In Appreciation of Labi Siffre: A super abridged reflection on folk music, Black erasure, and an unfamiliar giant.

It’s been 50 years since Black-British singer-songwriter-instrumentalist -poet-activist Labi Siffre released his self titled debut.

In 2017, I began working as a consulting producer on a documentary about musician, playwright, activist, and “To Be Young, Gifted, and Black” composer Weldon Irvine. The general nescience about this important artist was in large measure the genesis of the doc as well as a critical theme in its narrative.

The Unsung Artist is not a new archetype in black music. I have a few in my own family, and I know many people who share that story. During the course of film production, the way I would find myself opening conversations about Weldon was, “He’s an artist that you didn’t know you actually know.” I wanted people to understand that although this name may not be readily identifiable, his essential body of work has created deep cultural connections that have become part of our collective consciousness. I wanted them to realize that learning his name was an opportunity for us to begin to offer a sort of intentional gratitude.

Like Irvine, the music of prolific singer-songwriter and folk-influenced artist Labi Siffre is instantly recognizable, largely owing to sampling. “I Got The…” from his 1975 album, Remember My Song, was sampled by Dr. Dre on Eminem’s debut, The Slim Shady LP, catapulting the rapper to stardom. Before that, Jay-Z and producer Ski Beatz borrowed from the same song on Jay-Z’s In My Lifetime Vol. 1 masterwork, which spent a whopping 70 weeks on the Billboard charts. Later, Kanye West would sample Siffre’s “My Song” (Crying, Laughing, Loving, Lying, 1972) on his 2007 album, Graduation. In 2014, singer Kelis beautifully covered Siffre’s “Bless the Telephone” (The Singer and the Song, 1971). More recently, music supervisors would find a gold mine in Siffre’s affectional “Watch Me” from the same album, as it was featured in the first season of the hit NBC drama series, This Is Us. Yet, for all of Siffre’s musical seepage into American popular culture, his name remains widely unknown to the masses of us.

The list of indispensable, founding folk artists whose tradition has made the folk genre possible is rich and extensive. Artists like Leadbelly, Elizabeth Cotten, and later, Odetta, are but a few of the biggest influences of most white folk musicians who would come to prominence in the folk genre’s golden era of the ’60s and ’70s, and the more forthcoming of them — greats like Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, and Pete Seeger — would proudly tell you so. (Dylan would also just as proudly admit to lifting from his good friend Len Chandler, another unsung, Black folk artist, at the beginning of his career.¹)

While I’d been fostered by folk-soul/folk-rock greats like Bill Withers and Richie Havens, it wasn’t until I heard Tracy Chapman as a young girl that I actually saw a black woman rise to prominence as a folk-leaning artist in real time. The musical daughter of artists like Cotten, Odetta, and Sweet Honey in the Rock, but also someone who grew up in the 1970s, influenced by soul, jazz, country, and blues, Chapman was one of a few black folk-identified artists I heard in the 1980s, and she was for sure the only black, woman, folk megastar I saw. I remember a distressingly misguided notion floating about that Chapman was “doing white music” and this disconnect remains, although artists like Meshell Ndegeocello, Ben Harper, Brittany Howard, Toshi Reagon, and even India.Arie, Lauryn Hill, and H.E.R. have tremendously closed the gap. But whatever erroneous claims were being flung about with regard to Chapman and her blackness or her music’s perceived whiteness, my inclinations toward folk music were always strong. The sound purely appealed to me.

“The insistence that one should be ‘ethnic’ is endemic, irritating, and insulting,” Siffre reflected in a 2012 interview. The UK’s music industry is historically analogous to that of the States when it comes to Black artists who desire to color outside of the industry’s imposed delineations. The boxing-in of Black artists into agreeable categories creates deliberate distance between themselves and their own architecture. Almost always, the result is a perpetual frustration accompanied by the haunting backdrop of marginal success for artists who — but for their blackness — would have otherwise gained mass appeal, if not critical acclaim. Labi Siffre and someone like Nick Drake, for example, should be discoursed with similar deference. Instead, Siffre, unlike Drake, is largely ancillary when it comes to the wider discussion of ’60s and ’70s folk. By no means should he be.

“I’m in favor of accepting the fact that when one is writing, one is always writing about oneself, no matter how you express yourself on whatever issue,” Siffre said in a 1997 interview with U.K. magazine The Argotist.

The notion that all writing is essentially autobiographical is a principle motif in Siffre’s oeuvre. From his Twitter bio — Atheist, Homosexual, Black, Songwriter, Musician, Singer, Poet, Social-Commentator. Twice a widower. English, British, Philosophically/Spiritually an EU Citizen — one gleans that his music examines nearly each description. An artist historically committed to challenging the norms of society’s immoralities, through his music, Labi Siffre has consistently leaned into himself, his experiences, and the identities that he affirms for himself with a striking degree of honesty, vulnerability, and bravery.

An admitted “poet first,” Siffre’s lyricism is visceral and deeply intimate. Among a series of torch songs, his debut album also tackles generational tensions concerning the social dynamics of the 1960s, with an ever-increasing focus on conscious themes throughout his recording career. Societal ills like racism, homophobia, and war were the roots of Siffre’s blistering lyrical content. Amplified by his astounding vocal clarity, his lyrics refuse inconspicuousness. They also never compete against his remarkable musicality.

Each song has a way of beautifully blindsiding you — there’s no real predictability of approach. He has a way of surprising the listener by turning a progression on its head, taking it in a totally unexpected — and always enchanting — direction. He masterfully folds irony and humor into his music through a rhythm, a lyrical sentiment, a run on his guitar, or by using brilliant paradoxical concepts. There is something daring, fresh, and unabashed about Siffre that makes his music practically addictive.

There’s also the influence of Siffre’s virtuosity that I find quite apparent, by way of his inclinations for using intricate time signatures, string arrangements, and unpredictable harmonic progressions. On a song like “Here We Are,” for example, Siffre’s dreamy vamp-out is reminiscent of the extraordinary Argentinian-Swedish singer-songwriter-guitarist, José González. His enchanting “Blue Lady,” is another example of a song that feels like a blueprint for contemporary folk artists like González with its mixture of African percussive elements and harmonic genius.

“The insistence that one should be ‘ethnic’ is endemic, irritating and insulting.”

