Remembering Caravan of Dreams, South Africa and freedom

Posted Saturday, Jul. 28, 2012 0 comments  Print Reprints
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sanders The mention of one name last weekend at the BT River of Music festival in London, featuring acts from every country represented in the 30th Olympiad, had me longing for a special place and time in downtown Fort Worth.

Listening to National Public Radio, I heard the name and sound of the great trumpeter Hugh Masekela, the "godfather of South African music." He was headlining on the African Stage, one of six along the River Thames used to kick off the Olympic celebration, and it took me back to 1989 at the Caravan of Dreams when Masekela made his first-ever appearance in Texas.

Oh, how I miss the Caravan, which opened in 1983 with a downtown gala that started with a performance of the Fort Worth Symphony and native son jazzman Ornette Coleman at the convention center, followed by a reception and a show starring the saxophonist at the new nightspot that already had the whole town talking.

I attended that opening and joyfully walked the few blocks from the convention center to mingle with Fort Worth's "Who's Who" and the city's "regular folks" to officially christen Cowtown's latest cultural addition.

It didn't take long for the Caravan of Dreams, with its rooftop grotto bar and glowing glass geodesic-domed cactus garden, to become known around the country and much of the world as a leading venue for revered jazz and blues acts.

More than a club, the Caravan was a performing arts center, and it was one of the main sparks businessman Ed Bass used to ignite the development of the Sundance Square project.

Bass' deep pockets kept the dream alive for 18 years, but it closed in 2001 on the anniversary of the day it opened, making way for the new home of Reata restaurant after the devastating 2000 tornado.

For years, I was a regular Caravan patron, especially in the early days, listening to the likes of Wynton Marsalis, Dizzy Gillespie, Taj Mahal, Dr. John, Jimmy Smith and Harry Connick Jr.

One of the most memorable nights was when my wife and I went to hear legendary blues singer Koko Taylor shortly before our child was born. The baby became very active in the womb, kicking and moving like never before.

A few months after my son was born, Taylor appeared on a televised awards show and immediately caught our son's attention. We were convinced he recognized the sound as he began to respond to the music.

Perhaps the most special evening for our family at the Caravan was in 1989 when Masekela and his band performed, and we took our then-2-year-old son with us.

Keep in mind, South Africa was very much a topic of the day as Nelson Mandela was still in prison and, I thought, had no hope of getting out despite worldwide boycotts and sanctions against the apartheid government. There certainly was no way then that I could imagine Mandela becoming the first black president of South Africa, truly democratically elected.

Between shows that evening, Masekela spent time with us, talking about music and the black struggle. He interacted with my son, took pictures with us and even gave me his personal telephone numbers so we could keep in touch. I kept the numbers for a long time but never called.

The musician, now 73, wrote my son a note that night, and to this day it hangs with his photo in my home office. It reads:

"To Chandon, See you in Pretoria on Freedom Day. Don't forget yo' dancing shoes. Affectionately, Hugh Masekela."

This son of South Africa, who had been fighting a long time against the injustices in his country, clearly had the faith that freedom was coming -- and coming soon -- for millions of his countrymen and women.

But who knew how soon?

On Feb. 11, 1990, after being locked up for 27 years, Mandela walked out of prison as the whole world watched. And you can bet I had my dancing shoes on as I rejoiced with my brothers and sisters in South Africa while remembering the optimism Masekela expressed a few months earlier.

On Mandela's 94th birthday, July 18, I took down Masekela's note and re-read it to my now-grownup son.

Sadly, it doesn't mean as much to him as it does to me.

Bob Ray Sanders' column appears Sundays and Wednesdays. 817-390-7775

Twitter: @BobRaySanders

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