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Books by Cecil Brown
The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger /
Stagolee Shot Billy /
I, Stagolee: A Novel
Dude,
Where's My Black Studies Department
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Goodbye White
Friends!
White People Aren't Into Black People Anymore
By Cecil Brown
"I called
Clint,” my friend said, as he fumbled through his
address book while we sipping a beer in a cafe in
San Francisco. Clint?
“Yeah, you
called Clint? Clint who?” I give him another look.
“You mean, Clint as in Clint Eastwood?”
“Yes.”
“You know Clint
Eastwood?”
“Yeah,” my
friend said, “We're friends. I called him but he
hasn’t called me back.”
“Well, maybe,”
I think out aloud, “He’s busy with his new movie and
some other Black person, like Morgan Freeman.”
My friend is
undaunted. “It’s strange,” he goes on, “I called
Francis too, and he hasn’t called me back.”
“Francis? As in
Coppola?”
“Yeah. I don’t
know what’s going on.”
Before I could
get really annoyed with my friend for dropping the
names of famous white people, I had to check myself,
because my friend really is—or was—friends with
these famous people. He’s not just name-dropping.
Since the seventies, he knew these famous people
though his music. He plays music, and white people,
famous or not, like black music—and friendships
bloom—and, as the elegy in a churchyard goes, it
fades.
But what my
friend is going through is being experienced by a
lot of black people. White people, who for reasons
various and sundry, used to be more friendly to
blacks than they are in this information millennium.
Doesn’t it seem
strange, even stupid, to expect Clint Eastwood to
call you back. I personally would not have him in my
address book. Not being that into his films to begin
with—not since the movie about Charlie Parker’s
life—I could not understand his disappointment. Why
would he want to be friends with Clint Eastwood
anyway? Clint, he insisted, could really play the
piano.
I yawned. Give
me a break. I interviewed Clint on the set of
"Bird," but to get the interview I had to wear a
Hassid wig and get in line with the extras.
But my friend
is different. It just reminded me of the painful
reality—many black people have famous white friends
who don’t call them back any more.
I, too, cannot
exclude myself in all this. I, too, have a stack of
“white people” I call my friends. But when I call
them, they don’t call back any longer.
“My friend
really is—or was—friends with these famous people.”
For years I
have enjoyed the friendship of many famous white
people; but to be honest, I have noticed that the
phone is not exactly ringing off the hook.
Would you
believe it, there was a time when I’d call Warren
and he’d call me back? To be sure, that was many
years ago, but that is my point. Back when we hung
out in
Berkeley,
Richard Pryor and I use to meet up with Warren
Beatty.
It all happened
because I had sold my book to David Foster, who
brought me with him to Vancouver to be on the set
with Director Bob Altman and Warren and Julie
Christie. As I stood in line watching the actors,
during one of the takes, Warren walked over to me
and said hello. We were on the set of his movie
McCabe and Mrs. Miller in Vancouver. Warren
walked over to me, the only black person on the set,
and said that he heard that I knew Richard Pryor. I
said I did. Wow! He would like to meet Richard. When
I got back to Berkeley, I told Richard to get his
stuff together, we were going to meet Warren, who
was the hottest white man alive in those days.
The three of us
had dinner and took in some porn films. By the time,
I got to Hollywood, Warren and Richard were
steadfast friends and had done tons of nasty stuff
that Richard would only hint to me about. Not too
long ago, I mentioned to my old friend David Foster
that I’d like to see old Warren again. David said,
No problem, I’ll call him. That was a year ago! No
love from Warren. No love from David.
Bob Altman, who
directed some of the greatest films, was a great
friend. We met on the set of his classic film, and I
liked his rugged middle American style right away.
He didn’t start directing films until his forties,
and he had a joking side to him that I related to.
When we met in New York, I remember one scene where
I was the light of the whole party. Altman was
celebrating his newest movie and I was telling
stories about growing up in North Carolina to a
roomful of people in his hotel.
Years passed
and I saw that he was being celebrated at the San
Francisco Film festival. I called David Foster and
wondered if Altman would remember me. He was
eighty-four then. When I reached through the crowed
and pulled his coat, he turned and smiled. I told
him that David didn’t think he’d remember me. “You
know, David’s problem is that he can’t remember who
he is!”
So Altman has a
good reason for not getting in touch with me now,
he’s dead. So is my other great white friend, French
Film maker Louis Malle. He liked my book
Coming
Up Down Home so much that after we meet, and
talked for an afternoon comparing our different
childhood—mine southern poor dirt farming, he
upper-class French bourgeoisie—he came to North
Carolina to visit my people. Aunt Amanda, whom he
had read about in my book, and whom he met in real
life, always asked me about him. “Little Louie! He
was a nice man!” That was real love. But what about
the rest of that sorry lot? Those whites who wanted
to be so hip that they just had to have a black
friend!
