Archie Alleyne

The Groove, The History, The Man

Bill King Photography Kollage Fine Print Recording Session

When Howard Matthews asked me to pen a few lines about Archie on his 70^th birthday, the request sent a wide smile across my face. If I said I loved him like a brother, though true, that would make my living parents 101 and 92—most unlikely, but not impossible. Such is the passage of time, and Archie has been a fixture in my life long enough to feel like family.

My formal introduction to Archie came through musician Paul Hoffert in the early seventies. He guided me through the narrow aisles of the Underground Railroad Restaurant, pointing out the jazz greats immortalized on the walls, the relics of another era hanging from the ceiling, and the whispers of history embedded in every corner. And there, sitting like the Prince of King Street—stiff leg half in the aisle, Afro as large and regal as Angela Davis’s—was Archie.

Paul did the routine introductions before we settled in for a plate of black-eyed peas, rice, chicken, and ribs. But I had caught a glimpse of Archie long before that—back in 1963 at one of those afternoon sessions at the First Floor Club when I was studying with Oscar Peterson at the Advanced School of Contemporary Music. That was before the scolding and the march through the front door at the ripe underage of seventeen. Jazz was as much about knowing your place as it was about earning it.

Somewhere in the late eighties or early nineties, Archie and I reconnected. The gig? I can’t even remember—there had been too many. But I remember the first time I counted in a tune with him behind the kit. That’s when I knew.

The Quiet Machine. That’s what I called him. He kicked a hard groove, but there was a subtlety to it, a knowing. The rhythm just rolled. A well-placed cymbal splash here, a heavy crack on the snare just before the one. It was all so effortless, yet so deliberate. And always—always—that big, mischievous smile. From that moment on, the groove has never faltered, except maybe once or twice when the spirits decided to remind him of their presence.

The brushwork—clean, dry—traces a precise circular path over the skin of the drum, perfectly aligned with the pulse of its master. Archie was one of the few remaining from the jazz era who understood not just how to play, but why every element of the kit holds a responsible position within the music. The connection between wire and skin, between hand and rhythm, tells you everything you needed to know about him. The sensitivity. The timing. The intuition. The history.

Offstage, the fun rarely stopped. Archie loved to celebrate his blackness, to weave history into everyday conversation, mixing rhymes and tales of romance with hard-earned wisdom. These are the moments I cherish most.

Before Canada, my world was a constant hang with the greats—David T. Walker, talking spirituality with James Jamerson, hard laughs with Sonny Burke, the musicality of James Gadson, the Pointer Sisters, Eddie “Bongo” Brown, Martha Reeves, Nona Hendryx, Isaac Hayes, Roy McCurdy, Chester Thompson, and the players who built the rhythm and blues trail. If you’ve never inhabited that universe, words can’t begin to describe the lasting sense of community, the deep camaraderie, the unshakable bond forged through music.

Archie was my closest link to that past. He’s what I missed most: crossing the border in 1969. The seven nights a week of hoops, jam sessions until dawn, the razzing, the dissing, the women, the gut-wrenching laughter, the hardships, the dreams, the quick tempos, the aspirations. It’s not just the music—it’s the life around it. It’s that American music thing.

Archie wore his history with pride. He knew exactly who he was, where he’d been, and how far the world still had to go. When he proudly sang in my ear about finding a young musician to mentor, I knew the mission. He dug deep into the community, pulling the next generation from obscurity and onto the bandstand, knowing if he didn’t, who will?

Archie understood his role in the national jazz community. He suffered hardship with dignity, raised his children with pride, and carried the weight of the music without compromise. Many have come and gone with less history, less connection, yet more celebration—only to be easily forgotten. That will never be the case for Archie.

In June of 2015, my dear friend and longtime bandstand partner took his final bow at 82. The man had been waging a decade-long battle with prostate cancer, though, in truth, our paths had diverged during those years. Our time together was carved between 1992 and 2002—ten formidable years when it felt as if we played every club, festival, and backroom that would have us, always in the company of a new hopeful, beginning with Liberty Silver. Archie, for all his grace behind the kit, had little patience for shepherding singers. He was a hard-bop purist, a disciple of crisp articulation and deep swing, and a man on a mission. His moment arrived in his seventies when he formed Kollage.

Archie wanted Kollage to be a Black band—unapologetically so. He had a story to tell, one that Canada had too often ignored, and he wasn’t interested in compromise. The narrative of jazz in this country had long been dominated by the familiar names of Montreal—Oscar Peterson, Sonny Greenwich, Ranee Lee, Oliver Jones. But Toronto had its own history, and Archie wanted it known. More than that, he wanted young Black musicians to see their reflection not in the standard jazz canon of American legends but in their own backyard, among their own heroes. He wasn’t looking south for affirmation. He was looking inward, to what had already been built yet left unsung.

He made it his life’s work to recover and preserve the names and images of the musicians who had paved the way before him. With the help of JAZZ.FM91 and a tight circle of allies, he saw that dream realized. A landmark recording, Fine Print, solidified his vision, and a scholarship fund bearing his name ensured that young players would find both financial support and inspiration in his legacy. I was fortunate to produce one side of that debut and to contribute a composition—Archie Meets Art—a small tribute to a giant.

Anyone who knew Archie understood he carried himself with quiet dignity, a presence shaped by both struggle and triumph. But beneath that polished exterior was a wicked sense of humour, a dry wit that could disarm even the most serious of conversations. In 2001, as Kollage was taking form, I pulled him aside. There was a moment, an exchange between two old friends, where I saw the weight and fire of his ambition crystallized. Archie taught us all something invaluable: the dream is not the property of youth alone. It is evergreen, waiting for those with the courage to chase it at any stage of life. He proved it, right to the end.