— Labi Siffre

By 1975, Siffre had begun pushing past the margins of what was considered to be in the folk genre, with his first three albums solidifying his eclectic and ingenious expressions and interpretations. Labi Siffre, The Singer and the Song, Crying, Laughing, Loving, Lying, and For the Children each fully captivating and in good company with the early ’70s prolificacy of artists like Stevie Wonder, Donny Hathaway, Joni Mitchell, and Earth, Wind & Fire. But Remember My Song was a clear creative departure from previous works. “I Got The…” opens with a now-classic guitar lick. Chock full of funk, via the drums of rock drummer Ian Wallace (Bob Dylan, Esther Phillips, Bonnie Raitt), guitar-bass duo Chas Hodges and Dave Peacock, and Siffre himself on keyboards, Siffre makes a statement from the first track that the breadth of his artistry was that much more massive. The song offers not one but two stunning passages that birthed hip-hop anthems.

Siffre’s appeal to hip-hop producers is poetic considering that on “Too Late,” the first track from his first album in 1970, he delivers scathing, diss-track level lyrics, constituting one of the greatest “Get lost!” songs of his time. Yet, for Siffre, much of the engrained machismo of hip-hop is in direct conflict with the core of his personhood. On the matter of granting Dr. Dre permissions to use “I Got The…” for Eminem’s “My Name Is” he said, “Dissing the victims of bigotry — women as bitches, homosexuals as faggots — is lazy writing. Diss the bigots not their victims. I denied sample rights till that lazy writing was removed. I should have stipulated ‘all versions’ but at that time, knew little about rap’s ‘clean’ and ‘explicit’ modes, so they managed to get the lazy lyric on versions other than the single and first album.”

In May of this year, Siffre released “(Love Is Love Is Love) Why Isn’t Love Enough?” a song directly advocating gay rights. In 2020, this may not be considered a gallant act, but considering that Siffre’s open homosexuality dates back to at least the beginning of his recording career, the song symbolizes both Siffre’s commitment to fusing his art with his activism, and the road his contributions continue to pave along the same path that Bessie Smith, Ma Rainy, Tony Jackson, Billy Strayhorn, and others cobbled. His 1987 hit single, “Something Inside So Strong,” which brought him out of his retirement of some measure, was written as part of the growing, global condemnation of apartheid in South Africa, becoming his most successful song, to date. Yet, Siffre also discloses the more personal roots of the song years later. “As soon as I’d written the first two lines — ‘the higher you build your barriers the taller I become’ — I realized with a shock that I was writing about my life as a homosexual.” Siffre, who officially registered a Civil Partnership with his partner of fifty years in 2005 (the soonest this was allowed in the UK) that lasted until his beloved’s passing, continues to write and publish poetry, and engage in social activism for LGBTQ rights.

The effects of Siffre’s unconcealed queerness on his career arc may be as indeterminable as the effects of his devout atheism, but such ostracized identities — especially encased in blackness — certainly allude to an arduous path. “With neither my permission nor my understanding, I was baptized and confirmed a Catholic,” says Siffre in an interview with the U.K. quarterly, New Humanist. Siffre recorded several songs speaking to his absence of belief in God, most notably on his 1973 album, For the Children. On the song “Prayer,” Siffre plays a lullaby-like melody while sweetly singing of an at-best apathetic Creator, considering the pain and anguish experienced on Earth by the grieving women described in his lyrics. The song ends:

So God in heaven above / What are you thinking of?
Is this the way you play?
Well, can’t you hear them weep? / Now children, mind your feet
Maybe God has gone to sleep

Siffre follows up with “Let’s Pretend,” a call for a leveling up of humanity. I would describe this song using spiritual nomenclature; it is a call to connect to one’s higher self. As someone who is not at all religious, but is a devoted believer in a Divine Creator, I find it difficult to find offense in Siffre’s expressions of non-belief within the context of his lyrics. The song calls upon those who use religion as a means to an end, to instead live up to the actual tenets of scripture:

Let’s pretend we believe his holy word
He has spoken and we have heard, let’s pretend
Let’s pretend ‘though he spoke through different men
The basic truths remain, let’s pretend
Let’s pretend that the numbers five to ten
Were written for all men (with lightning as the pen)
Let’s pretend, let’s pretend what happened then
Let’s pretend

Let’s pretend that the Pope sells all his jewels
To feed the hungry, ooh let’s pretend
Let’s pretend religious leaders say war is wrong
No matter who is strong, let’s pretend
Let’s pretend religion excommunicates those
Who deal in hate and leaves them to their fate
Let’s pretend these evil people give a damn
And start loving their fellow man
Let’s pretend

Over forty years later, I find connection between this song and the words spoken by Siffre at the close of his 2017 TEDx Talk, entitled Disturbing Definitions. “We don’t find meaning, we make meaning, and then we lack the courage to accept responsibility for the meanings we make. If meaning is just laying around, and we find it, we are not responsible for it; we’ve just come across it in untidy heaps, scattered across a panorama. If we make meaning, that makes us responsible for the meanings we make, and that responsibility takes us out of our comfort zone.”

The righteousness in Siffre’s work is his sheer unwillingness to mince words or equivocate, whatever the subject matter. Nevertheless, an artistry wholly devoted to truth is incongruous with the codes of the music industry at large. To be an unwavering force in an industry that values only the veneer of virtue, Siffre’s messages become that much more significant.

In honor of the 50th anniversary of Siffre’s debut release, it’s my hope that you’ll explore the catalogue of Labi Siffre. For the purposes of this piece, I’ve concentrated on what would be considered the creative pinnacle of his opus, but I encourage you to become familiar with the entirety of the bold and vastly creative songwriter and singer whose name should at long last be attached to his masterpieces.

1. Denise Sullivan, Keep on Pushing: Black Power Music from Blues to Hip-hop (Chicago: Lawrence Hill Books, 2011), 20.

My Top Ranked Half-Hour Albums

When rock megastar Eddie Van Halen passed away last month, I started down the rabbit hole of Van Halen albums that I’d gotten into as a result of being officially introduced to the guitar virtuoso through his classic “Beat It” feature. My favorite of the bunch is, without question, Fair Warning, the band’s fourth album from 1981. Checking in at only 31:18, it prompted me to think about my predilection for short albums and the others that have made notable impressions on my life. What is it about a short album? There’s something that lies within the wonder that you can be transformed or transported to another plane (and get back… if you choose) in such a short span of time, that makes shorter albums feel quite majestic. To that end, listed below are 30 of my favorite albums that clock in at under thirty minutes.

Pink Moon (1972)
Nick Drake
Album Length: 28:22

This is easily one of my favorite albums of any length. Nick Drake’s final output, Pink Moon remains a touchstone for any serious singer-songwriter. Drake’s short 26 years make his artistic contribution that much more mind-blowing and affecting.

