collection of original music in some time. Draw a thread for our readers through the past decade of your life and creative output.
To be honest, it was the downtime of the pandemic that allowed me to hear my thoughts again — hear the music in my head.
It was that downtime that also kickstarted my TV and film scoring. So I was spending seven to eight hours on a computer a day. And so at the end of the day, after making dinner for the family, I yearned for music, but I found myself playing with my omnichord — just anything without a screen. My Casio keyboard, or basses and guitars.
I just wanted to escape that looking at music, you know? I’m looking at waves; I’m looking at a screen. And so a lot of the writing just came from that. Being alone, being by myself — having beginner’s mind, so to speak.
I’ve been on computers since I was a child. I wish I didn’t have to use one anymore.
Even doing Zoom is hard. I have a landline. I wish we could just call and talk on the phone. But it’s not because I’m nostalgic; I want to make that clear. I’m not nostalgic, I’m not pastiche, and I’m not a grumpy old person. I love technology — oh my god.
But just for me at that moment, I wanted to get back to the mysticism of sound. How your ears can be a time machine. When you hear a certain song from your childhood, it transports you.
And I don’t think it’s because you see the videos, it’s because you hear something in it. It touches something in your brain that creates all that chemical reaction that you feel, see and smell where you were at that time. And that’s what I’m really into now. I think the sound waves are powerful, and I’m trying to disconnect my visual senses from that experience now.
One of my favorite bits of jazz lore is that Wes Montgomery learned to do what he did by just sitting there with a guitar and Charlie Christian on the turntable. That extends to most of the 20th century. Can you connect that to the mystical, ineffable stuff of music?
Oh, exactly. Ineffable. I mean, I too sat with the Prince records and just learned them — and the Parliament-Funkadelic records, and the Sting records, and the Howard Jones records, and the Thomas Dolby records, who was sort of the first beta tech person to me in music. Scritti Politti and Thomas Dolby.
What I mean by the mysticism is: I found myself listening to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan a lot during the pandemic. I found myself listening to George Russell during the pandemic. Stanley Turrentine, these sorts of analog gems.
Wayne Shorter and Steve Coleman showed me that there’s something mystical in the rhythms and the harmonies that they can create that are beyond comprehension, that have no technology involved. It’s just in their writing and composition.
That’s what I mean: where you could hear something and it just blows your mind. How did they get there melodically? How did they get there rhythmically? And I just long for that now.
It’s really about the person — what you do with it. And so lately with Logic, speaking of that, I keep my screen black and white. And when I find myself on playbacks, I turn it off or walk away. I just try to engage with it differently.
I really enjoy just listening again. Taking a walk and letting my aural senses entice me instead of constantly having my eyes determine what I feel or what I see. And maybe that edit’s not right. Is the bass flamming? I don’t know if it feels good, I leave it. Just sort of letting go of the visual aspect of production.
With that established, where did the Omnichord Real Book songs come from? What did you want them to spiritually transmit?
I must admit I’m a little nervous about talking about my faith and spirituality. I guess during COVID there was a lot of death, and just a lot of emptiness, and an inability to engage sorrow. And so I think in this record you hear that a little bit.
After all the songs were written, it was super important to me for us all to be in the studio together. And that’s what I wanted to come across. I am the songwriter, I do come up with the ideas, but it’s the people that give it life, and give it limbs, and different hues, and just different ways of self-expression.
I paid for this record myself. I made it and then let Blue Note hear it. So it’s pretty much all of what I wanted to have come to fruition. And so it’s just all about playing together. It’s about singing in a group.
If you notice, there’s a lot of group vocals. I think there’s a reason we have choirs or the reason people gravitate to spaces that have a lot of people who are collectively trying to be at peace. And so I hope that comes through there.
The songs are simple — just little poetry elements. I love pop music, but I didn’t want to entice people with a turn of phrase. I wanted them to hear something that is: wake up, return, balance, align.
Every morning is a chance to try again, to try to do something different with yourself, to try to feel different, to try to engage your partner and wife different. Every day is another chance. And I think that’s what I’m trying to show in the album.
Can you talk about your version of Samora Pinderhughes’ “Gatsby”? That seems to be a lynchpin to the album.
