SATURDAY THOUGHTS: BLACK MUSIC

Wallace Roney.
Ellis Marsalis.
Bill Withers.
Hearing of their passing made me grateful for my parents.

My parents loved music— all genres— so, at a young age, there was no escaping developing an appreciation of music. There was no escaping musicians who mastered instruments, and played them skillfully, and singers who didn’t need any help from technology to produce pleasing sounds. 

I’m grateful because the music to which I was exposed was great. It dictates my tastes to this day. There was nothing trite or mediocre about it. 

It ran the gamut from show tunes, to traditional gospel, to jazz, to calypso, to R&B.

 
We watched Ed Sullivan, Hee Haw, Lawrence Welk, American Bandstand, and I suppose, like many Black households we were ecstatic when we saw Black singers and musicians on the screen. That struck me. We were a versatile people. 

I hadn’t processed the racism, I was just strangely proud to see anyone who looked like me, and they ALWAYS enhanced and transformed whatever was happening. 

It occurred to me that we bring value; that we’ve got a certain “something”, but there was always a narrative looming that said we always had to prove ourselves worthy, put our collective best foot forward, and not be an embarrassment once we got “there” or “in”. 

Imagine how we lost our minds over “Soul Train” and a local gospel program called “Spread A Little Sunshine”.  

Black music has always had that “something”. 

I later learned that “something” that comes with ease, that many take for granted, causes others to see dollar signs. 

That “something” can be exploited and used. 

That “something” is subjected to the unreasonable standards of those who don’t have the ability to deliver it, but won’t allow itself to be put into a box. That “something” has to be protected. 

People won’t hesitate to destroy the vessel in order to possess and control that “something”.

My parent’s Sunday moratorium of all music except gospel, taught me that there was (or should be) a distinction based on content. 

That informed, inspired, and even puzzled me. 

What was suitable on Friday night, was still true on Sunday morning, but not necessarily appropriate. Why not? 

I think that’s where the labeling and boxing began— this music for this occasion; that music for the other; God’s music vs. the world’s music; Sacred vs. secular, but no one could deny it was ALL good.

The music I heard, whatever the genre, wasn’t noise. It was poetic, educational, full of wisdom, honest, harmonious, deeply personal, and fun. 

It demonstrated a mastery of grammar and composition. 

It was mood altering. 

I came to adore it.  

Early on I sensed there was something special, unique, and powerful about the musical offerings of Black people in particular; there was something profoundly spiritual in the execution that went past your hearing and gripped your soul. 

I sensed that singers and musicians weren’t merely making sounds or executing notes, they were exposing THEIR souls; their feelings, moods, experiences, hopes, and ideas in what seemed like an effortless way. 

They weren’t making music, they WERE music. They were storytellers. 

There was a sense that they believed and meant what you heard, and took you on a journey. 

Whatever the song, they added seasoning, and color.  It was as much a part of them as their extremities and as natural as breathing. 

As a singer and visual artist, I know how moved I am when I experience a Black artistry. 

I know how inspiring, healing, and helpful it is to hear the original Richard Smallwood Singers, Lisa Fischer, vintage Aretha, Chaka, and Dionne, EWF, or see a Bearden collage, or painting by Lois Mailou Jones. 

It’s humbling and gratifying when viewers or listeners express how deeply or positively they’ve been impacted by your offering; that they understand what your heart is saying; that it resonates with them, or that they simply feel better. 

I don’t know if that is primarily a Black thing, a human thing, or an effective communication thing, but I learned the impact of music when it’s clear that you‘re not copying, usurping, or pretending. 

It’s God-given. 

You’ve lived a thing, so you can sing or play it with authority. You believe it, mean it, and know it. 

You become unapologetic and secure about your voice, especially when you remember times when you didn’t even feel like it; when you didn’t think you had the ability or will but something helped you; pushed you to perform. 

The music is always on a mission.

Black music is a testament that people may not want, respect, or like you, but they may covet the power of what you have to offer. 

They see the value in it, and the impact of it, and endeavor to manipulate it to satisfy their agendas. The gift of music may have collided with them in an opportunistic way, but it swaddled you in a loving way. It’s in your DNA, I think. 

When others wrongly assume a thing is merely mechanical, they will try their best to duplicate it, or claim it, but they fail miserably, and learn whatever they’re trying to produce won’t happen without you, and what you authentically, innately bring to the table. 

Black music isn’t just a subject of my art, it’s in my art. 

It’s an extension of me.