June 2007 Archives
Oh Sister, Where Art Thou?
(Hill at an unspecified live show)
Imagine my disappointment, steadfast Lauryn Hill stan that I am, in the hot-off-the-press news this morning of Ms. Hill's misadventure at Oakland's Paramount Theater, on the first of a sporadic string of stateside summer tour dates:
Body Talk
I try to steer clear from epithets. I don't like to be called out of my name so I tend not to call people out of their names. I especially eschew words like whore, tramp, slut, that are disproportionately used to label women who are assumed to engage in a lot of sexual activity. These words are all definitionally specific to women although sometimes applied to men, an etymological fact that speaks to our society's gendered double standards that for simplicity's sake I'll refer to as sexism. With the exception of men and women who have sex for money, which I call sex workers, there are no such people as whores or tramps or sluts. Promiscuity is relative. 12 sex partners in a year to one person could be perceived excessive while to another quite healthy. Add gender in the mix and the bar by which one is considered a whore, a slut and/or a tramp is significantly lowered. In fact, for a woman it includes looking like you want sex (low cut blouse), you're due for sex (winding at the club) and you've had sex (mussed hair). This type of pervasive thinking could be avoided by following the grade school maxim, "Don't judge a book by its cover," but too many men and women are invested in judging and relating with women not even by our outward appearances but what our outward appearances mean to them. For example, on my evening commute I might bite my lip as I consider some weighty philosophical question (tofu vs. seitan) and some man on the train could take that as an indication of arousal and comment on my breast size. I'm almost inclined to say men are from mars but I know better. We are all from the same planet but we're continually hardwired to behave in alien fashion. It's been going on so long for many of us, its difficult to imagine any other way of being.
Black Star Power
After tuning into Jennifer Holiday's belted bid for recognition and relevancy, Gnarls Barkley's improbable win, Diddy's egregious lip-synching, Patti's alchemy, Chris Brown's awesomely early eighties Cazal-accessorized ensemble,
The What?!
Pharoahe Monch is back and evincing all the expected insecurities of backpack rappers. Take for example this quote from his Jesse Serwer-penned profile in the current issue of Time Out New York:
Kinesthetic
Minutes into Cassandra Wilson's free open air set Friday, Wilson, who'd already kicked her sandals off, announced she would be playing it loose. Supported by an impressive backing band--Cyrus Chestnut (who favors Randy Jackson and Stanley Crouch) on keys, Marvin Sewell on guitar, Reginald Veal on Bass, Herlin Riley on drums and Lekan Babalola on percussion--stretching out made sense. But when Wilson launched into her next song Chestnut was stumped. Wilson continued acapella, snapped the time to Riley and Chestnut eventually improvised his way in. Set list free, Wilson proceeded by launching into whatever struck her as appropriate and acquiescing to the shouted requests of fans packed into Central Park's Rumsey Playfield, my crew included. We leaned towards selections from 1996's New Moon Daughter. The middle aged couple who shared Raw Soul apricot cookies with me pleaded for "Solomon Sang," my friend Iquo requested "Until" where if memory serves correct my newfound cousin Kia made a loud case for "Death Letter." Voices divided we didn't make much of a case for any of them and Wilson capably tackled other selections from her deep discography. "Easy Rider" from Thunderbird, "Time after Time" from Traveling Miles and "You Move Me" from the Love Jones: The Music. The whole concert as request line reminded us all of how many wonderful songs Wilson's recorded, originals and covers. No better time than now to spotlight a few of my favorite Wilson songs, MP3's included:
+"You Move Me", Love Jones: The Music (1997)
Sacrosanct on just the strength of Lauryn Hill's "Sweetest Thing", me'shell ndegéocello's "Rush Over" and Wilson's "You Move Me"--song about sex that's not corny or crass--made the Love Jones soundtrack an excellent compilation. Wilson's sultriness is anything but contrived and always compelling.
+"Until" and "Find Him", New Moon Daughter (1996)
This is my favorite album from Wilson and these are my two favorite songs from it. Both tackle love and longing but where "Until" is somber, "Find Him" is sanguine.
