Tag: op-ed

The Importance of Scholar and Author Robert S. Cantwell

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

Robert S. Cantwell died on July 3, and for people who write about country or folk – and for people who play these musics – this was a major loss. Cantwell grew up on the South Side of Chicago and went to school at the legendary Grinnell College in Iowa. He spent his time at Grinnell learning how to play the banjo, though frequently he would be fined by the college for playing after hours. Committing to a lifetime of writing, he wrote mostly about country and folk music, but in ways that were difficult, all-encompassing, eccentric, and curious. He never really believed in the purity of form, but also was careful about what popular music meant. For decades, mostly in North Carolina, he was writing and teaching about music where legend was more often printed than the truth. Cantwell knew the truth was polyvalent. And slippery.

He writes carefully in one section of Bluegrass Breakdown about what church music means, tracing the sanctification of hillbilly music all the way through Appalachia to Calvinist psalters in Scottish churches. At the same time, he was one the earliest white critics to note that the history of the banjo came from West Africa, but the theft of the banjo, as an instrument and a music, was abetted by vaudeville and burlesque, places where blackface was rampant. These two examples note the public and social problems of the music, but also note that the public performances of these spaces was as much in an oral as written tradition, and that bluegrass requires a performance orientation.

This move towards understanding performance as central to the genre also allowed for a chapter in Bluegrass Breakdown about Bill Monroe at the Grand Ole Opry, an exquisitely reported backstage report. That chapter is so well observed, not through the top-down hierarchy of an academic who needs to pretend that he knows all, but through noting carefully what he does know (the origins of Bill Monroe’s “High Lonesome Sound”), what he doesn’t know (who Jean Shepard was outside of her stage clothes), or what cannot be known entirely (the social pressure of the Opry as a site of country music.)

Cantwell’s observations come out of concerns, a careful listening, which suggest that genre is less important than a loving discussion of what music is, as it is listened to now, and how it has been listened to historically. Cantwell can follow that backstage passage, with its shade of ’70s-style New Journalism, with a discussion of what Monroe was actually playing – and I mean this culturally, but also via actual notation. But he follows that with an annihilating anecdote against an anonymous scholar who argued that bluegrass must result from written sources. He further argues that it is one kind of music, one kind of genre – though not one that is central to the conversation – acknowledging the legitimacy of the form, but asking why the performer would only allow one kind of knowledge.

Cantwell was included in fellow critic Eric Weisbard’s magisterial volume on music criticism, Songbooks: The Literature of American Popular Music, a book that features almost every important book of music criticism. Weisbard writes about Cantwell’s Bluegrass Breakdown: “Folklore almost dissolved in Cantwell’s antidisciplinary, antigenre, anti (as prose) generic accounting,” then spends the rest of the entry almost walking back what could be considered an accusation – recognizing that if bluegrass was supposed to be a melting-pot genre, then writing about bluegrass should be equally anti-genre. Bluegrass at its best is both pure and filthy; singing about plain truths in flashy suits. Work that happened within written or oral traditions requires a systematic dismantling of the genre, reworking it with new disciplines and stranger understandings.

This is where I say that Cantwell argues – and he does that sometimes – but he also tells stories, and pays attention, and works out some problems about the rise of bluegrass. He considers Bill Monroe central, but uses Monroe as a larger example that the genre is a commercial construction, one that has an origin in a wide variety of oral and written traditions. Bluegrass – and I think by extension folk and country music – is a bastard child with many parents, and Cantwell at his best elucidates all of them.

His other work is equally dense. He traces the entire history of the 1960s folk revival in the ironic and telling When We Were Good, which deconstructs genre as aptly as Bluegrass Breakdown does. His last book, The Poetics of Tenderness, is about how much he loves his wife, but also about how to read with an all-consuming love–and according to its press copy it quotes “Andreas Capellanus, Plato, Schopenhauer, Freud, William James, Hardy, Dreiser and Fitzgerald, D.H. Lawrence and Tom Stoppard, among others.” That might be the central gift of understanding Cantwell, understanding that to love something is to consume it – with tenderness and with ravenous hunger.

In his death, we not only lose a singular voice in American popular music criticism, but we also experience a loss in how exactly to write about genre, and about bluegrass. We lose someone who dedicated care to research, but also with the patience and space to consider work over centuries. In the systematic dismantling of humanities, and in the academic gatekeeping which forbids working-class people from writing about working-class music, Cantwell’s death seems deeply symbolic – of how rare writing this patient and erudite is now.

 

One Fair Summer Evening…

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

My fifth grade teacher, after announcing pop quizzes, would, without fail, remind my panicked classmates and I sitting at our desks to “Look down in desperation, look up for inspiration, but do not look side-to-side for information.” A memorable way to keep ten-year-olds from cheating on each other’s exams. There’s something about the adage that’s stuck with me twenty-five years on.

To this day, if I’m feeling desperate or helpless, my head droops down, oftentimes collapsing into the palms of my hands. I still also look up for answers to the unanswerable, the unknowable, or as Mrs. Schock put it, for “inspiration.” Sat at my desk once again, reading about last month’s flooding in Texas on this country’s 249th birthday, my head automatically fell into my hands and, just as quickly, my eyes lifted their gaze upwards. Above my computer, nestled in the Napa Valley Wooden Cassette Rack, something caught my eye, the audio cassette of One Fair Summer Evening by Nanci Griffith.

The GRAMMY-winning “Lone Star State of Mind” singer landed like a raindrop into this world on July 6, 1953, in Seguin, Texas, a small town in Guadalupe County in the watershed of the Guadalupe River. Raised in Austin, Griffith achieved international attention following the release of her breakthrough 1986 album, The Last of The True Believers, that showcased her impressive singing and songwriting, which she had honed in the decade prior alongside the likes of her Hill Country contemporaries Townes Van Zandt and Lyle Lovett.

Griffith died on August 13, 2021, at the age of 68. Thirty-three years earlier, on August 19 and 20, 1988 – less than two months after that May’s blue moon – she recorded her sole live album, One Fair Summer Evening, at Anderson Fair, an intimate folk club in Houston. It’s a remarkable recording, not just for how good Griffith’s songs sound stripped of the instrumental flourishes that colored her studio albums up to that point, but the Texas charm she provides in the banter between songs.

While introducing “Trouble in The Fields,” she jokes self-deprecatingly, “Most of my mother’s family came from way out in West Texas in a little town called Lockney, which is somewhere close to Lubbock, but not too close to Lubbock. Nobody likes to be too close to Lubbock.”

The crowd laughs, hysterically.

She continues with her squeaky soliloquy, one long run-on sentence without much pause for breath, “My great aunt Nettie Mae said that surviving the Great Depression on a farm was not easy and she understands why the young farmers nowadays are having such a hard time, because she went through it herself and the dust blew so hard during the Great Depression on her farm that she said she was afraid to go to sleep at night, because she was afraid the dust would blow so hard one night that she’d wake up the next morning and find herself living in Oklahoma and she by God didn’t want to live in Oklahoma.”

