|
CDs by Gil-Scott Heron
From
South Africa To South Carolina (1976)
Winter
In America (1974) /
Pieces
Of A Man (1971) /
The First Minute Of A New Day
The Mind Of Gil Scott-Heron
/
Moving Target
* * * *
*
Books by Gil-Scott Heron
The Vulture and The Nigger Factory)
/
Small Talk At 125th And Lenox
* * * *
*
Gil Scott-Heron,
Spoken-Word Musician, Dies at 62—By The Associated Press—May
27, 2011—Musician Gil Scott-Heron, who helped lay the groundwork
for rap by fusing minimalistic percussion, political expression
and spoken-word poetry on songs such as "The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised," died Friday at age 62. A
friend, Doris C. Nolan, who answered the telephone listed for
his Manhattan recording company, said he died in the afternoon
at St. Luke's Hospital after becoming sick upon returning from a
European trip. "We're all sort of shattered," she said.
Scott-Heron's influence on rap was such that he sometimes was
referred to as the Godfather of Rap, a title he rejected.
"If there was any
individual initiative that I was responsible for it might have
been that there was music in certain poems of mine, with
complete progression and repeating 'hooks,' which made them more
like songs than just recitations with percussion," he wrote in
the introduction to his 1990 collection of poems, "Now and
Then." He referred to his signature mix of percussion, politics
and performed poetry as bluesology or Third World music. But
then he said it was simply "black music or black American
music." "Because Black Americans are now a tremendously diverse
essence of all the places we've come from and the music and
rhythms we brought with us," he wrote. . . .
Scott-Heron recorded the
song that would make him famous, "The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised," which critiqued mass
media, for the album
125th and Lenox in Harlem in the 1970s. He followed up
that recording with more than a dozen albums, initially
collaborating with musician Brian Jackson. His most recent album
was "I'm New Here," which he began recording in 2007 and was
released in 2010. Throughout his musical career, he took on
political issues of his time, including apartheid in South
Africa and nuclear arms. He had been shaped by the politics of
the 1960s and the black literature, especially of the Harlem
Renaissance.
Scott-Heron was born in
Chicago on April 1, 1949. He was raised in Jackson, Tenn., and
in New York before attending college at Lincoln University in
Pennsylvania. Before turning to music, he was a novelist, at age
19, with the publication of
The Vulture, a murder mystery.He
also was the author of
The Nigger Factory, a social
satire.—NYTimes
* * * *
*
Gil Scott-Heron was the bridge between The Black Arts Movement
and Hip Hop. Surely we are from Allah and to Him we return.—Marvin X
* * * *
*
Gil Scott-Heron dies aged 62—Poet and songwriter was hailed as
'Godfather of Rap' after penning "The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised"—David
Sharrock
* * * *
*
Gil
Scott's Role in an Untelevised Revolution
By
Howard Rambsy
With the passing of
Gil
Scott-Heron [1949-2011], we're certain to hear about his
wonderful career as a poet and musician over the coming days,
weeks . . . years. As we should. But there's another story
that relates to "Scotty," as his childhood friends in Jackson,
Tennessee, where he was raised, used to call him. On
January 25, 1962, Gil Scott-Heron and two other students were
sent by their guardians to Tigrett Junior High School,
effectively desegregating the school, and later by extension the
school system. I know what you're asking. Hadn't the
Supreme Court declared in that 1954
Brown vs. Board of Education that it was
unconstitutional to segregate public schools? Yep, but listen:
some of these Southern towns don't care about your fancy laws
and equality and constitution.
I heard about Scotty as one of those three students who helped
desegregate the schools before I became aware of his talents and
many contributions as a poet and musician. Well, in a way, I
heard about his very early years as a musician because he took
piano lessons with my aunt when adolescent growing up in
Jackson. The schools in Jackson, where I was raised, did not
officially become desegregated until the early 1990s. I was just
starting high school at the time. It was in the 1962, after Gil
Scott-Heron and others went to Tigrett, that got black folks
unofficially attending more than just the black schools.
