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White Boy Music
By Michael
Gonzales
Growing-up in
the seventies, me and my baby brother Carlos had
more differences than just our musical tastes. While
he was a small boned boy, I was squeezing into husky
sized pants; while he played stickball in the
street, I devoured Jack Kirby comics; by high
school, while ‘Los pumped iron and marched with
R.O.T.C., I was puffing reefer and scribbling poems
(“…like some kind of sissy,” he teased) in my
notepad.
Living in the
concrete circus of New York City, we were surrounded
by an array of cultural rhythms that soared like
soft winged birds throughout the neighborhood. From
the open window of our shapely Rican neighbor Miss.
Soto, the frantic salsa sound of Ray Barretto, Celia
Cruz and Eddie Palmieri blared; up the block, hard
knock hustlers parked their ornate rides and chilled
to the chocolate bubble bath splash of the Isley
Brothers, Barry White or Issac Hayes that sloshed
from their speakers.
Across
Broadway, the flour-covered men behind the Formica
counter at Tony’s Pizzeria digested a steady diet of
ballroom ballads sung by Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin
or Tony Bennett; while around the corner, the old
black man who worked in Leo’s Laundromat listened to
sacred gospel songs, contentedly nodding his head to
the hallowed hymns.
While Carlos
listened to wah-wah funk bands and strobe light
disco singles, I had somehow tripped into a
wonderland of screaming guitars, blaring banshee
vocals and thunderous drums. Beginning with sneaking
peeks at Elvis Presley flicks on the CBS Late Movie
when I was seven, I had a serious jones in
rock-n-roll.
One humid
summer evening, hanging-out with our neighborhood
crew playing the dozens in front of a flickering
street light on 151st Street and Riverside Drive, my
brother snapped, “At least ya’ll don’t have to
listen to that white boy music Michael be playing.
Those loud ass guitars and screaming drives me
crazy.”
Brooding like a
baby, I ran into the crib, and drowned my sorrow in
Freddy Mercury’s falsetto. Indeed, the rock acts
that attracted me were the flamboyant glam of
Kiss,
David Bowie and
Elton John. My “Bennie & the
Jets”/”Pinball Wizard”/”Someone Saved My Life
Tonight” obsession got so bad, I had started
scribbling “Elton” as my middle name on school
papers.
In class,
handing me back a yet another history test I had
failed, beefy Mr. Waters snidely screamed, “I’m sure
Elton John managed to pass history, but, at the rate
you’re going, you may never get out of sixth grade.”
The entire class snickered as I
visualized myself bedazzled in neon boots and a
mohair suit as electric music and solid walls of
sound crumbled at my feet.
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For me,
television was yet another passion. Forget about the
former Tom Verlaine / Richard Lloyd band, I’m
talking about the glowing glass teat that hypnotized
my generation with its Technicolor gamma rays:
Schoolhouse Rock shorts, nappy-headed Fred Sanford
heart attacks, pictures of Patty Hearst robbing
banks, soulful Fat Albert playing funk tunes in a
Philly junkyard and ivory picket fence Brady Bunch
images was my thing.
Still, it
wasn’t until a few months past my twelfth birthday
that I got my first peek at punk rock, and realized
there was a universe beyond Elton’s radiant
rhinestone eyeglass, Freddy Mercury’s spandex
jumpsuits and Ziggy Stardust partying with spiders
on Mars.
One Saturday
night, lying on the pudding brown linoleum in the
living room, ‘Los and I watched a NBC news show
called Weekend. Hosted by Lloyd Dobbins and Linda
Ellerbee, a groundbreaking program came on as a
replacement to Saturday Night Live once a month.
With subjects
that ranged from comic book collectors to incest,
one could never predict the topics that would be
featured. Still, it was quite a surprise that winter
night in ‘77 when Weekend aired a segment on “the
punk phenomenon in England.” Open-mouthed, I gazed
at the television screen with a glee as The Sex
Pistols wreaked havoc in countless unsuspecting
households throughout America.
Broadcasted “in
living color,” this crew of wild Brit boys clad in
worn jeans, ripped t-shirts, chunky black boots and
numerous piercings stalked the stage of a tattered
venue in brutish abandon. “That’s disgusting,”
Carlos mumbled sleepily as lead “singer” (screamer,
shouter, shrieker) Johnny Rotten lobbed gobs of spit
into the frenzied folks in the front jumped up and
down. It was as though they were being baptized “You
would never see The Jackson Five spitting at their
fans.”
The more these
“self-styled barbarians,” as Brit writer Nigel
Williamson later described
The Sex Pistols, taunted
their fans, the more maniacal the crowd became.
