Before I had the language to understand why, I just knew that I never quite resonated with January 1st as the new year. It always felt forced and honestly, a tad bit depressing. “Auld Lang Syne” (Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot) is perhaps the most unceremonious song in history, and standing in the freezing cold to watch the ball drop in the middle of the most uninteresting part of New York City never appealed to me. With the exception of Dick Clark’s annual special (when he was still living), and the fact that my beloved grandmother’s birthday was just the day after New Year’s Day, I just couldn’t get excited about it.
When I was in my 20s, I began to see my own birthday as New Year’s Day (and still do to a great degree). I think the moment we each take our unique breaths into this life, is the start of our personal new year.
If you’ve struggled with connecting to January 1 as a symbol of newness and fresh starts, you’re not alone. I, along with many others, believe that if there is an event that collectively marks the beginning of a new year (for a particular hemisphere) in a way that feels more in alignment with Mother Earth and more attuned with the ancestors, it would be the Spring Equinox. The term “equinox” translates to “equality of night and day.” At this point in time, the Sun is directly above the hemisphere, and both halves of the Earth are receiving equal light, and the length of day and night are also equal. John Coltrane famously wrote a piece for the Autumnal or Fall Equinox, which also happens to land around his birth date (Trane, always ahead of us all!)
The first day of Spring season also kicks off Aries season (or vice-versa). Aries is the first sign of the zodiacal wheel. It is a cardinal sign associated with new beginnings, the first buds of growth, and initiation. In the ways that we notice the first blooms on the trees, this is a prime time to initiate newness in our own lives. I personally resonate with this a whole lot more than January 1st. You probably do, too, even if not fully conscious of it!
In celebration of the Spring Equinox and the astrological new year, here are 5 spring-inspired songs that I LOVE. I hope you enjoy!
Clifford Brown And Max Roach “Joy Spring” Clifford Brown And Max Roach (1954) Emarcy
This is one of my favorite songs of all time, for any season, reason or occasion. But most certainly, opening up the windows wide on a bright spring day with this tune fluttering in the air is bliss. Clifford Brown and Max Roach — one of the most essential duos in the history of jazz. It was a short lived alliance, tragically truncated by the passing of Clifford Brown in 1956 at just 25 years old. However, the quintet they co-led and formed with pianist Richie Powell, saxophonist Harold Land and bassist George Morrow was creatively trailblazing and brilliant. Brown’s masterful “Joy Spring” starts with Land playing a two-handed arpeggio that is pretty much the opening melody. The chords that answer this arpeggio stopped me in my tracks when I was a child and they still do. I notice that when a lot of people teach this tune, they leave that part out, which is just criminal in my opinion. This call and answer between the unison lines and these dark harmonic responses in the opening really set the tune up and it’s just majestic to the ears. The changes throughout are beautiful, and the use of modulation and Max’s incredible rhythmic accents heighten and elevate the tune to a space that embodies its title and then some. It is such a buoyant, brilliant, beautiful piece. Brown’s solo from 2:55 — 3:09 can bring a tear of elation every time.
Freddie Hubbard “Up Jumped Spring” Backlash (1967) Atlantic Records
I was torn between which version to post about, so I’ll just recommend you listen to both this version of Freddie Hubbard’s “Up Jumped Spring” and the one from Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers’ Three Blind Mice Vol. 1. Although the latter might be my personal favorite for nostalgic reasons, this 1967 version is an absolute gem, especially with the addition of James Spaulding’s flute on the chorus. Hubbard’s solo is a lot more tempered on this version but his gorgeous fluid lines, and tone are exquisite. The B section of this song is simply delicious.
Carmen McRae “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most” Bittersweet (1964) Focus Productions
“Now a spring romance doesn’t stand a chance… Promised my first dance to winter… All I’ve got to show’s a splinter… for my little flame.”
Whew… this one. Now, this one is not a frolic through the flowers. It is a bit gut-wrenching, equal parts haunting and absolutely splendid, detailing the juxtaposition of the associations of spring and the process of reckoning with heartache. Carmen McRae’s version includes this opening channel that imbues all the mystique and depth conceivable, and features McRae and the under-celebrated pianist and arranger Norman Simmons. The audio mix of this recording adds to the magic as McRae’s voice sits out front so untainted and organic that she sounds like she’s singing this on your shoulder. Simmons plays these beautiful, dark, clustery changes underneath and eventually bassist Victor Sproles layers in this weeping bowed bass and… sheesh! It’s one of the most incredible things I’ve ever heard. Throughout, Simmons sprinkles these absolutely gorgeous harmonic trills along the path almost like roses for McRae to walk upon and she responds with some of the greatest singing you could hope to ever hear. Just when you think you can’t take another moment. The change Simmons plays on the last time Carmen says the word “spring” will just melt you where you stand (provided you’re still standing at almost 6 minutes in). Incredible.