New Star On the Horizon (1953)
Clifford Brown
Album length: 23:33

By 1953, trumpet prodigy Clifford Brown was a rising star, having made a name for himself with Art Blakey and Lionel Hampton. This is his debut as a leader featuring Gigi Gryce, Charlie Rouse, John Lewis, Percy Heath and Blakey. The album opens with “Cherokee”, which would become a Clifford Brown staple and a song forever denotive of Brown’s virtuosity, velocity and tone. His performance of “Easy Living” is enough to make you cry (and also ponder how someone so young could emote so affectingly… then again, that’s something you ponder of Brown’s entire artistry). It’s a joyous, swinging session with of a group of players right at the cusp of their artistic eminence. Tragically, Brown wouldn’t live past his 25th birthday, and it’s an aching exercise to think about how much more he had to offer the world. However, his catalogue remains innovative and essential.

Lady Soul (1968)
Aretha Franklin
Album Length: 28:41

The year 1968 fascinates me when it comes to music, mainly because of the events of the world stage. We’d lost the world’s symbol of the potential of America at her moral best, Dr. King’s assassination putting a deeply painful punctuation on a chapter of our brightest hopes toward full citizenship, liberation and freedom. It’s a fascinating practice to juxtapose the music with the times. Jimi Hendrix turned the world on its head with his debut in 1968, one year before his iconic national anthem performance at Woodstock, a performance that almost puts America on trial to answer for the murders of our leaders and for extinguishing the promise of a better world for everyone. James Brown released “Say It Loud – I’m Black and I’m Proud,” adding to the lexicon of black freedom expression anthems. Huge albums from The Beatles, The Doors, Sly and the Family Stone, and others were being cranked out in this tumultuous year. And then there’s Lady Soul from Aretha Franklin. This album marks the beginning of one of Aretha Franklin’s most influential eras, The Atlantic Years. This album contains one of her biggest hits, the Carole King penned “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” a song that would become synonymous with her namesake. It also features several other classics: “Chain Of Fools”, “Since You’ve Been Gone”, and the gut wrenching, “Ain’t No Way”. Notably, included in this set list is the Curtis Mayfield civil rights anthem, “People Get Ready.” If you listen to this song, keeping mind that Dr. King would be assassinated only two months later, it becomes that much more prophetic… a sacred send off of sorts, particularly when we factor in King’s longstanding relationship with Franklin’s family. It’s unbelievable that this much thunder and magic is on an album a little less than 29 minutes long.

Oh, Good Grief! (1968)
Vince Guaraldi
Album length: 27:20

Like most everyone of my generation, I became familiarized with Vince Guaraldi through the deliciously addictive “Linus & Lucy” theme from the Peanuts series; namely, A Charlie Brown Christmas. Coming from a jazz background and household, I remember recognizing that jazz was a distinguishing factor, as no other cartoon that I was watching had that level of musicality. Hearing piano solos, and brushes on snares was not a typical score in relation to what I was watching on television in the early 80s. Plus by then, A Charlie Brown Christmas was already at least 15 years old. I loved the “Linus & Lucy” theme and I also loved all of the music between scenes and in the credits. It would be years before I knew that I could hear the actual soundtrack to the Christmas special. I wore that album out, listening to it hundreds of times. As I dug further into Guaraldi’s canon of work, I also fell in love with his work outside of animated series soundtracks, particularly his ongoing work with Brazilian guitarist, Bola Sete. This is a gorgeous set list, including the particularly sublime “Great Pumpkin Waltz”. Guaraldi’s addition of harpsichord somehow makes the characters the tunes are inspired by come to mind in a vividly nostalgic way. I can never hear too much from Guaraldi.

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme (1966)
Simon & Garfunkel
Album length: 27:51

There’s really nothing not to love about this early work from Simon & Garfunkel. But what draws me is its deft harmonics, the atypical rhythmic meters, and layered instrumentation, as well as its overall sonic achievement. It’s one of my favorite albums as far as the equalization/mixing alone. The songwriting is superb, with its shortest tune — coming in at under 2 minutes — “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy),” probably the album’s most famous. To me, much of the brilliance of Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme lies in the artistic dichotomy of succinctness and depth. Album highlight: “Emily, Whenever I May Find Her”

Live at Park Ave (2008)
José González
Album length: 29:56

I fell in love with the music of José González around 2006, ahead of the release, In Our Nature. I listened to this album incessantly, examining every divine layer. González is a wonder, both live and on record, with a wild mystique and an insane gift. The way he can make his voice and guitar sound like a full band is a marvel (and feels quite ancestral). Here, he covers previously released material from his albums in an intimate live setting in Orlando. There’s this moment when he’s tuning his guitar and falls into the first chord of his beautiful ballad, “The Nest.” His voice is pure perfection… I’d be hard pressed to name an artist who sounds like this live. His voice is absolutely unique and his intonation is next level. His virtuosity and harmonic and rhythmic conception on guitar, equally mind-boggling. A folk- indie-pop – dream-pop – afro-latin mix of utter euphoria.

BRAZIL-IANCE! (1967)
Marcus Valle
Album length: 28:58

The great Marcos Valle is one of those timeless artists whose artistic dexterity has afforded a career that is still going strong. Valle, who has been heavily sampled in hip hop, recently collaborated with Adrian Young and Ali Shaheed Mohammad on their Jazz Is Dead series. He also collaborated with the late, great Leon Ware and helped to launch the career of singer-songwriter powerhouse, Milton Nascimento. This album is a cardinal work within the canon of Brazilian pop. It’s brimming with lush arrangements, and his gorgeous originals, like “Dorme Profundo”. The album opener, “Crickets Sing For Anamaria,” was also featured on a season four episode of the critically acclaimed crime-drama, Breaking Bad. A delicious set of tunes from one of Brazil’s foremost Bossa Nova luminaries.

Expensive Shit (1975)
Fela Kuti
Album length: 24:13

Probably one of Fela’s most celebrated works, Expensive Shit consists of only two tracks: “Expensive Shit” and “Water No Get Enemy,” offering two completely different aesthetics. The first four bars of “Water No Get Enemy” alone are worth the price of admission. By this time, Fela’s works had become increasingly overt in their political nature, post a 1970 visit to the United States and exposure to civil rights leaders like Malcolm X and the Pan-African ideology. He’d also spent time with James Brown in 1969. This album is also birthed out of a tense relationship between Kuti and the Nigerian military government he’d grown quite critical of. (There’s an incredible story around the album’s title that I highly recommend you review.)

