Whitney Houston, Don Cornelius, and the Worst Black History Month Ever

As many have told me -- near office cubicles, in bars, on Facebook -- this February may shape up to be the worst Black History Month ever.

On the 1st of the month, Soul Train creator Don Cornelius was found dead, the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

And on the 11th, Whitney Houston, the Queen of Pop, drowned in a bathtub at the Beverly Hills Hilton, bottles of pills near her corpse.

That two famous people came to tragic ends is nothing new. Substance abuse and personal demons are par for the course in the life of many American celebrities.

But that these two luminaries died in this month, just says apart, raises two glaring questions for me.

What is the future of Black music?

And should we be worried about it?

The careers of Houston and Cornelius were ones of tectonic shifts, in music and in race. Cornelius, dismayed by the lack of Black faces and voices on television music shows, decided to make his own, upending an entire industry, and making room for artists of color like Whitney years later. He taught the world how to dance down a Soul Train line in the process.

Houston was a first, too. The first Black woman on the cover of Seventeen Magazine. The first certifiable Black pop star (not just a genre-sequestered “R&B” diva). Though Michael Jackson gets the majority of credit for diversifying pop radio and MTV in the 80’s, Whitney’s contributions were also instrumental. Her inoffensively charming songs, which masterfully melded pop with soul, gospel with the power ballad, was as key in making Black music POP music as the Gloved One’s hits were.

And her version of stardom -- at least for a decade or so --  earnest, wholesome and girl-next-door, was, for the music world at least, a complete re-imagination of Black womanhood and celebrity. Think back to her “Welcome Home Heroes” concert for American troops returning from the Persian Gulf War in ‘91. Whitney closing the show in a regal blue ball gown, draped in the American flag, belting out a gospel rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” soldiers in the audience smiling, rocking as if in a Baptist church, even shedding a few tears of joy. Whitney Houston and her take on American fame -- before her demons got the best of her -- was perhaps as American as you could get.

You could think of her -- for a time -- as the Michelle Obama of her day.

But now Whitney is dead. And there are no more Michelle Obamas on the pop charts, though there is one in the White House.

Perhaps this is progress. There was a time when the cutting edge of race relations was found on Top 40 radio and the dance floor. Artists like Michael and Whitney, entrepreneurs like Cornelius, and before them, businessmen like Barry Gordy shaped the way America saw race through their musical endeavors.

Some of that change has moved to Washington, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, with one well-adjusted, Black presidential family changing the narrative of our national conversation on race.

But Black music seems stuck. Instead of Soul Train, we’re left with 106th and Park and the annual national embarrassment that is the BET Awards.

And the voice that over the last few years seemed most able to follow in Whitney’s footsteps, Jennifer Hudson, has built a makeshift career on other people’s songs -- in film through Dreamgirls, or in the shadow of MJ, belting out the Free Willy theme at his funeral. She kept up that pattern last night at the Grammys, offering a husky yet earnest rendition of “I Will Always Love You,” the song that made Whitney a legend.

It was a strange symbol -- a tribute to one of the high points of Black music’s past that only highlighted the inadequacies of its present.

It’s not that the music that artists of color are making now isn’t interesting, or even good. The Big 3 of urban music right now -- Beyonce, Jay-Z, and Kanye West -- have been consistently releasing material that has captivated listeners and charmed critics, while becoming certifiable brands in the process.

But their music, and that of their contemporaries is often only interesting, only innovative, only catchy. Which is fine. But what Whitney did at her prime, what Cornelius created, was all of that and more; what they did was inspiring. Their art had a point larger than a great verse and chorus, or a paycheck. Their best work functioned as agents of positive social change and cultural realignment.

I don’t see that now.

And as if to highlight this drastic shift, Nicki Minaj took to the Grammy stage soon after Jennifer Hudson’s tribute to Whitney. The multi-voiced rapper/singer performed a song called “Roman Holiday,” in which she simulated a demonic possession, writhed in front of a Catholic priest in a confessional booth, spoke in demonic tongues, and levitated. It was hard to call the performance an actual song.

Minaj is held up by many as the future of rap and Black music. This should give us pause. Her Grammy spectacle -- a mash up of “Like A Prayer” gimmickry, Lady Gaga imitation, and every bad exorcism movie you’ve ever seen -- seems offensive on first glance. But when you think about it more, it’s worse than that. It’s uninspired, gimmicky, ephemeral. The opposite of everything Don and Whitney were at their best.

This can’t be the future.

Their legacy doesn’t just deserve to be honored; it deserves to be recreated, re-imagined. We deserve a new crop of Black art able to stand right next to the greatness Cornelius and Houston, and so many other artists gave us at their primes. Dare I say, the memories of Don Cornelius and Whitney Houston deserve better than Nicki Minaj in a cheap blonde wig with a fake British accent.

So, the water cooler talk may end up being true. February 2012 may in fact lay claim to the title “Worst Black History Month Ever.” But it won’t just be because we are all heartbroken that Whitney Houston and Don Cornelius are dead. Some of the sadness will also come from knowing we haven’t yet managed to find their Versions 2.0.