Teena Marie “You Make Love Like Springtime” Irons in the Fire (1980) Motown
Teena Marie’s early catalogue is most certainly in the pocket when it comes to the popular music of the time — namely funk and disco. This album (my personal favorite) is a prime example of her ability to write huge hits in those genres (Sidebar: I don’t care where I am: I hear that opening glissando and Marie’s long “Heeeeeee” and it’s an instant dance party wherever I am). Yet, she always had songs in her repertoire that were reflective of the music that influenced her – early Motown, jazz, and Brazilian in particular. “You Make Love Like Springtime” from her Irons in the Fire LP is like a sunset on the beach. It has a samba feel with this awesome oscillating major-to-minor groove and arranged with her signature horn section front and center. Reflective of the merging of Brazilian music, soul and disco that we saw in the previous decade but with a Lady T Twist. A delectable, seductive warm spring night jam. The great bassist, Allen McGrier, once again knocks it out of the park.
Sarah Vaughan Sarah Vaughan with Percy Faith and His Orchestra (1953) “Spring Will Be a Little Late This Year” Phillips
The only album I know this song to be on that would probably be easiest to find is Sarah Vaughan in Hi-Fi. Subsequently recorded by other greats like Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Charles and Abbey Lincoln, Vaughan first recorded it in 1953 with Canadian orchestrator and arranger Percy Faith. It’s my favorite version: the arrangement is understated and Vaughan’s phrasing enraptures. It doesn’t get much better than this.
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:
For a King, Celebrate! 10 Songs You Should Listen to On MLK’s Birthday
God has wrought many things out of oppression. He has endowed his creatures with the capacity to create — and from this capacity has flowed the sweet songs of sorrow and joy that have allowed man to cope with his environment and many different situations.
Jazz speaks for life. The Blues tell the story of life’s difficulties, and if you think for a moment, you will realize that they take the hardest realities of life and put them into music, only to come out with some new hope or sense of triumph.
This is triumphant music. — Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Happy Birthday weekend to one of Our Greatest.
I Have a Dream Herbie Hancock The Prisoner
Released just one year after the assassination of Dr. King, Hancock said of this album, “Generally speaking, I’ve been able to get closer to the real me with this album than on any other previous one.” With his nonet of Joe Henderson (ts, alto flute), Johnny Coles (flugelhorn), Garnett Brown (trombone), Buster Williams (bass), and Tootie Heath (d), The Prisoner is likely Hancock’s most socially focused work of his career with the entire album being an homage to Dr. King, his legacy and the direction forward after America’s Last Great Hope was extinguished.
Happy Birthday Stevie Wonder Hotter Than July
Stevie Wonder was a principle player using his 1980 Hotter Than July tour to build momentum while championing the legislation for an MLK holiday. 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 who were still serving on the Senate in the last 5 years). 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.) The posthumously released memoir from legendary poet, singer, composer and activist Gil Scott Heron, The Last Holiday (Grove Press), gives an unprecedented look at Wonder’s mission. The book’s title refers to Scott-Heron’s experiences as the opening act of Wonder’s 1980 tour. “Somehow it seems that Stevie’s efforts as the leader of this campaign has been forgotten,” writes Heron. “But it is something that we should all remember.”
King Holiday King Dream Chorus and Holiday Crew
By 1986, pop culture seemed to be fully engaged in the federal recognition of Dr. King, 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, Stephanie Mills and New Edition.
Why? (The King of Love Is Dead) Nina Simone Nuff Said!
Hours after King’s prophetic “Been to the mountaintop” speech on the eve of his death, Dr. King was assassinated on the balcony of The Lorraine Motel, in Memphis. Three days later on April 7, 1968, a 35 year old Nina Simone sat to the piano and delivered the most sobering message to the culture – and the world – when she sang, “The King of Love Is Dead” at the Westbury Music Fair on Long Island in New York. It is one of the most heart wrenching musical performances I have ever heard.
By the Time I Get to Arizona Public Enemy Apocalypse 91… The Enemy Strikes Black (1991)
In 1983, several lawmakers voted against making MLK Day a national holiday. One such lawmaker was at the time Arizona Congressman, John McCain. Evan Mecham served as Governor of the state from January 5, 1987, until his impeachment conviction on April 4, 1988 (peep that date). While in office, Mecham canceled Arizona’s state holiday to honor King, as promised during his campaign. It wasn’t until 1993 that MLK Day was officially observed as a paid holiday. Just as Wonder has done in 1983, Public Enemy frontman Chuck D took to his pen and mic in 1991 to admonish Mecham for his outrageous decision.
And they can’t understand why he the man I’m singin’ ’bout a king They don’t like it When I decide to mic it Wait! I’m waitin’ for the date For the man who demands respect ‘Cause he was great, c’mon! I’m on the one mission To get a politician To honor or he’s a gonner By the time I get to Arizona…
March On Selma Blue Mitchell Down With It (1966)
Trumpeter Blue Mitchell wrote a swinging, upbeat ode to the Selma to Montgomery marches of 1965, in which hundreds of activists — including Dr. King, Mrs. Coretta Scott King and Senator John Lewis — marched to the capital as part of the voting rights efforts. Congress finally passed the Voting Rights Act and President Johnson signed it into law that summer. This song rings true at this moment — not even six decades after the Voting Rights Act, we are witnessing voter suppression efforts increasing by the day. Mitchell, with tenor saxophonist Junior Cook, a 25 year old Chick Corea on piano, Gene Taylor’s bass and drummer Al Foster deliver an uplifting song with March On Selma that exudes a spirit of relentless hope forward motion.