Dirty Mind (1980)
Prince
Album length: 29:57

An era defining album from one of music’s most unparalleled artists. There’s something about the songs’ shadowy sexual interconnections juxtaposed with mostly uptempo, synthy, funk-pop-rock that make this album super enticing. It ends with “Party Up”, which feels like an intimation of what’s to come as he inches toward the climax of his creative powers.

Aretha Now (1968)
Aretha Franklin
Album length: 29:30

This album opens with four of the funkiest bars of Aretha’s piano vamp before breaking into the lyric, “You better think…” She rocks over the hard, churchy groove declaring her “Freedom” before a powerful modulation elevating her message to the mountain top. It’s short, to the point and mind blowing. By the time we get to the second track — my personal favorite — “I Say A Little Prayer”, it almost feels like she’s saying, “Now that I’ve gotten that off of my chest, let me finesse the hell out of you.” It embodies the same levels of grooving funk, but in addition to Aretha’s brilliant vocals, it’s the rhythm section that is absolutely everything on this song. Drummer Roger Hawkins’ ghost notes alone are an entire vibe. Bassist Jerry Jammot and guitar veteran guitarist Tommy Cogbill add such pretty colors and depth. It is wholly enchanting. The album grooves along from start to finish. An absolute gem.

Brazil ’65
Wanda De Sah / Sergio Mendes Trio
Album length: 28:00

I came to Sergio Mendes initially through his overtly pop reworks like Bacharach’s “The Look of Love” and the Cole Porter standard, “Night and Day.” Then, as a complete Stevie Wonder junkie, discovering the Wonder-penned “Love City” and “The Real Thing” on Mendes’ Brasil ’77 made me an even bigger fan. As I purposefully dove into the Bossa Nova genre, I came to love the breadth of Mendes’ work and the genius of his crossover appeal. This album in particular is a treat. First, it features the wonderful vocalist Wanda de Sah but also, the set list is just perfect. Classics like “So Nice” and “One Note Samba” get a delightful treatment, and the instrumentals, “Aquarius” (my personal favorite) in particular, are just as pleasing. You can hear touches of Vince Guaraldi’s sound à la his collaborations with Brazilian guitarist Bola Sete.

The Wonderful World of Sam Cooke (1960)
Sam Cooke
Album length: 23:23

This is one of soul and rhythm and blues pioneer Sam Cooke’s earlier secular albums and includes some of his biggest hits, including “What A Wonderful World,” and “With You”, not to mention a signature, stirring rendition of the Gershwin classic, “Summertime.” A classic, American blueprint of an album.

Little Richard (1958)
Little Richard
Album length: 26:48

Rock ‘n Roll being created before your ears. That’s the only way to summarize this album. Pure, unadulterated, raw, high flying rock on full display from the undisputed King of the genre. Impeccable, unabashed pioneering black music. Included are songs that would become the blueprint for music going forward: “Keep a Knockin,” “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” and “Lucille,” for starters! I needn’t say more.
Album fave: “The Girl Can’t Help It”

The Wonderful World of Antonio Carlos Jobim (1966)
Antônio Carlos Jobim
Album length: 29:12

A delightful set from the Bossa Nova icon Jobim with arrangements by the illustrious Nelson Riddle. Interestingly, on certain songs, like the “Useless Landscape,” you can hear Jobim channeling a little Sinatra, prompting me to wonder if Riddle had an influence in Jobim’s delivery, given the significant and defining body of work he created with Ol’ Blue Eyes. Of course, Jobim would go on to collaborate with Sinatra just a couple of years later, and record two (that I know of) fabulous albums. Wonderful World, a really lovely ensemble of tunes and a window into early Jobim.

School Days (1951)
Dizzy Gillespie | Milt Jackson | Joe Carroll
Album length: 27:46

SO MANY treats on this album. For one, as a Coltrane devotee, this album features one of his earliest recorded solos. So already, this is worth the price of admission for a girl like me. It’s an incredible foreshadowing moment through the lens of the walk-the-bar music that has been so closely associated with Trane’s earliest years. Its strong R&B, boogie-woogie and blues influence is a huge distinguishing factor of anything Trane would be associated with on record. Joe Carroll’s and Dizzy’s singing is completely rich and blithe in spirit and this album is likely a rarer treat for those getting into the Dizzy catalogue.

Jamal at the Penthouse (1959)
Ahmad Jamal
Album length: 28:55

There’s nothing not to love about this session from Ahmad Jamal and his group, with bassist Israel Crosby and drummer Vernell Fournier. Despite being a newer ensemble for Jamal at the time, this group had just released its trio masterwork, At the Pershing: But Not for Me. This album features a 15-piece string orchestra, and is arranged and conducted by the great Joe Kennedy, who was a violinist and groundbreaking symphonic figure, being one of the first black people to enter the Richmond Symphony before touring as a world-class artist and arranger. It’s a really vibey set that feels a whole like the aura of the album art. The strings are not particularly out-front, as with an album like Clifford Brown with Strings. It’s not a lushy set, the strings feel a lot more unexpected and the whole thing almost feels live… if you close your eyes, you can imagine listening to this at a clandestine, flirty speakeasy.

Ray Charles In Person (1960)
Ray Charles
Album length: 29:20

For one, you’re getting several of Brother Ray’s classics: “Night Time Is the Right Time,” “Drown In My Own Tears,” and the magnum opus, “What’d I Say”, the latter, a fire-ass version recorded live at Herndon Stadium, in Atlanta with Teagle Fleming’s drums making this a distinctly unique version of the quintessential call and response blues anthem. A tight, fiery, youthful set from an artist of the verge of reaching his artistic dominance.

I Got a Woman and Some Blues (1984)
George Benson
Album length: 29:52

One of Benson’s more obscure albums, mainly because it got caught up in label hullabaloo. Not much is even known about band personnel. However, this short album contains some of my favorite performances from Benson, particularly his guitar-and-voice version of “Out of the Blue.” It’s a gorgeous and under explored gem written by Henry Nemo and Will Jason that was first released by unsung vocalist and pianist Hadda Brooks’ trio in 1948 and then by Ester Phillips in 1965. Tunes like “Durham’s Turn” are reminiscent of the Blue Note label’s run of jazz-funk of the 1970s.