Sam's Favorite Albums of 2011

Only four this year...

Emily King - Seven

I had no idea who this woman is before I heard her. (Shannan, thanks for the heads up.) And I really didn’t care to find out. When you listen to her EP, “7,” you really don’t care about anything else. That’s the point.

Of every album I’ve heard this year, for me, this one’s it. No question. You hear it and you think of brighter skies and warmer weather and nicer people. You smile without knowing it. You stop what you’re doing and just sit with the music.

This EP seeps a musical luxury in every measure, a quiet opulence in every verse. It is exquisitely layered, and carefully executed. And so subdued. That’s the best part.

There’s this part on the 6th track, “Sides,” towards the end. The song is building to a peak, and this simmering drum roll starts to build. With ANY other R&B singer, you’d expected a full-throated yelp to come next, or a holler, or a yell. SOMETHING big.

With King, there are none of these things. The crescendo falls into itself. The drumroll ends. Emily King stops singing, and just lets the track play. Before you know it. It’s all over. That’s the genius of this album. It knows when to stop. It knows when to breathe. It paces itself.

It’s the album Norah Jones would have made if she were really into D’Angelo. The EP India Arie would make if she had better producers. The disc Lauryn Hill could have made if she’d just slow down.

It is the album I can’t say anything bad about. The album you need to hear this year. That she ended up on no major year-end lists is a sad indictment of the current state of affairs. But I’ll try to do my part. I implore you, download this LP. Listen to it. Then listen to it again.

Thank me later.

Kendrick Lamar - Section.80

The hardest thing about hip-hop is having to defend it. For every innovation, there is an inopportune “bitch.” Behind every cosmic revelation, a “slut,” or a “suck my dick.” For every breakthrough, an indictment on “the government” for giving Black people AIDS, or “The White Man,” whoever that is, for doing every single bad thing that has ever occurred. EVER.

Section.80 is no different. It is misogynist and profane. It has some convuluted views on race and gender I would not play this in front of my godson, or my mother, or even some of my friends. It is offensive.

It is worth defending.

Because it's beautifully earnest, in a way other rap albums I wanted to be this year just weren’t. “Watch The Throne” was too boastful. “Camp” wasn’t sure what kind of person it wanted its hero to be. Kendrick Lamar, on Section.80 is himself, flaws and all.

It’s soul-bearing in the way “The College Dropout” was. Only Kendrick’s a better rapper than 2004’s Kanye West. The aesthetic channels The Pharcyde and Souls of Mischief -- early 90’s cross-colors rap. Jazz-sampling, bouncing rap. Riding rap.

Did I say it’s earnest? On “Kush & Corinthians” Lamar raps about reading the Bible, while smoking weed:

“As I open this book and then burn up some of this reefer

My plan is to figure out the world and escape all my demons

I’m dying inside, I wonder if Zion inside the heavens

A condom, a rollie, pain, a fat blunt and a mack 11

That’s all I see in my life and they tell me to make it right

But I’m right on the edge of Everest and I might jump tonight

Have you ever had known a saint that was taking’s a sinner’s advice?”

“When I lie on back and look at the ceiling, it’s so appealing to pray

I wonder if I’m just a villain, dealing my morals away

Some people look at my face then tell me don’t worry about it.”

Verses like these make mucking through the profanity worth it. It is revelatory in a way few albums have been for me this year. And Lamar is quite the lyricist. Check out "Keisha's Song" and "Rigamortis." As well as "Hol' Up," -- it's the smoothest rap track of the year.

Thundercat – The Golden Age of Apocolypse
There was a time when I thought I could make it as a jazz musician. I was a music major in undergrad, and had totally figured out the genius of the major 7th, the tritone, the diminished scale. But my mind wasn’t big enough, my fingers weren’t fast enough, I couldn’t get my head around it all. I got ok enough to respect artists like Thundercat. 

He makes music that sounds like the musicians I once wanted to be. I am living vicariously through “The Golden Age of the Apocalypse.” It is dense, heady stuff. Jazz with a side of hip-hop. And you may not like it. But it’s my list. So there.

Beyonce - 4

There’s this really great YouTube video of Beyonce, backstage before a performance at the American Idol Finale. She’s in her dressing room, in a ballroom gown, with perfectly crimped blonde hair. She’s facing a wall length mirror, and singing. Jay-Z’s recording on what seems to be his cellphone, with a shaky hand.

Beyonce. Is. Singing. SANGIN’

Rehearsing “1+1” with her keyboardist beside her, and three soul sisters of backup singers to her rear. It is perfect. Family and friends sit on the sidelines transfixed. It’s better than what she’d do onstage later. Impeccable. Controlled. Emotive. Dynamic.

This is Beyonce, version 2.0. No longer just a pop star. She’s now an impresario.

Anything you can sing, she can sing better. And that’s what makes her album “4” amazing. Not all of the songs are incredible, but they don’t have to be. Beyonce could sing the phone book and you’d be caught up in the rapture of it all.