Soldiers (I Have a Dream) Christian McBride feat. Wendell Pierce The Movement Revisited: A Musical Portrait of Four Icons
The Movement Revisited: A Musical Portrait of Four Icons is a brilliant five-part suite dedicated to the lives and legacies of civil and human rights giants Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, Muhammad Ali, and Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,. A creative pinnacle for McBride two decades in the making, the seminal piece features his 17-piece GRAMMY-winning big band and an all-star roster of poets (including Dion Graham, Sonia Sanchez, and Vondie Curtis Hall), vocalists (including Alicia Olatuja and J.D. Steele) a beautiful choir, and notable actors. “Soldiers (I Have a Dream)” features a beautiful narrative performance of King’s Dream speech by acclaimed actor, Wendell Pierce (The Wire, Death of a Salesman, Selma). If you don’t watch anything else today, don’t skip this treat: a live recording of The Movement Revisited from The Kimmel Center.
Martin Luther King (3rd Movement) Duke Ellington Three Black Kings
Ellington would pass away before he had a chance to perform this work, but it has been honored through several orchestras and symphonies over the years. “Martin Luther King” is the third movement to Ellington’s Three Black Kings suite and it is absolutely stunning. It would not be the first time Ellington would honor his friend through musical dedication. In 1963, Duke Ellington directed and narrated My People, which was presented in Chicago as part of the Century of Negro Progress Exposition. “King Fit The Battle Of Alabam” was performed by Ellington and Billy Strayhorn & His Orchestra: Ray Nance, c; Bill Berry, Ziggy Harrell, Nat Woodard, t; Booty Wood, Britt Woodman, tb; John Sanders, vtb; Rudy Powell, as; Pete Clark, Russell Procope, as, cl; Harold Ashby, ts, cl; Bob Freedman, ts; Billy Strayhorn, celeste; Joe Benjamin, b; Louie Bellson, d; Juan Amalbert, cga; Jimmy Jones cond, p; It was recorded at Universal Studios in Chicago. It was recorded on August 20, 1963, just a week ahead of King’s Dream speech on Lincoln Memorial. Both worth many, many listens and even more exploration.
Abraham, Martin And John Ray Charles A Message From the People (1972)
This album was a staple in my home, with his versions of “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” and a brilliantly soulful rendition of singer-songwriter Melanie Anne Safka’s “Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” played incessantly in my home growing up. But nestled more than halfway through the album is “Abraham, Martin And John” rendered in a way only The Genius could.
McDonalds Celebrates The Legacy of Martin Luther King Jr. (1986)
This is an honorary mention, strictly for nostalgia purposes. Released the year of the first observed MLK Day in 1986, this commercial ran seemingly round the clock when I was growing up, especially during commercial breaks from black programs like Soul Train on Saturday mornings. If you are black and came up in the 1980s, there’s no way you don’t know this one by heart.
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.
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.
Photograph by George Rose / Getty
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.
Gin Ellis/Getty Images
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
One of the musical highlights of my 1980s reminiscences is the duets. The concept is a slippery one… duets can certainly get tripped into hokey territory, especially if the collaborations feel forced. The artists of the 80s had quite the benchmark to live up to, considering the caliber of duets past: Dinah Washington and Brook Benton, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, Ray Charles and Betty Carter, and so on. Although the 80s produced more seemingly manufactured duets, the end results — more often than not — are great, feel-good records, which consisted of powerhouse artists who found themselves in collaboration, often at the height of their success.
While the classic duet formula is almost always a love song between a man and a women, some of my favorite duets are between men. Yes, the musical bromance is my entire jam. And to be honest, I feel like it’s what the world needs more of.
Over the course of my lifetime, it’s been stunning to witness the steep decline of male intimacy in Western society. The knee jerk “that’s gay” trope, especially as it pertains to men being vulnerable, creative, loving, soft or honest with one another, is deeply problematic. To that end, “gay” being understood as inherently derogatory… well, I could dedicate an entire post to that baneful ideology. But the idea that normal and healthy expressions are somehow evidence of weakness has been completely damaging to all interpersonal relationships and to community as a whole. And there’s data to back it up — data that only adds to the countless testimonies of almost anyone you or I know who has bumped up against this problem.
A study out of the U.K. reports that 51% of men have less than two close friends and that 2.5 million men are going through life feeling totally alone. Furthermore, suicide is now the single biggest killer of men under 45, and accounts for 13 deaths a day, according to the same study. Contrastingly, men who bond in healthy ways with other men tend to have less stress, and according to Psychology Today, research concludes that “a good bromance will release oxytocin in the human brain as well—and increased oxytocin can help men live longer, healthier lives. (Although some also refer to oxytocin as ‘the love hormone,’ emotionally intense platonic relationships also increase oxytocin.)” While several historical and cultural factors make this a multi-faceted, multi-layered concept worthy of exploration, healthy and harmonious relationships between men make life better and safer for all. It is well past time for reeducation and healing to begin.
While it may seem like the male duet has little to do with these heavier concepts, I think the link is actually rather closely related. It’s the many imposed, micro societal “no-nos” that police an already manufactured perception of manhood that feed the beast.