When the older folks who really helped change the system
reflected on things at the time of official desegregation in the
early 1990s, they'd mention this guy Scotty, along with his
classmates such as Brenda Moses and Madeline Walker who were the
first black students to go to the white schools. I've been
switching back and forth saying Gil Scott-Heron and Scotty, as I
spoke with my aunt early today about him. She, like all his
other friends in Jackson, only knew him as Scotty. In
1963, Lille Scott, his grandmother died, and so Scotty left
Jackson and moved to New York City with his mother. Scotty was
then on the road to becoming "the" Gil Scott-Heron.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Source:
SIUEB
* * * *
*
Breath
of Life
Presents
Gil
Scott-Heron & His Music
Reviews
by Mtume
ya Salaam & Kalamu ya Salaam
|
They
need to study music. I played in several bands before I
began my career as a poet. There’s a big difference
between putting words over some music, and blending
those same words into the music. There’s not a lot of
humor. They use a lot of slang and colloquialisms, and
you don’t really see inside the person. Instead, you
just get a lot of posturing. —Gil on rap in the 90s |
I’d
intended to write about something else this week, but I woke up
on a particularly good side of the bed this morning (‘this
morning’ being the morning of December 31st, the last morning
of 2005) and thereby decided to write instead about a few songs
that express the way I feel this morning: realistic and
determined yet joyful and optimistic.
Actually, it isn’t just this morning—I’m in the midst of
the longest streak of consecutive good days that I can ever
recall having. I’m not talking about a few days. I’m not
even talking about a few weeks. I’m talking about a couple of
months or more without a single day that I didn’t actually
enjoy. At first, I kept waiting for my usual cantankerous,
ornery, cynical self to reappear. But every morning, I’d go in
the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face and there’d be
the same happy face looking back at me. So, I give in. I’m
officially happy.
On
to the music . . .
Gil
Scott-Heron is probably best-known for his stridently political
material—songs like “Johannesburg,” “The Bottle,” and
of course, “The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised.”—but my
favorite Gil Scott Heron songs are the ballads. Invariably
pensive and reflective yet always filled with hope, Gil’s
ballads range in tone from the political (Winter
In America
) to the nostalgic (“A Very Precious Time”) to the
outright optimistic (“A Lovely Day”).
Gil
wrote so many great ballads that it’s impossible for me to
pick a favorite, but at the moment, the one I’m feeling the
most (no doubt because of the imminent New Year) is
“Beginnings" (The First Minute Of A New Day).”
“Beginnings” is a lament, I admit that, but the soaring
vocals and the raw honesty of the lyrics raise my spirits. And,
although Gil sings “We’re struggling here / Faced with our
every fear / Just to survive,” that isn’t the part that
stays with me after the song ends. The part that stays with me
is when he sings “We’re searching out our every doubt / And
winning.” And winning. That’s the part I always remember.
The lyrics to
“A Very Precious Time” read like a requiem to
innocence: “Was there a touch of spring? / Was there the
faintest breeze? / And did she have a pink dress on? / And when
she smiled…could you almost touch the warmth?” But
“Precious
Time” isn’t a simple nostalgia trip, that
isn’t Brother Gil’s style. In the bridge, Gil defines his
wistful look back as a means to remain in the present, to remain
cognizant of the reasons we struggle on, even when we would much
rather give in: “And now they got me trying to define in later
life how much her love means to me / And it keeps me struggling
to remember my first touch of spring.” The song ends with Gil
picking out notes on his keyboard and humming softly to himself
“La-da da-da da-da-dum…”—a statement of considerable
eloquence which, in my opinion, sums up the matter perfectly.
“A Lovely Day” and “I Think I’ll Call It Morning” are
peas in a pod: twin dedications to joy, happiness, and freedom.
It isn’t often that a revolutionary is willing or able to give
in to unvarnished optimism. So listen to these two tracks and
decide for yourself: if a conflicted and complicated musical
revolutionary like Brother Gil can write and sing earnest paeans
to sunshine and flowers, what kind of mood do you want to be in
today? What kind of mood do you want to be in tomorrow? What
kind of mood do you want to be in next year?
All
I really want to say
Is that the problems come and go
But the sunshine seems to stay
Just look around
I think we’ve found a lovely day…. |
Happy
2006, mi jente. Let’s do this! —Mtume ya Salaam
*
* * * *
It’s not easy
It’s not easy being Gil Scott-Heron, an
icon everyone respects as well as a fuck-up everyone feels sorry
for. How do you contain the contradiction of being an
insightful, revolutionary artist and a habitual addict? My man,
Richard Pryor had a similar problem, except he never was seen as
a political leader. If any one artist represents the post-civil
rights journey of African Americans, it’s Gil Scott-Heron.
