The name Adele Sebastian likely doesn’t ring bells in broader jazz circles, but it should. During her lifetime, a tragically short span of 27 years due to kidney failure, she played flute alongside a number of prominent West Coast jazz musicians, and was a member of pianist Horace Tapscott’s Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra, a community arts collective offering local jazz and music education to students across Los Angeles. In its heyday, the Arkestra would perform in prisons, hospitals and churches, but didn’t record its first studio album until the late 1970s.
For Sebastian, a trained musician with an interest in Pan-Africanism, performing in the Arkestra married her love of art with her sense of Black pride. “I want to be an inspiration to all people,” she once said. “I strongly believe in, contribute to and support the preservation and education of the black arts. For these are my people and our contributions are priceless.”
Sebastian was born in 1956 in Riverside, California to a mother, Jacquelyn, who played piano, and a father, Malvin, who played saxophone. Her brothers were singers and Sebastian took up the flute at a young age. She played through high school, then went to California State University, where she majored in theatre and minored in Pan-African Studies. Reportedly, this is when she started making her way through the scene, quickly earning a rep through her artistry. In 1973, Sebastian co-wrote, staged and choreographed the Black History musical It’s A Brand New Day. Five years later, her flute could be heard across the Arkestra’s studio work. A funk-driven ensemble version of her track, “Desert Fairy Princess,” appeared on Live At I.U.C.C., the band’s 1979 album.
In 1981, Sebastian released what would be her only solo album: Desert Fairy Princess, a 38-minute spiritual jazz suite that brought her creative ambitions to the fore. Featuring Bobby West on piano; Daa'oud Woods on percussion; Billy Higgins on drums; Roberto Miranda on bass; and Rickey Kelley on marimba, the album conveys matters of the soul in ways that align with Sebastian’s aesthetic. These songs are incredibly emotive, her flute billowing amid the simmering hum of Higgins’ drum and West’s radiant piano.
There’s a palpable joy emanating here; on arrangements like “Belize” and “I Felt Spirit,” Sebastian’s playing sounds light and effervescent, the sound of a woman with the world to gain. The same went for “Man From Tanganyika,” her version of McCoy Tyner’s original. Where his track focuses on the piano as its lead instrument, Sebastian’s arrangement rightfully puts the flute center stage. Elsewhere, on “Day Dream,” it’s as if she’s reflecting on her past. Yet there’s no sorrow; instead, she can only smile when pondering freedom. “I’m looking back on my yesterdays,” goes a line from the track. “I’ve made brand new plans just to fit my ways.” The lyrics land differently now; Sebastian passed just two years later.
It’s been said that she was adored musically and personally. I can see that. And while I try to avoid comparisons between artists, Desert Fairy Princess hits me the same as Roberta Flack’s records. The artists are remarkably sincere in their work; the music itself feels guided by omnipresent forces. Forty years later, Desert Fairy Princess is a major part of Sebastian’s legacy. Her star shone brightly and faded too soon.