So in honor of a time when men could sport fitted pants, don long jheri curls and eyeliner… or sing a duet with a buddy without his masculinity being called into question, I present some of my favorite bromantic duets of the 80s.
Smoke Robinson & Rick James “Ebony Eyes” (1983)
Growing up, Rick James’ 1981 release, Street Songs, was a staple in my house. A funk masterpiece, it was highlighted by a now classic duet, “Fire and Desire,” featuring fellow Motown songstress and muse, Teena Marie. By the time Cold Blooded (1983) was released, he’d already proven his flair and brilliance as a writer, producer, musician and brand. With “Ebony Eyes,” he steps into the duet space again, this time with songwriting progenitor and Motown legend, Smokey Robinson. By this time, Robinson was only a few years away from his induction into the Songwriters Hall of Fame and he was also the king of quiet storm, even if some of his 80s efforts fell a bit flat. Together, James and Robinson scored a hit with “Ebony Eyes.” Lyrically, they trade lovestruck sentiments about a woman, whose blackness is central to her beauty. The production is lusty in the best of ways (the drums alone scream sex), yet the lyrics are a balance of sensual and sentimental, making it one of the Rick James songs we didn’t have to turn down on the stereo when over my nana’s house! Ha! A beautiful ballad that still goes hard to this day.
Phil Collins & Philip Bailey “Easy Lover” (1984)
Written by Phil Collins, Phillip Bailey and Nathan East, “Easy Lover” is the big single from Bailey’s album Chinese Wall (1984), which was also produced by Collins. The longtime Earth, Wind and Fire falsetto frontman had only recently gone solo. Collins had this scenario in common with Bailey as he too was straddling success both as a huge solo star and with Genesis, where he began as a drummer before becoming the lead vocalist of the brit-rock band in 1970. Here, he lends not just his vocals but his superb drumming to “Easy Lover.” The two Phils score a big hit (it reached #2 on the Billboard chart) with this delightful, mid-tempo jam.
Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney “Say, Say, Say” (1983)
One of two duets from these larger-than-life artists off of McCartney’s Pipes of Peace album in 1983 (the other being the much lesser known “The Man”). Released almost a year to the date after Jackson’s earth-shifting Thriller, “Say, Say, Say” was an example of their continued creative kinship. Though it would be short lived, and business complicated (and ultimately severed) their relationship soon after, this bop is untainted for me. And Michael’s vocals are superb.
Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney “The Girl Is Mine” (1982)
Another gem from the dynamic duo. Of any song on Thriller, this one is easily the most divisive: people either love it or loathe it, with the latter most always citing a cheese factor that I personally reject. The jazzy-pop-mid-bop is every bit of a feel good record as Al Jarreau’s “We’re In This Love Together,” (a likely inspiration for the Jackson classic). Further, I love the way Jackson and McCartney approach the vocal treatment, both smooth like butter, warm and ultra melodic. And who could argue against that bridge?! Cheesy? Nah. In the words of McCartney, “I don’t belieeeeeve it!”
Stevie Wonder & Paul McCartney “What’s That You’re Doing?” (1982)
Around the same time McCartney was collaborating with Jackson, he was also teaming up with Stevie Wonder, whom he met and befriended in London when Wonder was only 15. Wonder appeared on two tracks on Tug Of War, one of McCartney’s earliest solo artist recordings. While “Ebony and Ivory” was the big chart-topper from the album, my favorite is the lesser explored duet from the same album, “What’s That You’re Doing,” a funk-synth-pop jam that pulls McCartney into a realm slightly less familiar. It’s a surprising, funky song that sounds like it could have easily fit on Wonder’s Hotter Than July.
Stevie Wonder & Paul McCartney “Ebony & Ivory” (1982)
I know… I know… but it’s a classic. And so is this…
and this…
James Ingram & Michael McDonald “Yah Mo Be There” (1983)
This is a vocal match made in heaven. Written by Ingram, McDonald, Rod Temperton and Quincy Jones, “Yah Mo Be There” is an inspirational classic, and a nod to Ingram’s devout Christian roots. If a two step and a good praise hand needed a soundtrack, this is it. Sidebar: if you’re looking for where the Rockwell hit, “Somebody’s Watching Me,” likely found its inspiration, listen no further.
One of the most beautiful duets there is. Written by Vandross and veteran producer Skip Anderson, “There’s Nothing Better Than Love” appears on Vandross’ Give Me The Reason LP. Luther was at the height of his powers with yet another platinum album and a single on a movie soundtrack (Ruthless People, 1986). Hines was enjoying big successes of his own, as a leading man alongside Billy Crystal in the hit movie, Running Scared. The Broadway veteran and tap icon would score an NAACP Image Award for the role. This Side 2 ballad gets a signature treatment from the incomparable Nat Adderly and Marcus Miller. Vandross and Hines are like a hand in glove, trading phrases. Vandross, arguably one of the greatest voices of our time, doesn’t outshine Hines in the least. Instead they find their compatibility and groove with ease. I must admit, I can’t always listen to this one… I can definitely get teary. Two gems who are so sorely missed.