Mtume likes Gil’s music. He got it from his Mama & Daddy.
Literally. At some points, Gil was playing damn near everyday in
the house. I still play Gil’s music, but I no longer play it
with unadulterated joy—today, Gil’s music always calls to
mind contradictions and the difficult struggle of coping with,
and sometimes even overcoming, those human failings we all have,
those failings which Gil has in spades.
Gil has a deep catalogue, deep as in beaucoup beautiful songs
and deep as in profound music. Turn the lights out, sit quietly
in the dark and review your life; if you’re over 35, a few of
these songs are damn near guaranteed to churn up shit inside you
that will make even the hardest of the hard blink back a tear or
two.
In the midst of all of his contradictions and
shortcomings, one thing Gil never did was lie about it in his
music. All he is (as they say, the good, the bad… etc.) is in
there, poetically so, beautifully so, sing-along so. Who else
would be honest enough to say, home is where the hatred is…? A
junkie on his way back home.
Ultimately, Gill is uplifting not because he is perfect, but
rather because he is honest about his flaws, and in being so
honest about being so fucked up, he encourages us who are less
fucked up than he is to be honest about our own contradictions.
A little further down the line, I think I’ll do a Gil
Scott-Heron write-up, but for now, let’s just resolve:
regardless of how painful it be, let’s make a pact that we
will at the very least be honest with ourselves about who we
actually are.—Kalamu ya Salaam
*
* * * *
Gil Scott-Heron—b.
1 April 1949, Chicago, Illinois, USA. Raised in Jackson,
Tennessee, by his grandmother, Scott-Heron moved to New York at
the age of 13. His estranged father played for Glasgow Celtic, a
Scottish football team. Astonishingly precocious, Scott-Heron
had published two novels (The Vulture and The Nigger Factory)
plus a book of poems (Small Talk At 125th And Lenox) by
1972.
He
met musician Brian Jackson when both were students at Lincoln
University, Pennsylvania, and in 1970 they formed the Midnight
Band to play their original blend of jazz, soul and prototype
rap music. Small Talk At 125th And Lenox was mostly an album of
poems (from his book of the same name), but later albums showed
Scott-Heron developing into a skilled songwriter whose work was
soon covered by other artists: for example, LaBelle recorded his
"The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" and Esther
Phillips made a gripping version of "Home Is Where The
Hatred Is."
In
1973, Scott-Heron had a minor hit with "The Bottle," a
song inspired by a group of alcoholics who congregated outside
his and Jackson's communal house in Washington, DC.
Winter
In America (on which Jackson was co-credited for the first
time) and
The First Minute Of A New Day, the latter for
new label Arista Records, were both heavily jazz-influenced, but
later sets saw Scott-Heron and Jackson exploring more
pop-orientated formats, and in 1976 they scored a hit with the
disco-based protest single, "Johannesburg".
From
South Africa To South Carolina (Arista 1976)
Winter
In America (Strata-East 1974)
Pieces
Of A Man (Flying Dutchman 1971)
posted 3 January 2005
* * * * *
Gil Scott-Heron is back—and as challenging as ever—By Patrick
Neate—When I suggest to Scott-Heron that his work has been a
victim of his convictions, he responds with enthusiasm: “Did we
make people feel uncomfortable? Maybe we did, but that’s for
them to judge. Like I say, we’ve been heard of more than we been
heard. So, if they felt uncomfortable, at least that would mean
they heard it. . . .
“As far as I’m concerned,
what we were doing was necessary. When we released Johannesburg,
people didn’t want to talk about South Africa; so we were taking
a chance. I felt somebody’s got to bring it up, but I didn’t
necessarily intend it to be me. I would have rather it was
congressmen or those intended to talk about these things, but
they wouldn’t. But if my children were to ask me what I’d said,
I wanted to have an answer. Nowadays, there are more artists
prepared to address these issues and that makes it harder to
control. But then they could control it simply by removing my
stuff from the shelves. And they did. Now they’d have to take
out half the f***ing store.” He laughs heartily.
