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 https://mail.google.com/mail/ u/0?ui=2&ik=7c5dd0c6e9&atti d=0.1&permmsgid=msg-f:1759 751793368182118&th=186be4ee b8912d66&view=att&disp=saf e&realattid=f_leyuu7bt0 com- 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 Read more at MichiganDaily.com Design by Abby Schreck Read more at MichiganDaily.com