That fact that she made an album full of ballads when the rest of R&B is going either emo (The Weeknd) or Euro (Rihanna, Chris Brown, etc...) shows she’s very assured of her talent. And this is a good thing. It lets her languish in powerhouse R&B on songs like “Rather Die Young” and “Love On Top,” but push the genre on tracks like “Countdown,” and the sparse and stunning “I Miss You.”

That this disc gave her no top ten singles is not a surprise. Beyonce’s not particularly making songs for radio on this album. She doesn’t need to -- she’s Beyonce. She can bring down the house in dressing room. 

 

Sam's Top 20-something songs of 2011

1. Frank Ocean - "Strawberry Swing"
There are songs you can’t put down. Songs that won’t leave you alone. Songs you imagine playing in the background at major events in your life. Like, there was a time that I was convinced Kanye’s and T-Pain’s “Good Life” needed to be played as I walked across the stage to get my master’s degree. Frank Ocean’s cover of Strawberry Swing is that song for me this year. There’s something about his voice and those needling Coldplay guitars. The way he weaves Chris Martin’s vocals in towards the end. The soul without the dramatic melisma. The emotion without any strain. One hopes it’s indicative of a new kind of R&B -- subdued, refreshingly derivative, disciplined, refined. If not, it’s enough, in and of itself. My song of the year. 


2. "BTSU" - Jai Paul
Who is this guy? What is this song about? Is that a saxophone I hear? These questions need no answers. Just nod your head and press repeat.

3. Alabama Shakes - “Hold On”
I could hear this song playing in a crowded hipster concert venue. Or in a Pentecostal church. What’s so underwhelming about so many hipster interpretations of old soul is their inability, or reluctance, to go for it, full throttle. If you’re gonna sing it, sing it. The Alabama Shakes do. Barefoot and sweating.

4. Chris Brown - "Beautiful People"
This is the second year Chris Brown’s made my list. In spite of “The Incident.” Say what you will about him - and I have - he is the most consistent male R&B singer out right now. Usher’s too corny. Trey Songz is too... annoying. With this track, Brown embodies the tectonic shift happening in R&B right now. It’s getting faster, dancier, Euro. “Soul” music is going to Ibiza. This could be troubling. But songs like these remind you that we shouldn’t be afraid.

5. Foster The People - "Call It What You Want"
“Pumped Up Kicks” was catchy, but repetitive, and ultimately, boring. This song is not. Neither is the video.

6. Little Dragon - "Ritual Union"
If only the rest of the album were this good...

7. Jay-Z and Kanye - “Murder To Excellence”
Forget what you heard. “Watch the Throne,” though titillating, is ultimately a hot mess. Patched together across several continents, studios, and time zones. It’s not coherent. Just boastful. Obnoxiously so. When Jay-Z raps, “I’m planking on a million,” it makes you wonder -- Who is this inspiring? How can I relate? Doesn’t he know we already get that he’s very rich? That, with Kanye’s incessant brand name dropping, makes it more of a commercial than an album.

But there are flashes of brilliance, or at least relatability.. Rhyming to future children in “New Day.” Or speaking to realities of black-on-black violence in “Murder To Excellence.” It’s my favorite track on the album. Name dropping Danroy Henry and Fred Hampton, preaching unity. “The church ain’t got enough room for all the tombs. It’s a war going on outside we ain’t safe from. I feel the pain wherever I go. 314 soldiers died in Iraq. 509 died in Chicago.” Poignant. But in the second half of the song, what’s supposed to be an inspiration to Black excellence plays like a listing of rich Black man first world problems with an admonishing, "You should be more like us! Ya know, Will, Obama, Kanye and I.”

A Black elite “pull yourself up by your boot straps” story. But what if the ones who need to hear have no boots on? And yours are gold-plated? “Power to the people. When you see me, see you.” rhymes Jay, in the 1st half of the track, as if his wealth alone can serve as enough inspiration to cure Black America’s ills. For Kanye and Jay, their simply being Black and rich is enough. That’s the problem with this album. It’s not.

8. Beyonce - "Countdown"
Every good thing about this song has already been written, by some music publication or another. They are right to fawn over “Countdown.” But they are wrong to think that this is a new thing for Beyonce. This hyper, funky, space-age dance floor R&B has been her forte since the days of Destiny’s Child. You heard it on tracks like “Jumpin’ Jumpin’” from early DC days. Then there was “Get Me Bodied,” the anthemic dance floor call to action. Or the swag-dripping “Upgrade You.” Or the other-worldly “Diva.” Beyonce has this way of crafting whimsically eviscerating verses, that seem to have a cadence and structure that can only be her own. A genre unto itself. Beyonce Club Music.

9. M83 ft Zola Jesus - “Intro”
Breathtaking in a way the rest of the album never was for me. I put this song on one of my running playlists this year. Halfway through it, jogging down 5th, my arms went up, in a victory pose, involuntarily. This song will do that kind of thing to you.