TimesOnline
* * * * *
New York Is Killing Me
Excerpts by
Alec Wilkinson
9 August
2010
Scott-Heron’s parents
separated when he was two years old, and while his mother went
to Puerto Rico to teach English he lived with his grandmother in
Jackson. “My grandmother was dead serious,” he said one day,
sitting on his couch. “Her sense of humor was a secret. She
started me playing the piano. There was a funeral parlor next
door to our house, and they had this old piano that they used
for wakes and funerals, and they were getting ready to take it
to the junk yard. She wanted me to play hymns for the ladies’
sewing circle that met every Thursday, and she bought the piano
for six dollars, and she paid a lady up the street five or ten
cents a lesson to teach me to play four hymns, ‘What a Friend We
Have in Jesus,’ ‘Rock of Ages,’ ‘The Old Rugged Cross,’ and I
can’t think of the other one. I was eight years old, and I had
started to listen to WDIA in Memphis, and they would play the
blues. When I was practicing, I would have to mix them, because
my grandmother was not big on the blues. When she was out in the
yard, I can play what I want, but if she’s in the house I got to
mix John Lee Hooker with ‘Rock of Ages.’ ”
The phone rang, but he
ignored it. “I found my grandmother dead,” he went on. “It shook
me up. I got up to make her breakfast, and I knew it was strange
that she wasn’t stirring. I went in to wake her, and she was
laying in rigor mortis”—he leaned back and held his legs and
arms stiff—“and I’m done. I called next door, and the kid picked
up the phone, and I was so wild, he dropped it. I went outside
and saw the woman from the house going to work, and she came and
took over. I was twelve.”
With his mother and her
brother, Scott-Heron moved to an apartment in the Bronx, and his
mother went to work for the city housing authority. Before long,
his uncle moved out, and his mother couldn’t afford the rent, so
she put her name on a list for an apartment in a project in
Chelsea, in Manhattan. “Black people didn’t want to live in
Chelsea, but we just wanted to go somewhere,” Scott-Heron said.
“We started in ’65. It was eighty-five per cent Puerto Rican,
fifteen per cent white, and me.” . . .
Scott-Heron was one of five
black students among a class of a hundred, and in his second
year he got in trouble for playing the piano. “They had a
beautiful Steinway they used for the choir and the chorus, but I
got caught using it to play the Temptations,” he said. “A guy
came in and screamed at me to stop, and they put a sign up
saying ‘Do Not Play.’ A few days later, he came in, and I’m
sitting under the sign playing the piano. So they told me they
were going to call my mother, and I laughed—not because I was
being disrespectful, although he took it that way—but because I
thought, You really don’t want to get my mother into this.
But they called her and
told her to come to a disciplinary meeting, and the evening
before she asked me what had happened, and I told her. And she
said, ‘Well, did you hit the man?,’ and I said, ‘No, I was
playing the piano.’ I tried to explain that there had been no
rule against it until I did it. A lot of kids had been going up
there to play ‘Chopsticks,’ I said, and she asked me again, did
I hit him. She had reached the conclusion that I had done
something so awful that I didn’t want to describe it, because
she couldn’t imagine that they had called her up there to tell
her I had been playing the piano.”
The meeting took place
around a horseshoe-shaped table. “My mother listened to them,
and when they were finished she said, ‘You all know where we
live, and the difficulties of our life, so I’m not going to talk
about that. We got burglaries, assaults, muggings—it’s not the
best place to raise a child—but whenever something happens down
there that might involve my son, I don’t call you. I figure
that’s my area, and this is yours. Now, I have read your
discipline handbook, and what I suggest you do is expel him,
because it’s this way or that, near as I can tell, so what I’m
going to do right now, since this is your area, I’m going to
leave and go to work, because if I don’t get there soon, they’re
going to take half my day’s wages from me, and when I get home
this evening he’ll tell me what you decided, but, if you’re
asking my opinion, you have to expel him. We have really enjoyed
it here, and it has added to my son’s life, and I think we’ve
added to your ethical-culture thing, but I’m going to go now,
and you’ll excuse my son because he’s got to walk me to the
subway. Thank you all very much.’ She got up and put on her
coat, and I took a hard look at the man who had started all
this, to say, ‘See, I told you you didn’t want to get my mama
involved.’