“Many black
people have famous white friends who don’t call them
back any more.”
Oh, and what
about my old pal Sean Connery. We met on the set of
Rising Sun, where I play “Big Boy,” opposite
him. We got along so well because we both enjoyed
his national poet Robert Burns. When he was talking
about the movie on the Tonight show, he even
mentioned me.
And he told
about some directors, Albert Hughes and Allen
Hughes, brothers, who were pestering Johnny Depp
about his lack of knowledge of black literature,
asking him had he read, Iceberg Slim. Depp
replied, “Have you read Cecil Brown’s
Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger?” That
would set these black lite Negroes straight! But
you’d think that if he was that into my novel, he’d
drop a line. Nothing, from that old hipster Johnny
Depp!
It’s not just
Americans who used to be into black people. When I
lived in Berlin when there was a wall around the
city, I was popular and friends with the leading
German writers, including Heiner Muller, Volker
Schlöndorff (director), Wim Wenders (director), and
some that American don’t even know. No love from
Berlin these days, either.
I was in
Copenhagen about fifteen years ago, and one night I
got into a conversation with this Danish producer
Peter Aalbæk Jensen. He said that the best films
would have a “small story,” without any lights and
no artificial music. Some years later, this concept
came to be called Dogma. In 2005, I was back in
Copenhagen, and I had my modem attached to my
laptop, so I would make calls in Copenhagen. Just on
a lark, I sent an email to Peter. In my email, I
sent over the stuff we talked about that night,
because frankly, I never really forgot it. And after
I saw their film Celebration, I realized that
this dude was serious.
After I sent
the email, I’d forgotten about it and was having
another beer, when my email went off. I was
surprised when the email came back from his
secretary. “Yes Peter remembers everything. Come,
let us catch up on lost time.” Before you could say,
Hans Christian Anderson, I was invited to the film
town where he lived outside of Copenhagen. Peter
showed up at eleven o’clock. Then as we are talking,
here is Lars Von Tier was standing there. Lars just
happens to be the coolest mother-humper in the
world. We had several meetings talking about race
and films. He showed me his Mandelay. These Danish
dudes treated me like I was one of them, with full
honors and respect and laughter.
When I came
back to the states, I wrote a screenplay and sent it
to Denmark. No love from Denmark, not even a farvel.
“Real Black
people are not in—white guys writing about blacks
are really in.”
And where is
Michael Moore? He told me he liked my book and wrote
an endorsement in his own handwriting. I called him,
but he hasn’t returned my call. All I get from him
is emails about President Obama. Just like Obama
needs another white friend! What about me? Don’t I
need one?
The new black
writers are not black, but white women. The novel
that’s selling like hot cakes is a book by a white
woman called Helpers.
When I sent my
agent my book on my friend Richard Pryor, she wrote
back that nobody’s interested in “Mr. Prior.”(Her
spelling and her ignorance.) When she meant that if
there is a book by a white guy who never met Richard
that would be a book she’s interested in.
I tell my
friend how Bill Cosby once told me that the sixties
were back again. We were on the set of his movie in
Berkeley. He was trying to make fun of the fading
situation. But Cosby may be right. When the sixties
do come around again, the white people will show up.
But this time, we will realize that they are just
there for the excitement?
One of my
favorite writers used to be William Hazlitt. He once
made a list of all of his friends who disappointed
him. He said that he wanted them to know that he
wasn’t into them anymore, either. That’s how I see
it too. If you notice that white people don’t call
you back, great! There is a whole world of white
people waiting to be your next best friend.
I still get
return messages from some white friends, though it
really doesn’t bother me. I know what the literary
agencies are up to, and I know that white authors
and playwrights and script writers write all the
black material. The public is not very discerning
these days. Real Black people are not in—white guys
writing about blacks are really in.
I was at home
that night when my phone just rang.
“Hello--”
“It’s Melvin--”
“Melvin — as in
Melvin van Peebles?”
“Yeah-bro.
What’s up? Man, I was in Paris for the last four
months and I saw you called me. I’m just returning
your call, bro.”
Returning my
call? See, that’s what I’m talking about! An
old-school friend.
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Cecil Brown
is the author of
I, Stagolee: A Novel,
Stagolee Shot Billy,
and
The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger. He can be reached at:
stagolee@me.com
Source:BlackAgendaReport
This article
previously appeared in
Counterpunch.