10. Childish Gambino - Freaks and Geeks
The idea of Childish Gambino is a good one. Rap for nerdy colored kids, like me. Terry Gross references, indie rock samples. But it works best in small doses. Gambino’s (Donald Glover's) latest full-length effort, “Camp,” was a strange juxtaposition of “It’s hard being a Black nerd,” and “Ha! Look at all these white and Asian groupies I have!” All of the introspection of the album is overshadowed by its misogyny, and every time he says the N-word, I cringe. But this song, right here, is fun, light, driving, witty. And it’s enough; three and a half minutes of Donald Glover was all I needed in 2011.

THE REST OF THESE ARE IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

J. Cole - Lost Ones
The smartest track on Cole’s solid debut. The tale of one young couple’s pregnancy, told through the voice of the soon to be father, AND mother. It’s a refreshing take on what is so often a one-sided story. When Cole rhymes as the woman in the situation, it’s believable. “Tryna take away a life, is you God, muthafucka? I don't think so! This a new life up in my stomach. Regardless if I'm your wife, this new life here I'mma love it. I ain't budging I just do this by my muthafucking self. See my mama raised me without no motherfucking help from a man.”

The song ends, and we don’t know if they kept the baby or not. If they stayed together or broke up. And that’s the way it should be. Stories like these can’t be tied up with a pretty bow at the end.

Lana Del Rey - "Blue Jeans"
She’s the perfect gimmick. Beautiful girl, oddly beautiful voice. Videos full of random hipsterdom. She may not be around next year, like any other record label’s experiment. But she leaves us “Blue Jeans,” so she can stay for now.

"Sure Thing" - Miguel
Perfect riding music. Also, check out his album. Came out in 2010. It’s surprisingly good.

Raphael Saadiq - "Movin’ Down The Line"
It’s virtually impossible to adequately followup an album as good as Saadiq’s “The Way I See It.” Stone Rollin’ is a valiant effort, but it never catches fire. However, Movin’ Down The Line is the perfect treat midway through the disc. The bass line floats effortlessly, the breathy background vocals fill up your headphones. It makes you wanna two-step. Saadiq’s still got it.

Kelly Rowland ft. Lil' Wayne- "Motivation"
The song is so smooth. So slick. So sing-along-able. So “Why the hell isn’t Kelly Rowland BLOWING UP in the states?” The winding Jim Jone’s bass line. The halting snare. Whatever guy in the background sing-songing “oh luvah.” You can see the sweat coming through your speakers. It works. Splendidly.

Justice - “Helix”
Another standout on my running playlist this year. Yep, that’s a Billy Ocean sample. Dance, I say. DANCE!

Jo Jo - "Marvin’s room (remix)"
Drake is SO bad that... a has-been teen-pop one hit wonder can out-sing him, on his own song. Jo-Jo takes Drake’s Marvin’s Room and makes it real, felt, textured. This song is all about the torture of love lost, and seeing your ex move on. She expresses that better than Drake. “I been up three days. Aderall and Red Bull.” This is serious.

Here’s the thing with Drake -- he can’t sing. Which is why having a vocalist re-interpolate one of his songs magnifies his inadequacy. And also, I hate Drake, so this is me giving him the middle finger.

The Rapture - “How Deep Is Your Love?”
Your next house party needs this song. Especially from minute 3:15 onward.

KARMIN - “Look At Me Now (Cover)”
When white people rap, they have to be either VERY good at it -- think Eminem -- or make fun of themselves -- think that Natalie Portman SNL skit. But the “Look at me, I’m a white person rapping badly,” meme is a tired one. It diminishes the [potential] skills of the White person involved, as well as any real respect they have for the genre. Enter Karmin. This homage to one of the years catchiest songs says, "Hey, I’m cute and girly, yes. But I really like this song! And I will give it due diligence.” She does. Watching her tackle Bustah Rhymes verse is a sight to behold.

Kreyshawn - "Gucci Gucci"
Obligatory. If only as a piece of high performance art. Read this review

College and Electric Youth - “A Real Hero” (Drive soundtrack)
A very good song from a very good movie.

"Fly" - Rihanna and Nicki Minaj
The most refreshingly uplifting song of the year, from two of the most sexualized artists of our day. Whodathunk.

[A holdover from 2010] Jessie J - "Do It Like A Dude (acoustic)"
I really don't know what she's getting at when she says, "Do it like a brother." But that's irrelevant. Just watch. Just. Watch. Right around the 2:00 mark:

Cake - "Long Time"
There’s something about John McCrea’s voice. It drips with an almost sarcasm. It’s deadpan, in an “I’m cooler than you” kind of way. Add a trumpet and a nice drum machine, some driving guitars. And you’ve got a gem. The yelps and handclaps in the breakdown at the end are golden. Most of you didn’t even know Cake put out a new album this year, did you?

Rebecca Black, as interpreted by a bad lip reader - “Gangfight”
Rebecca Black is the meme that keeps on giving. This video is simultaneously everything right and everything wrong with modern-day Internet culture. “Have I brought this chicken for us to thaw.” Lyric of the year.


