Michigan in Color
6 — Wednesday, March 8, 2023
BHM Music Retrospects 2: Tracy Chapman, class consciousness
For Black History Month 2023,
I will be publishing a mini-series
of short music reviews under
the title “Protest Music Retro-
spects.” The aim of this series is
to both revisit some of the most
pivotal moments in Black protest
music history and to shed light
on overlooked Black figures and
musics, specifically those of Black
women, that have contributed to
socially-conscious popular cul-
ture. The reviews will be a mix of
musical critique as well as histori-
cal and historiographical analysis
of the works and their responses
in media. I first highlighted Sister
Souljah’s 360 Degrees of Power; for
this next entry, I will continue the
series with Tracy Chapman’s 1988
debut and self-titled album, Tracy
Chapman.
Arguably, Tracy Chapman isn’t
exactly “overlooked.” It is one
of the best-selling albums of all
time (having sold over 20 mil-
lion copies worldwide and certi-
fied platinum six times over) and
earned Chapman Grammys for
Best Contemporary Folk Album,
Best Female Pop Vocal Perfor-
mance (for “Fast Car”) and Best
New Artist. However, I argue that
the political themes and lyricism
of Tracy Chapman is frequently
missed in discussions of protest
music of the era; released in the
same year as N.W.A.’s Straight
Outta Compton and Public Ene-
my’s It Takes a Nation of Millions
to Hold Us Back, the surviving
narrative is that Black male rap-
pers and emcees pioneered the
new resistance. The intrigue of
“Fast Car” quickly became what
Tracy Chapman was known for,
and in combination with the fact
that she was a Black woman mak-
ing folk music in the late 20th
century, the politicization of her
lyrics was lost on a majority of
audiences. As a result of her com-
mercial success, contemporary
accounts strip Chapman of her
evocative and powerful commen-
tary.
Tracy Chapman is, at its core,
an album that documents the
experience of a working class
Black woman. Chapman, in a
traditional folk style, often posi-
tions herself as a narrator outside
of the story actively being told;
even so, she weaves her knowl-
edge and experiences into the
narrative. For example, in the
lead track “Talkin’ Bout a Revo-
lution,” Chapman discusses the
rumblings of an impoverished
and overexploited working class
interested
in
a
“revolution,”
wherein “poor people gonna rise
up / and take their share / poor
people gonna rise up / and take
what’s theirs.”
Raised by a working-class fam-
ily in Cleveland, Chapman knows
firsthand the challenges of work-
ing-class Americans and is able to
dictate the experience with a cer-
tain specificity: “While they’re
standing in the welfare lines” in
the first verse becomes “I’ve been
standing in the welfare lines” in
the third verse. “Talkin’ Bout a
Revolution” sets the tone for an
album unmistakably entrenched
in the struggle.
Every subsequent track on the
album continues this thread of
what Southern University pro-
fessor Dr. Rasheedah Jenkins
describes as “unabashed critique
of the economic system’s viru-
lence during the Reagan-Bush
administration and its global
influence.” In songs like the
album’s lead single “Fast Car”
and “She’s Got Her Ticket,” Chap-
man tells stories of women des-
perately seeking an escape from
poverty and lack of opportunity;
“Why?” and “Behind the Wall”
comment on violence against
women, both domestically and
globally; “Mountain O’ Things”
critiques American materialism
and exploitative labor practices
and so on. In each track Chap-
man addresses these issues with
nuance and empathy, directly
personifying the resistance of
capitalist oppressions and state
violence.
Even
beyond
her
searing
indictments of American soci-
ety and western greed, there is
something unique and admirable
about Chapman’s lyrics that I find
especially worth noting. In con-
trast to the hyper-masculine and
chauvinistic aggression found in
some of her male contemporaries,
Chapman centers love and under-
standing in her narratives. She
connects herself to the stories she
tells — not to center herself, but to
engage the reader in a more per-
sonal listening of her lyrics. In “If
Not Now…” Chapman spends the
first few verses presenting eco-
nomic and social liberation as the
ruling class’s unrequited love for
the working class, but then pres-
ents this line in the final verse:
“Now love’s the only thing that’s
free / we must take it where it’s
found.” Immediately this could
be read as a continuation of her
running metaphor, that we should
seize opportunity when it finds
us; I argue that Chapman intends
a second, more literal mean-
ing with the lyric. In the same
way that she has humanized the
working-class stories through-
out the album, Chapman human-
izes our fundamental desire to be
acknowledged and cared for. I feel
that the album’s final track, “For
You,” can also be understood in
this double-meaning framework.
