Maureen Mahon is Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology and the African American Studies Program at the University of California, Los Angeles.

Right to Rock

Duke University Press

Chapter One

I certainly didn't go in thinking that this was going to end up being some sort of organization. It really started out more like a griping session when it all began. But we all met afterwards and soon we were meeting on Saturdays every week and the meetings got bigger and bigger. And the talks would be more and more amazing. We would talk for hours, sometimes going long after the meetings were over.-BLACK ROCK COALITION COFOUNDER KONDA MASON, BRC NEWSLETTER, DECEMBER/JANUARY 2000/2001

We really started out as a way to air out certain gripes that people had about the "glass ceiling" in music for Black musicians. Particularly instrumentalists who really wanted to stretch out and were being told by, let's say the "R&B" side of the industry, that "Black folks don't wanna hear loud guitars" and feeling the response from the rock 'n' roll side was that "Niggers can't play rock 'n' roll." What started out as a bitching session, really became more about a proactive and developmental approach to the issue, which was, instead of talking about how we're locked out of the Master's house, why don't we just build our own?-BLACK ROCK COALITION COFOUNDER GREG TATE, BRC NEWSLETTER, FEBRUARY 2001

The idea of getting all these odd, misfit, iconoclastic, rogue artists together was just a very interesting thing. It kind of formed, in a way, a community of difference. These were all people who marched to the beat of their own drummer. And it was just heavy. The thing about the Black Rock Coalition was that it became an organization.-BLACK ROCK COALITION COFOUNDER VERNON REID, BRC NEWSLETTER, MARCH 2001

IN THE FIELD

During most weeks in the 1990s, you could find black rock musicians playing sets in downtown New York's bars and clubs. For example, early in June 1993, people gathered for a party at the Pink Pony, a bar located on Ludlow Street in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. This was a celebration of the release of the seven-inch single "Springtime" by local favorite Faith, a Black Rock Coalition (BRC) band led by Felice Rosser. The Pink Pony is a relatively small space with vinyl-covered stools, Salvation Army decorations, and oversized tables with mismatched chairs. In the rear of the bar, a makeshift performance area has been fashioned against the back wall for the band's short set. Copies of the single and cassettes are on sale at a small table, but on this hot summer evening most people pay more attention to the complimentary drinks. The crowd, which conspicuously includes filmmaker Jim Jarmusch (who gives Felice a warm hug and kiss), is a youthful mix of blacks and whites, of men and women, many of whom I've seen or met at BRC meetings.

Outside at almost 9 pm it's still light. The sidewalk is packed with black and white musicians and fans who have spilled out of the bar to seek a breeze. It's like an impromptu street party, and I mill around with the rest of the crowd. "Oh, blacks playing rock? I've never heard of that," jokes a dreadlocked black man in a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt who invites me to see his rock band play later in the month. A black guy who says he lives near the Pink Pony tells me that he came over because he saw the crowd of black people-an unfamiliar sight in this neighborhood-and decided to check it out. I talk with Marque Gilmore, a drummer who's in at least three BRC bands. Dreadlocked, bespectacled, and bearded, Marque wears loose-fitting, hippie-ish clothing, silver rings, a leather bracelet, and at least one earring. His typical greeting is to place his right fist on his heart, bow his head slightly, and smile.

"This is a great night," I say.

"The vibe is real positive," he agrees. He surveys the crowd and pronounces: "Columbia couldn't, couldn't get with it, Spike Lee couldn't get with it, 40 Acres and a Mule couldn't get with it, so Faith did it on their own. And this is excellent."

Marque's reference is to the failure of Columbia Records to okay Spike Lee's decision to sign Faith to his imprint. They weren't prepared to take a risk on a black rock band led by a rocking black woman. Tonight, the Faith faithful have met to celebrate the band's decision to take things into their own hands and to produce and distribute their single on their own. The back of the bar is packed solid with eager listeners, and soon I'm in the thick of the enthusiastic, jostling crowd. Felice, Faith's leader, songwriter, and bass player, stands tall at center stage wearing a silver, spangly tank top and black jeans. In the 1980s she had played in a group with artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, but now she is leading her own band. Felice is flanked by her bandmates, black male guitarist Rene Akan and white male drummer Patrick Seacor. She adjusts her microphone, plays a few test notes on her bass, and then tries to quiet the crowd with a matter-of-fact "We're Faith." Marque subverts this low-key effort from the back corner of the room. Standing on a chair holding a poster twisted into a cone, he takes over as master of ceremonies.

"Do you all know why we're here?" he shouts through his makeshift megaphone.

An affirmative murmur rises up from the crowd.