Dinah ’62 (1962)
Dinah Washington
Album length: 29:06

When I think about the albums that helped shape my childhood, this album is chief among them. My mother played it — and sang it note-for-note — incessantly. Hence, I was still a grade school, singing about “buying the rounds for strangers…” via “Drinking Again.” This album was a masterclass in rendering a song with emotional depth, impeccable diction and unparalleled clarity. I feel Dinah so deeply. My mother rarely played this album in sequence, as far as I can remember, as she could hardly wait to belt, “Come and take a trip / On a rocket ship…” on Washington’s thrilling version of “Destination Moon.” She had an affinity for vocal big band albums and this, along with The Genius of Ray Charles were household staples. Such memories!

At Sixes and Sevens (2020)
Tiana Major9
Album length: 22:50

This 24 year old East London-born vocalist gives listeners a subtle yet evident indication of her musical aesthetic with her stage name. Tiana Major9’s proclivity for material that is harmonically lush is clear and on full display on her new album, At Sixes and Sevens. I first heard this gem of an artist via soundtrack to the Lena Waithe-produced Queen & Slim last November, with her song “Collide” featuring Atlanta based group, EarthGang. The sultry ballad gave an entrée to this young, new singer who listeners like me eagerly awaited to hear more from. Her resplendent contralto comes out of the school of Gladys Knight and echoes her contemporaries like Jazmine Sullivan with strong nods, in terms of vocal arrangement, to her generation’s vocal paragon, Brandy. That said, one would be quite mistaken to lump this rising star into convenient categories. At Sixes and Sevens successfully layers elements of folk, blues, reggae, and jazz into a singer-songwriter-soul variety and Tiana shines through it all with a dualistic formula of marvelous sagacity and fresh excitement.

Worthnothings (2004)
Georgia Anne Muldrow
Album length: 21:33

This may fall under the category of an EP, but this Stone’s Throw debut from singer-producer maven Georgia Anne Muldrow remains my favorite. The production is some of the best in class, and her voice is in excellent form. Pure sonic sophistication with a heavy dose of dusty grooves, intricate rhythmic tendencies and enchanting harmonies. Nothing skippable here. Totally addictive output from the L.A. repping prodigy.

Restoration Ruin (1968)
Keith Jarrett
Album length: 29:33

Keith Jarret on vocals? Yup!
I love this album because of its obscurity but also because Jarret has, over the last couple decades, become this symbol of austerity and pensiveness. And while thankfully, it never bleeds into his music in a way that feels anything but beautiful. However, I’ve had the pleasure of attending a live Keith Jarrett concert in the last ten years and felt the air thick with cough-and-you-die anxiety from his devout audience. This imperious reputation that by now is inextricable with Jarrett makes me appreciate this album even more. He’s singing, playing harmonica, piano, organ, guitar, drums… I think even saxophone. It’s a 1960s era, Free Love-esque and — in hindsight — most unpredictable folk-rock outing from one of the most virtuosic figures in modern music. It’s so categorically different from anything you will EVER hear from Jarrett and its magic is in the very elements one could criticize – it is raw, unpolished charm and I’m here for it.

Jay Love Japan (2007)
J Dilla
Album length: 25:50

One of several posthumously released albums from the incomparable J Dilla. Although not exhaustive, by virtue of its length, the content is super solid. Much of the material had been bootlegged before its formal release, but an official release did finally come in 2007, reportedly named for one of his favorite countries. Later-era Dilla in all its splendor, even if a touch too short.

The Jazz Soul of Little Stevie Wonder (1962)
Stevie Wonder
Album length: 29:29

Stevie’s FIRST album! At 11 years old, the child prodigy had already racked songwriter credits on two of his debut’s nine songs. As would be his hallmark, Wonder is playing several instruments already: piano, harmonica, bongos (check out “Manhattan At Six”!) and drums. There’s almost no voice on this album, including an instrumental studio version of “Footprints” which for a Stevie fan, sounds unimaginable. It’s a quirky set of blues-pop-jazz with the promise of a genius in the making. It’s just special.

All By Myself (1971)
Eddie Kendricks
Album length: (29:27)

Eddie Kendrick’s first outing as a solo artist after leaving his trailblazing group, The Temptations. The album features the writing of the one and only Leon Ware, just one year before he would release his own self-titled debut. You also hear Eddie Kendricks outside of his signature falsetto range, on tunes like “This Used to Be the Home of Johnnie Mae.” It doesn’t have much of a typical Motown feel to it, either. Think Curtis Mayfield meets Bobby Womack in terms of aesthetic, with Eddie Kendricks’ alchemical voice producing previously shrouded colors. It’s melancholic in the best of ways, and such a departure from anything we’d heard from Kendricks up until this point.
Album pick: “Can I”

That Stubborn Kind of Fellow (1963)
Marvin Gaye
Album length: 25:06

The first three songs on this album say a lot about where Marvin Gaye’s career was heading. The trajectory toward stardom is undeniable with “Stubborn Kind of Fellow,” “Pride and Joy,” and “Hitch Hike” one one record. Although it would be a little while before Gaye would hit his stride as a singular creative, this album is a pure classic out of the vivacious Motown paradigm.

For Once In My Life (1967)
Tony Bennett
Album length: 27:15

I’ve always been a really big fan of Tony Bennett. To me, Tony Bennett is one of few artists who’s made little to no missteps as it pertains to recordings. The standout of this album — especially as a Stevie head… did I mention how much I love Stevie? — is “For Once In My Life,” written by Ron Miller and Orlando Murden. Now, as I understand it, the song was written originally as a ballad, as Bennett gorgeously performs it here, but was written for Motown’s’ Stein & Van Stock publishing company (Avery Vandenberg and Berry Gordy). Several Motown artists would record it before Stevie put his funky vibe on it, along with a signature Stevie progression that he vamps out. But a year earlier, Bennett was the first to break the song on the charts. Of course, Stevie would have the greatest success of all with the tune, but it always felt like a bridge between these two towering artists. This sentiment is reiterated when Bennett sang it to Wonder when honored by the GRAMMY foundation in 2015. But, I digress.

Irresistible (1968)
Tammi Terrell
Album length: 30:00

Listening to this album, it’s an almost inescapable exercise in cycling “what-if” ruminations. Terrell tragically died at 24 years old, and it’s hard for me to listen to her music without this in mind, almost always. For one, she’s such an enlightened singer, and then there’s the promise which is entwined in every line she sings. Although she will always be most prominently know as the musical soul mate of Marvin Gaye for their peerless series of duets, listening to Tammi as a solo artist is almost a completely different experience. It’s in these moments when I can hear Terrell in the context of her solo artist peers. It’s in this context that the reality of a life cut way too short makes me appreciate the legacy she embossed on an integral era of black music.