Obligatory includes. Don't hate, you like them, too:
LMFAO - “Party Rock Anthem”
Maroon 5 - “Moves Like Jagger”
Rihanna - "We Found Love"

Sam's Top 20-something singles of 2011

1. Frank Ocean - "Strawberry Swing"
There are songs you can’t put down. Songs that won’t leave you alone. Songs you imagine playing in the background at major events in your life. Like, there was a time that I was convinced Kanye’s and T-Pain’s “Good Life” needed to be played as I walked across the stage to get my master’s degree. Frank Ocean’s cover of Strawberry Swing is that song for me this year. There’s something about his voice and those needling Coldplay guitars. The way he weaves Chris Martin’s vocals in towards the end. The soul without the dramatic melisma. The emotion without any strain. One hopes it’s indicative of a new kind of R&B -- subdued, refreshingly derivative, disciplined, refined. If not, it’s enough, in and of itself. My song of the year. 

2. "BTSU" - Jai Paul
Who is this guy? What is this song about? Is that a saxophone I hear? These questions need no answers. Just nod your head and press repeat.

3. Alabama Shakes - “Hold On”
I could hear this song playing in a crowded hipster concert venue. Or in a Pentecostal church. What’s so underwhelming about so many hipster interpretations of old soul is their inability, or reluctance, to go for it, full throttle. If you’re gonna sing it, sing it. The Alabama Shakes do. Barefoot and sweating. 

4. Chris Brown - "Beautiful People"
This is the second year Chris Brown’s made my list. In spite of “The Incident.” Say what you will about him, and I have, he is the most consistent male R&B singer out right now. Usher’s too corny. Trey Songz is too... annoying. With this track, Brown embodies the tectonic shift happening in R&B right now. It’s getting faster, dancier, Euro. “Soul” music is going to Ibiza. This could be troubling. But songs like these remind you that we shouldn’t be afraid. 

5. Foster The People - "Call It What You Want"
“Pumped Up Kicks” was catchy, but repetitive, and ultimately, boring. This song is not. Neither is the video.

 
6. Little Dragon - "Ritual Union"
If only the rest of the album were this good... 

7. Jay-Z and Kanye - “Murder To Excellence”
Forget what you heard. “Watch the Throne,” though titillating, is ultimately a hot mess. Patched together across several continents, studios, and time zones. It’s not coherent. Just boastful. Obnoxiously so. When Jay-Z raps, “I’m planking on a million,” it makes you wonder -- Who is this inspiring? How can I relate? Doesn’t he know we already get that he’s very rich? That, with Kanye’s incessant brand name dropping, makes it more of a commercial than an album.

But there are flashes of brilliance, or at least relatability.. Rhyming to future children in “New Day.” Or speaking to realities of black-on-black violence in “Murder To Excellence.” It’s my favorite track on the album. Name dropping Danroy Henry and Fred Hampton, preaching unity. “The church ain’t got enough room for all the tombs. It’s a war going on outside we ain’t safe from. I feel the pain wherever I go. 314 soldiers died in Iraq. 509 died in Chicago.” Poignant. But in the second half of the song, what’s supposed to be an inspiration to Black excellence plays like a listing of rich Black man first world problems with an admonishing, "You should be more like us! Ya know, Will, Obama, Kanye and I.” 

A Black elite “pull yourself up by your boot straps” story. But what if the ones who need to hear have no boots on? And yours are gold-plated? “Power to the people. When you see me, see you.” rhymes Jay, in the 1st half of the track, as if his wealth alone can serve as enough inspiration to cure Black America’s ills. For Kanye and Jay, their simply being Black and rich is enough. That’s the problem with this album. It’s not. 

8. Beyonce - "Countdown"
Every good thing about this song has already been written, by some music publication or another. They are right to fawn over “Countdown.” But they are wrong to think that this is a new thing for Beyonce. This hyper, funky, space-age dance floor R&B has been her forte since the days of Destiny’s Child. You heard it on tracks like “Jumpin’ Jumpin’” from early DC days. Then there was “Get Me Bodied,” the anthemic dance floor call to action. Or the swag-dripping “Upgrade You.” Or the other-worldly “Diva.” Beyonce has this way of crafting whimsically eviscerating verses, that seem to have a cadence and structure that can only be her own. A genre unto itself. Beyonce Club Music.

9.  M83 - “Intro”
Breathtaking in a way the rest of the album never was for me. I put this song on one of my running playlists this year. Halfway through it, jogging down 5th, my arms went up, in a victory pose, involuntarily. This song will do that kind of thing to you. 
  Intro (ft Zola Jesus) by M83 

10. Childish Gambino - Freaks and Geeks
The idea of Childish Gambino is a good one. Rap for nerdy colored kids, like me. Terry Gross references, indie rock samples. But it works best in small doses. Gambino’s (Donald Glover's) latest full-length effort, “Camp,” was a strange juxtaposition of “It’s hard being a Black nerd,” and “Ha! Look at all these white and Asian groupies I have!” All of the introspection of the album is overshadowed by its misogyny, and every time he says the N-word, I cringe. But this song, right here, is fun, light, driving, witty. And it’s enough; three and a half minutes of Donald Glover was all I needed in 2011.  

