THE LEGEND OF
ABU THE FLUTEMAKER
Meet the Baltimore icon who transmutes found objects into transcendent music.
ISSUE 1: THE UN/MAKING ISSUEOne year after his pilgrimage to Mecca, I sat down with my grandfather in Baltimore to formally discuss his musical philosophy for the first time. Though our conversation was initially meant to explore the destiny of the instruments, it became more focused, through some poetic intervention, into a discussion about the origins of his material: material culture, material power, the material we discard, and the cyclical nature of fortune.
It was perhaps predestined that Pop Abu’s creative flair and appreciation for making would spread as the family tree grew. My mother, sister, cousins, aunts and uncles are musicians, artists, and community builders. My own creative work as an interior designer has developed as a practice that centers re-use, re-configuration, and puzzle-solving. I see the beauty in extending an object’s life by blessing it with new purpose, and find great meaning in “making do.” In the context of Western material excess, our endeavors to reduce waste, pass on treasures, and learn to love what we already live with feels particularly important.
Abu often makes room in casual conversation to discuss a person’s unique gifts. He reminds folks, quite passionately, that they may not yet be aware of all that they can do—that their gift may not yet have been unwrapped. I thank him, endlessly, for the time he took to share his wisdom, and for the untold gifts he has undoubtedly passed forward.
A lot of my instruments, if you were to hear them behind a partition, you would never believe what they were made from.
Abu the Flutemaker: My earliest experience with music was when I was four years old. I saw my first parade coming down the street. I was sitting on the stoop. I got so excited that I ran into the house and grabbed an oatmeal box and two pencils. I had myself a drum going right along with the parade. That was my first time recycling to create a musical instrument.
That would have been 1944, right?
Yes.
That was actually the year when the first music school for Black students opened in Baltimore: The Baltimore Institute of Musical Arts.
Wow.
How would you describe your experience living in Baltimore during that time?
When I was young, my people wasn't in certain communities. The people who adopted me, they were half white. My mother was allowed to go into stores that I couldn't go in. She would leave me outside when she was downtown shopping. Even after I got grown, it was about pigment. When I was 20, I couldn't ride no bike down this section of town called Hampden. They’d throw bricks, bottles, stones, and locks at me. When I got married, your mother's mother and I were riding on bikes when they threw all kinds of things. Now, Black people are all over Hampden. Times have changed.
Did you ever have any formal music teachers?
Music teachers! I need one. I still don't know how to read and write music. I play by ear and I’ve never had a music lesson. But I've been blessed.
Tell me more about your experience of childhood. What brought you joy as a child?
When I was coming up, they called it “being raised from pillar to post”—when the community took part in your rearing. They would ask me, “Junior, what you want for your birthday? What you want for Christmas?” I would always name an instrument. I’d say, “Could I have a drum?” “No, boy, you don't need a drum. Be gettin’ on my nerves,” they would say. “You don't need that kind of stuff. You need some shoes. You need a suit to wear to Church.” They would always skip over what I said I wanted and gave me what they thought was good for me to have.
But when they were high or drunk, and had their friends around, they would call me out to entertain their company. They’d say “Come in, show them what you can do. Put that music on, baby.”
But I learned from one of the people who took part in my rearing. He used a stick to prop open a window when they needed air in the summertime. One day, the stick was gone. And so he had to put a book up in the window as a substitute. And that's when it occurred to me: take and make do. Don't just see things for what they are, but see them for what they can be. At first, I was kind of angry and bitter about the way that I was brought up because I was denied the instruments that I wanted, not knowing that in the future I'd be able to make them. It ended up being a blessing in disguise—yeah, a blessing in disguise.
So what, then, makes something worthwhile to repurpose into an instrument?