The audience, cackling louder now and showering Griffith’s gift of gab with rounds of applause, quickly quiets themselves as Griffith shifts her tone and launches into the song about her family’s trials and tribulations being farmers in Texas during the Dust Bowl, singing the words: “And all this trouble in our fields/ If this rain can fall, these wounds can heal.”

Sometimes, we look up in desperation as well, for any precipitation the sky can offer us.

In the introduction to the next song, “The Wing and The Wheel,” Griffith tells her captive crowd, “There’s no need for any human being to ever be complacent.” The emotional whiplash might be too much to take, stark laughter swiftly shifting gears to deadpan seriousness, if the sincerity in the songs didn’t shine through with each passing line: “The wing and the wheel, they carry things away/ Whether it’s me that does the leavin’ or the love that flies away/ The moon outside my window looks so lonely tonight/ Oh, there’s a chunk out of its middle, big enough for an old fool to hide.”

Ten years later, in August 1998, Griffith’s relationship with her home state had become fraught. She wrote and sent letters to every major newspaper in Texas – the Dallas Morning News, the Houston and Austin Chronicles, the Austin-American Statesman, Texas Monthly – after a poor critical reception to her album Other Voices, Too (A Trip Back to Bountiful), released the month prior. In her letter, she defiantly rails, “There has always been a certain amount of pathos within artists who leave their sacred bountiful homes of birth for the benefit of preserving their own belief in their art—especially in cases such as my own where my native soil that I have so championed around this globe has done its best to choke whatever dignity I carried within me.” In the probing missive, she references Thomas Wolfe, whose own novels so severely damaged his reputation in his hometown of Asheville, North Carolina – which last year was decimated by the historic flooding of Hurricane Helene – he never returned.

The full moon in July is otherwise called a “Buck Moon,” named for the time of year the male deer’s antlers grow anew and hunters can track them more easily midday. This year, the Buck Moon swung across a fair, summer evening sky over Texas on July 12th, barely a week after the floods. That night Luke Borchelt, a country musician and singer-songwriter from Maryland, was seated at a bar in Austin. The night prior, he had performed at Parish, a club in the heart of the state’s capitol, right near where a Woolworth’s once stood at Sixth Street and Congress Ave. The very same shop Griffith sang about in her “Love at The Five and Dime” – and is pictured in front of on the album cover for The Last of The True Believers.

After striking up a conversation with a local patron at the bar, Borchelt was asked, “You’re a country singer? Could we do a concert tomorrow to raise money?” Borchelt agreed. So it often goes with Texans: forward, empathetic and community-oriented. Prior to becoming a full-time musician, Borchelt worked for Mercy Chefs, the Virginia-based, disaster relief non-profit.

“I managed logistics and the distribution of meals in disaster areas. That was my passion. It’s also where I got my musical start. After hours, I would play for the chefs. Disaster is a part of my story.”

As Borchelt recounts his journey, it sounds like a country song. There’s a rhythm to his speech that’s musical. He tells me “…there’s a stereotype of ‘badass’ Texans,” but in the wake of the floods, the “Every Rain” singer says, “I can’t say enough about the amount of people that showed up. We asked them ‘What brought you here?,’ and they would say, ‘I’m a Texan. We just show up.’”

After his performance in Austin, Borchelt headed to volunteer with Mercy Chefs, who had stationed themselves at a church in Kerrville to prepare and serve meals to evacuees, first responders, and search and rescue teams. Since the intense rains fell on July 4 in the central part of the state, 136 people lost their lives – 116 of which were lost in Kerr County.

In the flash flood’s waters, which crested at 30 feet, lay Camp Mystic – a girls’ summer camp situated alongside the banks of the Guadalupe River, northwest of Seguin. It was there that 27 people, counselors and campers, mostly children, died during one of the most tragic natural disasters in recent memory.

The six different flags that have waved over Texas throughout its history – some more star-spangled than others – have always flown over a proud people. When I speak to Mercy Chefs’ Ashbi Wilson, the managing chef on the deployment teams in Kerrville and Ingram, it’s no surprise she’s proud of her Texas roots. She lived in Kerrville for eight years before relocating southeast to her current home in Wimberley. At 21 years-old, before she became a chef, she spent a summer as a counselor at Camp Mystic, based on the recommendation of a professor at the local college, Schreiner University.

Regarding Camp Mystic she recalls, “Mystic is a really special place. Everybody was so warm and welcoming. Everybody was really just there to be encouraging and to have fun, and to help these girls, growing up to be young women.”

Hours before she got the call to deploy to Kerr County in early July, her bags were already packed. “It was a lot more personal this time, so I was ready to go,” she tells me. “Disasters are always both devastating and inspiring at the same time. So, even though there’s been so much heaviness and devastation around the lives and the places lost, it’s still really rewarding and inspiring to watch the community, and people from all over the state, and the first responders from all over the country and all over the world come in and do the work that’s needed.”

One Fair Summer Evening…

If these rains can fall, these wounds can heal.

— Nanci Griffith

Thousands of Texans called FEMA for assistance, and in the days following the torrential downpours, those calls were left unanswered, leaving recovery efforts largely in the hands of local authorities and volunteers. Firefighters from Mexico, a nation whose flag once flew over Texas, travelled north to Kerrville, and served a critical role in search and rescue operations. Earlier this month, after several Texas lawmakers fled the state in protest of a vote in the State Senate to gerrymander congressional districts along racial lines, one of their peers called upon a different federal agency, the FBI, to bring them back home. Is it any wonder why someone with such deep Texas roots as Nanci Griffith would disavow her home state?

Simultaneously, from where I write in Southern California, taqueros in East Los Angeles, farm workers in Camarillo, and day-laborers in the parking lots of Home Depots strewn across the city are being hunted like bucks at midday by armed and masked agents of the state, taken into federal custody to be deported to Tijuana, where there are now makeshift slums filled with deportees. In January, Mexican firefighters again headed north to volunteer to battle the blazes that burned across various pockets of the sprawling metropolis. Fire and I.C.E.

The desperation and helplessness one is inclined to feel while watching disasters both natural and unnatural unfold can be crippling. You don’t know how to do anything but languish in hopelessness and hang your head in shame, but as Wilson says, disasters can be both devastating and inspiring, no matter which way you look. Oftentimes, we turn to music to guide us through the dark and remove us from our solitude.

A live record gives its listener a glimpse into a communal space from afar, a moment captured crystalline and pure. Griffith’s One Fair Summer Evening served as my reminder that, not only in Texas, but everywhere a human draws breath, that “there’s no need for any human being to ever be complacent…” After all, “if these rains can fall, these wounds can heal.”

Donate to support flood relief in Texas by giving to the Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country here. Learn more and support Mercy Chefs here.

