“The African Queen”: From Classic Blues to the Hip-Hop Feminist

Everyone knows that an excellent song has to have a first-rate title to draw listeners in and a killer “hook” to keep them wanting more. Apparently, blogs are no different. As I sat pondering what to name this particular post, In Defense of the African Queen came out as a forerunner. But when I thought about it, black women of the classic blues era and beyond do not need defending – through their music they have shown the world that they can do just fine on their own. Blues legacies such as Gertrude “Ma” Rainy, Bessie Smith, and Billie Holiday paved the way for generations of women to take control of their lives through music and to discover their own version of female empowerment.

Bessie Smith

Who is the blues woman? She is a woman who challenges the status quo, who refused to bow down to gender conformity, and who oozes a natural air of confidence. Bessie Smith and others “forged and memorialized images of tough, resilient, and independent women” who weren’t afraid to defend their rights to being “autonomous human beings.” [1] In post-slavery America, when gender stratification was at its peak, blues women dared to touch on subjects that were rejected by society. Bessie proved to her listeners that she was both sexually aware and in control of her body when she confronted gender-based authority and domestic violence in the home.  In the song Hateful Blues she even entertains the thought of violent revenge against a man who has left her. By counteracting traditional thoughts of what it means to be feminine, she gave countless other women the power that they needed to fight back against the norm.

Through her music, Bessie helped to articulate the struggles of her black female subjects and usher in the beginning of an era of music as political protest. I find it ironic that she came to be known as the “Empress of Blues” – and even in her infamy no one would consider calling her the “Emperor of Blues,” another highly gendered term. Today in the hip-hop culture, black women are often portrayed as “African queens” that demand respect and yet can never gain the symbolic power of the male “kings”. [2] And yet, the blues women sang with confidence about what it was to be a female in a masculine dominated world.

Nicki Minaj

That same confidence, cultivated decades earlier, continues to help hip-hop artists like Nicki Minaj become models of empowerment for women. As she states in her song recent rap hit Monster, “you could be the king but watch the queen conquer.” Minaj, a Trinidadian-born American musician and rapper, has become a controversial symbol for female empowerment in the twenty-first century. Her sexualized image, often-violent lyrics, and abrasive tone have turned some feminists off. The problem is, I consider myself a feminist, but I also consider myself a fan of rap. This begs the question – are the two reconcilable? Writer April Gregory explains on the blog Racialicious that Nicki “takes patriarchal notions of femininity and womanhood, reclaims them, and makes them work for her.” [3] She dresses the way that she dresses because she chooses to. She writes the lyrics of her songs for herself, not for anyone else. People are uncomfortable with her sexuality because of the feminine norms of sexual starvation that are still prevalent in our lives today.

Like the blues women did centuries before her, Nicki challenges gender norms by proving that she can have an impact in a male-dominated field while still embracing her own version of femininity. Not many people think of females when they think of rap or the blues. Just like Bessie Smith, Nicki Minaj presents a form of music that is all her own. Using voice as a medium for social change, she empowers herself and other women to embrace the ideas of self-awareness, sexuality, and nonconformity. The feminism that began with Bessie has taken root in the current music world. What do you think, is hip-hop feminism alive in 2012?

[1] Angela Y. Davis, Blues Legacies and Black Feminism (Vintage Books, 1998), 41.

[2] Angela Y. Davis, Blues Legacies and Black Feminism (Vintage Books, 1998), 122.

[3] April Gregory, “Nicki Minaj: The Flyest Feminist”, http://www.racialicious.com/2012/02/23/nicki-minaj-the-flyest-feminist/

Freedom Highway

Since Iris Morales visited us last week, I have been thinking about the particular power of art to promote change and social justice.  Ms. Morales clearly believes that art is a key part of any social movement.  It is not ancillary, but rather has its own unique and necessary role to play.  I think that we are often overly optimistic about the power of art to bring about social change.  However, I want to highlight a group that indisputably had an effect on a social justice movement: The Staple Singers.

The Staple Singers were composed of Roebuck “Pops” Staples and his children Mavis, Pervis, Cleotha, and Yvonne.  They initially performed as a gospel ensemble, but in 1963 Pops Staples met and befriended Martin Luther King Jr.  The Staple Singers began writing and performing “freedom songs” at civil rights marches and rallies.  Their 1965 song “Freedom Highway” was inspired by the famous march on Selma, Alabama.