“She walked to the subway
in a stone silence. All she said was ‘I want you to leave these
people’s piano alone. You’re not here to play the piano.’ I
said, ‘What if they expel me?’ ‘Then you won’t have to worry
about it; you’ll be someplace else. You leave these people’s
stuff alone, and when you tell me something from now on I’ll
believe you.’ ” Scott-Heron was made to stay after school
three Wednesdays in a row to wash out the brushes in the art
room. A classmate, Roderick Harrison, says that he remembers two
things about Scott-Heron. “He could hold a classroom or a
hallway in thrall” is one of them. The other recollection is of
his mother. “She was,” he told me, “imposing.” —NewYorker
* *
* * *
|
The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised
Lyrics by Gil Scott-Heron
The revolution will not be
televised.
You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop
out.
. . .You will not be able to lose yourself on skag
and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be
televised, Brother.
There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the
dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a
stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new
process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.
Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and
Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the
Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be right back after a
message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white
people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your
toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may
cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.
The revolution will not be televised, will not be
televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live. |
* * * * *
 |
The Vulture and The Nigger Factory
is an omnibus edition of the two highly successful
novels from the early 1970s by one of America's most
outspoken and important postwar commentators on
race, politics, and culture
Scott-Heron's
highly successful two novels are now packaged
together for the first time.
The Vulture—First published in
1970 and digging the rhythms of the street, where
the biggest deal life has to offer is getting high,
The Vulture is a hip and
fast-moving thriller. It relates the strange story
of the murder of a teenage boy called John
Lee—telling it in the words of four men who knew him
when he was just another kid working after school,
hanging out, waiting for something to happen. Just
who did kill John Lee and why?
‘Here lies a
man with a kind heart and a good will.’ . . . All
the nice comments that were whispered about you . .
. were as worthless as the air that transported them
from mouth to ear. |
The Vulture relates the strange story of John
Lee’s murder—telling it in the words of four men who knew him
when he was just another kid working after school, hanging out,
waiting for something to happen. Just who did kill John Lee and
why? A hip and fast-moving thriller.
The Nigger Factory is a biting satire set on
the campus of Sutton University, Virginia. The failure of Sutton
to embrace the changing attitudes of the Sixties has
necessitated (has caused) disaffection among the black students
and revolution is nigh.
* * * * *
Father of hip-hop, Gil
Scott-Heron is a survivor—Jonathan
Takiff Philadelphia Daily News—In the late 1960s and
'70s, there were none hipper or signifying more on the conscious
black arts scene than Gil Scott-Heron. The Lincoln University-
and Johns Hopkins-educated poet, author and English professor
also discovered his voice as a dramatically throaty, impassioned
jazz- and blues-tinged singer. Though he has just released the
long-overdue album
I'm New Here, he was nurturing a modern neo-soul sound
long before the style had a name. And if you ask any of the
world's most relevant rappers — from Chuck D to Common — who
inspired them, odds are good they'll cite this guy.
In fact, Scott-Heron is
still living down his rep as “the father of hip-hop,” cited for
predicting (first to a bongo beat and later with a jazz combo)
that "The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised." He also put a harsh
spotlight on South African apartheid in the bluesy holler "What's
the Word? Johannesburg," pondered the social cost of putting
"Whitey on the Moon" and characterized the presidency of former
actor Ronald Reagan as just another B Movie. So what does
Scott-Heron think of all he's wrought? “My kids like hip-hop,
and I like my kids,” he said diplomatically. “That's who they're
ready for. I'm not supposed to like it. They're not doing it for
me.”
HoustonChronicle
* * * * *
Gil Scott-Heron on You-Tube
Me And The Devil /
Winter in
America /
We Beg Your
Pardon /
Message to
the Messengers /
Johannesburg
/
The Bottle /
Is That
Jazz? /
Ain't No
Such Thing As A Superman
[Gil
Scott-Heron] was a great poet, a giant of the
spoken word, and Gil Scott Heron spoke about
politics as it was. He challenged the corrupt
nature of the Nixon Administration, and the fact
that Ford had pardoned Nixon. When I was a young
man growin' up in South Carolina, Gil Scott Heron
sang about nuclear weapons that were being built in
South Carolina, nuclear radiological waste that was
being stored in South Carolina. He sang about the
connection between South Carolina and South Africa.