Scans by Shane Greenberg, That Scans.

Black Roots

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

It is clear to me that 2024 will be known for being a landmark year in the evolution of Black roots music. Not only has there been tremendous growth in the number of artists that are throwing their hat in the ring for roots music – whether it be country & western, bluegrass, folk or Americana – but it is also a time where the mainstream music world is responding to this outpouring of talent in a way that hasn’t been seen in a long time. In many ways, it’s not surprising that things have grown in this fashion. Since I started my professional music career back in 2005, I have seen quite a few changes in the general musical landscape that have set the stage for a Black Roots music revolution.

In the early 2000s, the musical fabric of Black Roots had already been woven into the tapestry of American culture. Hidden between the more well-known pieces of Black music, these acoustic styles that didn’t fit into the traditional mold of blues, jazz, and gospel remained unseen and unheard, relegated to the fringes. Even though it was simultaneously considered a quintessential piece of the larger puzzle of American popular culture, Black Roots music was held in greater reverence for its historical significance than for being a living musical tradition played by modern musicians of the African Diaspora.

There were great pioneers who set the stage back in the early 20th century. There were songsters, string bands, folk musicians, storytellers, songwriters, composers, and community historians who shared their stories for the early folk song collectors who were searching for the purest forms of black expression. This happened while the commercial recording companies sent their representatives out to the field looking for music that they could sell to a record buying public who wanted a sound that not only reflected the past, but the future as well.

With all that in mind, my goal in becoming a professional musician came not from a desire to be a stage performer alone, but to also expand the scholarship and visibility of Black Roots music. By becoming a touring musician I found I was filling a void that most people are not aware of today. Having the opportunity to evoke the names of people who had not gotten their due in their own time was empowering. Not only have I advocated for the music, I have played it and arranged it to reflect the rich history of American music while at same time writing my own songs that represent the modern Black experience in all of its phases.

When I first began performing in Arizona, there was no Black Roots community for me to lean on, so I had to teach myself everything. I had to learn to play the guitar, the banjo, and all of the other instruments in my repertoire on my own. Before the internet, the library was my main resource for music and I grew up in a time when a good portion of all of the world’s recorded music throughout history was not readily available on streaming platforms. Sometimes, I had to search far and wide through stacks of CDs, LPs, and 78s to gain access to the music, just so I could learn how to play it. As I began to learn more songs, I found out about the history of the performers and the legacies they left behind. Later on, I met others who held a similar passion and those individuals taught me how to play different styles and shared more parts of the history that I didn’t know about.

We are now in an era where people have access to the music that was once very hard for me to find. In many ways, I was at the forefront of these musical discoveries in the roots music community, because I took what I had learned and planted seeds all around the world with the Carolina Chocolate Drops and on my own as a solo artist over the past 25 years.

Once I left Arizona and we formed the Carolina Chocolate Drops, we were able to tap into a certain energy in the crowd that changed the paradigm for Black Roots music, so that now people can see the whole picture of American music in a different way. They could see a Black person playing the banjo in the modern world and be inspired to learn more about the African and Caribbean roots of the banjo. We did that for the better part of a decade and then I decided to move on into a new territory: Black Cowboys and Black Western music. This was a new area of music that the Carolina Chocolate Drops were not a part of in any way. The Chocolate Drops had focused on the music of North Carolina and this new musical venture was an exploration into my own family roots in the Southwest.

Back in 2010, I had come across a book called The Negro Cowboys, which encouraged me to research about African American cowboys of the West. In 2018, my research came together in my solo album, Dom Flemons Presents Black Cowboys, which came out on Smithsonian Folkways as a part of the African American Legacy Series. Having grown up in Arizona, I knew that the album needed to be a part of the National Museum of African American History & Culture so that future generations could appreciate and respect the history of the Black West as well as activate the communities that had been there all along.

Back when I released Black Cowboys, I was one of the few artists talking about the contributions of African Americans out west and their varied connections to country music. Not only was I sharing this lesser known history, but I was playing the music that we now celebrate as “Black Country” long before Beyoncé, Lil Nas X, the “Yee-Haw Agenda,” or any of the newer Black artists who have risen to fame in the TikTok era. Now that the concept of Black Cowboys has gone mainstream in music, television, movies, and fashion, it’s another reminder to me that the music I created had made a major impact on American culture in both a conscious and subconscious way.

The most important part of it all is that no one owns Black Country music and nobody owns Black Cowboys or the roots of Black music. However, nowadays I am noticing that people are trying to take credit for exposing the history when they have only scratched the surface of it.

What I have learned is that there are so many parts of the Black Country and roots music story that are still missing and are being left out of the media. There are many other artists who should be considered in the conversation and yet they aren’t getting their flowers. I have noticed the Black Country music narrative that has sprung up recently has actively disregarded the work of the many Black artists who are deeply connected to the legacy, including myself on many occasions. My hope is that people will take the time to acknowledge the ones who have paved the way for the current movement and shed light on their individual stories, too.

The main reason I have included extensive liner notes in all of my albums, including my most recent, Traveling Wildfire, is because I always make sure to give credit where it is due. The sources for my traditional songs are clearly laid out for anyone to see and my original songs are exercises in expanding the existing palette of roots music so that both can be presented to a new generation of listeners. I have seen my talking points being used to fuel many of the current conversations, but oftentimes there is no back reference to the work I have done. All of the fanfare has forgotten to give proper credit to someone who has spent the majority of their career trying to set the record straight. As a well known musician in my community, this exposes a general trend that is problematic for the current state of Black Roots music.

If it is acceptable for a mainstream pop star or the media to sidestep and steamroll the pioneers of Black Roots music, it can only lead to a narrative of uplift that will ring hollow in the long term. It will teach the future generations that sleight of hand is the only way to get ahead and that surface level fame is the goal and key to being successful. Bad ideologies take a long time to disperse once they have become a part of the general fabric of society, and if people continue to spout it the integrity of the music can be undermined without them even knowing it.

This is why I am cautiously optimistic for the current state of Black Roots music, because oftentimes it feels more like a one-sided competition than a community of Black artists coming together to be celebrated collectively.

Yet, on a positive note, I believe the current state of Black Roots music is very exciting. People are being activated by the work that has been done by the pioneers of the past one hundred years. They are reinterpreting, reinventing, and showcasing music that is becoming a viable part of the mainstream music industry. They come with a variety of sounds, instruments, and songs that will shift the template of American culture as Black Roots music always has and always will.

More voices are being added every day in places and spaces that would have been unheard of even ten years ago. It can be clearly stated that there are now plenty of young musicians in every field of Black Roots music and there is no shortage of new talent who have proven their worth on the stage, on recordings, and on social media.

