Duke Ellington had a request for a young, budding Quincy Jones: “I want you to be one of the people to de-categorize American music.”

It’s something that Jones took to heart and to say that he delivered on his promise would be an understatement. For the last 70 years, Quincy Jones has worked as a tireless ambassador of American music through his innovative artistry, groundbreaking ensembles, and as a mentor, educator and executive.

There’s seemingly nothing he hasn’t accomplished. In his 2018 Netflix documentary, Lionel Richie sits next to him, and speaking to someone off camera, he says, “Don’t try to do what he’s done… no, no ‘cuz you’ll get your ass killed.”

Indeed, Jones’ unmatched (and compulsive) work ethic pushed him to the closest of edges all of his life, resulting in several near death experiences. His mission, gratefully, is not complete and as a result he has been able to create some of the most important work of the last 100 years. From Ray Charles to The Brothers Johnson; from Frank Sinatra to Michael Jackson, and literal hundreds of artists in between, Jones has impacted the lives of his collaborators in ways that we will be unpacking and appreciating for centuries to come.

As a businessman, we can thank Jones for VIBE Magazine, Qwest Records, and the television hit The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. As a mentor, we can thank him for protégées like Patti Austin, James Ingram, Tevin Campbell, Tamia, and Justin Kaufman. And as an artist we can thank him for shaping the last half century of American culture.

There’s no way to illuminate the breadth of an icon in a blog post. But if you’re looking for a way to celebrate the music of Quincy Jones on his 90th trip around the sun, here are a handful of albums that I highly recommend.

Back On the Block

By 1989, Quincy Jones was already a legend. Though on the path to becoming one of the winningest GRAMMY recipients in history, Back On the Block would garner Jones his first GRAMMY under his own name. In addition to the foundational music I was being raised on, I was checking out Soul II Soul, De La Soul, Eric B & Rakim, Bobby Brown, Janet Jackson and all the rest of the chart toppers played on the radio and on Soul Train. But this album is one that me and my folks were checking out equally. My mother had this high tech Aiwa walkman that I used to listen to this album over and over. “Setembro” brought me to tears. Sarah Vaughan sang these gorgeous, almost weeping lines before Gerald Albright bridges the next section of the song with a beautiful solo. When Take 6 comes in, the heavens open. “Jazz Corner of the World” bridge almost 50 years of traditions with Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Sarah Vaughan, Dizzy Gillespie, George Benson and James Moody on the same tracks with Big Daddy Kane and Kool Moe Dee in an ultimate cypher. “Tomorrow” introduced a 12 year old Tevin Campbell with his astounding remake of The Brothers Johnson 1976 tune. Perhaps the most profound thing about this album is that within just a few years we would lose most of the jazz giants on this record (Sarah Vaughan would pass away just 5 months after this release). These divinely timed flowers of those mentioned, in addition to legends like Ray Charles, Chaka Khan and Barry White make this album something of a mythic proportion.

Walking In Space

Big band jazz meets funk and soul. This album is a must. The ethereal title track features one of the greatest bass lines of all time, with legendary Ray Brown on electric. Motown writer and up and coming star Valerie Simpson on lead vocals and the great Grady Tate on drums. The tune vacillates between an ethereal languid pace and uptempo swinging sections with solos from Freddie Hubbard, Hubert Laws, Eric Gale and Rahsaan Roland Kirk. It’s a 12-minute journey through the cosmos worth grabbing the entire album. The delicious Benny Golson penned “Killer Joe” is an instant classic. The 35-minute album closes with a groovy take on The Hawkins Singers 1967 arrangement of the centuries old “Old Happy Day.” This album doesn’t miss. No skips. All vibe.

This Is How I Feel About Jazz

This 1957 album from Jones is aptly titled. Like many, he’d moved to New York City in the early 1950s to get up close and personal with the architects who were crafting what would become known as bebop. His reverence for jazz remains palpable as he never stops revering the names of the likes of his mentors and heroes like Clark Terry, Charlie Parker, Sarah Vaughan, Dinah Washington and Billy Eckstein. The album features a bonafide roster of the best in the business: Charlie Mingus, Paul Chambers, Charlie Persip, Hank Jones, Billy Taylor, and many others. In addition to his stellar big band arrangements, he contributes three of his own compositions that showcase his multitudinous talents that over the decades would astronomically unfold. A swinging affair.