 

THE REST OF THESE ARE IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:
J. Cole - Lost Ones
The smartest track of a Cole’s solid debut. The tale of one young couple’s pregnancy, told through the voice of the soon to be father, AND mother. It’s a refreshing take on what is so often a one-sided story. When Cole rhymes as the woman in the situation, it’s believable. “Tryna take away a life, is you God, muthafucka? I don't think so! This a new life up in my stomach. Regardless if I'm your wife, this new life here I'mma love it. I ain't budging I just do this by my muthafucking self. See my mama raised me without no motherfucking help from a man.”

The song ends, and we don’t know if they kept the baby or not. If they stayed together or broke up. And that’s the way it should be. Stories like these can’t be tied up with a pretty bow at the end. 

Lana Del Rey - Blue Jeans
She’s the perfect gimmick. Beautiful girl, oddly beautiful voice. Videos full of random hipsterdom. She may not be around next year, like any other record label’s experiment. But she leaves us “Blue Jeans,” so she can stay for now. 

"Sure Thing" - Miguel
Perfect riding music. Also, check out his album. Came out in 2010. It’s surprisingly good.

Raphael Saadiq - "Movin’ Down The Line"
It’s virtually impossible to adequately followup an album as good as Saadiq’s “The Way I See It.” Stone Rollin’ is a valiant effort, but it never catches fire. However, Movin’ Down The Line is the perfect treat midway through the disc. The bass line floats effortlessly, the breathy background vocals fill up your headphones. It makes you wanna two-step. Saadiq’s still got it. 

Kelly Rowland ft. Lil' Wayne- "Motivation"
The song is so smooth. So slick. So sing-along-able. So “Why the hell isn’t Kelly Rowland BLOWING UP in the states?” The winding Jim Jone’s bass line. The halting snare. Whatever guy in the background sing-songing “oh luvah.” You can see the sweat coming through your speakers. It works. Splendidly.  

Justice - “Helix”
Another standout on my running playlist this year. Yep, that’s a Billy Ocean sample. Dance, I say. DANCE! 

Jo Jo - Marvin’s room remix
Drake is SO bad that... a has-been teen-pop one hit wonder can out-sing him, on his own song. Jo-Jo takes Drake’s Marvin’s Room and makes it real, felt, textured. This song is all about the torture of love lost, and seeing your ex move on. She expresses that better than Drake. “I been up three days. Aderall and Red Bull.” This is serious.
Here’s the thing with Drake -- he can’t sing. Which is why having a vocalist re-interpolate one of his songs magnifies his inadequacy. And also, I hate Drake, so this is me giving him the middle finger. 

The Rapture - “How Deep Is Your Love?”
Your next house party needs this song. Especially from minute 3:15 onward.


KARMIN - “Look At Me Now (Cover)”
When white people rap, they have to be either VERY good at it -- think Eminem -- or make fun of themselves -- think that Natalie Portman SNL skit. But the “Look at me, I’m a white person rapping badly,” meme is a tired one. It diminishes the [potential] skills of the White person involved, as well as any real respect they have for the genre. Enter Karmin. This homage to one of the years catchiest songs says, "Hey, I’m cute and girly, yes. But I really like this song! And I will give it due diligence.” She does. Watching her tackle Bustah Rhymes verse is a sight to behold.  

Kreyshawn - "Gucci Gucci"
Obligatory. If only as a piece of high performance art. Read this review

College and Electric Youth - “A Real Hero” (Drive soundtrack)
A very good song from a very good movie.

"Fly" - Rihanna and Nicki Minaj
The most refreshingly uplifting song of the year, from two of the most sexualized artists of our day. Whodathunk.  

[A holdover from 2010] Jessie J - "Do It Like A Dude (acoustic)"
I really don't know what she's getting at when she says, "Do it like a brother." But that's irrelevant. Just watch. Just. Watch. Right around the 2:00 mark:

Cake - "Long Time"
There’s something about John McCrea’s voice. It drips with an almost sarcasm. It’s deadpan, in an “I’m cooler than you” kind of way.  Add a trumpet and a nice drum machine, some driving guitars. And you’ve got a gem. The yelps and handclaps in the breakdown at the end are golden. Most of you didn’t even know Cake put out a new album this year, did you?  

Rebecca Black, as interpreted by a bad lip reader - “Gangfight”
Rebecca Black is the meme that keeps on giving. This video is simultaneously everything right and everything wrong with modern-day Internet culture. “Have I brought this chicken for us to thaw.” Lyric of the year. 

Obligatory includes. Don't hate, you like them, too:
LMFAO - “Party Rock Anthem”
Maroon 5 - “Moves Like Jagger” 
Rihanna - "We Found Love"

A City of Blinding Lights

Any real view of the World Trade Center Memorial is tarnished by its surroundings. All the quiet reflection of the site is cradled by noisy construction. The TV cameras don’t show it, but Ground Zero is still very unfinished.

Towers with gutted floors, the beginnings of other buildings with deep abscesses into the ground, cranes and dirt and tools and noise. Tarps and fences and temporary barriers.

And of course, all of that is surrounded by a miniature police state. Car checkpoints and patrolmen staring at tourists. Traffic blocked for miles, with street closings and motorcades and sirens. You will need a photo ID and a hotel room key to get down that street. And you probably shouldn’t try to bring a backpack.