The holistic landscape of the modern Black Roots music community is something that I am proud to have helped establish over the past 25 years. Major growth is upon us, but I feel like it can only happen if everyone in the community gets acknowledged, not just the “favorites” or the ones making the most money while begging for all of the attention. The connecting of dots that bind the past and future are within our reach through the technology we have at our fingertips; it is essential for us to use it with great care and responsibility.

I started my journey as the American Songster building a legacy upon a dream. I got the notion to write songs and play the old styles back when I was sixteen years old and this eventually led me to sell everything I own, jump in my car, and drive across America to find where that dream could take me. It then took me all over the world and brought me much acclaim, but I have never lost sight of what inspired me to start this journey.

For me, I’m just getting started and I’ll always be here, no matter who stays and who goes. I’ve done the work to make the music more accessible for others and I can hope that it has reflected well on my own legacy as well as the entire community I have tried to uplift.

Photo Credit: Dom Flemons by Steven Holloway.

Kyshona on 50 Years of ‘Rags To Rufus’

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

(Editor’s Note: 50 years ago this month, Rufus released what would become a seminal album in American roots music, soul, and funk, Rags To Rufus, which featured Chaka Khan. To mark the 50th anniversary of this iconic recording, singer-songwriter Kyshona ponders the personal meanings of the project and how it relates to her own brand new album, Legacy.)

My mother is battling dementia, so car rides with her are the perfect time to play music from her younger years, when she was carefree, childless, and she and my Dad hosted an abundance of house parties for their friends and family. I have a playlist of songs from the late ‘60s and ‘70s I’ll put on when we’re shuttling her between doctors’ appointments.

On one of these car rides, I turned on Rags To Rufus. My mom was in the passenger seat, playing “brain games” on her phone to, in her words, “Exercise her mind and hold on to what she’s got.” I noticed she was singing, under her breath, the melodies and choruses of the first three tracks on the album. She turned to me and said, “I’ve never heard this before, who is this? I like it!” This got me thinking beyond personal family legacy and more about musical legacy.

This year marks the 50th anniversary of Rags To Rufus, the album that transformed the trajectory of funk band Rufus and propelled Chaka Khan into the spotlight. Chaka Khan’s music is a soundtrack that has woven itself into the fabric of not only my work as an artist, but also into my personal life.

There is an expectation to conform, to try to categorize and compartmentalize music; I can’t imagine enduring the pressure from the industry, and even society as a whole, as it was nearly a half a century ago, artists and bands trying to squeeze themselves into arbitrary molds. To my ears, Rags To Rufus is the sound of a group of friends hanging out and having a good time – there is a sense of celebration, camaraderie, a sonic journey of Black joy. It feels like an album made for the thrill of being creative, for the sake of unbridled artistic freedom. I have always wanted my music to feel like this, telling stories, playing around with sounds and ideas. When I’m creating, that’s my goal. I write in the style that serves the story that I’m telling, without regard to genre constraints or others’ expectations.

The record begins with empowered swagger and affirmation – “You Got The Love,” which I interpret as, “You belong here.” The sentiment is carried through in “Walkin’ In The Sun,” a song that brings a comforting sense of nostalgia. I can hear my “aunties” in the hook: “Even a blind man can tell when he’s walking in the sun.”

The title track is a funked-out jam session, and then the band brings out old-time fervor in “Swing Down Chariot.”

Think about it – Rufus takes an old gospel song, adds Chaka Khan’s powerhouse vocals, blends it with blues, jazz, funk, soul, and takes it to an entirely new dimension! Forget genre, industry rules, or album cycles. Back in the day, it was just music that made you feel good, it was about that vibe.

As a music therapist, I recognize the profound impact music has on those grappling with conditions like Alzheimer’s and dementia – it encourages lucidity and presence of self. As a daughter, I see how music bonds me to my mother.

In the past, when I’ve done music therapy in nursing home settings, I’ve used songs from the early 20th century – like “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” “Heart And Soul,” and “Sentimental Journey.” But now, the memory care songs I reach for are songs I grew up listening to in our house, at family reunions, on road trips. How fantastic is it that Chaka Khan’s work throughout her 50-year career can provide a generation-spanning conduit for a mother and a daughter to connect? We can experience that freedom in her sound as we listen together, regardless of the chaos happening around us.

I can’t begin to put into words how much I admire Chaka Khan; with my new album, Legacy, I tell the stories of my ancestors and my family. Chaka Khan’s legacy is intertwined with generations of music-makers.

Over the last 50 years, Khan has been a major influence on pop artists like Whitney Houston, R&B artists like Erykah Badu and Mary J. Blige, and on myself – and so many of my peers in the roots and folk scenes. I learned of her musical magic as a child, listening to my parents’ favorite radio stations, so being able to sing backing vocals for her at Newport Folk Festival a few years ago was absolutely surreal. I can’t imagine the journey she’s been on, but I hope she knows that her existence alone encourages artists like me to keep on being true to ourselves and our art.

Rags To Rufus is a part of my journey. For me, it’s the sound of “blackness.” I hope that 50 years from now, someone will listen to the music of myself and my peers and hear that same resonance of joy, love, and celebration of culture.

We all dream to leave a lasting musical legacy as deep and profound as Chaka Khan and Rufus.

Photo Credit: Anna Haas

Want to Write a Protest Song? Read This First

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

“There’s no such thing as someone else’s war
Your creature comforts aren’t the only things worth fighting for
Still breathing, it’s not too late
We’re all carrying one big burden, sharing one fate.”
                                                                                                  — Jason Isbell, “White Man’s World”

If one musical phenomenon united the year 2018 from the very moment the ball dropped over Times Square, it was the protest song. The soundtrack of the resistance clearly had enough time to percolate, deliberate, and incubate since our 45th president’s administration began in January 2017, because protest emerged as a recurring theme.

In the summer of 2017, Americana speak-your-mind hero Jason Isbell may have been the earliest adopter with “White Man’s World,” where he was decrying his own privilege while championing our common humanity and our shared fate. A year later, string band virtuosos Punch Brothers went so far as to name the elephant in the room and describe him thusly on “Jumbo:” “Whoa, here comes Jumbo with a knife and a tan/ And an elephant’s tail for his Instagram/ Grown up brave on the fat of the land of the free…”

Falling in line with this common theme, in an interview earlier this year River Whyless’ drummer Alex Waters described their creative process for their latest album, Kindness, A Rebel, as grappling with the fact that, “it’s just hard to avoid the elephant in the room as far as the current political situation and feeling like we didn’t say or do enough.” Boston-based bluegrass outfit, the Lonely Heartstring Band, opted to protest by not protesting — a press release described their single, “The Other Side,” as, “a song that takes no sides, but encourages empathy and understanding for people regardless of political beliefs.” Korby Lenker and Nora Jane Struthers took that perspective directly to far-right cable television show, Huckabee, performing a co-written plea for the sanctity of the dinner table, “Let’s Just Have Supper.”