The Dude

The creative magic of German arranger, producer, and composer Rod Temperton and Jones had given us the biggest selling album from a black artist in Off the Wall in 1979, thus establishing one of the greatest producing duos of all time. The Dude lands chronologically between Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall and Thriller. It features two of Jones’ main proteges: Patti Austin and the late, great James Ingram. Austin’s “Something Special” is boudoir Quiet Storm meets disco two step. The audio mix alone is out of this world. The odd meter, the warm synths of the legendary Greg Phillinganes, and the delectable chord changes are utter bliss. Not to mention Austin’s brilliant vocal performance. The Stevie Wonder penned “Betcha Wouldn’t Hurt Me” is a dance classic. Ingram’s “Find One Hundred Ways” was a chart topping song for Jones, becoming one of the most popular love songs of the decade. A perfect ensemble album with flawless conception.

As far as I know, this 1961, release is Jones’ sole album on the Impulse! label. By 1961, Jones was already making quite a name for himself as an orchestrator and arranger. He’d been at the helm of albums like Genius of Ray Charles, Dinah Washington’s For Those In Love, Vaughan and Violins for Sarah Vaughan and Count Basie himself (that latter collaboration would soon result in a phone call from Frank Sinatra that shifted the trajectory of Jones’ career). Once again, he enlists a phenomenal roster of musicians in Milt Hinton, Melba Liston, Freddie Hubbard, Phil Woods, Patricia Bown, Clark Terry, Thad Jones, Frank Wess, Curtis Fuller and Oliver Nelson. Jones’ takes on classics like Monk’s “Straight No Chaser” and “Invitation” are fantastic and his originals — particularly “Lena and Lennie,” is harmonically one of the most beautiful ballads I’ve ever heard.

Jones’ soundtrack work is easily the more prolific that any other artist. He began scoring films (and television soundtracks) in the 1960s. At the time, his capabilities were called into question with white movie executives audaciously posing the question flatly to Henry Mancini: “Can black people write for film?” Thankfully musicians like Mancini and Frank Sinatra knew the genius that was in their midst and held the door open for Jones to subsequently change the world and set the bar for film orchestration with his extraordinary writing and arranging. The list is endless: Ironside, Body Heat, In the Heat of the Night, The PawnBroker, In Cold Blood, The Getaway, The Italian Job, Sanford & Son, and so many more. The three shown here — The Wiz, Roots and The Color Purple are some of my personal favorites. Listen to them all!

One of the most sampled artists of all time, the title track from the Body Heat soundtrack was perfectly utilized by late producer Johnny J for Tupac’s 1996 magnum opus All Eyez On Me. Listen here:

Happy 90th Birthday, Q! God bless your life.

More Than a Woman: Reflecting On Aaliyah 20 Years Later

As a little girl growing up in the 1980s in a profoundly musical household, almost every song carried a story with it. Rarely was the music merely “playing.” There was most always some kind of oral context accompanying the sounds that were permeating the home. One of the talking points of these family commentaries that would particularly capture my attention was death. Especially untimely death.

I think all children, as they become increasingly aware of their own mortality, find the subject of death both powerful and elusive. Mostly, it shifted the way I heard the music. They’d talk about the premature passing of Otis Redding. Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens. Clifford Brown. Billie Holiday. Sam Cooke. John Coltrane. Tammi Terrell. Jimi Hendrix. All of these artists were played in my home, and the stories of these artists gone much too soon tinted the hues of the art they left with us. The elders would recount these losses . . . sometimes in great detail. Sometimes, the stories were particularly close to their hearts.