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Stagolee Shot Billy
By Cecil Brown
Baad Dude Wins Again, June 20,
2003—Anyone with even a slight
acquaintance with the blues knows that
Stagolee killed Billy Lyons over a
brand-new Stetson hat. Stagolee thus
became the prototypic baaad dude, the
player who would coolly kill a man over
fancy headgear. Until now, however, no
one knew the real story, and most of us
blues fans wondered if either of the
gentlemen existed. In truth, "Stack" Lee
Shelton shot Billy Lyons in a barroom in
the red-light district of St. Louis on
Christmas Day, 1895. The ballad, now
known in hundreds of versions, must have
emerged soon afterward. |
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Cecil Brown has
researched the full story--he even provides pictures
of the death certificates. He situates the event in
its full and rowdy context: the roaring, wide-open
world of Mississippi River towns in the late 19th
century, when liquor, prostitution, gambling, and
violence were the order of the day. He goes on to
trace the song through its long and chequered
history; central to the blues, it has been
enthusiastically adopted by hillbilly and folk
singers, rockers, and many more.
Good studies of folklore have been rare
lately. The glorious days of the 1960s folk revival are long over. It is
thus doubly rewarding to see a really fine study of folk tradition. This
book focuses on the literature side; it does not deal with the music
(someone should write a companion volume). Brown does an excellent job of
interpretation, bringing in just enough theory, not too much. His
generalizations are useful and interesting. (I don't agree with "Publisher's
Weekly"'s sour comments at the end of their note.) The world needs more
books like this. I not only got stuck in it and read it in one sitting--I
then sought out my worn old record of Long Cleve Reed and Papa Harvey Hull's
superb performance from the 1920's, and played it three times over.
Right on, Cecil Brown.—E. N. Anderson
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I, Stagolee: A Novel
By Cecil Brown
It's the birth year of Ragtime music,
1895, and Lee "Stagolee" Shelton, a St.
Louis pimp, murders Billy Lyons, a
political gang member. Afterwards,
Stagolee makes a deal with Judge Murphy
to bring order to the underworld. As a
member of a group of pimps called the
"Stags," Stagolee makes alliances with
the Democratic Party and votes for a
Democratic Mayor. Later, the Stag Party,
along with the Democratic Party, elects
St. Louis's first black policeman. It is
this policeman who is sent to arrest
Stagolee for the murder of Billy Lyons.
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Now, nearly 50 years after singer Lloyd
Price introduced mainstream audiences to the "Stagger Lee" story, Cecil
Brown portrays the events that gave rise to this mainstay of
African-American popular culture. This follows the successful Stagolee Shot
Billy, Brown's nonfiction account of the same story
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Dude,
Where's My Black Studies Department
By
Cecil Brown
Thus Africans and Caribbean
Negroes were in many cases less radical, even though much of the
African American radical tradition comes from immigrants, such
as Marcus Garvey, George Padmore, Kwame Toure, Malcolm X and
Farrakhan. As Amina Baraka informed me, "We're all West
Indians." And this is true because kidnapped Africans were
brought to the Caribbean for "the breaking in," then
transferred to North America and elsewhere.
And we must ask ourselves would we rather have a radical
immigrant African in black studies or a reactionary Negro only
because he is a Negro.
Marvin X, Africa or
America: The Emphasis in Black Studies Programs |
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Audio:
My Story, My Song (Featuring blues guitarist Walter Wolfman Washington)
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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 New Jim Crow
Mass Incarceration in the Age of
Colorblindness
By Michele Alexander
Contrary to the
rosy picture of race embodied in Barack
Obama's political success and Oprah
Winfrey's financial success, legal
scholar Alexander argues vigorously and
persuasively that [w]e have not ended
racial caste in America; we have merely
redesigned it. Jim Crow and legal racial
segregation has been replaced by mass
incarceration as a system of social
control (More African Americans are
under correctional control today... than
were enslaved in 1850). Alexander
reviews American racial history from the
colonies to the Clinton administration,
delineating its transformation into the
war on drugs. She offers an acute
analysis of the effect of this mass
incarceration upon former inmates who
will be discriminated against, legally,
for the rest of their lives, denied
employment, housing, education, and
public benefits. Most provocatively, she
reveals how both the move toward
colorblindness and affirmative action
may blur our vision of injustice: most
Americans know and don't know the truth
about mass incarceration—but her
carefully researched, deeply engaging,
and thoroughly readable book should
change that.—Publishers
Weekly |
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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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Enjoy!
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The
Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
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The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
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Only a Pawn in Their Game
Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for Slavery /
George Jackson /
Hurricane Carter
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The Journal of Negro History issues at Project Gutenberg
The
Haitian Declaration of Independence 1804
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January 1, 1804 -- The Founding
of Haiti
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posted 8 May 2010
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