"One Shine", Illadelph Halflife, The Roots (1996)
Cassandra Wilson is just one patchwork in this Roots-curated sonic quilt but a prominent one. This is really just a groove but a great one.
Jill Scott with Chaka Khan and Robin Thicke at Radio City Music Hall
Tags: Chaka Khan, Jill Scott, Music, Robin Thicke, Soul
I have been sick since Sunday. I called in sick on Wednesday only went in Thursday 'cause I'm low on sick days and didn't do much but hack my lungs sore. So my enthusiasm to see Robin Thicke, Chaka Khan, and Jill Scott at Radio City Music Hall was tempered by my shitty health but there was no missing this; Jill is a steadfast sparkler, Chaka's a legend and Robin's an enchanting soulster.
DV Dreams
We are a misrepresented people. Wonder wrote it; Hollywood hasn't even tried to refute it. Sitting in stadium seats watching theatrical previews is that more annoying for me since seldom is there a preview for a non-white film. Smart films portraying life as experienced by people of color aren't being made by major Hollywood studios. Sure, there are indie filmmakers committed to art and entertainment reflective of our nation and our world's diversity but they have limited reach. Just the other night during the commercial break of an especially riveting re-run of Law & Order: SVU, I caught a promo for the forthcoming film, Evening, an adaptation of the Susan Minot book which features a bunch of white actresses the grave voice over man identified as "the best" of our time. As part of an advert, it was obviously biased, but also quite presumptuous since compelling as all of the featured actresses are, they've been running a staggered start race on a straightaway with women of color excluded from meaningful representation in mainstream film. And still the best performances I saw last year were from women of color in supporting roles (Adriana Barraza and Rinko Kikuchi).
BLINDED BY THE LIGHT
"For the Women's House", Faith Ringgold, 1971
The other day Yung Berg’s “Sexy Lady” made its 106 & Park debut. Rocsi annotated this development with an enthusiastic “I ain’t mad at that,” before kicking it to the Terrence-refereed Freestyle Friday battle. The indiscriminately affirming conversational filler, "I ain’t mad at that” cousin to “That’s what’s up” confounds given that “Sexy Lady” is catchy crazy talk. The chorus: “Hey, Sexy lady. It was nice to know you but I gotta move on,” sung by Junior conceives chicks, even the sexy ones, as disposable, which isn’t a new low for contemporary Black pop but disconcerting nonetheless. But I wouldn’t expect Rocsi to exercise any discernment. She just throws to videos, smiles, nods and flirts with the almost famous (See the Reggie Bush episode; Rocsi was crushing hard) although she does deliver her lines much better than the prompter-challenged Free. Discarded sexy ladies, portrayed on the little screen by video models, are just collateral damage.
SONGS OF MYSELF
Over the years I have had a number of favorite songs: "Rhythm Nation" in '89, "Sensitivity" in '90, "Right Here" (Human Nature Remix) in '93, "Come Clean" in '94, "One More Chance" (Remix) in '95, "Lady" in '96, "21 Years" in '97, "Life is Sweet" in '98, "Ex-Factor" in '99, "Poparatzi" in 2000, "Red Velvet" in 2001, "You’re My Alter Ego" in 2002, "Unhappy" in 2003, "Right Back to Me" in 2004, and "Rise and Shine" in 2006.
HDTV
I haven't been one for music videos since the untimely demise of Video Soul and Yo! MTV Raps although even if I was inclined to watch them I'd be hard pressed, given the inane Reality TVification of the music television networks. But since I forgot my wallet in my office desk drawer yesterday, I was homebound until one of my friends responded to my frantic texts of moneylessness and let me mooch off her plate at Fort Greene's sceney Habana Outpost. So I caught a few videos. These are my thoughts:
Spilt Gilt
Umbrellas, or bumbershoots as they are called in my hometown, are supposed to give cover but I still tie my hair up if I sense moisture in the atmosphere. Rain seldom falls straight down; it slants and swirls, quickly frizzing flat ironed hair. All to say an invitation to stand under my umbrella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh is not the grandest of gestures. Nor is Rihanna's "Umbrella", woeful wielder of said metaphor, a lucid example of songwriting. Still the chorus has become my default adlib: Where am I headed? Just to the bodega-ega-ega-eh-eh-eh.