I can vividly recall the first time I would experience this kind of loss first hand: April 1, 1984. I was a little girl when the Motown legend Marvin Gaye was gunned down in his home by his father (a detail that was and remains really difficult to wrap my head around), but it was no less affecting. In 1984, Gaye was everywhere thanks to his hugely successful comeback after a long, curious hiatus. I remember how devastated my mother and her siblings were. For them, it understandably hit different. They’d lost an artist who shaped their youth  — their coming of age. Before that, I would hear Minnie Riperton’s “Memory Lane” in our house all of the time, and there seemed to be a thick, detectable air of sadness every time it played. I understood it more when I learned that Minnie had passed away only a few years before . . . the emotions still appeared to be raw. Aside from these two events, I hadn’t much first hand experience with loss  —  neither personal, nor through the passing of my musical loves.

That would drastically change during the 1990s, when my generation would experience so much terrible — and often senseless — loss. The passing of Tupac Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. were akin to tectonic shifts for the culture. A tragic culmination in a decade’s worth of losses we endured as a collective, as violence ravaged so many of our communities. But I can tell you that with all of the painful losses we experienced, particularly in the mid to late 90s, nothing prepared me for the death of Aaliyah. Her passing remains in a category unto itself.

I was in 10th grade when her debut single, “Back & Forth,” hit the airwaves. We were the same age, my birthday just a few months before hers. I immediately identified with her. As a teenaged Scorpio, I found her dark, enigmatic energy alluring and mysterious  —  her shoulder length dark hair crowned with a black bandana; the shades; her predilection for black clothing and her intangible vibe. I was a voice major at LaGuardia/Music & Art High School in New York City when Aaliyah came on the scene. Her feather-light voice made me feel like it was OK that I didn’t have the big, boisterous voice characteristic of the girls I sang with every day. Her tiny, straight-up-and-down frame made me feel a lot less insecure about my own. Sometimes people compared me to her aesthetically, which always felt like high praise. When Aaliyah came on the scene, I felt seen, heard, and just a bit cooler because I identified with her so much. Her quiet but strong presence, her down-to-earth demeanor that felt equally feminine and masculine, and her “old soul” vibes were super resonant. In my head, she was the sister I always wanted. I felt like we’d get along famously.

Aaliyah’s debut shot up the charts and was the hottest thing smoking in the Spring of 1994, with “Back & Forth” becoming almost anthem-like. Her take on the 1976 Isley Brothers classic “(At Your Best) You Are Love” remains a benchmark as it pertains to the art of cover song interpretations. She had this way of rendering a song that felt so grounded and unpretentious. It was easy but intentional. As the voices of women like SWV’s Cheryl “Coko” Clemons, Faith Evans, Mary J. Blige, Brandy and Monica would collectively shape and define the sound of a generation and an era, Aaliyah’s ethereal sound took up rightful space, rounding out the decade’s breadth of style and sound.

When Aaliyah released One In a Million in 1996, I was a senior in high school, and when the title track dropped, it felt like a coming of age for the both of us. Her collaborations with Timbaland and Missy Elliott were like a hand in glove. Much like Janet Jackson with producer cohorts Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, Aaliyah’s evolved sound, laden with futuristic elements and lushly layered harmonies, were a clear declaration of her arrival as a total artist. Interspersed were some of her signature themes; in particular, her brilliant interpretations of 1970s ballads, including another Isley’s classic, “Choosy Lover,” and a laid back version of Marvin Gaye’s party smash, “Got To Give It Up.” It was a sophomore success that solidified her staying power and established her as a defining artist of our time.

By the time she released her third and final album, Aaliyah was at the height of her powers, becoming a Hollywood superstar during her almost six year hiatus from the recording studio. Like Jackson, who paved the way a few years earlier, Aaliyah enjoyed the simultaneous success of a blockbuster film and a hit soundtrack, with Romeo Must Die and songs like “Try Again” and the infectious “Back In One Piece,” an idiosyncratic motif that samples Parliament’s “Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk,” showing off Aaliyah’s versatility and collaborative genius via the recently departed DMX.

She was just getting started.