Claudine: The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (1974)
Gladys Knight & the Pips
Album length: 30:00

Easily one of my favorite movie soundtracks of all time! Then again, Curtis Mayfield, who wrote and produced it, could pretty much do no wrong as it pertains to 70s soundtracks. It has all of the quintessential Mayfield tapestries, and coupled with Knight’s anomalous rendering, it is so, so special. Just listen to her interpretation of “The Makings Of You,” and I dare you not to weep behind her phrasing and the rise and fall of her contralto, paired with this gorgeous arrangment, including the brilliance of bassist Joseph “Lucky” Scott. (And the DRUMS!) It is a wonder. Song after song, it’s a synthesis of black urban culture and its flowering — socially and creatively — in the aftermath of and very much still within the midst of one of this country’s most significant civil rights eras.

Skywriter (1973)
The Jackson 5
Album length: 29:49

One of the more underrated J5 outputs from the 70s teen soul-pop icons. In terms of Michael’s voice, which has about a dozen iterations throughout its development, this era is one of my favorite. It’s also here that we hear another composition from Clifton Davis who also wrote the super pretty classic, “Never Can Say Goodbye.” The Mizell Brothers lend their production and pen to “Oh, I’d Love To Be With You,” and they do a really fine cover of the Pippin classic, “Corner of the Sky.” Top rate Jackson 5 in this second phase of their iconic run.

MLK Day 2016.

My son and I were up early to make our way to Brooklyn Academy of Music’s 30th annual celebration of Dr. King. It was a beautiful morning.  The sunlight dazzled off of the white snow and the energy in the neighborhood felt particularly weightless. Folks warmly greeted one another with smiles and proud nods as we entered the Peter Jay Sharp Building and made our way to the BAM Howard Gilman Opera House for the morning’s festivities. Esteemed guests New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio and the city’s First Lady Chirlane McCray, as well as keynote speaker Michael Eric Dyson were among those who attended what has become the city’s largest public celebration of King. Choirs sang, attendees prayed and a massive image of Dr. King loomed gloriously over the stage. It was one of the most befitting tributes that I had ever attended, and it meant so much to me that my son was there to bear witness.

Inspired by the uplifting series of events, at the close, he enthusiastically said, “I can’t wait until we do this again on Malcolm X’s birthday!” I stood frozen for a moment, before getting out a slippery, “Yyyyeah… I can’t wait either!”

Malcolm X is my personal hero and my favorite minister and activist. By the time I was born in the late 1970s, both Malcolm and Martin had been assassinated. But by the early 1980s, the nation had been galvanized into action in support of a King holiday. Stevie Wonder was a principle player using his 1980 Hotter Than July tour to build momentum while championing the legislation. Wonder’s hit song and rallying cry “Happy Birthday” remains one of the most quintessential examples of the symbiotic relationship between art and activism at work, and was profoundly instrumental in the process of getting the bill passed while exposing the bigoted politicians who refused to vote in favor (four of whom are still serving on the Senate today). The opening lyrics capture the climate of staunch opposition advocates had been facing since the legislation was introduced four days after King’s assassination.

“You know it doesn’t make much sense

There ought to be a law against

Anyone who takes offense

At a day in your celebration”

The bill was finally passed in 1983. The first King holiday was observed in 1986 (the same year Mrs. Coretta Scott King wrote the Senate Judiciary Committee requesting their rejection of President Regan’s nomination of Jeff Sessions to a federal judgeship due to his openly racist stances.) As a kid growing up in the 80s, it was all so palpable to me. Pop culture was fully engaged in the recognition, and the year began with “King Holiday”, a “We Are the World” style anthem spearheaded by Dexter King and performed by the King Dream Chorus whose members included Whitney Houston, Run-DMC and New Edition. McDonald’s even launched a duo of commercials in honor of the newly established holiday. Recognition at last.

But in my house, Malcolm reigned. Perhaps, because I’m a New Yorker. My mother would often paint vivid pictures of the social, cultural and political environment in 1960s New York City, and I’d always get a distinct chill when she’d talk about gathering with friends to catch Malcolm preaching “down on 125th Street.” Growing up, I remember watching him on Gil Noble’s Like It Is and having a small painting of him in our apartment. The distinctiveness of Malcolm’s message resonated with me, as did his prose, phrasing, style and flair. His cool and collected debate style; his Harlem swag; his big, bright, flashing smile; and his tall and regal stature were magnetic. He had this ability to take on America with blunt precision and iron clad substance and to also admonish his people with simultaneous electrifying love, striking a brilliant balance that has never since been achieved. He was the chief progenitor of #Woke-ness.

The courage and consequences around being who Dr. Cornel West describes as “the greatest truth teller about the black condition that we’ve known in the 20th century” also captivated me. In Muhammad Ali’s autobiography, The Soul of a Butterfly, Ali described Malcolm as “a visionary, ahead of us all.” It was Malcolm’s foreknowledge and prodigious wisdom which made him such a force. He made you, whoever “you” was, deal with “you”. It was that very thing which Ali was not ready to reconcile as a young Muslim coming into the Nation of Islam as Malcolm was preparing his exit. However, he would later call his ultimate shunning of his greatest mentor “one of the mistakes that I regret most in my life.” For all of his heroism, I can only imagine how isolating and saddening it may have been for Malcolm to see so much more than many could.

“Malcolm X did something that was very rare in Black leadership,” says West in a 2015 special about Malcolm’s assassination. “He viewed white fears, insecurities and anxieties as an afterthought.  Most black leaders have to deal with white fears, insecurities and anxieties in order to get about.  Malcolm viewed white fears, insecurities and anxieties as tertiary.  What was at the center was Black suffering, what was at the center was a need for Black awakening. That pits him radically against the mainstream and white America.”

Malcolm and his importance as what my son would describe as “a change maker” had been the subject of many conversations between us, and he had subsequently deemed Malcolm just as worthy as Martin of a celebration which would bring out the city’s most meritorious leaders, thinkers, and performers. I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell him that as far as I was aware, there was no such celebration of this magnitude in New York City, let alone that there was no such national holiday for the man the great Ossie Davis referred to as “Our Shining Black Prince.”  I had to figure something out. Fast.

Flash back to November 18, 1992.