These crazed scenes inside the club were edited with
shots of the band’s infamous boat ride on the Thames
to promote the single “God Save the Queen,” an
interview with their trickster manager Malcolm McLaren and footage from their demented appearance
(pre-Sid Vicious) on a BBC talk show.
Until that
night, I had never a thought of rebelling against
the system or my mother, but one glimpse of The Sex
Pistols changed my perspective on the world, which
at the time was limited to my Harlem hood, a massive
comic book collection and more than a few pop
records.
For months
after watching the broadcast about the social
revolution of punk, I worried about the fragile
state of civilization and badgered my mother with
inane requests to be sent to an English boarding
school like my cousin Calais, who upon returning to
the states spoke incisively in her affected accent
and gushed about seeing the Sex Pistols in person.
Next to the
poof pop of
Elton and
Queen, punk rockers were a
bunch of rowdy kids who could barely play their
instruments, but perfect pitch and harmony hardly
seemed the point.
Enraptured by
the sheer emotion, vibrant energy, and defiant anger
directed at the plastic people populating our world,
the Pistols planted a germ of creative discontent
that encouraged me to write angst ridden poems
overflowing with images of anarchy and sorrow,
question the teachings of my Catholic education as I
strove to survive in a no-future (a slogan the
non-punk Black folks in my hood could well
understand) world of posers and squares.
Source:
BlackadelicPop
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McLaren & Meyer & Rotten & Vicious & me (on Sex
Pistols)—Roger Ebert—"England
survived the Sex Pistols, and they mostly
survived England, although Lydon still feels it
is unsafe for him to return there. [He and the
other survivors, did concerts and tours as
recently as 2008.] Cook and Jones lead settled
lives. McLaren still has bright ideas. Vivienne
Westwood has emerged as one of Britain's most
successful designers, and poses for photographs
in which she bears a perfect resemblance to Mrs.
Thatcher. [She is now Dame Vivien Westwood.] And
as for Sid, my notes from the movie say that
while the Pistols were signing a record deal in
front of Buckingham Palace and insulting the
queen, Sid's father was a Grenadier Guard on
duty in front of the palace. Surely I heard that
wrong?"
Malcolm McLaren
died of cancer on April 8, 2010, in a Swiss clinic.
He will be buried in London's fabled Highgate
Cemetery, resting with Karl Marx, George Eliot,
Christina Rossetti, Radcliffe Hall, Douglas Adams,
Sir Ralph Richardson, and other congenial
companions. He is survived by the son he had with
Westwood, Joseph Corré. The apple fell close to the
tree. Corré is co-founder of Agent Provocateur,
which began as a small Soho shop selling provocative
lingerie and now has 30 stores in 14 countries. The
German artist
Marie-Amourfou was so inspired by the Agent
Provocateur catalogue that she created the painting
below. I wish Russ had lived to see it.
* * *
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Audio:
My Story, My Song (Featuring blues guitarist Walter Wolfman Washington)
The Heart of Whiteness
By Robert Jensen
1493: Uncovering the New World Columbus
Created
By Charles C. Mann
Generation Soul: Can Dru Hill Revive The Vocal
Group?
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Greenback Planet: How the Dollar Conquered
the World and Threatened Civilization as We Know It
By H. W. Brands
In Greenback Planet, acclaimed historian H. W. Brands charts the dollar's astonishing rise to become the world's principal currency. Telling the story with the verve of a novelist, he recounts key episodes in U.S. monetary history, from the Civil War debate over fiat money (greenbacks) to the recent worldwide financial crisis. Brands explores the dollar's changing relations to gold and silver and to other currencies and cogently explains how America's economic might made the dollar the fundamental standard of value in world finance. He vividly describes the 1869 Black Friday attempt to corner the gold market, banker J. P. Morgan's bailout of the U.S. treasury, the creation of the Federal Reserve, and President Franklin Roosevelt's handling of the bank panic of 1933. Brands shows how lessons learned (and not learned) in the Great Depression have influenced subsequent U.S. monetary policy, and how the dollar's dominance helped transform economies in countries ranging from Germany and Japan after World War II to Russia and China today. He concludes with a sobering dissection of the 2008 world financial debacle, which exposed the power--and the enormous risks--of the dollar's worldwide reign. The Economy |
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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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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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If you like this page consider making a donation
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Negro Digest /
Black World
Browse all issues
1950
1960
1965
1970
1975
1980
1985
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Enjoy!
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The Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
/
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
/
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
/
January 1, 1804 -- The Founding of
Haiti
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posted 16 April 2010
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