Several issues arise when you start to consider the commonalities between all of these songs, the coincidence of their releases, and the apparent level to which political mayhem must reach before the greater community sees these songs as necessary. Look, we’ve got at least two more years of this level of political division and discourse ahead of us. Before you sit down to write your scathing, politically-minded, resistance-inspired anthem perhaps consider these few questions and suggestions:

Is this your story to tell?

Story songs and character songs can be sensationally moving and evocative, and they’re an integral part of American roots music’s songwriting traditions, but writers should be careful not to simply co-opt and capitalize on stories, concepts, ideas, and experiences of a marginalized person or group of people. Try not to appropriate any identity or culture, especially if there are marginalized voices out there already telling these stories. Which leads us neatly to the next question:

Is a marginalized or underprivileged person already telling this story?

One of the best ways folks can utilize their privilege to support resistance and activism is to pointedly and intentionally step aside to let a marginalized person own their own stories, their truths, and to be able to speak to those stories and truths. Ask yourself if telling a certain story, especially someone else’s story, could deny someone else their agency. Use your privilege, whether it be simply tied to your identity or to your professional position, to bring in the voices of forgotten folks who are already telling these stories. Use their points of view to strengthen and reinforce yours, rather than assuming that, by taking on these stories of our own accord, we’re strengthening and reinforcing those who don’t have the access or advantages that we have.

Furthermore, is this song already written?

Consider how galvanized our intersectional movements can be if we draw upon all of our constituent strengths from each and every individual’s personal story. Think of the power of protest music from across the generations. If your song is “already written,” it doesn’t mean that your feelings and your convictions are invalid. It means you aren’t alone. Your goals are the goals of someone — perhaps many someones else. Sometimes you just don’t need to reinvent the wheel.

Stay away from rhetoric such as “we’re better than this,” “this is not who we are,” “we should go back to the way things used to be,” etc.

Ask yourself if the particular phenomenon you’re writing about is truly unprecedented and unique to this era. For instance, indigenous Americans’ experiences are erased if we allow ourselves to believe the narrative that this is the first time our country has detained and imprisoned thousands of children. What about decrying the travel ban on majority-Muslim countries? Not a new occurrence, either. Mourning innocent drone deaths? Those casualty numbers actually don’t neatly correlate to which party holds the White House, as one might assume.

Try to avoid opining for “normalcy” or to “go back to normal.”

As individuals from almost any marginalized people group in this country would be happy to report, there is not an “again” to which we can return the United States that would truly be best, better, or “great” for all Americans. Whether we’re talking about Native Americans, stolen African slaves, African Americans, Americans with disabilities, LGBTQ+ Americans, or women in America — none of these groups have ever enjoyed a period of time in this country that was truly, equally great for any or all of the above. Wishing for something that never existed, except perhaps to the most privileged Americans throughout history, is the self-fulfilling prophecy of erasure at work. There ain’t no such thing as the good ol’ days.

Consider your audience, but not too closely.

Are you writing a protest song knowing that the majority, if not the entirety, of your audience already agrees with you? If so, why? Landing ourselves in echo chambers of our own political and ideological views doesn’t actually do anyone any good. Are you writing the song as a pat on the back? However, having an audience that may diametrically oppose your personal beliefs doesn’t mean that any subject, any cause, or any identity, is yours to take on as your gauntlet. Keep in mind, the most relatable songs, especially politically-minded or motivated songs, are at their best when they’re truly personal.

Speak to your own experiences, unapologetically, and speak to others’ as they relate to yours. It’s called being human. But, don’t get too bogged down considering your audience, either. If you find yourself debating whether or not a song is right for a certain audience, it’s time for a privilege check. Is your anti-gun anthem the best fit for an audience in rural Montana? Maybe not. But consider the artists and songwriters out in the world whose identities are already politicized. The trans artist. The songwriter who uses a wheelchair. An artist of color.

There is no choice, when any of these artists come into the spotlight, of whether or not the political statement of their very existence is too much for their audience. If you are able to avoid a certain song or a political point of view for the convenience of potentially not offending someone, you have an ability that many artists do not possess. That should be in the front of your mind each time you take the stage to find an audience with which you might not feel totally comfortable. For some artists, every audience conjures that feeling. Directly in the face of their art.

Are you simply, innocently following a songwriting trend?

Nope. You’re complicit. Stop. If you’re writing a protest song simply because it’s “in,” something is very broken. (Not capitalism though. That would be very much in tact.)

Write your truth!

Write what you feel. Write what pours out. Let it be personal, let it be real and vulnerable, let it process all of the confusing, complicated, and often treacherous peaks and valleys that we’ve all been crossing together these days. If you’ll stop and consider a few of these points listed above with kindness and empathy, and if you continue with only one metric against which you measure yourself, let it be this: that you are as true to yourself and your truth as you are careful and cautious with the selfhood and truths of others. Carry that with you and you almost can’t go wrong.

Isbell has it pretty much right. And he’ll be the first to admit that he wasn’t the first person to conceptualize the straightforward profundity in his lyrics. We really do all share a common fate–and our own creature comforts, however they’re provided to us, cannot be the only factors that we consider. It’s going to require active, progressive change, allyship realized as a verb, not a noun, to take what has begun as simply a quorum of protest songs from the past year and morph them into a true vehicle for change on the right side of history.

“I’m a white man living in a white man’s nation
I think the man upstairs must’a took a vacation
I still have faith, but I don’t know why
Maybe it’s the fire in my little girl’s eyes…”

Photo by Daniel Jackson

Op-ed: Song of the Times

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“The holiest place on earth is where an ancient hatred has become a current love.” –– A Course in Miracles

“Resilient” was written after the election, during Standing Rock, and while on tour. It came out like a wild horse from our mouths, the kind of song that responds to the times itself before you have much to say about it. I had to get out of its way, really. Song catching, some folks say. To be resilient means to come back to your original shape after being bent, broken, or compressed. I believe everyone can relate to that word in their own way right now, and my prayer is that the song somehow finds the people who need to hear it most. Songs always do that on their own. They live such broad lives, once they leave your throat.

I relate both the word and the song, “Resilient,” to many things — to my time spent in New Orleans after Katrina; to the #MeToo Movement; to my own resurgence after difficult times in our family; to a time in my career when I wasn’t feeling much like singing in the public eye. Right after the 2016 U.S. presidential election, there was so much animosity in the air, from all sides of the spectrum, that most folks I knew wanted to hide out and regroup privately — turning inward to seek quiet amidst all the yelling and celebration. However, we had a tour booked for an entire month — the Resilient Tour — that put us in venues, community centers, and public spaces to share our songs with the people. What happened throughout that month was an incredible weaving of national stories and personal triumph, and it put me right back on track with what my work is meant to serve.