Gil Scott Heron spoke truth to power, and was
probably one of the last contemporary artists whose
words challenged the empire that is America. And
you don't have any writers or any poets or any
musicians that can parallel his work on the
contemporary scene. To say he's the father of modern
hip hop, of modern rap is to say that they have
words in common with him, but surely the message
doesn't even compare to his body of work and the
teaching, the radical progressivism that he
represented throughout his life, no one can match
that. . . .
His body of
work is just so large. I mean everyone remembers "The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised," but a lotta people don't
remember "H20GATE,
Watergate Blues," in which he sang about Richard
Nixon and Watergate, or, when Gerald Ford gave Nixon
a pardon, "We Beg Your
Pardon, America,"
or "Whitey on the Moon":
"Rat bit my sister today, but Whitey's on the moon."
That's an awesome song. His body of work is just
so huge that y'know one thing about his passing that
has been kind of a mixed blessing is that people
have gone back to listen to all the work that he
produced in his life.—Kevin
Alexander Gray /
AnnGarrison
* *
* * *
|
The Funk Era and Beyond
New Perspectives on Black Popular
Culture
Edited by Tony Bolden
Paying homage to the ancestors (Jean
Toomer, Zora Neale Hurston, Professor
Longhair), sitting at the feet of the
elders (George Clinton, Sly Stone, James
Brown) and welcoming a brand new
generation of griots headed by
funkmaster Aaron McGruder,
The Funk Era and Beyond fills
the largest remaining gap in the
conversation on African-American music.
Bolden's collection is theoretically
sophisticated, endlessly provocative
and, best of all, a joy to read.”—Craig
Werner, Professor and Chair, Department
of Afro-American Studies, University of
Wisconsin-Madison and the author of
A Change Is Gonna Come: Music, Race &
the Soul of America
This engaging book takes the reader on a
journey across the multi-layered and
multidisciplinary terrain of funk. This
series of essays on music and the visual
and literary arts reveal how ‘da funk’
represents innovation and aesthetic
principles rooted in the Black
vernacular, which defines the uniqueness
of Black creativity.
The Funk Era and Beyond
is a must-read to understand funk as a
philosophy, an attitude, a way of life,
and more broadly, a cultural phenomena.—Portia
K. Maultsby, Indiana University and
editor of
African American Music: An
Introduction
|
 |
* *
* * *
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The Funk Era and Beyond
New Perspectives on Black Popular Culture
Edited by Tony Bolden
Table of Contents
I. Prelude from the Funkmaster * Sly Stone
and the Sanctified Church--Mark Anthony Neal
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II. Introduction * Theorizing the Funk: An
Introduction--Tony Bolden *
III. Inside the Funk Shop: Writings on the
Funk Band Era *A Philosophy of Funk: The
Politics and Pleasure of a
Parliafunkadelicment Thang!—Amy Nathan
Wright * James Brown: Icon of Black
Power—Rickey Vincent * "The Land of Funk":
Dayton, Ohio--Scot Brown * From the Crib to
the Coliseum: An Interview with Bootsy
Collins—Thomas Sayers Ellis *
IV.Impressions: Funkativity and Visual Art *
Cane Fields, Blues Text-ure: An
Improvisational—Karen Ohnesorge * Good
Morning Blues—Maurice Bryan * Shine2.0:
Aaron McGruder's Huey Freeman as
Contemporary Folk Hero—Howard Rambsy II *
V. Funkintelechy: (Re)cognizing Black
Writing *Alabama—Aldon Nielsen * Jazz
Aesthetics and the Revision of Myth in Leon
Forrest's There Is a Tree More Ancient than
Eden—Dana Williams * Living the Funk:
Lifestyle, Lyricism, and Lessons in—Carmen
Phelps * Modern and Contemporary Art of
Black Women * Cultural Memory in Zora Neale
Hurston's Mules and Men Ondra
Krouse-Dismukes*
VI. Imagine That: Fonky Blues Rockin and
Rollin * Funkin' with Bach: The Impact of
Professor Longhair on Rock'n'Roll—Cheryl L.