Michael Jackson & Stevie Wonder “Just Good Friends” (1987)
“Just Good Friends” is easily the second most underrated song on the King Of Pop’s Bad LP, with the first being “Another Part Of Me.” Written by Terry Britten and Graham Lyle (“What’s Love Got to Do with It”), they perfectly tap into the musical aesthetics of both Michael and Stevie. This song brings me so much joy, as they find consistent vocal interplay. The song’s gorgeous bridge leads to a vamp-out overflowing with inspired creativity and reciprocity. Both are in particularly clear vocal form.
Michael Jackson & Freddie Mercury “State of Shock” (1983)
The duet that almost (but never) happened. There is a fantastic reference of their working on the song that’s widely accessible online, but the song ends up being recorded and released with Rolling Stones frontman, Mick Jagger, instead. One can only imagine what happened with Mercury, and the theories around why it didn’t come to full fruition are pretty hilarious, but likely untrue. What I do know is that they were clearly fond of each other’s artistry (Queen was most definitely checking out the Jacksons, if you listen to their work around 77-78). But why these two Virgo giants didn’t pull “State of Shock” over the finish line remains a mystery. Still, if you want to hear a rarer performance of the song and feel like you’re hanging in the studio with your favorites, this is your chance. Listening to Mercury parrot Mike’s signature “Hees” and “Hoooops” is worth the price of admission.
Al B. Sure / James Ingram / El DeBarge / Barry White “Secret Garden” (1989)
I know… I’m cheating with this one. It’s not a duet. It’s a bromance 4X. This classic has been making the ladies swoon for over three decades. The bass line alone is an eternal vibe. A vast vocal fest featuring DeBarges’ signature falsetto and White’s irresistible baritone and everything in between. Written by DeBarge, Quincy Jones, Rod Temperton, and the wonderful Siedah Garrett, “Secret Garden” closes Jones’ Back On the Block, an historically essential album in that it allows us to hear some of the last work from some of our greatest musicians. “Secret Garden” extends the intergenerational theme of the album, in full bromantical glory.
12 Classic Christmas Albums: Kultured Child Picks for 2020
Soooo… apparently, it’s Christmas time. As with everything in 2020, for those who celebrate, Christmas has an entirely different significance. While “The Season To Be Jolly” feels like anything but, there is still music. So, with that in mind, here are this year’s Christmas picks from yours truly. May the music heal, restore, connect and ground you in all ways that feel most meaningful.
Albums
Jackson 5 Christmas Album (1970) The Jackson 5
One of the earliest Christmas albums I remember hearing, Jackson 5 Christmas Album remains a favorite. Christmas Album capped a jam-packed year for the breakout Motown stars. They’d already had a trio of #1 singles, becoming Motown’s biggest-selling group at the time. I can just about picture the marketing meeting about the no-brainer Christmas album that had to happen (although clearly not much time was spent mulling over a title). The awe of this album lies in the way it manages to not be a gimmicky, teenybopper outfit. Jermaine handles the crooning, while Micheal wails like the spirit of a baptist preacher jumped in his twelve year old body. The one exception is Michael’s lead on “Give Love On Christmas Day,” where he renders the two-step, arm-sway treatment with seasoned sentimentality. And their rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” is — by far — my favorite of all time. “Up On the House Top” features a culturally foretelling passage when the songs breaks down and Michael spits a 4-bar verse at the song’s mid point. Classic.
Christmas Interpretations (1993) Boyz II Men
The 90s! I was a freshman in high school, and now regularly purchasing my own music. I would walk from my high school to Tower Records (sigh…) and grab a CD or two to listen to on the long subway ride home. This is one of those albums. I was a huge Boyz II Men fan when this album came out, but I was possibly an even bigger Brian McKnight fan by this time. So when two of my favorite groups came together, it was indeed Christmas! I’m not a huge fan of modern “original” Christmas songs. Very few of them are any good, in my estimation. Bearing this in mind, with “Silent Night” as the only traditional Christmas song on the album, Christmas Interpretations is an exceptional album. Lyrically, the group sticks to Christmas themes, but the songs have very little typical Christmas signaling in their production, and they stick to their formula of quartet harmony and ballads. “Let It Snow,” the album’s single, features McKnight as producer and vocalist. It’s a first-rate 90s R&B ballad, laced with McKnight’s signature keyboards and a vocal quartet’s dream of a vamp out. The single is the first full song on the album, and it’s easy to surmise that it might be downhill from there, but notably, it absolutely is not. It’s a solid album with, I’d argue, no skippables. This is an album you can play down and thoroughly enjoy.
Song Picks: “Let It Snow,” “Share Love,” “A Joyous Song”
The Temptations Christmas Card (1970) The Temptations
“Rudolph the Reed-Nosed Reindeer” is worth the price of the whole album.
“Hey, Rudolph!”
A Soulful Christmas (1968) James Brown
1968. A paradigm shift. A collective amalgamation of grief, despair, hope and determination. The year of “Say It Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud).” The Godfather of Soul released the anthem as a single before including it (Parts 1 & 2) on A Soulful Christmas and then ultimately releasing it as the title track of his next album. His “Santa Claus, Go Straight To the Ghetto” signals the psyche of a towering artist with monumental social influence at a critical time within the modern civil rights era. I love this album from top to bottom. It’s quintessential JB: at times more “jazz” leaning, at times showcasing a rarer balladeer side of Brown, via the beautiful “Let’s Unite the Whole World At Christmas.” The title track is a bad-ass “Funky-Drummer-esque” jam. There’s nothing about this album that fits the Christmas album prototype. This is James Brown Does Christmas. And it’s awesome.
Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas (1960) Ella Fitzgerald
Ella sings a set of classic Christmas repertoire as only she can. That’s it. That’s the review. #THEGOAT
Sound of Christmas (1961) Ramsey Lewis
Full of slow drag swag, this album from the Ramsey Lewis trio is a vibe. Lewis’ trio possesses a moody, crepuscular feel, not uncharacteristic of the early 60s. The bluesier numbers are palpably Ray Charles-influenced. “At Last” (Etta James) arranger, the great Riley Hampton, adds lovely string arrangements that merge perfectly with Lewis’ approach, whether soul, pop, or blues via songs like “Sleigh Ride,” and “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” Great set for an after hours Christmas eve toast with someone special.
Christmas ’64 (1964) Jimmy Smith
You’ve never heard “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” done like this before! Jimmy Smith comes out blazing with Art Davis’ propelling bass right in the pocket. Smith is heard here in various band configurations with fellow all-stars like Kenny Burrell, Ray Barretto, Billy Hart, Grady Tate and Wes Montgomery, who is featured on a fantastic version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” More slow drag swag is on deck with a foxy, big band treatment of “The Christmas Song.” I don’t always want to hear Christmas songs played on the organ, but I can always listen to Jimmy Smith play anything — including Christmas songs. The amount of soul he delivers to a song like “Jingle Bells” defies understanding.
A Child Is Born (2011) Geri Allen
In 2011, I had the distinct honor of interviewing the late, great Geri Allen for her first and only Christmas recording. The granddaughter of a baptist minister and an invaluable part of Newark’s Bethany Baptist Church community, the award-winning pianistic titan explores traditional and ancient themes with songs like “Imagining Gena at Sunrise” and “Imaging Gena at Sunset” supported by stunning cover art by artist Pamela Kabuya Bowens-Saffo, which depicts the Black Madonna and Child. The traditional “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” includes stirring vocal samples from the women of the Quilt Collective of Geeʼs Bend, Alabama. (Google the quilting tradition of Gee’s Bend). “Journey to Bethlehem” is inspired by a life-changing trip to Allen made to Jerusalem a few years prior to this recording. There to perform at the first Jerusalem Jazz Festival, Allen also spent time in Bethlehem, to pray and meditate at the Western Wall. A Child Is Born feels like a window into those sacred mediations. It’s a mystic, ancestral and deeply affecting offering.
Song Pick(s): God Is With Us (Matthew 1:23), Amazing Grace,
The Christmas Song (1960) Nat King Cole
Just two beautiful guitar strums signal that the greatest Christmas song ever performed is under way. It’s as if the commencement of all things Christmastime cannot begin until The King has anointed the festivities with his mesmerizing voice. With each phrase, Cole paints the ultimate Christmas fantasy, layer by layer. The gorgeous arrangements, by Ralph Carmichael, now 93, mark the beginning of a musical relationship with Cole that would last until Cole’s passing, in 1965. Easily the greatest Christmas album of all time. In a year of so much uncertainty, this kind of musical familiarity and intimacy can be like a salve for the collective consciousness.
A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965) Vince Guaraldi Trio
What can I say? This is simply a must every Christmas. Aside from the warm and fuzzy nostalgia it evokes every time, this album is a hard swinging, grooving jazz set from Guaraldi with Jerry Granello on drums and Fred Marshall on bass. Their musical symbiosis is absolutely note worthy, as it wholly contributes to how they came to create the perfect Christmas album. From the stellar repertoire and their arrangements, to the outstanding solos from Guaraldi and Marshall, to Granello’s consistent tastiness, this album couldn’t be any better. Guaraldi is a sensitive player with tremendous harmonic depth. The mix of the recording is interesting… it’s not the sound of a tight warm room that one may associate with being appropriate for trio, but its airiness almost adds to the mystique of the album.
Song Highlight(s): Christmastime Is Here, O Tannenbaum
Happy Holidays To You (1979) The Whispers
The Whispers are, hands down, one of my favorite male vocal groups. Two standout tracks on this 1979 gem are the title track, “Happy Holidays To You,” and their beautiful makeover of the Donny Hathaway classic, “This Christmas,” which turned 50 this year. Written by founding member and lead singer of the 70s funk band, Lakeside, Mark Adam Wood, Jr., and arranged by the extraordinary Gene Page, “Happy Holidays To You” is a pensive and gorgeous ballad, lush with strings, piano and all of the music trimmings that give a great Christmas song its holiday aesthetic. “This Christmas” gets a ballad treatment as well. The slowed tempo allows for a different appreciation of Hathaway’s harmonic brilliance and the overall arrangement is beautiful. Soon after, The Whispers would rework the song, lyrically, as a tribute to the great Hathaway, who passed away that same year.
The Preacher’s Wife: Original Soundtrack Album (1996) Whitney Houston
While not an actual Christmas album, this classic from the late Whitney Houston harmonizes beautifully with any existing Christmas playlist with songs like “Joy To the World,” ” Who Would Imagine a King,” and her tremendous version of “I Love the Lord,” featuring the Georgia Mass Choir, highlighting this superb set. This album finds Whitney in her element, after many years of dissuasion from her label to record gospel music. She is in great voice, and brings the house down, repeatedly.