Essentially, I encourage the
reader to see Chapman’s debut
album through a womanist lens
– especially regarding the second
definition ascribed to the term by
its originator, Alice Walker:
“A woman who loves other
women, sexually and/or nonsexu-
ally. Appreciates and prefers wom-
en’s culture, women’s emotional
flexibility (values tears as natural
counterbalance of laughter), and
women’s
strength.
Sometimes
loves individual men, sexually and/
or nonsexually. Committed to sur-
vival and wholeness of entire peo-
ple, male and female.”
While Chapman has never
publicly disclosed information
about her sexual preferences or
identity, we do know that there is
potential to see her life and work
through a queer lens (ironically,
as a result of Alice Walker herself
disclosing her and Chapman’s
affairs). I borrow musicologist
Suzanne Cusick’s framework for
understanding music through
a lesbian lens from her article
“On A Lesbian Relationship with
Music” to extend this analysis.
Cusick argues that a (assumedly
oversimplified but fundamental
in nature) lesbian relationship
lacks the traditionally heterosex-
ual power dynamic:
(A woman) is non-power: to be
in love with her is to be in love with,
to be fascinated by, to be drawn to
that which is non-power. With her,
a self who is also non-power is
more likely to create a relationship
based on non-power…No one in the
relationship has been formed to be
the power figure, although all can
play at it.
In short, Cusick claims that
queer relationships (but that
specifically of lesbians) defy
a hierarchical, vertical power
structure in favor of a horizontal,
fluid power structure. I find this
lens, applied to music specifically
as Cusick later does, useful in
understanding Chapman’s work
because it lacks that exact power
dynamic protest music had come
to embody in that moment: in con-
trast to a prophet or speaker for
Black America to rally behind and
listen to, Chapman simply tells
her story as-is and lends her ear
to her working-class comrades.
Chapman, in the face of multiple
jeopardy systemic oppressions,
advocates intracommunal love
and the liberation of all through
mutual efforts. There is no appeal
to violence or physical rage, as
such devices are unnecessary in
her approach; rather, it is more
useful to understand one another
and build solidarity in absence of
hierarchical power structures,
both in terms of race and gender
but as well as sexuality.
Tracy Chapman will be remem-
bered by, as it already is, Chap-
man’s transparent and relatable
lyricism as well as her politically
informed criticisms. In addition
to the genre-defining musicality
and emotion displayed through-
out Chapman’s recordings, I hope
that the album is revered for its
revolutionary draw to love and its
commitment to radical empathy
within the canon of Black protest
music for generations to come.
The album is potent with themes,
analysis and lyrics to pick apart
for at least a few more decades.
CEDRIC McCOY
MiC Assistant Editor
Courtesy of Elektra Records
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
BHM music retrospects 3: Elaine
Brown, the Black Panther Party and
sexism within liberatory politics
The pages that tell my story: Finding
purpose, community and a sense of
self as a Black man in the U.S.
For Black History Month 2023,
I will be publishing a mini-series
of short music reviews under
the title “Protest Music Retro-
spects.” The aim of this series is
to both revisit some of the most
pivotal moments in Black protest
music history and to shed light
on overlooked Black figures and
musics, specifically those of Black
women, that have contributed to
socially-conscious popular cul-
ture. The reviews will be a mix of
musical critique as well as histori-
cal and historiographical analysis
of the works and their responses
in media. I first highlighted Sister
Souljah’s 360 Degrees of Power,
and then Tracy Chapman’s debut
album; for the final entry, I will
finish the series with Elaine
Brown’s 1969 album, Seize the
Time.