Keys * Blue/Funk as Political Philosophy:
The Poetry of Gil Scott-Heron—Tony Bolden
Tony Bolden is Associate Professor of
African American Literature and Culture,
University of Alabama and is the author of
Afro-Blue: Improvisations in African
American Poetry and Culture |
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Sex at the Margins
Migration, Labour Markets and the Rescue Industry
By Laura María Agustín
This book explodes several myths: that selling sex is completely different from any other kind of work, that migrants who sell sex are passive victims and that the multitude of people out to save them are without self-interest. Laura Agustín makes a passionate case against these stereotypes, arguing that the label 'trafficked' does not accurately describe migrants' lives and that the 'rescue industry' serves to disempower them. Based on extensive research amongst both migrants who sell sex and social helpers, Sex at the Margins provides a radically different analysis. Frequently, says Agustin, migrants make rational choices to travel and work in the sex industry, and although they are treated like a marginalised group they form part of the dynamic global economy. Both powerful and controversial, this book is essential reading for all those who want to understand the increasingly important relationship between sex markets, migration and the desire for social justice. "Sex at the Margins rips apart distinctions between migrants, service work and sexual labour and reveals the utter complexity of the contemporary sex industry. This book is set to be a trailblazer in the study of sexuality."—Lisa Adkins, University of London |
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Salvage the Bones
A Novel by Jesmyn Ward
On one level, Salvage the Bones is a simple story about a poor black family that’s about to be trashed by one of the most deadly hurricanes in U.S. history. What makes the novel so powerful, though, is the way Ward winds private passions with that menace gathering force out in the Gulf of Mexico. Without a hint of pretension, in the simple lives of these poor people living among chickens and abandoned cars, she evokes the tenacious love and desperation of classical tragedy. The force that pushes back against Katrina’s inexorable winds is the voice of Ward’s narrator, a 14-year-old girl named Esch, the only daughter among four siblings. Precocious, passionate and sensitive, she speaks almost entirely in phrases soaked in her family’s raw land. Everything here is gritty, loamy and alive, as though the very soil were animated. Her brother’s “blood smells like wet hot earth after summer rain. . . . His scalp looks like fresh turned dirt.” Her father’s hands “are like gravel,” while her own hand “slides through his grip like a wet fish,” and a handsome boy’s “muscles jabbered like chickens.” Admittedly, Ward can push so hard on this simile-obsessed style that her paragraphs risk sounding like a compost heap, but this isn’t usually just metaphor for metaphor’s sake. She conveys something fundamental about Esch’s fluid state of mind: her figurative sense of the world in which all things correspond and connect. She and her brothers live in a ramshackle house steeped in grief since their mother died giving birth to her last child. . . . What remains, what’s salvaged, is something indomitable in these tough siblings, the strength of their love, the permanence of their devotion.—WashingtonPost |
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The Last Holiday: A Memoir
By Gil Scott Heron
Shortly after we republished The Vulture and The Nigger Factory, Gil started to tell me about The Last Holiday, an account he was writing of a multi-city tour that he ended up doing with Stevie Wonder in late 1980 and early 1981. Originally Bob Marley was meant to be playing the tour that Stevie Wonder had conceived as a way of trying to force legislation to make Martin Luther King's birthday a national holiday. At the time, Marley was dying of cancer, so Gil was asked to do the first six dates. He ended up doing all 41. And Dr King's birthday ended up becoming a national holiday ("The Last Holiday because America can't afford to have another national holiday"), but Gil always felt that Stevie never got the recognition he deserved and that his story needed to be told. The first chapters of this book were given to me in New York when Gil was living in the Chelsea Hotel. Among the pages was a chapter called Deadline that recounts the night they played Oakland, California, 8 December; it was also the night that John Lennon was murdered. Gil uses Lennon's violent end as a brilliant parallel to Dr King's assassination and as a biting commentary on the constraints that sometimes lead to newspapers getting things wrong. —Jamie Byng, Guardian / Gil_reads_"Deadline" (audio) / Gil Scott-Heron
& His Music Gil Scott
Heron Blue Collar
Remember Gil Scott- Heron |
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The White Masters of the
World
From
The World and Africa, 1965
By W. E. B. Du Bois
W. E. B. Du Bois’
Arraignment and Indictment of White Civilization
(Fletcher)
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Ancient African Nations
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The Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
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Only a Pawn in Their Game
Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for
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