Songs
Because I can’t mention Christmas without these songs.
“A Child Is Born” Live in Marciac 1993 Hank Jones and Tommy Flanagan
“Greensleeves” Africa/Brass The John Coltrane Quartet
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.
This year marks the 50th anniversary of Labi Siffre’s self-titled debut. Siffre, a Black man from Hammersmith, London, came on the recording scene in 1970, after spending time in the house band of Annie’s Room, a jazz nightclub owned by Annie Ross of the famed jazz vocal group, Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. Citing Monk, Miles, Mingus, Coltrane, Billie, and Sassy as his songwriting influences along with Little Richard and Muddy Waters, Siffre found his earliest musical inspirations by way of his brother’s extensive record collection. Siffre released ten albums over the course of the next three decades, with a particularly creative streak in the 1970s, as a predominately folk-oriented musician.
Openly gay, black, and atheist, it is relatively safe to deduce that Siffre’s trajectory toward eminence was impeded in a society where white supremacy and religious provincialism were and continue to be pervasive influences. Perhaps it is also presumptuous to surmise that fame or celebrity were in any way a goal of the visionary singer-songwriter. However personal the gripe may be on the matter of Siffre’s relative obscurity (his intervals of reclusiveness duly noted), the sobering limitations for black recording artists is a veritable reality. Namely, within folk music.
Like most of America’s earliest music, its history is looted without fail by people with unmerited access to powerful platforms that allow them to perpetuate false and damaging narratives. To date, folk’s prevailing image is well-meaning, white people with long hair strumming guitar strings and singing about peace and love. The problem with this composite is that it woefully crops out its origin and craftspeople. Apropos of mention, let it also be said that Black people are all-too-often relegated to the “architect” epithet. While it is true that Black people are the founders of most traditional American music, folk included, these truths are, as a matter of practice, deported to the back burner of relevance or importance. The distortions of black value overall are essential to the lies that shape the story of American music, as told to us.
As a means to an end, the actual creating of an art form has to somehow therefore pale in comparison to those who partake in and profit from its adaptation, its interpretation, its theft. It inspires me to make it plain that Black people are not only the architects of American folk music, but were quintessential participants in its expression, inspiring all those who would partake and subsequently become the faces of the tradition. Like all black American music, there is a link between freedom and the creativity birthed from the quest. You don’t have American music without an expression of resistance. Folk music is black music. And while there is most certainly a beautiful and vast and rich contribution to the genre from white musicians, out of its proper context, this contribution becomes grandiloquent by way of an irresponsible, reckless, and harmful narrative that not enough white artists bother to correct. To deny the genesis of the folk genre and its participants and to willingly participate in the erasure of blackness from the folk tradition is absurd and unacceptable.
Lead BellyElizabeth CottenPaul Robeson
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.
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 BrownwithStrings. 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.
Ralph Morse/The LIFE Picture Collection, via Getty Images
I’ve been mourning the loss of Little Richard for some years now. That may sound like a pretty morbid exercise, but in my heart I had been feeling a deep sense that we may not have him on this earthly plane for long. In fact, I was oftentimes surprised — happily so — that he was still with us, but there remained this looming feeling that we would lose him . . . not in the sense that he was on borrowed time, but that we, the collective, were on borrowed time.
We didn’t really deserve Little Richard. Because we — and by we, I mean America — didn’t know how to treat him. What we mistreat, misuse, undervalue, and take advantage of, we surely do not deserve. So I started posting more about Richard in the last few years. Appreciation posts, birthday posts, and mostly taking organizations to task when they would “honor” Richard in a way that was always much too modest, much too small, much too inaccurate.
There is no bush that is beat around more than that of the significance of Little Richard.
It’s more than the simple fact that America would sooner shoot off its proverbial left nut before calling him “king”. But let’s stay there for a moment.
Here is a sampling of the headlines around his passing:
“Little Richard, Founding Father of Rock Who Broke Musical Barriers, Dead at 87” (Rolling Stone)
“Legendary Rock and Roll Musician Little Richard Died of Bone Cancer at 87” (People)
“Little Richard, Flamboyant Wild Man of Rock ’n’ Roll, Dies at 87” (The New York Times)
“Little Richard, a flamboyant architect of rock ’n’ roll, is dead at 87” (CNN)
“Little Richard, outsized founding father of rock music, dies at 87” (USA Today)
And they get worse:
“Little Richard, ’Tutti Frutti’ and ’Good Golly Miss Molly’ singer, dead at 87” (FOX News)
“Little Richard, piano-pounding music icon, dies at 87” (NBC)
“Seminal rocker Little Richard, singer of classic ‘Tutti Frutti’ and ‘Lucille,’ dead at 87” (New York Daily News)
We Black folks have this saying: “They’ll call you everything but a child of God.” America and the white world at large have made the devaluing of Black people the nucleus of its function and advancement, and this dehumanization takes on many brutal forms: enslavement, disenfranchisement, rape, murder, separation, and more.