Just six years after the first MLK holiday was observed, Spike Lee set Hollywood afire with the release of his tour de force feature film, Malcolm X. It was an innovative biopic that captured the electricity and timelessness of Malcolm. Lee brilliantly branded Malcolm as an enduring and relatable figure, bringing the spirit of Malcolm to the language, music and style of the 90s generation. I was in high school when the movie was released and I can tell you first hand that there was nothing more dope than donning a black, snap-back baseball cap with the white X embroidered on the front with your baggy Cross Colours jeans. Alternative hip hop group Arrested Development wrote the rousing “Revolution” for the end credits as images of real-life Malcolm scrolled up the black backdrop, followed by cameos from Janet Jackson, Tracy Chapman, Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson.  Malcolm had become the revolutionary of the 90s, and seemed to have finally been given his rightful seat among the greatest American leaders in history. But now, exactly a quarter century later, it’s not enough. And my son’s statement made that clear to me.

When cultural critic Touré wrote a 2012 piece for TIME championing the need for a federal holiday for Malcolm, it spoke to my innermost reasoning.  “There are several black Americans who it could be argued should have a day — Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass, W.E.B. DuBois, Ida B. Wells, Jackie Robinson, Thurgood Marshall and others,” he writes, “but I think we should seriously consider a national holiday celebrating the life of a man who indelibly changed America: Malcolm X.”

Throughout the essay, Touré brings clarity to the true essence of Malcolm while outlining what we would use the day to celebrate. “Malcolm was someone who saw himself as a global citizen, traveling and taking his critique of America to the rest of the world and treating America like the global citizen it is. This country is special in part because we are composed of people who relatively recently came from somewhere else and Malcolm fully embraced the diasporic nature of Americanness and thought of himself as a member of the world community.”

As we grapple with the ambush of a White House transparently steeped in white supremacy and resistance becomes a unifying refrain, Malcolm’s messages which exposed American hypocrisy and fake liberalism; his highly evolved and illuminating ideologies around restoration, reorientation, education, economic security and self-defense for the disenfranchised have never been more constitutive. And for that reason, a holiday to honor Malcolm seems more timely than ever before.

In trying to find a way to solve the Malcolm X holiday issue for my son, my thoughts raced. When we got home from that inspiring day at BAM, I walked to the calendar in semi-panic to see if Malcolm’s birthday would land on a weekend.

 Maybe he won’t notice that it’s not a national holiday if Malcolm’s birthday lands on the weekend!
But what if it lands on a weekday?
Then what?
Will you take the day off to celebrate?
But he will still know it wasn’t a national celebration because his friends will ask where he was once he returned to school.
Womp!
What are you going to do??

The truth is, I really didn’t want to tell him there was no holiday. I didn’t want him to equate the absence of a holiday with the idea that Malcolm’s legacy was somehow not as important as King’s. This wore on me for months until I finally decided I would have to relinquish those anxieties.

I decided that ultimately I couldn’t and shouldn’t shield him from the truth that there is not equal reverence or recognition of these two leaders. However, I also decided to clarify things by breaking down the real American view of King and the truth that the King holiday wasn’t granted without years and years of persistence against those in opposition. And that even then, it also took the American powers that be to reinvent King to a tolerable dreamer who they could stomach celebrating every year. Recognition at last, yes… and for a price. I brought sobering context to “the dream” (read my essay about that subject here). For me, this was the perfect way of leveling these two men whom I revered. One was not despised while the other was adored. They were both despised… and America created an oversimplified narrative of one which helped them not lose their shit at the thought of honoring. Two young men who, by the time they were nearing their deaths, were drawing closer to the other’s ideologies.

I had to trust that my teachings and exposures of Malcolm, and his own understanding of Malcolm as a humanitarian, a person with faith in the younger generations of all people, a gallant truth teller, and a man with extraordinary character of strength, would suffice. I decided to let Malcolm do in death as he had done so veraciously in his life – speak for himself.  The lack of federal observation led me to finding all kinds of events in the city and around the country that do celebrate his legacy. And my son, on his own, asked to do something he’d never asked to do in anyone else’s honor – to visit Malcolm’s resting place. We are planning a trip to do just that for Malcolm’s anniversary next year. We will read books and we will continue to talk about Malcolm’s legacy. We even came up with the idea to write a letter to Malcolm every year.

We attended The Schomburg Center For Research In Black Culture’s annual commemoration last Friday. Poets, musicians, and dancers performed pieces inspired by Malcolm’s quest for human rights, anti-colonialism and internationalism. Poet/playwright, activist and educator Sonia Sanchez presented a brilliant and emotional stream of consciousness. It was a tremendous gift that Malcolm was honored in such a beautiful and truthful way in Harlem, the community he loved and called home for the most influential years of his life.

In an ironic twist, at the close of the celebration, New York City Mayor Bill De Blasio proclaimed May 19, 2017 Malcolm X Day. He said, “Malcolm was a true intellectual who had a vision for a better, more inclusive society where all people lived in harmony. And his powerful words have inspired people of all backgrounds and galvanized generations into action. His analysis is alive and well. Over the years [his is] a truth which has become clearer and clearer. This is why people who have such powerful ideas really don’t die.” My son witnessed this! It was a proud moment, and in some ways a bit of kismet, when I think about our walk home from BAM that January morning. I’m not lost on the fact that we have a long way to go toward federal holiday recognition, but this journey is teaching me a lot.

When Spike Lee emotionally recounted the initial financial challenges of getting Malcolm X made on an episode of Inside the Actors Studio, he said something that I had to remind myself of as a parent. “Malcolm always talked about self-reliance,” he said. “We as black people have all the resources we need to rely on ourselves.” I ultimately understand that I have to do what Malcolm would have wanted me to do, holiday be damned: take matters into my own hands by using my ingenuity to liberate the mind of my own child. By any means necessary.

Hey, Toure… maybe this is a start!

When I was growing up, I wasn’t allowed to eat “sugar cereals”. Before you think to yourself, “Big deal!” let me give you some context. I was born in the late 1970s, which placed me precisely at the onset of the 1980s cereal craze, when Smurf-Berry Crunch and Count Chocula were all the rage. Even Mr. T had a cereal, and I so wanted to be on “The team that knows how cool breakfast can be.”

While my friends were comparing FD&C Yellow #6-inspired tongue shades, my siblings and I were counting ingredients on the narrow side of cereal boxes — my mom had tolerance for only about five or six of them — trying to appeal to her sense of reason by desperately attempting to convince her why our cereal requests weren’t “too bad.” Our efforts thwarted, Shredded Wheat or Raisin Bran it was, with the occasional Rice Krispies for good measure [enter eye roll here]. The sweetness came from some stiff, raw, organic honey that was purchased at the Hipster Park Slope Food Coop (sorry, I couldn’t resist a good Brooklyn gentrification jab).