I see an instrument in anything that makes noise. A lot of my instruments, if you were to hear them behind a partition, you would never believe what they were made from. For example, while a brother named Johnny was helping me move, the dresser tipped, and its mirror hit the pavement. I said, “Oh, my goodness! It's music in the glass.” I got the glass and cut it into several bar shapes. From this, I made what I called a celestial phone—a new xylophone. After I discover a new sound, I start improving the way to produce it. This process led me to realize, “This is an educational thing to show children. I can show them how to play the world's most accessible musical instruments—even a soda straw!”
You’re known in the community for constantly being outside—whether sitting on the stoop and making instruments or playing music in the street. Why there, why outside?
When I was twelve years old, I saw a movie that had a serious impact on me. The name of the movie was Pennywhistle Blues [EN: also known as The Magic Garden].
The movie was filmed in South Africa. It starts off in a church with a person collecting offerings through the aisles. There is a guy in the back of the church, watching him collect the money. He later goes around the back of the church, gets into the office, and snatches the sack full of money. He runs up to a house and buries the money in the ground. The people who live there come out to their garden and find the money that he had stolen. Since they were in debt to a store in town, they went down to the store to pay their debt off with the money.
When somebody saw the man from the store counting the debt, they went in and robbed him. They ran. They got rid of the money by throwing the sack up into a tree. As two lovers came through the woods, the wind blew the tree, and the money fell. The money kept passing from hand to hand, just like that. The last people who got the money ended up taking it back to the church where it came from.
Between each segment of the movie, a man walked down the street playing a flute. Every time the money was discovered, the scene switched to him playing that “penny whistle.” That image stuck in my head. Around then is when I started making flutes and playing on the street.
I see an instrument in anything that makes noise. A lot of my instruments, if you were to hear them behind a partition, you would never believe what they were made from. For example, while a brother named Johnny was helping me move, the dresser tipped, and its mirror hit the pavement. I said, “Oh, my goodness! It's music in the glass.” I got the glass and cut it into several bar shapes. From this, I made what I called a celestial phone—a new xylophone. After I discover a new sound, I start improving the way to produce it. This process led me to realize, “This is an educational thing to show children. I can show them how to play the world's most accessible musical instruments—even a soda straw!”
You’re known in the community for constantly being outside—whether sitting on the stoop and making instruments or playing music in the street. Why there, why outside?
When I was twelve years old, I saw a movie that had a serious impact on me. The name of the movie was Pennywhistle Blues [EN: also known as The Magic Garden].
The movie was filmed in South Africa. It starts off in a church with a person collecting offerings through the aisles. There is a guy in the back of the church, watching him collect the money. He later goes around the back of the church, gets into the office, and snatches the sack full of money. He runs up to a house and buries the money in the ground. The people who live there come out to their garden and find the money that he had stolen. Since they were in debt to a store in town, they went down to the store to pay their debt off with the money.
When somebody saw the man from the store counting the debt, they went in and robbed him. They ran. They got rid of the money by throwing the sack up into a tree. As two lovers came through the woods, the wind blew the tree, and the money fell. The money kept passing from hand to hand, just like that. The last people who got the money ended up taking it back to the church where it came from.
Between each segment of the movie, a man walked down the street playing a flute. Every time the money was discovered, the scene switched to him playing that “penny whistle.” That image stuck in my head. Around then is when I started making flutes and playing on the street.
At first, I was kind of angry and bitter about the way that I was brought up because I was denied the instruments that I wanted, not knowing that in the future I'd be able to make them. It ended up being a blessing in disguise.
It's interesting that the film began with a community pooling their money and then, without their knowledge, it was redistributed among that same community in an entirely different way. That journey produced a whole new set of interactions.
Right. The money left one place, helped a bunch of people, and ended right back up in the church again. It inspired me. And I wanted to be the Pennywhistle Blues flutist, you know?
Looking ahead, is there anything you want to do next?
I've learned a lot about people through my instruments. I would just like to keep sharing what I know with youth and encouraging them to think outside the box.
One final question. How did you get the name Abu the Flutemaker?