What is most interesting to me about this song is that it takes a tragic and violent event and turns it into a reason for uplift and inspiration.  I think this gets at why the Staple Singers were such an important part of the civil rights movement, and why their music was so successful. Their music is affirmative, uplifting and inspiring rather than confrontational.  They were able to energize crowds and bring hope to an extremely difficult situation.

Messages Through Music

Last week, a major topic of discussion was whether there are any current musicians who serve as current-day examples of the first blues women, such as Gertrude “Ma” Rainey or Bessie Smith. Clouded by skepticism, my initial response to this issue was that current musicians are over-produced, and their music is not as honest, not as authentic. People sing about social issues, but it doesn’t usually feel like they’re breaking new ground. Is there new ground to be broken though? Songs are generally about one of a few themes: love, breakups, going out, partying, or general hardship.

I realized that my initial skepticism wasn’t necessarily fair—just because people aren’t singing about particular topics for the first time, it doesn’t mean they aren’t relevant to today’s public audience. John Legend and The Roots are a great example–they sing and rap about hard times, especially for black males, and they sing about things they know and have experienced. They recently won an Image Award from NAACP for their collaboration and performance as a group.

Perhaps music is more manipulated and more time is spent editing and producing it, but a message is still a message, and sometimes music is the best method of being heard by a broad public audience. Maybe the issue is the amount of music produced—instead of having a few recording artists to choose from, there are infinite possibilities when a person is looking to find new music. With the Internet especially, so many artists have been able to reach an audience, and now it’s up to the audience. Who will you choose to listen to, and will it be for their message or their musical styling? Is it acceptable to support artists who berate women, as long as the beat is good?

The messages in music may not be breaking new ground, but artists can be innovative by reaching new audiences and increasing awareness about the issues they’re passionate about. While Bessie Smith and Gertrude “Ma” Rainey initially sang primarily to lower/middle class black women, and made them realize that they were not alone in their situations, current artists can also reach new people, and guide them through difficult situations in new, productive ways.

Acid Queen, Rock Royalty

In the winter of 2009-2010, a single photograph dominated the New York City subway system.  For me and all the other antisocial strap-hangers desperate to avoid eye contact with a real person, this picture provided a reliable distraction.  It was a photo of Tina Turner in all her glory—mouth open, makeup brassy and fabulous, hair disheveled, skin glistening with sweat, one slinky strap of a halter top hinting at a risqué ensemble undoubtedly clinging tight to that famous body.  This picture oozed Tina’s specific brand of unruly sexiness and perfectly portrayed the powerhouse that women everywhere adore for her brazen confidence and personal triumphs.

The Brooklyn Museum used that image of Tina to advertise their exhibit “Who Shot Rock & Roll: A Photographic History, 1955 to the Present.” Out of the 175 photographs that comprised the show, Tina’s was one of two—the other a black and white image of quintessential rock star Mick Jagger—used to promote this exhibit.  (Tina snagged the exhibition catalogue’s sole cover spot.)  “Who Shot Rock & Roll” is the first museum exhibition that focuses on the important role that image has played in rock and roll music.

Tina in 2008. Those legs just won't quit. Photo Public Domain

In the largely white boy’s club of rock music, Tina Turner certainly is, on the surface, a glaring anomaly.  But few would debate that Tina continues a legacy, initiated by the blues women of the 1920s and continued by the singer-songwriters of the 1970s, of liberated singers in control of their sexuality and unafraid to question standards about love.  Through her personal life and her music, Tina epitomizes the issues explored in both of these musical genres.

As evidenced in Blues Legacies and Black Feminism, women’s blues became a revolutionary outlet for black women’s issues in the 1920s.[1] There were truly no taboos in women’s blues.  Subjects ranged far and wide but almost always circulated back to the empowering and newly public discussion of sex.  Physical abuse, often perpetuated by these same sexual desires, was another frequent topic of women’s blues songs. [2] Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith gave a voice to the mixed emotions resulting from this previously unspoken problem.  The abused women in these songs were conflicted but unapologetic, championing their right to make their own decisions over public opinions of those decisions. [3] Tina Turner has famously dealt with this same issue.  Her explosive relationship with ex-husband Ike is one of the most notorious modern examples of domestic abuse.  Unlike most subjects of the blues songs, though, Tina was able to break free.  Her description of the abuse in her autobiography I, Tina, and the subsequent film What’s Love Got To Do With It? helped shed light on the psychological struggles of abuse, much like the blues songs of the 1920s. [4]

The singer-songwriters of the 1970s built upon blues topics of sexual assertion and conflicting emotions by continuing to explore the increasingly separate arenas of love, sex and the gray area in between the two known as the “relationship.” [5] Musicians like Carly Simon and Carole King displayed a mature sexual consciousness while experimenting with new types of couplings.  Love was at times strongly or barely desired.  It was no longer a necessary part of the equation.  Continuing this progressively more liberal views of relationships, Tina Turner famously asserted that love was an old-fashioned notion and proclaimed, more than asked, that it (love) didn’t really have all that much to do with “it” (sex).  The staying power of Tina’s trademark hit suggests that today’s women continue to agree.