Twenty years. Where has the time gone? But, then again, what is time, really? Interestingly, I think it’s the illusive nature of time that helps ease the hurting. It reminds us that we are all but precious moments. I remember in the wake of Aaliyah’s passing, watching the “More Than a Woman” video, when it debuted on BET. I was in Los Angeles visiting relatives when she came across the screen in an all white jumpsuit, looking particularly angelic. I became overcome with sadness. Through a flood of tears, I desperately asked my mother, “When is this going to stop hurting?” It had been a few months, and I was still moved to sobbing at the sight and sound of her. I was entirely unaware that the hurting never actually stops, but rather ebbs and flows. Twenty years later, recounting her life and departure to my son, the way the lives and departures of Otis Redding and Tammi Terrell were recounted to me, reminds me that none of us get to escape the experience of bearing witness to the premature fade-to-black of our best and brightest. In her twenty-two years, from Star Search to establishing the career which would garner her own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Aaliyah’s life was clearly lived with a level of intention and commitment to her talent.

And yes, there is a part of me that’s still angry. She was a black girl like me. A girl whose options were, at times, taken from her. A black girl whose tests and resilience were monitored under the show business microscope. She rose like a phoenix with grace and she kept her love and her laughter. At what cost, I will never know. She was so young, navigating such cunning waters. She managed to become the author of her own story and her brilliant elusiveness and triumph in an industry which doesn’t make that easy for black girls and women made her a hero. My hometown hero. She embodied liberation. That was something really important for a girl like me to behold. To leave this earthly dimension so soon . . . it still vexes me. I suppose it always will. As the rollout of her catalogue on streaming platforms begins this month, I feel that much more protective of her. She fought too fiercely for her serenity to now have her body of work shrouded in disputes and power struggles.

When I listen to her self-titled posthumous release — an artistic pinnacle — it’s so evident that she was poised to become one of the most essential artists of our generation. Twenty years later, despite her earthly absence, it’s clearer than ever before that she is just that. She didn’t need to be anything more than a woman. Yet, indeed, she was so much more. She was a vibe. A movement. A beacon. A mood. A force. And she remains so.

Forever grateful, baby girl.

Header Photo: Juan Algarin

Whitney Houston’s National Anthem at 30

The first time I heard the national anthem performed in a way that mesmerized me was when Marvin Gaye sang it in 1983 at the NBA All-Star Game. Just four months after the release of what would be his last album, Gaye was riding the wave of a tremendous comeback, with “Sexual Healing,” his chart topping single, which spent 27 weeks on the Billboard charts. Central to the song is the TR-808, making the bedroom anthem one of the very first to utilize the pioneering drum machine. He used it again for his wholly original “Star-Spangled Banner“ performance, effortlessly floating in and out of phrases like the greatest living crooner that he was. Through his genius, he turned an anthem into a groove. It was completely fresh. “I felt that singing it with that kind of music in the background gave me an inspiration,” Gaye said in an interview. “I asked God that when I sang it, would He let it move mens’ souls.”

In the wake of football player and activist Colin Kaepernick’s protest of police brutality demonstrated through kneeling before games during the anthem, a lot more has been more widely understood about the racist roots of the song, written by Francis Scott Key in 1814. The stanza that is left out of the anthem when sung in stadiums and schools, references Key’s problematic sentiments regarding slavery.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Key, a descendant of a wealthy plantation family who enslaved black people, wrote the song based on his experience during the War of 1812. The omitted stanza is in reference to the British promising refuge to enslaved Black people who escaped their enslavers and fought on their side, raising fears among White Americans of a large-scale revolt. He spoke of Black people as “a distinct and inferior race” and supported emancipating the enslaved only if they were immediately shipped to Africa. [1]

When Gaye speaks of his prayer that his rendering of this song would “move men’s souls,” I believe it is safe to say that he is not romanticizing the song in the ways typical of those who call themselves patriots. A deeply spiritual being, raised in the church, who had only twelve years prior, masterfully indicted America through his magnum opus, What’s Going On, Gaye once again enmeshes prayer and politics with his performance of the national anthem. By interpreting the song through the lens of his iconic legacy, it was yet another mirror he was holding up to those in power to see the hypocrisy of empty patriotism and the distance that black people must constantly negotiate between who America says it is, and the reality of who it is. His acclaimed performance became the prototype for every black person who performed it henceforward. Especially Whitney Houston.