A man named Senior; he lived five or six doors down the street. He was a singer. He took me under his way, and he treated me like a big brother. He shared so much with me about life. He's the one who gave me the name Abu. He said, “A good name for you is Abu.” I didn't like it. I was moving on sound. “You know why?” He said, “Since you don't know who your father is, Abu means father. And perhaps you'll be a wonderful father to a child someday.” So I took it.
A lot of people ask, “How did you get into this? What started this?” So, in response, I wrote a poem. The name of the poem is Treasure Child.
Right. The money left one place, helped a bunch of people, and ended right back up in the church again. It inspired me. And I wanted to be the Pennywhistle Blues flutist, you know?
Looking ahead, is there anything you want to do next?
I've learned a lot about people through my instruments. I would just like to keep sharing what I know with youth and encouraging them to think outside the box.
One final question. How did you get the name Abu the Flutemaker?
A man named Senior; he lived five or six doors down the street. He was a singer. He took me under his way, and he treated me like a big brother. He shared so much with me about life. He's the one who gave me the name Abu. He said, “A good name for you is Abu.” I didn't like it. I was moving on sound. “You know why?” He said, “Since you don't know who your father is, Abu means father. And perhaps you'll be a wonderful father to a child someday.” So I took it.
A lot of people ask, “How did you get into this? What started this?” So, in response, I wrote a poem. The name of the poem is Treasure Child.
Treasure Child
by Abu The Flutemaker
What I'm about to tell you may sound cold,
but the story of the baby thrown away was never told.
A mother threw a baby in the trash.
She had no hope
Strung out on dope
She didn't have no cash.
Now the trash man carried the baby to the dump.
Paper, trash cans and bottles, and a broken water pump.
A passerby heard the baby cry.
He knew he had to hurry or this baby just might die.
So right away, he found the telephone.
He knew the right authority would find this child a home.
The doctors said the baby was okay.
The social workers came and quickly took the child away.
They talked about it on the evening news,
but no one came
to stake their claim
for a baby so abused.
A couple showed up, eager to adopt.
The woman said, “I'll be his mother.”
Man said, “I'll be his pop.”
“So let us sign the papers and be gone.
I promise you the two of us will treat him as our own.
For years we waited for a day like this.”
They wrapped him in a blanket.
They both gave him a kiss.
It would be nice if I could end this story there.
But a follow up on this baby's life is what I'm here to share.
They placed him in a house all laced with lead,
never knowing how the poison would affect this baby's head.
As years went by, they showed it no concern.
And when he entered into school, he found it hard to learn.
And every time he failed, that's when they beat.
On top of that, the fellow had that same grade to repeat
His self esteem had fallen to a low.
He felt so sad
He acted bad
To a shelter he would go.
A shelter with a bed, three meals to eat,
providing safety and security from harm out on the street.
Now, the people in the shelter showed him love (yes they did)
And they told him there'd be many blessings coming from above.
“Just place your faith in God to whom we trust.
He's giving something special to each and every one of us.”
With words of hope that gave his heart a lift.
It didn't take him very long to realize his many gifts.
From broken objects people threw away,
his imagination taught him how to make things he could play.
The music that was once a pile of trash,
has been recycled into instruments
he plays to earn some cash.
The broken glass became a xylophone.
Zodiac keychain whistles from a bamboo boojay bone.
The pillars from the porch became his drum.
A sardine can piano that he plays with both his thumbs.
A bootar with the sound of bending tones.
Baseball bats, chair leg, lampposts, sounding just like saxophones.
A pile of cans to him became his horn,
and from the trash can they were in
the first base harp was born.
He takes his shows to schools both near and far,
his instruments are in the trailer that he pulls along behind his car.
His audience amazed at what they've seen
and every time they clap their hands
it raised my self esteem.
I'm delighted when I see the children smile,
and hope that I'll inspire another little treasure child.
Now, I may not be a millionaire, that's true
but still I earn a living doing what I love to do.
Now, I know I've held your ears for quite a while,
but I had to tell the story of the blessed treasure child.
One man's junk is another man's treasure, child.