As an artist, sometimes you have to get out of the way of your craft … let it live and breath on its own … being careful not to confine its girth. The Resilient Tour reminded us of the original essence of the troubadour, the griot, the traveling wordsmith. It’s a great honor, service, and privilege to play music for a living, and we have never taken that lightly. The stage is a gathering tool of energy and bodies, of power and communication. It’s like a radio tower emitting information across the world through melody and rhythm. I’ve witnessed songs change the air in a stagnant room and breathe life into a tightened face. In writing “Resilient,” I wanted to speak to that beautiful mystery.

As the song released to the public, we had the great honor to join a 250-mile Ancestral Healing prayer walk that spanned from Rosebud, South Dakota, to Fort Laramie, Wyoming, commemorating the 150th year of the signing of the Fort Laramie treaty. The walk culminated a four-year journey between the direct descendants of both sides of the Blue Water Massacre, retracing the steps of a brutal history in a peaceful way. As allies to our friends (the descendants Paul Soderman and Phil Little Thunder), my sister, our drummer Biko, about 20 other walkers, and I embarked upon this resilient walk to pay homage to the indigenous people of America, as well as witness the destructive legacy of promises unkept by governments both then and now. We joined the final four days of the walk, putting our feet on the pavement for 50 miles and listening to so many beautiful stories along the way from elders in the communities we were passing and other allies throughout our walk. At our sides were horses, prayer bundles, endless jokes and laughter, historical markers, children, old folks wizened by the journey, countless songs to sing, and stories to share. The land was vast in its dryness and enchanting in its huge sky. It took your breath away without much effort, and you could feel the history that has taken place there deep inside your bones.

When we walked our final day into Fort Laramie, there was a palpable emotion in the air. Anger. Resentment. Healing. Connection. Celebration. Commemoration. Protection. Family. In a time of so much national negative discourse and noise, it was our great honor to listen and lean in there. “Resilient” came that much more alive for us.

This song is for the times, for anyone who needs to be reminded of that word right now. It’s not about sides or favorable politics. It’s not about preaching to the choir. Its written to remind ourselves, first and foremost, that our bodies are resilient. Our families are resilient. Our work is resilient. Our pain and our pasts are resilient and, when we come together honestly and with a sense of willingness to listen, barriers break down all across the board.

I am resilient
I trust the movement
I negate the chaos
Uplift the negative
I’ll show up at the table, again and again and again
I’ll close my mouth and learn to listen

These times are poignant
The winds have shifted
It’s all we can do
to stay uplifted
Pipelines through backyards
Wolves howlin’ out front
Yeah I got my crew, but truth is what I want
Realigned and on point
Power to the peaceful
Prayers to the waters
Women at the center
All vessels open, to give and receive
Let’s see this system brought down to its knees

I’m made of thunder, I’m made of lightning
I’m made of dirt, yeah
Made of the fine things
My father taught me that I’m a speck of dust
And this world was made for me
so let’s go and try our luck
I’ve got my roots down down down down down deep

So what are we doing here
What has been done ?
What are you going to do about it?
When the world comes undone ?
My voice feels tiny and im sure so does yours
Put us all together we’ll make a mighty roar

— Chloe Smith of Rising Appalachia

An Open Letter to Future Active Shooters (Op-ed)

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Dear Future Active Shooter,

Pain. It’s not something you can smooth away with ice cream or puppies or vodka. Pain hammers on the bones, electrifies the blood, and makes the idea of living in your own skin unbearable. I’ve known pain. I’ve known the urge for revenge and the unrelenting desire to make it stop. I’ve made mistakes, so many mistakes. I’ve known humiliation, loneliness, lovelessness, and desperation. I’ve known times when the simple act of drawing a breath seemed like more than I could handle. I know you’re suffering, and I know there’s nothing worse.

Anger. It’s very efficient fuel. It can burn books, bras, buildings, and bridges. Empires collapse in its wake. Families suffocate on its permeating scent. Children, like oil-soaked birds, peck and scratch and fight in foolhardy attempts to drown the fumes. I’ve known anger. I’ve been the bully and the bullied. In the heat of the moment, I’ve broken dinner plates, hearts, coffee mugs, window panes, and promises. I’ve wished people dead … I know you’re angry, and I know you have every right to be.

You’re only human. You feel. You touch and taste. You hurt. At the same time, I’m not sure if you’re seeing something that’s of great significance to you. Do you see that you’re one part of a whole — a whole race of human beings who feel, touch, taste, and hurt? Do you see that the prognosis of the human condition can be grim? There’s no cure for jealousy, lust, hypocrisy, neglect, absent-mindedness, and so on, and so on. There are only remedies. There are pills that can be taken, mountains that can be climbed, songs that can be sung, airplanes that can be jumped out of, flowers that can be picked, meals that can be cooked, feet that can be wrapped in snuggly socks, and there is rain that can be danced in. Unfortunately, the human condition sometimes creates quite a commotion and sometimes blinds even the razor-sharp eye.

Can you see that your future victims are already victims? They’re victims of circumstance. They’re victims of the same human condition that’s plaguing you. Do you see that they’re already wounded? They’re imperfect, human sons and daughters of flawed, human mothers and fathers. It might appear as though they’re watching a movie, singing along at a concert, learning some algebra, or praising the Lord. Really, they’re remedying a condition. The same condition that you have. They’re going through the motions of being human, existing, breathing, hurting.

Do you see how smart and vital you are? I’ve never prepared for a mass shooting, but I’ve prepared for other things. I’ve planned parties, weddings, divorces, and funerals. I’ve studied for tests in an effort to earn a degree, and I’ve gone to psychiatrists who’ve assisted me in planning to not have a nervous breakdown. I’ve organized successful career events, and I’ve been peeled off the floor by my brother after planning to drink myself through the holiday season instead of going home to see my family. Plans are difficult to make. They require a certain level of intelligence and punctuality. You have the ability to put in the hours. You’ve researched, gathered things, written things down, purchased things. You’ve marked dates on calendars, made notes, and talked to business owners. You have so much energy. You have so much to offer. I know that your plan feels like a remedy, and I hate that it’s come to this.

Fear. Do you know how afraid I am? I’m very afraid. I’m scared of so many things. I’m scared to write this letter. I’m scared to go to a movie. I’m afraid of heights. I’m afraid of lows. Anger is the fuel, and fear is the fire. It burns at the depth of any and every act of violence. It burns like a game of hot potato, so hot that the only way to win is to get rid of it — to throw it to someone else. It burns as if it’s a life living alongside the human part of you. It consumes. It smothers. It burns. It’s an entity and I promise you … it’s okay. I know you’re scared, and I know it’s hard.

Someone loves you. In fact, I love you. I know your intentions can be perceived as evil. But, I also know that you’re only a human who was raised by and with other humans. I know you’ve been abused, neglected, hurt, poked, prodded, made fun of, left out of, taken advantage of … I get it. All of those things have been done to me, and I’m guilty of doing those things to others. We’re living in an unjust world. We’re scared, oil-covered, wounded birds, broken little boys and girls.