When my father passed, my mother passed, I had to clean out their house. I found my old Real Book that my father gave me just so I could get through the gigs with him. He had lost a bass player. That book allows five or more people to get together and concentrate on one song and play together if they don’t know each other, and it’s got to be a quick sort of gel.
[With] Samora’s song — or “Hole in the Bucket,” written by Justin Hicks — I want to aid in the new standards, the new songs that maybe we’ll look back on. I think Samora’s lyric is brilliant in Gatsby. It’s a time, it’s an old story that’s been here. What does it gain you to have the whole world and lose your soul? So yeah, I think that’s going through there.
I’m at an age now where it’s important to be upfront. It’s not so important to be the main voice. And I want to show that as we pass through time, the gift you can give is just to big up other people, bring them along to help put them in the position so that they can play more.
Like Joshua Johnson, and Hannah Benn, who I think is a genius — I want everyone to know her. The HawtPlates. It’s like, I just want to take this opportunity to put music in the world that feels good, brings about new energy, and showcases new talent.
There are so many titanic musicians in the scene to choose from. How did you curate who’d appear on The Omnichord Real Book?
My social skills were lacking during my early 20s. And on top of that, I had a record deal and I was traveling, so my sense of self was a little off. But I’m happy I went through that. And I was raised by musicians who were competitive — sort of real jazz, that jazz mentality of like, I’m going to tear you down to build you up.
But as I aged, and as a woman, I realized that energy just wasn’t really the energy I wanted to have. So when you speak of the guests, it’s just I think a testament to my growth as a human being and that I’m not as shy and insecure. And I really, if I meet someone and I love their playing, I’m asking them for their number, I’m going to text them, I’m going to ask them about their life and try to create some sort of rapport with them. So, these are just people I’ve been blessed to meet.
If anything, I’m not curating. That word hurts me. I’m in the sense, I want to be, kind of create collectives, like Don Cherry or something. I’m trying to just get everyone involved because that’s the beauty of music and probably why I didn’t become a painter.
Painting and visual arts is lonely. It’s a lonely thing. But once I learned that, wow, we’re all together in this music thing, it definitely inspired me to want to be more about the music. It’s like that’s the best part to me, that we all can get together and interact.
Can you talk about the role of the vocalist Thandiswa Mazwai on The Omnichord Real Book?
She was on one of my previous records, [2007’s] The World Has Made Me the Man of My Dreams. South African singer. Miriam Makeba anointed her. I just find her melodic and rhythmic sense amazing.
I am African American. I am not African. And to quote my brother [trumpeter] Nicholas Payton, I play Black American music. So, I think the participation was, again, just friendship and camaraderie.
But the song [“Vuma”]— what she’s talking about is vuma; is that vuma is the voice. And not only the voice of projection, and singing, or speaking, but the tone you have as a writer, as a musician, as a bassist.
We talk about the touch, the tone, the vuma. That’s what we’re trying to convey in that song. Not about perfection, or pitch. It’s the way that you carry yourself and protect that voice, so that individuality, it’s you — that you have a self.
I feel so many people want to sound, or feel, or experience like another. I think Thandiswa and I are just trying to remind you to cherish your voice — your uniqueness, your touch, your harmonic sense; your melodic, carefree ideas.
Don’t try to pigeonhole yourself in order to be successful. Just say it a little bit for yourself when you can. I think that’s what we’re trying to say.
What’s the state of your bass thinking — in conjunction with your compositional thinking, or instrumental thinking? Which point in your evolution are you in?
In terms of bass playing, I don’t play the same; I don’t hear the same. So, it’s my love instrument. It is like my appendage, so I don’t allow other people to question it. So I feel really secure in my bass playing, and with myself as a bassist.
As a songwriter, I’m just still hoping to grow. I want to create some more complex music, more complex instrumental music. And I’m blessed to say I’m getting asked to work with artists that I really admire.
I’m about to work with [saxophonist] Immanuel Wilkins in the so-called producer chair. But yeah, I want to work on arrangements and use the other parts of my brain. And find other artists that want to work with me as well.
So, that’s where I am now. I’m here to serve. How can I be of service as a human, as a parent, as a friend, as a musician?
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