"Do you all dig Faith?" he calls.

A louder affirmation comes as the reply, but Marque cups his hand to his ear.

"I said, Do y'all dig Faith?"

This time he gets the enthusiastic response he desired.

"We're all here to congratulate them-"

"Yeah!"

"-for doing what had to be done-"

"That's right!"

"-even though the wrong-headed said it couldn't be done."

More cheers and a round of applause. Felice smiles and then Faith plays.

They start with "Springtime," the single we're celebrating. After the first song, Felice takes a moment to say a word or two about "all the people who said 'you can't' and 'you shouldn't try' and 'don't even bother' and 'you're not going to be able to' and 'it isn't going to happen.' You know, it's best to ignore them." This brings another cheered affirmation from the crowd. "It's best to ignore them," she repeats. Then into another jam, "Commercialized," a song that will be included on Blacker Than That, the BRC'S CD compilation which is itself an effort to independently produce and distribute black rock.

Faith's music has the grist and glimmer of the late 1960s vibe that the early 1990s can't seem to get enough of. Felice's sensuous bass lines and the rich musings of Rene's guitar intertwine with and are propelled by Patrick's hand drum beats. Felice's alto voice is sultry, intense, and compelling. She makes me think of Nina Simone in a reggae rock context. On this evening, Faith is playing to a friendly crowd. These are fans and friends who have been supporting the band over the years. At one point, an older black woman pushes her way through the crowd and makes a space for herself right in front of the stage. Once there she proclaims, "That's my kid!" and points to Felice who laughs in reply. For the last two songs Felice brings Diana Baker, who recently left the band, to the stage. Physical opposites, petite Diana and statuesque Felice sing their harmonies beautifully; both women are effervescent. In the crowd, people dance and clap. A tall black man stands with his arms upraised, index fingers extended from fists. A black woman in front of me lets go with a joyous dance. Felice's mother disappears from her ace vantage point for a moment but returns quickly with a friend in tow. This is Faith. The evening winds down after five or six songs and then the band steps out of its cramped performance space and mills back into the welcoming throng as recorded music takes up the sonic slack. Faith and most BRC bands, like most unsigned rock bands in general, did the bulk of their performing in the live local music scene. Among the things that kept them going, beyond the sheer love of playing music, was the dream that they could make it big.

LIVING COLOUR

Back in 1989, the 24-hour music television station MTV started playing a video by a black rock band called Living Colour. The song "Cult of Personality" was a mid-tempo blast of rock with a catchy hook and up-front guitar licks. The song featured a guitar solo that culminated in rapid-fire arpeggios and then twisted into a thrashing freak-out. The lyrics warned about the seductive trap of the mindless adulation of charismatic leaders and the risks of negating one's own beliefs in order to follow someone else. Echoing the names mentioned in the song, the video featured black-and-white footage of Benito Mussolini, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr., as well as crowds of people at political rallies and public appearances of the Beatles. These archival images were intercut with scenes of the band performing the song on a soundstage. Decked out in brightly colored gear, the drummer, bass player, and guitarist (whose instrument was decorated with red, green, and blue paint) played with a fierce and infectious energy. The singer wore a fluorescent yellow tank top and shorts and had rainbow-colored strands threaded in his hair. His insistent vocals interwove with the guitarist's responses and rode on top of the steady, stomping bass. Among the lines that leapt out were, "When a leader speaks that leader dies," and, maybe more significant to the overall message, "Only you can set you free."

MTV put "Cult of Personality" in heavy rotation. The television exposure, coupled with glowing write-ups in the mainstream music press, including Rolling Stone, the American rock bible, helped make Living Colour a familiar name among the rock cognoscenti. An invitation to open for perennial English rockers the Rolling Stones on their 1989 "Steel Wheels" tour solidified Living Colour's legitimacy as a rock band and helped launch their own successful national outing as headliners. The success of Living Colour-the band's platinum album, three Grammy awards, and inclusion in the rock canon of the early 1990s-would have been a coup for any young rock band, but it was particularly remarkable that things had worked out for an all-black rock ensemble. Until Living Colour's arrival, black rockers had not been a part of the mainstream music scene since the halcyon days of Jimi Hendrix, who died in 1970. In fact, by the late 1980s when Living Colour released their first album, Vivid, African American musicians had been relegated to rhythm and blues, dance, and rap music. The prevailing view was that no one-not black audiences, not white audiences, and not black musicians-had an interest in black rock.