Pain, anger, and fear don’t discriminate but, in the worst case scenario, they can annihilate the connection we have to this very human existence. I know you’re in pain. I am, too. I know you’re scared because I am, too. I’m a part of you, and you’re a part of me. At the heart of everything, we love each other under one condition. The human one that makes it impossible for us to get it just right. I love you, nonetheless. I’ve devoted my whole morning to you. I missed an important work event because I felt compelled to tell you that your life and the lives of others matter more to me in this moment than anything else.

Again, you’re wicked smart. You’re cunning. You’re vital and crucial. You feel so greatly and so sensitively. You’re valuable. You count. I promise. There’s another remedy for what is ailing you. There’s a hand, a spark, a tree, a kiss, a warm coat, an apology, a smile, a tear. You’ve proven that you understand how to make things happen. You’ve proven that you have laser-focused energy. Slow down for a minute and take a breath. I know it feels like more than you can handle. It’s the same air I’m breathing when I feel like breathing is more than I can handle.

You don’t have to do this. You can make a new plan. You can start over. You can be honest with someone, after someone, after someone, until someone jumpstarts a connection to the human part of you. You can be honest with me. I won’t judge you. I’ll know you because I know myself. We’re all victims. We’re all scared, and we’re all just trying to get from one day to the next. I’m here for you. I’m connected to you at the most primal place. I’m offering mercy, and I’m asking for mercy. It’s hard, but it’s possible to make a plan to live and let others live alongside pain, anger, and fear. They’re just parts of the whole, like you and me. There is also chocolate ice cream. There are puppies and vodka. Survive this cruel, beautiful world with me. I dare you. I love you.

— Angaleena Presley. Nashville, Tennessee. 11.7.17

Photo credit: frankieleon via Foter.com / CC BY

Stand Up, Speak Out, Be Heard (Op-ed)

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The election of Donald Trump seemed to me, at first, like an aberration. There were many moments during his campaign when I thought he’d surely disqualified himself. And the more ridiculous and offensive he proved himself to be, the more confident I became that the man had absolutely no chance of winning. I see now, after having been proven wrong, that my confidence had spilled over into a kind of arrogance. There was, I admit, a hint of self-righteous complacency hidden within my distaste for candidate Trump. I followed the headlines with a certain glee, relishing all the ways in which Trump seemed to be sabotaging, not only himself, but the whole Republican party. And while I still believe that he deserved to lose and that his presidency will prove a major American mistake, I see more clearly now that his election was not only plausible but possibly inevitable … the result of a long, slow corrosion of our culture — not an aberration, but a culmination — and that I’m just as guilty of perpetuating it as anyone else.

In a society that seems fixated on images, on wealth and celebrity and instant stimulation, why should I be surprised that our president is a wealthy celebrity with an undeniably entertaining style, but no actual political or governmental experience? For those of us who didn’t drink the Trump Kool-Aid, it’s hard to resist the urge to point fingers, to blame this group or that group for their ignorance or gullibility. But, as informed as I consider myself to be, I’m writing now to admit that I could have done more. And, while I was busy passively relishing Hillary Clinton’s seemingly insurmountable lead, there were others in my peer group who’d already made up their minds not to vote, either out of bitterness for Bernie’s dubious defeat in the primary, or out of some more sinister cynicism that led them to believe that the election’s outcome wouldn’t change much in a government already irredeemably corrupt. These are all understandable sentiments. But they’re also excuses. At the heart of each viewpoint is an ingrained passivity, the result of a particular — but not entirely different — ignorance that has something to do with a failure to appreciate the delicacy of our democracy.

It often — if not always — takes a shock to rattle us from our complacency. It’s possible that Trump has proven, or will prove to be, the arbiter of this shock, the jolt that forces us to wake up and see more clearly that we have a choice, that democracy, however imperfect, still exists, and is in fact an instrument of the average citizen. That said, perhaps we should all take a minute to appreciate that Trump’s election has given people on both sides something we’ve all badly needed: a reason to get involved, to confront our ignorance or our arrogance, and admit to ourselves and to each other that we could all do more. If our democracy fails, it will be because we failed — failed to care enough to pay attention, to take action, and, most of all, to collaborate. It’s easy now to feel powerless, but as the Women’s March proved, we are not alone.

This, in the end, will prove crucial. Do we continue down the path of least resistance or do we learn from our mistakes? Will we be able to look past party lines, gender, sexuality, race, and class in order to return our partisanship to its proper context, which is not, after all, winning for winning’s sake. Rather, the context of our partisanship is much larger: It ought to fall somewhere among or within our commitment to generosity and humility.

By capturing footage of that march and putting it to our rendition of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son,” we in River Whyless hope to both emphasize and celebrate the power of active political engagement, to relate CCR’s original moment, back in 1969, to this moment, as a way to emphasize its significance. It’s time for everyone — on the left and the right — to stand up and demand from our government the things we all deserve. We don’t all agree on who deserves what and why, but we do agree that we all deserve to be heard. — Alex McWalters, River Whyless

Photo credit: Mobilus In Mobili via Foter.com / CC BY-SA

A Million Woody Guthries (Op-ed)

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I’m a songwriter.

I was asked to write a piece about the 2016 election.

My first thought was, “What the hell will this have to do with being a songwriter?”

My second thought was about how easy it would be to write this piece about the people in my songs and show that they weren’t directly responsible for the election of Donald Trump.

I don’t have any mixed emotions about this election.

Donald Trump used a time-honored tradition utilized by bullies and scoundrels to shout down the truth and feed the racist, misogynist anger of his devoted followers.

I think he’s dangerous and I think that anybody who voted for him will be hurt just as badly as the people who did not. I also believe that the Republican party, unable to win a fair election in a demographically changed country, used every technique — legal and illegal — to steal the election.

The country is having a too-little-too-late conversation about exactly who voted for Trump, where they live, and how they think.

Some people have suggested to me that I write about the Trump voters because I write mostly about the white, formerly middle-class, American working-class.

My subjects usually are the people I know from my life as part of that group.

And it’s true: Some of them have been screwed.

And it’s true that they are so frustrated with PR-spouting politicians, local and national, that they might have seen a non-politician who never seemed to use a speech writer — let alone a public relations company — as their best hope.

Hopeless people are desperate.

Many of them voted for something new and different.

Something less Washington, D.C.

But, in doing so, they just voted for another one of the people who have been screwing them.

This is what happens when people get most of their information from liars and crooks, political charlatans, TV characters, bald-faced liars, and hate mongers who are as effective at turning their hearts as any faith-healing, religious, scam artist.

This is how a person thinks when they look at social media 20, 30, 1,000 times a day, at a site like Facebook, that pretends to a social greater good, yet behaves as if money is the only God and pits people against each other for advertising dollars.

Or at Twitter, where celebrity is everything and lies look just like the truth, only shorter and easier to digest.