Other prime tenets of human devaluing of Black people are psychological and linguistic in nature. The evolution of the verbal regard for Black people in America is uniquely traumatic. From three-fifths human to nigger to jigaboo to coon to monkey to gal or boy and all the rest, they give context to not only the saying that, “They’ll call you everything but a child of God,” but the centuries-long demand, through the struggle and resistance of Black people, that you will indeed respect us, starting with our title.
“If we were made in his image, then call us by our names.” (E.B.)
“Don’t you be calling me out my name.” (Queen Latifah)
American journalists, critics, and mass controllers and manipulators of the cultural narrative have made it their full-time business to call Little Richard everything but The King. It is a title they simply cannot bear to hear ring back in their own ears. And any lie you tell yourself enough times, will eventually sound like the truth. And yet, we know that while yes, Richard is an architect, a founder, a bedrock, an influencer, an innovator, and any other synonym for these things, he was also . . . The King. And until we do right by Richard, the rest won’t matter.
While his Blackness is fundamentally central to this refusal, homophobia also plays a major role. Richard is the prototype of all those who went on to blur or defy the alpha or hypermasculine lines of gender expression. From James Brown to Jimi Hendrix to Michael Jackson to Prince to Grace Jones and on and on. But he also did this for David Bowie, Steven Tyler, Mick Jagger, Lady Gaga, Kurt Cobain, Annie Lennox, Led Zeppelin, and every punk and hair band known to humanity. Yet, Richard’s unabashed queerness would constantly serve to caricaturize him and deflate his undeniable essentiality to everything we call American music. He is not only the originator of rock ’n’ roll, but the pioneering father of androgyny in the American popular music artist. The price he paid for his authenticity, every artist to come behind him owes back to him — with interest.
Ralph Morse/The LIFE Picture Collection, via Getty Images
Little Richard was and remains the apex of rock ’n’ roll. And he rightfully showed outrage for that creative pinnacle being given to an unmeritable white man. An imitator. A person whose artistry depended solely on what he could extract from the black artists whose work he unapologetically stole and mocked.
Crowning this white man as king was an act that was viciously, cruelly, and disrespectfully thrown in Richard’s face for decades. As a child, I distinctly remember Little Richard being on a celebrity episode of Family Feud in the late 1980s. One of the categories was “Phrases Associated With Elvis”, or something along those lines. And one of the answers on the board was “The King”. I remember the collective rage in my household around this. It was a purposeful and deliberate act of evil and disrespect, and a cruel and racist jest toward Little Richard. And this is just one of hundreds upon hundreds of slights that Richard endured over his lifetime.
Which is why it truly dismays me that white society views Richard’s bold proclamation of his true position in the landscape of American music as something brash, brazen, or arrogant, as reflected in almost every interview a white person conducted with Richard or in all of today’s headlines which make the point to emphasize that his rightful titles are “self-proclaimed” — as if to say this is not the view of the masses, but rather an uppity depiction of his own delusions.
But when have Black people in this country ever had the luxury of not having to proclaim our own humanity, let alone our own greatness? From “Ain’t I a Woman?” to “I Am a Man” to Black Lives Matter, Black people have always had to defend, demand, and safeguard our collective and individual being against white supremacy. Whether by roasting a myriad of rock figures on the fly, or by taking time out of an engagement of honors to hold significant space for himself by reminding a room full of white people that but not for him, they would not exist in their current capacities, Richard gave himself the glory that was refused him, by any means necessary. Little Richard’s unrepentant bearing of the truth is — like Malcolm X’s or James Baldwin’s — a supremely valiant action that should be honored right along with his musical inventions, ingenuity, and trailblazing.
We didn’t really deserve Little Richard.
Steven Van Zandt of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band was quoted as saying, “Little Richard opens his mouth, and out comes liberation.” This is an important observation. In Blues People, Amiri Baraka writes of the slave citizen, “How did it do this? What was so powerful and desperate in the music that guaranteed its continued existence? But as I began to get into the history of the music, I found that this was impossible without, at the same time, getting deeper into the history of the people. That it was the history of the Afro-American people as text, as tale, as story, as exposition narrative, or what have you, that the music was the score, the actually expressed creative orchestration, reflection of Afro-American life, our words, the libretto, to those actual, lived lives. That the music was an orchestrated, vocalized, hummed, chanted, blown, scatted corollary confirmation of the history. That the music was explaining the history as the history was explaining the music. And that both were expressions and reflections of the people!”
“Black people lived right by the railroad tracks and the train would shake their houses at night. I would hear it as a boy and I thought: I’m gonna make a song that sounds like that.” (Little Richard)
When they steal the credit for our music, when they position imposters as inventors, when they take all measures possible to dethrone us, it is a dishonor to our ancestors. It is an erasure of our history. As my son recently proclaimed to me, “Every note has a story.” Our music, our sound, and its evolution is inextricably tied to our history, our lived experiences, and our individual and collective desires. This is true for all black music.
By most all definitions, kingship is a birthright. Richard’s ancestors of blues and gospel bestowed rock ’n’ roll to him. The only delusions of grandeur are from those who wish it simply were not so.
Long live The King of Rock ’n’ Roll, Richard Wayne Penniman . . . the One and Only Little Richard.