Living Colour challenged this notion, both through its forceful rock sound and through the comments the band members made in the press. The foursome of guitarist Vernon Reid, drummer William Calhoun, bass player Muzz Skillings, and singer Corey Glover always brought forward the issue of race, and they talked openly about the constraints placed on black musicians because of racist perceptions that informed music industry executives' concepts of "appropriate" black music. They also talked about their experiences as a black rock band: how in the early days audiences assumed they were a reggae act and how they had to win over skeptical and sometimes verbally abusive white clubgoers who didn't think that blacks could rock. Most of the articles about Living Colour described bandleader Vernon Reid's long struggle to get a record deal and be taken seriously as a rock performer. Usually, they pointed up the role that Mick Jagger played in convincing label executives to sign the band. The articles almost always mentioned the BRC, the Cmusicians' organization that Reid had cofounded in New York in 1985 with artist manager Konda Mason and Village Voice writer Greg Tate. Their goal in forming the organization was to bring together musicians and their supporters so they could begin to address the music industry's resistance to black rock. For the average fan, the existence of the BRC and its critique of music industry racism may have been of passing interest, but for African American rock musicians and fans, the organization was a revelation. The cause the BRC outlined resonated deeply because it challenged the commonsense views of race and music that had long frustrated African Americans involved in rock. Living Colour was the exceptional rock band that got a major label deal, made it onto the mainstream airwaves, and played at major concert venues on the national circuit. Its success demonstrated to bands like Faith and the other black rockers who participated in the organization that it was possible to make it in a context that for the most part denied and discouraged black rockers. The BRC, the organization that had supported Living Colour's rise, provided a structure and context through which members could affirm who they were as black rock musicians and begin the arduous process of reclaiming for African Americans the right to rock.

BLACK ROCK

Living Colour rocked. This was an unexpected characteristic for a 1980s, all-black band, but one they shared with fellow black rockers Bad Brains and Fishbone. What set Living Colour apart was their connection to the BRC, a consciously created community for African Americans involved in rock. This was the network of people who had come together "to get Vernon's band a deal," as long-time members often put it, back when Living Colour was playing low-paid gigs in New York City's downtown rock clubs. Media coverage of Living Colour and its surprise rise often seized on the novelty of black rockers and then picked up the rhetoric of the BRC to explain that black rock really wasn't new at all. Newspaper and magazine articles would remind readers that rock 'n' roll's original architects were African Americans like Little Richard, Ruth Brown, Bo Diddley, Etta James, and Chuck Berry. They would explain that the contemporary view of rock as music made by white people for white people was shortsighted and, as the existence of Living Colour and the BRC proved, inaccurate. For me, an African American fan of rock who was accustomed to and tired of the notion that rock was music in which black people were not supposed to participate, the coverage of Living Colour and the burgeoning black rock scene it grew out of was riveting. It was the first time I had seen a sustained discussion of race and rock in the mainstream press, and the things BRC members were saying and doing piqued my curiosity. Eventually, my pursuit of a doctorate in anthropology was the opportunity to go beyond reading articles and begin actually talking with coalition members about their involvement in music.

I learned that "black rock" was a flexible musical category that for BRC members was capable of encompassing what they referred to as "the total spectrum of Black music." The category black rock was a direct challenge to the narrow understandings of black cultural production that dominated decision making in the music industry and people's everyday thinking. In addition to being an aesthetic category, "black rock" was also a political concept, one that BRC members developed to articulate and legitimate an aesthetic position that racialized thinking had rendered incomprehensible. These African American musicians were traversing musical terrain in ways that were unusual and disruptive. Their music represented a breach of the racial etiquette that keeps black Americans confined to a limited set of separate and unequal positions and practices that are widely understood to be appropriately black. In short, black rock was a critical intervention into what was for black musicians an impossible situation. As I became immersed in the specificity of BRC members' concerns and experiences, I began to see that their particular situation was part of a larger and long-standing problem that went well beyond the realm of music: the refusal, disinclination, and inability to deal with the breadth and complexity of contemporary African American people and culture. BRC members frustrated simplistic understandings of black people. They were proudly and adamantly black and yet they did not fit the dominant, flattening stereotypes of blackness. Quite simply, they embodied the diversity of African Americans usually absent from the onslaught of media representations and academic discussions that so often highlight the distressed poor, the drug-addled, the violent, the highly sexed, the long-suffering, the religiously devout, the good-time partyers, and, occasionally thrown in for variety, the middle-class professional. Young, well-educated, middle class, bohemian, and involved in a putatively nontraditional form, black rockers consciously eluded the available boxes for black people. Rather than apologetically go away, they struggled to create a space where they could express themselves in ways that resonated with their own experiences and sense of identity.

Continues...
Excerpted from Right to Rockby Maureen Mahon Copyright © 2004 by Maureen Mahon. Excerpted by permission.
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