I feel bad for many of them. The media on the coasts shames them and the voices that purport to be for them lie to them.

They could use defenders.

They could use a voice or two in support of their lives spent working for their families, exchanging long hours for a life of safety and love, a kind of life that has always been hard to come by if you don’t start somewhere near the top.

Living in the South or the middle of the country (condescendingly called the flyover states by the heads on the screens) isn’t enough of a reason to be ignored and insulted.

And because I’ve been them, I am them, and I owe them for my songs, it should be me.

I can’t do it.

But I’ve thought hard about what impact I would have defending the position of a single Trump voter, however misinformed or misguided.

My father is Jewish and my family started in the United States as immigrants from the Diaspora.

Now, we are in danger, again.

In a Trump society, our daughters and sons are in danger. The planet will die, for all intents and purposes, in their lifetimes.

In a Trump world, our wives will grow older in a society increasingly more misogynistic with drastically reduced health care options for everyone.

I may know where these Trump voters are coming from, but they are dead wrong to have given our country over to rich, white men.

I can forgive them and hope that they will become less hateful and more helpful.

But I can’t defend them.

So, what the hell does this have to do with being a songwriter?

If Trump’s behavior toward journalists is any indicator, there will be an attempt to silence all writers of conscience.

And that’s what the hell this has to do with songwriting.

Being a songwriter is a selfish profession.

Donald Trump will change that.

In a change that is already in progress, American journalism will die and be replaced by propaganda.

In a Trump society, as in the former Soviet Union, Apartheid South Africa, and current-day China, the writers and artists will become the only truth tellers.

Songwriters will have a mantle of artistic responsibility that has been largely missing for a very long time.

We will need to go back as far as the 1930s and Woody Guthrie.

There will need to be a million new Woody Guthries.

To succeed, this million-songwriter army will need to stop writing about their own feelings, their love affairs, their exhausted life on the road.

These new truth tellers must stop writing about working people like they were happy laborers, excited about the possibility of another day in the factory.

They will have to abandon their clichés about Southerners and people from the flyover states as simple, noble, unaware beasts.

There will be no place for art that ignores people who dream of simple, attainable, and quiet goals.

Some people’s dream is just a house like the house in the song “Little Boxes,” the insulting and inaccurate ’60s folk song dreams — used recently as the theme song of the popular show Weeds — that mocked anybody remotely interested in conforming to what was then considered middle-class values and dreams.

Songs like “Little Boxes” can never again be written.

The condescension of saying that somebody who isn’t chasing a bigger dream isn’t in pursuit of something valuable must cease.

No songs can be written that reduce a person’s value.

And it will be untruthful to write songs that straddle the divide, refusing to take any other stand than “We could all be cool to each other.”

People listen. Songs can make an impact, reminding us of why we strive to be human and humane.

Songs can, and do, bring people together.

But being a songwriter isn’t an act of courage.

The racist American right wing armed themselves while we songwriters were singing our songs.

Then, while we were singing some more songs, they took over our government.

Writing the truth is an act of courage.

And let’s prepare for whatever comes next.

Let’s hope that we need arm ourselves only with the truth.

— Nathan Bell, December 22, 2016

Photo credit: AK Rockefeller via Foter.com / CC BY-SA

Gretchen Peters’ Protest Song (Op-ed)

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As a songwriter, I'm genetically programmed to dig for truth. To recognize it when it appears, to root it out, to know the difference between words that sound nice together and ones that hurt, that pierce, that open wounds in order to clean them out. Ones that bear witness.

Some of us have got it made / some of us have more than paid / but we're all marching in this slow parade of losses.

I wrote those lines three years ago. The parade of losses stepped it up a few notches last week: Leonard Cohen, Leon Russell, the country I thought I lived in.

Last Tuesday, I went to bed in a country where hate groups like the KKK were universally reviled, considered fringe lunatics. On Wednesday, I woke up in a strange land, where they were holding a victory march for their new president-elect and a white supremacist was poised to take on a top job in his cabinet. I went to bed in a world where a woman becoming president was more than a theoretical possibility; it looked like it was finally going to happen. I woke up to find the glass ceiling still intact, and my heart was the thing that had shattered.

If I have grandchildren, I will be hard-pressed to find a way to make them understand what a painful shock this was. The grief that I felt for a homeland which, apparently, only existed in my mind.

I heard from friends: "Your song is your weapon." "We need art and artists more now than ever." All true. But before I can begin, I have to find out what I need.

Right now what I need feels like a safe place to hide, in a bunker with my family and my friends and especially everyone I love who is so much more at risk than I am — starting with my transgender son. I wondered how many mothers across the country received a panicky, frantic text message on Wednesday morning like the one I found on my phone. When your own child fears for his safety because he is suddenly no longer welcome in his own country, what do you say? "You’re overreacting?" He’s not. "It's going to be okay?" Maybe it won’t. At best, it's going to get worse before it gets better.

Sometimes the songs know more than you do. They are prescient in a way that is uncanny and inexplicable, except that human history repeats itself, in heartbreakingly familiar ways, and, as Christopher Booker said, "We write the same seven stories over and over."

Sometimes the songs transform with the times. My friend Mary Gauthier emailed me Wednesday: “The meaning of my fucking songs has changed.” I found myself singing my song “Idlewild” on Saturday night and hearing the words come out of my mouth as if they were brand new. I wrote it about my childhood in New York in the 1960s.

We shoot our rockets / we shoot our presidents / we shoot the commies and the niggers and the Viet Cong / Everything changes / everything stays the same.

As the sickeningly regular parade of Black men and boys murdered in the street continued, the song took on more layers, and felt more important to sing. Now it feels like we’ve stepped into some kind of nonlinear time machine and it’s 1968 and 1939 and 1861, all at once. And I sing it and I can’t believe we’re here again.

As a writer and the daughter of a journalist, the loss I mourn the most is the loss of truth. Now it seems that words don’t matter except to the extent that they can deliver the poison into the minds of the unsuspecting. Facts and truth are negotiable, malleable, unnecessary. Believe and repeat fake news on Facebook. Call a sexually abused woman a liar and she is one. I was raised to make my case, if I believed in something. I was taught that science and logic and facts were things to be celebrated and respected. That we evolve and progress by the exchange of ideas, and presenting one's case with care and empathy and above all, facts, is paramount. After Tuesday, all evidence points to the fact that the Orwellian nightmare is real, it is here, and it is now.

Although it feels futile — and I feel impotent to change things — one day I’ll write a song, and then another, and then another. But not yet. First, I have to comfort my son, my family, my friends, and, hardest of all, myself. That will be my first protest song.

Singer/songwriter Gretchen Peters is a member of the Songwriters' Hall of Fame with three decades' worth of award-winning tunes in her catalog. 

Photo credit: yukon28209 via Foter.com / CC BY-SA.