In her life and career, Tina Turner has exemplified both the battered women of blues music and the independent new woman aware of her sexual power.  Add in her crossover appeal, rock’s strong blues roots and its continued inclusiveness and you have a rock and roll legend.  Moreover, Tina has the power of image that this exhibit deems so important to the history of rock music.  A sexy photograph of Tina Turner on the subway and in an exhibit is not just another picture.  Because of her famously turbulent yet triumphant story, it becomes something more.  It solidifies the continued presence and importance of sex in music but conjures up music’s historically gritty underside.  It represents a genre and a lifestyle that encompasses not only the sex, but the hardship, triumph and freedom of the American musical timeline.  She has, and she is, the image of rock music.

 

[1] Angela Davis, Blues Legacies and Black Feminism (New York: Vintage Books, 1998), 5.

[2] Ibid., 28.

[3] Ibid., 31.

[4] Jon Pareles, “Ike Turner, Musician and Songwriter in Duo With Tina Turner, Dies at 76,” New York Times, December 17, 2007, accessed March 21, 2011. http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/13/arts/music/13turner.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&fta=y

[5] Judy Kutulas, “‘That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be’: Baby Boomers, 1970s Singer-Songwriters, and Romantic Relationships,” Journal of American History 97 (2010): 691.

The Female Blues: Making Private Public

Whenever anyone mentions Aretha Franklin as a female music mogul, one word comes to mind: Respect. Unfortunately, respect for women (or oneself) isn’t necessarily a pre-requisite in the music industry. In the 1920s and 1930s, blues music began gaining popularity, and was known for his provocative and pervasive sexual imagery. Not only was this imagery new to the American public, but women were also singing the music. In their refusal to romanticize relationships, and thus expose stereotypes and explore the contradictions of relationships, these female blues singers helped provide a new “place” for women.[1] Now, by making their personal relationship experiences public, women like Bessie Smith and Gertrude “Ma” Rainey were telling other black, working class women, that they weren’t alone and other women shared the same experiences they did. Consider the lyrics of “Don’t Fish In My Sea”, sung by both women. Here, Bessie Smith complains that her man came home drunk in the morning after staying out all night, and although he used to stay out late, now he often doesn’t come home at all. She goes on to sing:

If you don’t like my ocean, don’t fish in my sea
Don’t like my ocean, don’t fish in my sea
Stay out of my valley and let my mountain be [2]

Instead of propagating the widely accepted ideas of black women as “mammy” or overly-sexualized figures, women like “Ma” Rainey and Bessie Smith implied that hardship was normal, and by singing that message, they empowered women to assert individuality and power in their own lives and relationships.

With their refusal to be stifled, the female blues singers of the early twentieth century opened the door to female expression through popular music. Not only could women speak to other women through song, but politics could be conveyed effectively as well. As Judy Kutulas points out in her article “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be,” popular music has the unique power of immediacy.[3] Music is ever-present, constantly produced, and has become a background noise for life. As always, however, there are conflicting messages.  In many songs and music videos, women continue to be depicted as “temptress” figures, and are not taken seriously. Consider many of the current hip-hop and rap music videos—they include rich men flashing their “bling” while surrounded by dozens of beautiful, scantily clad women.

Thankfully, some women have decided to continue in the tradition of Gertrude “Ma” Rainey and Bessie Smith. Take Alicia Keys for example. In her song “Fallin’,” she sings about falling in and out of love, while feeling good, used, and confused all at the same time. What’s more, she uses the song’s music video to portray powerful imagery while remaining decidedly un-sexualized and almost masculine at certain points. As Keys walks through her day, she shows imprisoned black women working in a field wearing their bright orange prison jumpsuits. Next, Keys visits her boyfriend, the subject of the song, in prison. The message of the video seems to be that everyone is imprisoned by something—love, men, society, or race, among other things.

