Flutist Adam Sadberry, 27, never met his grandfather, the pioneering African American journalist L. Alex Wilson (1909-1960). Just about everything Sadberry knew about Wilson he learned secondhand: his mother was three when Wilson died, and he didn’t hear much more from his grandmother before her death in 2019.
That same year, Sadberry — originally from a suburb of Houston and now based in the Twin Cities — was invited to play principal flute in the Memphis Symphony. It was a serendipitous invitation to reconnect with his grandfather’s legacy: Wilson spent most of his career in Memphis as a journalist at the Tri-State Defender, part of the Chicago Defender’s media group.
Now, that legacy is the driving force behind “Musical Journalism,” a recital program Sadberry has toured nationwide for the better part of a year and coming to the University of Chicago. Flanked by pieces for flute and piano by Allison Loggins-Hull, Coleridge-Taylor Perkinson and others, “__not running,” a 25-minute commission for flute and electronics by Minnesota-based composer Dameun Strange, pays direct tribute to Wilson.
“The second to last movement ends with a quote by my grandfather: ‘Any newsman worth his salt is dedicated to the proposition that it is his responsibility to report the news factually under favorable and unfavorable conditions,'” Sadberry says. “Those words have stuck with me.”
Born in Orlando, Florida, Wilson covered major touchstones of the burgeoning civil rights movement for the Tri-State Defender: the Montgomery bus boycotts, the integration of Little Rock Central High School and the lynching of Emmett Till. With the assistance of an “effective Negro underground system” in Mississippi, Wilson not only sought out eyewitnesses of Till’s murder but whisked them north to Chicago, where they could safely provide testimony. As safe harbor, Wilson himself often slept overnight in Black funeral homes while covering the trial.
“I had decided before leaving home, and after communing with God, that if I could in any way help contribute anything to justice in the shameful case by my effort, whatever the price, so be it,” Wilson wrote in a 1955 Defender article.
He soon learned just how steep that price could be. On Sept. 23, 1957, Wilson was beaten by a white mob while on assignment in Little Rock. The harrowing moment was captured by photojournalists and news cameras. One man leapt on Wilson’s back, strangling him from behind; another bashed his head with a brick.
Wilson was there to cover the news. But overnight, he became the news, his image and name splashed all over newspapers across the country, white and black. Up until the moments of his beating, Wilson calmly walked away from the mob, bending to pick up and re-don his hat every time he was shoved. Wilson’s superhuman bravery was noted by civil rights activists, colleagues and, eventually, President Dwight D. Eisenhower, who is believed to have dispatched the National Guard to Little Rock after the coverage of his beating.
Sadberry says his grandfather refused to run because he was honoring a promise he made to himself years before, as a schoolteacher in Florida. There, one day, he encountered a group of Klansmen while out alone. Wilson ran and lived to tell the tale, but he vowed to never run away from racism again.
“He never wanted to let any sense of fear control him. That is white supremacy does, in a nutshell,” Sadberry says.
Sadberry’s family believes the injuries sustained during his beating led to Wilson’s rapid neurological decline. Just 51, he died in Chicago on Oct. 11, 1960, three years after being beaten in Little Rock.
The following conversation with Sadberry has been edited and condensed.
Q: How did this musical dive into your grandfather’s life begin?
A: This journey started when I was in Memphis. Somehow, I was appointed principal flute of the Memphis Symphony kind of out of nowhere: I got a Facebook message inviting me to play guest principal in 2019. Halfway through the first season, the world began shutting down; everyone was looking at George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. I realized I ended up in Memphis during the modern civil rights movement, just like my grandfather did during the original one.
I started researching him at the local library in Memphis, where his newspaper was archived. I began to really understand what it means to be courageous and to be unwavering in your sense of determination — to cultivate love for your people, and to ensure the rest of the world reckons with what that looks like.
Q: What does your mother remember about your grandfather?
A: Not too much. The one memory she told me of him was her touching a stove that was way too hot, as a toddler. He told her, “That’s not a good idea, Karen.” (Laughs) She internalized that. Like him, she’s a very coolheaded person.
Q: Tell us about “__not running,” Dameun Strange’s new work honoring your grandfather.
A: My management, Concert Artists Guild, and the BMI Foundation basically said, “Hey, we love your projects; we love what you’re doing with your grandfather. We would love to sponsor a commission.” I was through the roof, and I looked through a list of Black composers to see if there’d be a good match.
Dameun was already investing in powerful Black historical figures, and his music seemed to go right to the heart of the matter. He writes with a lot of electronics; he’s not afraid to genre-bend. We collaborated on the basic premise. It became this five-movement work, with the first four movements representing standard elements of nature.
The water movement is supposed to conjure my grandfather’s spirit. It reminds everyone that his presence is still felt. The second movement is Earth, where the seed for his activism was planted. You can feel this surging energy, like this oak tree of a man is beginning to blossom and make his convictions clear to the world. The third movement, air, is about my grandfather receiving the message to carry on his journey. You can hear bells playing in the background, alluding to the Birmingham church bombing (of 1963).
After that is the fire movement, which is my personal favorite to play. It is entirely improvised over a trap beat. It’s supposed to tap into the rage inside my grandfather’s compassion. Learning that movement was difficult for me; anger is something I repressed a lot in my childhood. It’s cathartic to just let it bubble.
The very last movement is the nonstandard element representing prayer. That’s also fully improvised, and it’s my chance to honor him directly. I’m here to be a conduit for what he has done and to continue it in the best way that I can. This piece is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.
Q: If you could speak to your grandfather today, where would you start?
A: I’d start with when he made the transition from being a school principal in Florida, where he encountered the KKK, to being a journalist. I would love to hear how he was able to fully believe in his ability to be a part of change. He didn’t run from being hit with bricks in Little Rock, you know — he had an unshakable sense of determination.
If I can learn that skill, I think I’ll be able to continue his legacy. My grandfather had his pen. I have my flute.
7:30 p.m. Feb. 5 at the Logan Center for the Arts at the University of Chicago, 915 E. 60th St.; free, more information at music.uchicago.edu
Hannah Edgar is a freelance critic.
The Rubin Institute for Music Criticism helps fund our classical music coverage. The Chicago Tribune maintains editorial control over assignments and content.