Sunday morning, we leave the service early. We had news to file. On the way to coffee and a computer, my colleague shows me where the “Mosque at Ground Zero” is supposed to live. She points out that the whole debate is strange, as the World Trade Center, before it was obliterated, always had a Muslim prayer space. And Islamic services are held in another building just down the road, as they have been for years after 9/11, without any conflict. Like so many other things about 9/11 and Ground Zero, most people don’t know the whole story. Most people don’t care to.

We finish our work. I go home to sleep. That night, when I wake up, it’s overcast, and my brain is full. I’m disturbed by the whole thing. Why is this place still unfinished? What does it say about America? Why was Manhattan a police state this weekend? I couldn’t help thinking the night before, as the cop at the checkpoint in Midtown had my cab driver open the trunk, “Yeah, the terrorists won.” As we left the checkpoint, the cab driver said to me -- in reference to my skin color, I suppose -- with as much humor as he could muster, “They probably stopped me because of you, no offense.”

None taken.

9/11 has changed us; this weekend in Manhattan showed me. It left us unfinished and scared, like the construction work at the Memorial and the general feeling all that police presence inspired throughout the weekend. And no remembrance, no matter how solemn or repetitive could change that. In fact, the more we indulge the reverence, the remembrance, the memorials, the more we point out how different we’ve all become in these past ten years.

Perhaps we all just need a break, to stop remembering, just for a bit. But I don’t say those things around a lot of people. “Never forget,” you know?

Sunday night, I head to the W with a friend, to drink and eat. The burger is good. The ambiance, like so many other things that weekend, is off. The Giants game is on, and people cheer for their team, but it’s all subdued. How loud and celebratory can you be on this day?

We ask for Jameson on the rocks. The bartender says they ran out of every Irish drink they had hours ago. Makes sense. The crowd is strange -- people who would never be there if not for a terrorist attack. How do you drink to that?

After an hour, my friend says, “This place is freaking me out.” We leave. “I want to find the lights,” I say once we’re outside, amongst the watchers and the overcast sky. We walk. And the then we see them.

The most beautiful part of the whole thing is the lights. Those two striking beams shining, some nights, into the darkness above, making a memorial of the entire New York City skyline. You’d think they’d be at Ground Zero, maybe even jutting out from the two fountains. They’re not. They are actually a few blocks south, on top of what looks like a parking garage. Only the dedicated onlookers find them. And to see it up close perhaps finally puts it all in perspective, this noble fracas, this melee of memorial, this cacophony of remembrance.

Everyone’s taking pictures. If you’re close enough, it looks like the two beams come together in the sky, forming a unity yet to be recreated at the official site, with its lingering disarray.

There are birds, flying into the lights, perhaps blinded by them. At that moment, I have the intense desire to be one of those creatures, for just a few minutes.

Someone told me earlier that day that one of the reasons those lights can’t shine every night into the New York sky is that they confuse the birds’ migratory patterns. The lights are so bright, so distracting, that the little winged things sometimes fly right into them, perhaps thinking it’s  the sun, forgetting where they’re going. Some nights, even, when the lights are on, they’re turned off for 5 or 10 minutes at a time, to let the birds find their way again.

That sums it up for me, I realize, standing underneath the weight of the light, and the fountains, and the memorials, and the remembering. Even with the birds, there is only so much light, so much tribute, one can take.

Royal Weddings and Birth Certificates

This week, the British monarchy took part in royal fanfare, fully asserting their role as the world's ultimate Brits. On the other side of the pond, an American president went on national TV, just to prove he is American.

It was quite the juxtaposition. The Mother Country, steeped in tradition, reaffirming its commitment to pomp, circumstance, and national unity. America, toying with tribalism, conspiracy theories, and race-baiting. A high paired with a low, both must-see TV.

What makes one nation cling dutifully to its figureheads, and the other have theirs jump through pointless hoops?

For one, the monarchs have no responsibilities as heads of government. They exist to stand around and look regal, wear fancy hats and remind Britain of past empire. They are meant to be nothing more than symbols. But our American president serves both as head of state and head of government. He's an elected king, and while he gets to preside over state dinners and such, he also has to deal with the dirty game of running a country full of political parties and splintered interest groups, deficits and wars, cable news and sound bytes.

This makes things difficult. He will never make everyone happy. There will be nothing like "Long live the Queen" for Barack Obama. And it's almost fair, that to a certain extent, discord and anger should perpetually surround an American president, at least from the side of his opposition.

But this week was different. The climax of Birthergate wasn't just political. It touched at the very core of the American struggle: what exactly "American" means and who gets to fit that definition.

Our nation's founding was an exercise in the rejection of strict rules of royalty, class and religion. It was a middle finger to British rigidity and what our founders thought were pointless rules and traditions. And of course, that whole taxation without representation thing.

Over time, the American experiment became the British monarchy's antithesis, the idea that you weren't born into your place in life. The belief that anyone could be anything.

Of course we know that that has not always been true. Our history has been an ongoing struggle to give that "right to be anything you want to be" to more and more marginalized groups: immigrants, women, the disabled, minorities, gays and lesbians.