I find the coincidence of Juneteenth becoming a federal holiday the same year as the 30th anniversary of Whitney Houston’s earth-shifting performance of the national anthem to be quite stunning. Only two short weeks separate the holidays but the space is immeasurable when we consider that the Fourth of July represented freedom exclusive to white men, and that freedom for black people would be delayed for nearly a century. Immeasurable distance, when we examine the fact that “justice delayed,” is as American as apple pie. That we continue to celebrate a holiday that marks independence and freedom of white men only, two weeks after we honor the emancipation of my enslaved ancestors is one of many consistent mind-f***s that come with being black in America. In the words of the formerly enslaved great abolitionist Frederick Douglass, “What have I or those I represent to do with your national independence?” When it was announced that Juneteenth — an event commemorating the official end of slavery, which has been celebrated by Black Americans for the last 155 years —had been declared a federal holiday this year, for many Black people the observance felt empty, when we consider that the U.S. government has yet to pass the Emmett Till Antilynching Act; legal scholarship like critical race theory and journalism projects like The 1619 Project and its creators are facing attack, and voting rights are being stripped before our very eyes. Houston’s national anthem performance arriving at this thirty-year milestone, is a reminder that to quote Nikole Hannah-Jones, “America wasn’t a democracy until Black Americans made it one.” And we are still doing that costly work.

As a New Yorker, I remember being very excited about the showdown between The New York Giants and The Buffalo Bills. It was the first Super Bowl in which both teams were from the same state, and it was the first trip to the Bowl for the Bills. It was the only Super Bowl decided by one point and the first Super Bowl in which neither team committed a turnover. The Giants, who had only been to the Bowl once before, also set a Super Bowl record-holding possession of the ball for 40 minutes and 33 seconds.[2] In what is widely considered to be one of the greatest Super Bowl games in NFL history, when the Giants won, I remember the way New York City celebrated and somewhere around here, I still have the commemorative tee shirt. But the win paled in comparison to Houston’s stunning, platinum-selling performance.

By 1991, Whitney Houston was on top of the world. She was America’s sweetheart and simultaneously represented an ocean of possibility for young black girls everywhere. She had just recently released her third album, the L.A. and Babyface produced I’m Your Baby Tonight, which was starkly more urban that her first two pop smashes. I’m Your Baby Tonight was, in a way, a reminder that Whitney was indeed still ours — a fine line Houston would have to dance, certainly up until The Bodyguard in 1992. Although Whitney had reclaimed her black voice (and audience) with I’m Your Baby Tonight, her national anthem performance made her a patriot in the eyes of white America. She didn’t merely sing the anthem; in the context of world-stage events, Houston had a weight on her shoulders that far surpassed landing the high notes.

Super Bowl XXV was actually a game that almost didn’t happen. Only ten days prior, President George H. W. Bush set Operation Desert Storm into motion, and the first air attacks were launched on Iraq and Kuwait. Many wondered if moving forward with the Super Bowl would be safe from a national security perspective, and if the celebratory nature of the event was appropriate amidst the beginning of an active and controversial war. Bush’s stony remarks only added to the heightened sensitivity. “And so, life goes on,” he famously stated. “We’re not going to screech everything to a halt in terms of the recreational activities, and I cite the Super Bowl. And I am not going to screech my life to a halt out of some fear about Saddam Hussein. And I think that’s a good, clear signal for all Americans to send halfway around the world.”

The stakes could not have been higher.

“We talked about how it should feel,” recounts Ricky Minor, who was Houston’s musical director from 1989-1999. “We talked about Marvin Gaye, and how he’d done the national anthem at the NBA All Star Game.” Houston confessed to Minor that, in fact, the only version of the anthem she’d ever liked was Gaye’s. She particularly appreciated the 4/4 time signature, the tempo, the ease of the performance and she was inspired by the freedom of his phrasing.