Needless to say, our cold cereal breakfast landscape was pretty flat. But my mom had a theory: we would make our own choices about food when we were grown. Until then, she felt it was her responsibility to give our bodies a good foundation; to expose and direct our palates toward healthier food in the hopes that we would soon inherently reach for those things, treating the bad/yummy stuff as an every-now-and-again treat that we, as a result of our acclimatized systems, wouldn’t be able to stomach on a regular basis anyhow.

It worked. Although we didn’t wait until we were adults (I snuck candy in school and my sister and I hid Apple Jacks in a locked trunk as teens . . . no, seriously), we all ultimately opted for a healthier dietary lifestyle, sprinkling our buds with the bad stuff only here and there. Mom’s mission: accomplished.

Now a parent too, I find myself using my mom’s winning formula in many areas of my childrearing — most specifically with music. When I was growing up, good music wasn’t hard to come by. I’m from a profoundly musical family, but even if that weren’t the case, it was the early ’80s and video hadn’t killed the radio star quite yet. I had a pretty good stockpile of quality music to reference simply because the music that was commercial at the time was actually good, Soul Train was on the air, and innovation was still the artistic bullseye.

Nowadays . . .

When Paul McCartney collaborated with Kanye West early last year, the Twitterverse lost its proverbial wits when fans of West ignorantly praised him for shining a light on “newcomer” McCartney. “Who is Paul Mcartney [sic]?” and “This Paul McCartney guy gonna be huge!” were just a couple of the eyebrow-raising, jaw-dropping blunders that spread across the internet like wildfire — sparking outrage, laughs, and SMH-like responses from people who understood how reckless, ridiculous, and sad it was that the twenty-one-time GRAMMY^® Award winner and two-time Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee had slipped through the cracks of American music history.

I make a point to say American history because although the British Invasion forerunners hailed from across the pond, their foundation was indisputably influenced by and dependent on Black American artists like Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Arthur Alexander, and the monster roll call of Motown masters. In the Kanye West generation of utter oblivion, this becomes a multi-layered concern, for if you don’t know the members of The Beatles, then the music they built their legacy upon — Black music — is pushed even further into the shadows, swallowed up by the abysm of crafted negligence and consequential indifference.

Ahmir Thompson aka Questlove took to Facebook soon after McCartneygate to vent his frustration on the matter, poignantly waving his finger at those of us raising young children today. “Music ain’t so magical that it will transcend and trickle down to the next generation,” he warned. “Music has to be passed down, not just left at the side of the road to be discovered.”

Well, yeah. It’s my daily mantra. The arts are as weaved into my family’s life as any of our daily routines, but the narrative is essential. Otherwise, not only will the music sit stranded on the side of the road, but the inextricable cultural context will park a seat right next to it. But it’s not solely for the purpose of my son not embarrassing me or himself on social media in ten years. The honorable act of ensuring the receipt of his cultural inheritance is a portal to self-discovery.

Sure, my son knows a Fetty Wop song or two (and as a native New Yorker born in the South Bronx at the dawn of hip hop, that does grate a bit), but more often he will quote a Michael Jackson lyric, casually sing several bars of Thelonious Monk’s intricate “Light Blue” while coloring, and look in the mirror after a haircut to gleefully report that he looks “just like Nat ‘King’ Cole.” Black culture is embedded in his everyday living, and that’s completely intentional. The key is, it’s not observed from the outside looking in through a nostalgic lens. It’s a living, breathing, circulation in the heart, mind, and soul.

It’s lessons in life: Listening to Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday” ode to MLK creates an opportunity to discuss the impetus of the song, activism, courage, and artist responsibility; watching Motown 25 teaches him about artistic lineage, the embodiment of community, torch-bearing and torch-passing; seeing a documentary on Clark Terry’s inspiring lifetime of generosity helped my son to be less hard on himself while shedding his instrument, and inspired a compassion for our elderly that is now entirely and uniquely his own.

The return on my investment is completely gratifying, entertaining, and mind-blowing. When I’m on the phone with a friend and we are trying to remember the year Marvin Gaye was born, both get it wrong, but my eavesdropping seven-year-old pops in to say, “No, it’s 1939, mama!” and then nonchalantly footnotes that he shares a birthday with Sam Cooke, it’s like every bit of Christmas rolled into one brilliant moment. As Baldwin said, “Know from whence you came.” My son’s ability to discuss his history or rattle off facts is amazing. But the various ways in which he envisions and places himself in the narrative is the real prize.

There is a “back in my day” reflex that attaches itself to every parent in some way, and how we embrace it, balance it, or resist it is a deeply personal decision and experience. Still, I think what my son and I have in common is an organic, innate interest in what came before us, with chronological sequence for chronological sequence’s sake being quite moot.

When I lived with my grandparents as a child, I’d often be left to entertain myself. A journalist at heart, I used a broken-down tape recorder that had the best sound to interview my grandparents, asking a ton of questions and making on-the-fly requests. On one of the cassettes, I’m heard asking my grandmother, born in 1920, about the songs her mother would sing to her. While she recalls a Tin Pan Alley tune or two, you can hear Michael Jackson faintly in the background singing “Man in the Mirror” from the 1988 film Moonwalker, which I had popped into the VCR moments earlier. Later that afternoon, I might take her portable suitcase record player downstairs to listen to Sam Cooke’s 1956 recording of “Touch the Hem of His Garment”.  After that, I might pop a cassette from De La Soul, Slick Rick, or Al B. Sure into the same rickety tape player. It was all mystical to me, and release dates were not only inconsequential, they weren’t something to contemplate in the first place.

I’m grateful that my son inherited the piece of my DNA which seeks out the beauty and mysteries of his culture. There is a consistent and rotating buffet of greatness that I present with a tremendous deal of conviction, and personally, there’s no way I can do it starting with the likes of the aforementioned Fetty Wop. It becomes that much more complex when at every turn my son hears, — against my will and despite my best efforts, — a barrage of violent and misogynistic sentiments bellowing over grossly uninspired music production, which sounds more and more like Freddy Krueger entrance cues than actual songs. Like those untainted cereals my mom served us, that buffet of quality I’m providing isn’t capsulized in a specific place and time, but rather sets a benchmark for my son as he navigates through the often rough music terrain of today, where he still finds himself victorious in plucking out the gems on his own. It’s a little tougher to do in 2016, but once the palate has been turned on to greatness… his greatness… the rest is history – — past and in the making.