With her use of a current urban landscape and legitimate issues, I believe Alicia Keys represents a continuation of the movement started by those female blues singers almost a century ago. Making private issues public can empower people, and in our current technological climate, artists now have the power to make their messages heard instantly.

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[1] Angela Y. Davis, Blues Legacies and Black Feminism (Vintage Books: New York, 1998): 41.

[2] Davis, 214

[3] Judy Kutulas, “’That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be’: Baby Boomers, 1970s Singer-Songwriters, and Romantic Relationships,” The Journal of American History 97, No. 3 (December 2010): 684.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Dr. Bernice Johnson Reagon

We in the museum world sometimes wonder if curators can change the world.  No one, however, asks that question about Dr. Bernice Johnson Reagon, curator emeritus at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.  We know that she has and will continue to do so.  To read more about her life as a scholar, curator, activist, and musician, follow this link.

Her singing group, Sweet Honey in the Rock, performed the piece, “A Letter to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,” to mark the first federal observance of the MLK holiday in 1986.  To read the lyrics–actually a poem by Sonia Sanchez–see below.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., 1964

 

Dear Martin,
Great God, my Lord what a morning Martin!
The sun is rolling in from faraway places. I watch it reaching out, circling these bare trees like some reverent lover. I have been standing still listening to the morning, and I hear your voice crouched near hills, rising from the mountain tops, breaking the circle of dawn.
You would have been 58 today.
As I point my face toward a new decade, Martin, I want you to know that the country still crowds the spirit. I want you to know that we still hear your footsteps setting out on a road cemented with black bones. I want to know that the stuttering of guns could not stop your light from crashing against cathedrals chanting piety while hustling the world.
Great God, what a country… The decade after your death docked like a spaceship on a new planet. Voyagers all we were. We were the aliens walking up the 70′s, a holocaust people on the move looking out from dark eyes. We were youngbloods, spinning hip syllables while saluting death in a country neutral with pain.

And our children saw the mirage of plenty spilling from money mad sands.
And they ran toward the desert.
And the gods of sand made them immune to words that strengthen the breast.
And they became scavengers walking on the earth.
And you can see them playing. Hide-and-go-seek robbers. Native sons. Running on their knees. Reinventing slavery on asphalt. Peeling their umbilical cords for a gold chain.
And you can see them on Times Square, in NYC, Martin, selling their 11-, 12-year-old, 13-, 14-year-old bodies to suburban forefathers. And you can see them on Market Street in Philadelphia bobbing up bellywise, young fishes for old sharks.
And no cocks are crowing on those mean streets.
Great God, what a morning it’ll be someday Martin!
That decade fell like a stone on our eyes. Our movements. Rhythms. Loves. Books. Delivered us from the night, drove out the fears keeping some of us hoarse. New births knocking at the womb kept us walking.
We crossed the cities while a backlash of judges tried to turn us into moles with blackrobed words of reverse racism. But we knew. And our knowing was like a sister’s embrace. We crossed the land where famine was fed in public. Where black stomachs exploded on the world’s days while men embalmed their eyes and tongues in gold. But we knew. And our knowing squatted from memory.
Sitting on our past, we watch the new decade dawning. These are strange days, Martin, when the color of freedom becomes disco fever; when soap operas populate our Zulu braids; as the world turns to the conservative right and general hospitals are closing in black neighborhoods and the young and restless are drugged by early morning reefer butts. And houses tremble.
These are dangerous days, Martin, when cowboy-riding presidents corral Blacks (and others) in a common crown of thorns; when nuclear-toting generals recite an alphabet of blood; when multinational corporations assassinate ancient cultures while inaugurating new civilizations. Comeout comeout wherever you are.
Waiting to be born.
But, Martin, on this day, your 54th birthday–with all the reversals–we have learned that black is the beginning of everything.
it was black in the universe before the sun;
it was black in the mind before we opened our eyes;
it was black In the womb of our mother;
black is the beginning.
and if we are the beginning we will be forever. Martin. I have learned too that fear is not a black man or woman. Fear cannot disturb the length of those who struggle against material gains for self-aggrandizement. Fear cannot disturb the good of people who have moved to a meeting place where the pulse pounds out freedom and justice for the universe.