Brown is best known for her
activism in Black Liberatory poli-
tics. She served as the leader of the
Black Panther Party after Huey P.
Newton fled to Cuba in the mid-
70s, before leaving the party due
to sexist leadership; she was the
first and only woman to lead the
party, and shifted the standard
operations and the philosophies
of the BPP towards inclusivity
and local advocacy. In addition to
her activism, Brown was trained
as a musician from an early age
and wrote poetry and songs in
high school. In 1968, David Hill-
iard, then-BPP chief of staff com-
missioned Brown to record some
of her politicized songs for the
BPP after he heard her perform
for some other Panthers — Seize
The Time was the result.
Seize The Time exists as a
recording (in more ways than
one) of the motivations, goals and
activism of the BPP. The album
contains the party’s unofficial
theme, “The Meeting,” as well
as various other revolutionary
tracks that were often played at
BPP social events. Additionally,
its cover art was created by Emory
Douglas, BPP Minister of Culture.
While it is not the only output of
music from the BPP (the party
also had a funk band composed
of active members called “The
Lumpen”), it is the only audio
album produced by the party that
featured exclusively music.
Brown’s Seize The Time is
largely unrecognized by scholars
and music fans alike; in research-
ing the album for this article, I
only found one comprehensive
record of it by Michael Lupo of
Répertoire International de Litté-
rature Musicale on Smithsonian.
From my knowledge of public his-
tory projects documenting music
of the era, only PBS’s Fight the
Power seems to have recognized
it (and only in a passing montage
of relevant albums). There is no
official set of transcribed lyrics
either; the original record did
not include any with it, and open-
source databases like Genius have
not tackled the 10 tracks. Fortu-
nately, the album (and its remas-
ter) are available on the major
streaming platforms and have not
been lost to time just yet.
When I first envisioned this
BHM mini-series, Seize The Time
was the album I had in mind and
most desired to write about. It
represents a key shift in the canon
of Black protest music in many
ways. First, the songs are all com-
posed and performed by a Black
woman, one who was often ostra-
cized by her fellow revolutionar-
ies. Second, it predates the move
towards overtly political music
found in the `70s. Lastly, it dem-
onstrates a unique application of
protest music wherein the music
serves in a direct-action/politi-
cal praxis role, beyond “calls to
action” or indictments.
Brown was classically trained
in both music and dance in
her youth, producing a certain
restricted philosophy of praxis
demonstrated in Seize The Time.
Her music leans away from the
powerful
and
raucous
funk
and soul of the `60s in favor of
a more refined, authoritative
tone. Though some of her con-
temporaries resisted this style,
higher-ups in the party (namely
Huey P. Newton) were fans of
her music and supported her
songwriting. The arrangements
and orchestration were done by
Horace Tapscott, pianist and jazz
band leader, further solidifying
the sound of Brown’s music into
existing tradition.
Despite
her
western-influ-
enced training, the lyricism of
Seize The Time consists of a wide
range of critiques. In the tracks,
Brown addresses systemic racism
and oppression, but also engages
with the often violent, male aes-
thetic of the BPP. In “The End of
Silence,” Brown includes these
lines:
And you can’t go on
With this time-worn song
That just won’t change the way
you feel
Well then, believe it my friend
That this silence will end
We’ll just have to get guns
And be men
Though Brown was known for
her ardent anti-sexism stance
with the BPP (which often abused
and overworked her and other
women despite their majority
and important contributions), the
gendered language of her music
leaves much to be desired. See
also this excerpt from “The Pan-
ther,” which aimed to paint the
BPP in a strong, revolutionary
light: “He is a hero, he walks with
night / His spirit’s beauty, his soul
is right … His face is black and he
would die for you / To get your
freedom back.”
I find that contextualizing
Brown’s classical training as well
as her high ranking in the party is
central in understanding her por-
trayal of the Black revolutionary.