Produced by Minor and Houston, they changed the meter to 4/4 to allow for a more soulful approach to the song. But it was John Clayton’s arrangment paired with Whitney’s vocal genius, which made this the greatest anthem of all time. Clayton, a profoundly gifted bassist, composer, arranger, conductor, producer, and educator, created a soundscape that I literally cannot listen to without weeping. I have tried. Thirty years later, it remains impossible. Ironically, all of what I love about this version of the anthem – and presumably what most of you love about it – is what was initially resented about it, when it was first presented to the orchestra.

Clayton’s arrangment paints the song with colors of the Black American story. Within the backdrop of pomp and circumstance, his reharmonization draws you to a spiritual source. He amalgamates gospel, R&B, jazz, classical, and military marches, weaving a prose deeply resonate with the black experience. The use of dissonance, the chord progressions, the harmonic intricacies, and the time signature shook the foundation of the song. These elements suddenly made the anthem ours, too. The initial criticisms of the arrangement are therefore not merely musical. What was sensed in the music — its blackness — and the knee-jerk need to reject it, reveals much about the American psyche. Extraordinarily, the arrangement challenged the psyche, without changing the words, to see America for more clearly. In the 2018 documentary, Whitney, writer Cinque Henderson says, “Black people always had a very fraught relationship to ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ It’s a song about war, and the organs of state violence in the US have just as often been used against black people as they have against enemies. She had the radical impact of highlighting the theme of freedom.”

Watching the live performance, everything about it remains astounding, down to the wardrobe. Interestingly, the now-iconic look wasn’t the original intention. In Robyn Crawford’s memoir, A Song For You, Houston’s best friend and closest confident shares how the famous outfit came to be. “The plan was for her to stand on a podium, backed by a full orchestra all dressed in black tie,” Crawford explains. “And she was to wear a sleeveless, black cocktail dress and heels.” The Tampa weather had gotten far too cool, and after sound check while back at the hotel, Crawford recalls Houston coming to her concerned about the wardrobe. Crawford suggested she wear the track suit still packed in her suitcase. She took the advice, did her own hair and make up for the occasion and added the white headband on her own, finishing the look with pair of white and red Nike Cortez sneakers.

Over a roaring crowd and through the palpable surging energy, the announcement commenced:

“And now to honor America, especially the brave men and women serving our nation in the Persian Gulf, and throughout the world, please join in the singing of our national anthem. The anthem will be followed by a flyover of F-16 jets from the 56th Tactical Training Wing at MacDill Air Force Base and will be performed by The Florida Orchestra under the direction of maestro Jahja Ling, and sung by GRAMMY-award winner… Whitney Houston.”

It opens with a mammoth wave of drum rolls, followed by a series of E-flats (I assume to give Houston a point of reference to come in on the right key) and she begins. “Oh, Say Can You See…” her commanding voice seeming to overpower the thousands of cheering football fans. Her phrasing over the 4/4 time signature immediately grabs you, in the ways that it did when Gaye sang it eight years prior. But with Houston, she’s like the eye within a sonic hurricane, surrounded by a massive orchestral wonderland. She is strong… full-throated and projecting the song with almost studious attention. And then something astounding happens.

The second stanza.

Houston, pulls her voice back to an utterly angelic space. “Whose Broad Stripes / And Bright Stars,” she swoons as the orchestra grounds itself. The percussion fades almost completely out, and the strings glisten with a beautiful countermelody, and the bass (or perhaps the cello?) cuts through with this gorgeous swell.

“Through The Perilous Fight…”

HOLE UP! HOLE UP!

That. Part. Right. There?!?! This is where Clayton’s genius orchestration launches the song into the heavens. On that second measure of the second verse, Clayton places an Ab7SUS over the first syllable of “perilous”.

WHAAAAAT?!?!?