Now is the changing of the tides, Martin. You forecast it where leaves dance on the wings of man. Martin. Listen. On this your 54th birthday, listen and you will hear the earth delivering up curfews to the missionaries and the assassins. Listen. And you will hear the tribal songs:

Ayeee       Ayooooo       Ayeee
Ayeee       Ayooooo       Ayeee

Malcolm…       Ke wa rona*
Robeson…       Ke wa rona
Lumumba…      Ke wa rona
Fannie Lou…       Ke wa rona
Garvey…       Ke wa rona
Johnbrown…       Ke wa rona
Tubman…       Ke wa rona
Mandela…       Ke wa rona
(free Mandela,
free Mandela!)
Assata…       Ke wa rona

As we go with you to the sun,
as we walk in the dawn, turn our eyes
Eastward and let the prophecy come true
and let the prophecy come true.
Great God, Martin, what a morning, it will be!

*he is ours

Sweet Honey in the Rock, 2006

Bollywood.

I feel like this is a bit stereotypical in nature that this topic was my first thought for this blog post…but the great thing about delving into stereotypes is coming out with a changed perspective on the other side. I’ve been interested in Indian culture for quite some time…yes, maybe it was in part due to Bend It Like Beckham (2002), but mostly due to the rich traditions of story-telling and literature that comes out of India and the Middle East. My short list of authors would include Rafik Schami, Jhumpa Lahiri, Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy, and there have been many other excellent books written by western writers on the subject like Life of Pi by Yann Martel, House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III, and A Son of the Circus by John Irving in the last few decades. I think that the vibrant culture has provided a certain amount of intrigue that attracts westerners.

When I decided to write this blog post on the subject of Bollywood, I really had no knowledge beyond beautiful women dancing and singing about lost loves in eastern versions of Busby Berkeley numbers. The term Bollywood, to me, was basically a knock-off of the far superior Hollywood.  I was surprised to find out that the Indian film industry, formally known as Hindi cinema, is as old as the American film industry. The first feature film made in India was Raja Harishchandra in 1913, and film switched quickly to sound after Alam Ara, the first talkie was produced in 1931.[1]  Hindi cinema has been critically and commercially successful since that time.

This information was a little shocking to me, as the general conception of Bollywood movies is low budget mass produced musicals. And to some extent that is not untrue, but many films are large budgets with the intent for a wide release throughout Europe and Asia. The elements of Bollywood musicals can be seen in recent western cinema as well. Watch the final musical number of Moulin Rouge (2001) again.

Currently there seems to be an increased interest in Hindi cinema with the world-wide success of Slumdog Millionaire (2008). The country has also started creating mixed language films such as Saawariya (2007) in which the dialogue moves in out of Hindi and English. The Victoria and Albert Museum has a wonderful online collection of Hindi cinema art and a film database from an exhibit, “Cinema India: The Art of Bollywood,” that ran in 2002.

I was extremely surprised to find that Hindi cinema has had such a long standing presence in the eastern world, and it has just as much influence on world-wide cinema as Hollywood.  The nickname, Bollywood, actually signifies the contemporary level of its influence to Hollywood and not its inferiority as a copycat.  Although there are still plenty of low budget Bollywood movies made every year, there is quite a bit more to the Hindi film industry than maybe the western world realizes. So although it may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of life…it’s one more stereotype demystified.

[1] Encyclopedia of Hindi Cinema. (New Delhi: Encyclopedia Britannica, 2003), 28; Ibid, 44.

History with a Banjo

Class, Race, and Gender opened this semester to the toe tapping soundtrack of Ken Burns’ documentary Unforgivable Blackness. In fact, throughout the semester, music has been a constant accompaniment to our readings, from the spirituals written about by W.E.B. Dubois to the dancing in Junot Diaz’s story, “Fiesta 1980.”  Every age, region, and culture has a musical story, and as I read David Hollinger’s “National Culture and Communities of Descent,” I began to hear music in my head.

Hollinger introduces in his article the idea of “the will to descend” which he describes as “the claiming, on behalf of a particular descent-community, of contributions to civilization the value of which is already recognized in a social arena well beyond the particular descent-community on behalf of which genetic ownership of those contributions is being asserted.”[1]  This concept is similar to a idea that inspires the work of one of my favorite current musical acts, The Carolina Chocolate Drops.  The Carolina Chocolate Drops are a trio of young black musicians who explore the folk music of the Piedmont region through the use of traditional instruments such as the banjo, fiddle, jugs, kazoos, and bones.  In an interview with Terry Gross of NPR’s Fresh Air in 2010, they explained how their music is shaped by the West African phrase Sankofa.  Sankofa is a proverb which means “go back and fetch it and bring it forward.” [2]  The title track from their most recent album which was released this spring is called “Genuine Negro Jig,” and the story behind it captures both the idea of Sankofa and “the will to descend.”  In the video below the band explains the history of the song at a live show in Chicago.