History has often looked upon
resistances through the lens of
individuals, such as that of Great
Man Theory; even today, names
like Newton, Bobby Seale, Fred
Hampton, Eldridge Cleaver and
those of other Black men are used
almost metonymically to refer-
ence the Black Power movement
of the era. Brown met the BPP
where it was, both politically
and musically, but consistently
challenged the party and its lead-
ers to do better and to approach
the Black experience with more
intersectionality than its found-
ers had originally intended.
Brown’s
leadership
in
the
party, and also her musical con-
tributions to the soundscape of
Black liberatory politics are key
components in the construction
of an accurate and holistic nar-
rative of the BPP and protest
music. Though Seize The Time
never received airplay, charted or
earned Brown much compensa-
tion, her work as a musician has
recently begun to be recognized
for its impact on her contempo-
raries as well as Black protest
music as a whole. Records of her
activism now often mention her
musicianship alongside her poli-
tics. Beyond her direct successors,
artists such as Alicia Keys have
also memorialized her impact on
Black music.
The moment I stared down
the barrel of a gun, I realized
that the society I was born into
would rather have me dead
than oppose its oppressive
existence.
A
ghost.
An
inescapable
prison. A stranger in an all-
too-familiar land. There are
too many analogies to describe
the lived experience of growing
up a Black man in the suburban
Deep South. The themes that
unite them all, though, are the
isolation, the danger, the vio-
lence and the grieving for the
home that never was. In that
land, my presence felt like a
stain on the sterile landscape of
endless highways, strip malls
and picket-fenced homes. Chil-
dren go to school in East Cobb
and learn from textbooks that
never tell my story.
Maybe that’s why I’m so
obsessed with history. In my
youth, I poured over maps,
atlases and history books try-
ing to figure out where I fit
into the narrative. Racism was
taught as a past era, yet I lived
with slurs carved into my lunch
table. Protectors of slavery
were depicted as heroes and
etched into statues and carv-
ings on the sides of the moun-
tains that loomed over the land.
I knew the pages that told my
story were missing; I just had
to find them.
It turns out I didn’t have to
search any further than my
own family’s past. My father
kept a secret that I knew held
answers to questions I didn’t
even know to ask. In an attempt
to assimilate, to live, to pro-
vide for his family, he kept his
upbringing a closely guarded
secret. My father’s name is
Akil Karim, but he prefers to
be called “Ace.” All of my dad’s
siblings were given religious
Arabic names at birth, while
only a generation later, I was
given the name of a Christian
saint. My only connection to
the language that held such sig-
nificance to my grandparents
was when it was demonized in
the church I grew up in, taught
to me as “the language of the
blasphemous.”
All the secrecy dissipated
when my grandmother passed.
At her memorial, I learned that
she was a revolutionary– both
my grandparents were. My
grandmother was Malcolm X’s
secretary, and my grandfather
was a farmer. They were Mus-
lim Black nationalists. Fleeing
the sea of police-registered bul-
lets that engulfed the crowded
streets of Philadelphia, they
left on an Exodus to unfamiliar
land. They converted to Islam,
started a farm in New Jersey
and raised a family. Whether it
be creating networks of mutual
aid or organizing within revo-
lutionary
vanguards,
their
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mitment never wavered from
their community, and they did
whatever they could to serve it.
For the first time in my life,
I had discovered a page of my
history. That one page opened
the floodgates for me to dis-
cover the history of my people,
what we stand for and who we
really are. I am born to a people
burned by the hot southern sun,
one that continues to brand me
as a foreigner to this land. The
sweat and tears of generations
of revolutionaries who fought
for collective liberation have
hardened into indestructible
armor that covers my body. I
am born to a people with two
hearts, one that weeps for the
home it was stolen from and
one that weeps for the one it
inhabits.
Through finding my history,
I found my ancestors and the
lessons they had for me. Frantz
Fanon and Amílcar Cabral,
two fathers of anticolonial
revolution, taught me what it
meant to not just be Black but
be African. Angela Davis, the
Black communist who refused
to be silenced in the face of the
carceral state, taught me the
CEDRIC McCOY
MiC Assistant Editor
JOSEPH FISHER
MiC Columnist
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