Traditionally, if we consider the key that Whitney is singing in, the chord would have been a basic F minor (then going to a Bb7 to Eb). But Clayton, instead of utilizing the F minor, as he does in the first stanza, chooses an Ab7SUS chord. SUS chords, or suspended chords, especially those voiced this way, are often used in various genres of black music, particularly gospel and R&B — two places where Houston’s musical pedigree are firmly rooted. You hear her laying into these changes, completely in her bag. I find it fascinating that Clayton wrote an Ab7SUS here. Think of the word “perilous”: unsafe, treacherous, life-threatening. These are the descriptives that could come to mind. The stringency of the original chord denotes this sort of traditionally patriotic description of a heroic, American scene. Yet, Clayton writes an arrangment here which elevates your entire soul. For me, the lyric becomes different. For me, the peril in this context is now that of my ancestors fighting for their freedom. It sounds like a salve for their wounds. It is a lyric/music juxtaposition that makes perfect sense when I hear it in that context. Houston’s delivery and the way she draws on the word… you can hear both the exhaustion and the determination connected to this fight.

“O’er The Ramparts We Watched”

WAIT… STOP…

Clayton ascends the song once again. Traditionally, “ramparts” would have been sung over an Ab chord. Clayton now deepens the hue of the phrase, assigning a DbMAJ7 there instead. It’s over this phrase — “O’er The Ramparts We Watched” — that we hear Whitney do the first of what would be very few riffs in this performance… it’s a delicious moment where you can feel she is totally moved and compelled to place a beautiful, soulful inflection over the lyric.

If you watch the video of the broadcast, when she hits that second stanza, there are three camera shots strung together. The first is a row of flags, including a confederate flag, blowing in the Tampa breeze. The next shot zooms in on a beautiful, dark complexioned military person who is obviously deeply moved by the moment, and whose intense eyes seem to carry the history of our journey on this land. It then cuts to a white woman with Saved By the Bell-esque hair (it was the 90s), waving a hand sized American flag back and forth, as she proudly mouths the words. It is in these few seconds of a real-time montage, that we witness the ingrained violence of this country, the enduring patriotism of Black people, rooted in the belief that America’s best ideals will one day coming to pass, and how white America gets to smile through it all, obliviously. It is one of the most compelling ten-seconds of footage I’ve ever seen.

“And The Rockets Red Glare”

Whitney brings it home in a way that foreshadows the solidifying of her “The Voice” epithet. Jumping from that celestial second stanza, into a thunderous home stretch, she takes the crowd to an unfathomable pinnacle, singing a resplendent high Ab at “O’er The Land Of The Free,” and by the time she gets to “And The Home Of The Brave,” where she holds “brave” for almost ten seconds, we are forever changed.

I have always found it particularly difficult to participate in the trappings of American patriotism. When I was a schoolgirl, I would reluctantly stand for the Pledge of Allegiance every day as it was broadcasted over the loudspeaker into the individual classrooms, but I refused to recite it, and I refused to place my hand across my chest to my heart. To me, there was never anything fundamentally endearing about America, so that gesture felt particularly uncomfortable. In fact, I knew that when I found myself in a neighborhood where there were too many American flags hanging from front porches, that I was on the wrong side of town, and absolutely unsafe. Those bold banners were a sign of patriotism for some; a signal to panic for others.

When Whitney Houston performed the song — brown, woman, beautiful, captivating — it was almost like an extension of what Marian Anderson did in 1939 at the Lincoln Memorial. Much had changed, yet so much had not. By 1991, the black community was still reeling from the Reagan administration, the crack epidemic was at its peak, and within weeks of the anthem, 15-year-old Latasha Harlins was murdered, and Rodney King was beaten to within an inch of his life by the Los Angeles Police Department. America was still going to America. Houston’s world-shattering performance wafted in the air throughout these pivotal moments in American history. It echoed and it hovered and it haunted. It held up that mirror which Anderson held, and which Gaye held. And America continues to refuse to look itself in the eyes.

Throughout her career, Whitney Houston managed two distinct audiences. By and large, white people loved Whitney Houston for an entirely different reason than black people loved Whitney Houston. Much like in the way this nation’s anthem represents two very different things to the citizens of this country. Houston’s rendition became a chart-topping success but moreover, it was seen as a way to bring the country together during a difficult time of war. Black people have historically been tasked with the responsibility of seeing America through troubled times, which I find most ironic. If only America would task itself with living up to its founding ideals. Imagine that anthem.

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all
other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him,
your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness,
swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants,
brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and
hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him,
mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which
would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more
shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.
– Frederick Douglass