As you can see, the Carolina Chocolate Drops are interested not only in preserving the heritage of black string music, but also acknowledgement of the presence of black musicians in the work of Dan Emmitt, the white father of the minstrel show.  While I have not read the book they reference, Way Up North in Dixie: A Black Families Claim to the Confederate Anthem, it seems to be a credible example of Hollinger’s idea of “the will to descend.”  What better symbol for the African American community to claim than the politically charged song of the south.  Hopefully the future will see more communities of descent become interested in the rich musical heritage of the United States.

[1] David Hollinger, “National Culture and Communities of Descent,” in The Challenge of American History: 319.

[2]Audio Transcript, “Carolina Chocolate Drops: Tradition From Jug to Kazoo,” Fresh Air March 1, 2010.

Liberating or Eyebrow-Raising?

After last weeks class, in which we debated whether or not the artists of the late 20^th and early 21^st century were continuing on a message of empowerment and action found in the Blues, I thought the most recent news involving Erykah Badu were particularly poignant.

For those who aren’t familiar with the situation, Badu recently filmed a music video in her hometown of Dallas. The video, to the song of “Window Seat,” has Badu stripping off her clothes as she walks down a street. When she gets to Dallas’s Dealey Plaza, the location that has become most associated with the assassination of John F. Kennedy, she feigns being shot and lies down naked in front of that infamous grassy knoll.

The songs lyrics are about a woman wanting a “window seat” out of town, but unable to leave because she is desperately in love with someone who she can’t seem to let go. The video tells a different story entirely. Badu walks down the street and strips (with reactions from the public ranging from oblivious to open gawking) before being shot. Blue blood pours out of her head at the end, the blood spelling the words “group think.”

A spoken passage is recited as she is lying on the sidewalk and has, what I believe, to the be true meaning of the song (or at least, the justification of the video):

They play it safe, are quick to assassinate what they do not understand. They move in packs, ingesting more and more fear with every act of hate on one another. They feel most comfortable in groups; less guilt to swallow. They are us; this is what we have become, afraid to respect the individual. A single person within our circumstance can move one to change, to love herself, to evolve. [1]

However, I believe the message of the song has been completely overridden by the media publicity and subsequent decency charges brought against Badu. She defended her actions, saying that it was a protest video, that people are afraid to liberate themselves. The choice of location was intention because Badu maintains that it “tied it [the location of the J.F.K. assassination] in a way that compared the assassination to the character assassination one would go through after showing his or her self completely.” [2]

What do you think? Given our recent discussion in class involving the media, production, and subsequent value of the message these artists are willing to portray, do you think that Badu’s video is a publicity stunt? Has Badu, a respected artist, traded in her “message” for a spot on the evening news? Does it matter how an artists gains publicity, as long as we agree with their message? Do you think people are upset because she stripped naked in public or that she did it at the sight of the J.F.K assassination? What were Badu’s true motives in this video? Do you get anything out of this video? Did you get the impression that people are afraid to liberate themselves? Does this video and song become less effective because of the media surrounding it?

[1] Badu, Erykah. “Window Seat.” Lyrics. New Amerykah Part Two (Return of the Ankh). Universal Motown. 2010.

[2] Daily Mail. 2010. American singer Erykah Badu escapes police rap after stripping naked video at spot where JFK was assassinated, April 1.

“My Baby Left Me All Alone”: Blues Men and Relationships

After reading about how relationships were a popular subject for female blues singers, I wondered how their male counterparts approached the subject.  How did they feel about infidelity, love, and the opposite sex? Expecting to have to search hard for examples, I was surprised to find many male singers of the era broaching these topics.

Robert Johnson’s “Come On in My Kitchen” provides an interesting perspective in relation to many of the female songs we read about.  It begins with Johnson bemoaning the loss of “the woman I love,” a glimpse into the aftermath of a breakup. However, rather than dwelling on his own bad fortune, Johnson goes on to acknowledge his own wrongdoing. “Oh, she’s gone, I know she won’t come back/I’ve taken the last nickel out of her nation sack,” he sings, admitting openly that he stole money from the woman he supposedly cared about. Furthermore, he expresses sympathy for the sexual double standard applied to women: “When a woman gets in trouble, everybody throws her down/Lookin’ for her good friend, none can be found.” Despite the emotional hardness associated with masculinity, “Come On in My Kitchen” is a surprisingly sensitive, regretful song mourning the loss of a lover.