But that anti-monarchical belief has been what's made America, at least as an ideal, so inspiring.

Which is why this week is so upsetting. We are reminded not of our great American ideal in this latest saga, but confronted with our lingering obsession with the "other," and our need for them to prove themselves and their very fitness to be fully American. Centuries ago, immigrants had to change their last names and quickly lose their accents to become White and American. A Civil War was fought, and decades of political and legal struggles endured to determine that Black people could actually be full citizens who worked for pay and got to vote. Women struggled for suffrage and still fight for the right to equal pay. And even today, Brown people in the American Southwest, citizen or not, might soon be forced to have their papers on them at all times, just to avoid detention and deportation.

We are a nation full of hoops.

The other has always had more to prove. More to fight for. A longer path to full American-ness.

For some, Barack Obama, even though he is our president, represents that other. His name is "funny." His father is foreign. He may or may not be Muslim, or the Antichrist, or a chain-smoking unicorn who "pals around with terrorists."

For those, there should be hoops. He needs to prove he's one of... whatever it is they think they are.

The Brits, through their monarchs, have always known exactly what they are, at least romantically, symbolically, in an archetypal sense. Prince William is a royal. Kate Middleton is a commoner. Their marriage made them the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. And that's that.

Not so for Barack. He is our nation's leader, it's ultimate representative, and at the same time, millions in this country don't know exactly what he represents. A poor kid who made it from food stamps to Harvard, or a wealthy liberal elitist. A Black man who went to a crazy Black Christian church that hated White people, or a Muslim who studied in a madrassa. A man whose election and presidency is a sign of national progress, or someone whose ongoing otherness reveals the worst about America.  

And in the best and worst sense, that is the American way. Not having a monarch means that roles our figureheads occupy are more fluid. Heads of state can be questioned, everything can be challenged. But just because scrutiny of an American president is justified, the level of that scrutiny, and the often sinister motives behind it, are not.

That undue scrutiny is a symptom of America's relationship with the other. It makes us ask female politicians if they can handle running for office and raising children at the same time. It makes us force our leaders to go to church and talk about their religion. It made us ask Sotomayor if she could be both a "wise Latina" and a fair Supreme Court justice.

It makes some of us want to see Barack Obama's birth certificate.

It is a reality, even if it is wrong.

But in weeks like this, I don't want reality, when London is full of centuries-old fantasy, and carriages and boys choruses and big, gravity defying hats. I'd rather do without America's complex treatment of its current leader. For at least a day, I'd like there to be a parade. With a band and police on horseback. And a kiss on a balcony. And throngs waving at people who knew exactly where they fit, and who they are, and who are loved for that very reason.

Some days, I don't want to fight over who gets to be what. Or confront existential crises of American identity. Some days I want it easy.

Some days, I'd rather have a king.

Liberation

I used to tell myself I could blog every day, if I put my mind to it.

I can't.

I'm ok with this. I decided when I started this space to save funny hyperlinks and quick, quirky updates for my Facebook feed. This blog is supposed to be editorial, longer-form, more thoughtful. I realize now that I'm not nearly long-form, thoughtful or editorial enough to justify a daily post on "The Not So Angry Black Man." Guess I'm just not that angry...

Oh well. Blogs wax and wane as they will. The internet doesn't skip a beat just because I do, and at some point, inspiration will strike again. I won't apologize for not writing enough. But I do feel compelled today to share why I write at all.

My Aunt Alta taught my brother and me to read before we started kindergarten. Dr. Seuss for days and weeks on end. She was an English teacher, and the best reading coach two awkward, almost-twins like Ruben and I could have.

After that coaching, I was always one of the best readers at St. James Catholic School in Seguin, TX. Until the fourth grade. I still remember the moment vividly. Sis. Mary Ellen asked for volunteers to read from whatever book we were using that day, and I, always a show-off, wanted to display my lingual acuity. I started as I always did, in my crisp blue uniform, in those desks with the seat attached and the little undercarriage book storage slat. Per usual, I was a little too loud, a little overdone, with a little too much flair. This was not just fourth grade -- in my mind, I was on stage.

But at some point in those paragraphs I was reading, I got tripped up. The words stopped coming out, and this time just wasn't the same as my previous grandiose performances. It was the beginning of a speech impediment -- throughout my time in elementary, middle and high school, and even into college and grad school, I have been a chronic stutterer.

Movies like "The King's Speech" make one believe that strong people deal with their deficiencies by forcing themselves to overcome them. In actuality, a lot of us just avoid them. So as the stuttering got worse during my youth, I threw myself into writing. It was a way to say exactly what I wanted, at once, without ridicule, or constant demands from family and friends to "just spit it out," or strange faces from teachers who asked if I could really even read at all. In high school, I actually was a competitive expository writer. Seriously. In college and grad school, I wrote for the school papers. Once I got on Facebook, I started writing notes. And now I do this.

But even as I found solace from my disorder through the pen, I tried, bit by bit, to make myself get over it. In high school and college, I joined student government so I would be forced to speak in public. In grad school, I took an Arts of Communication class to do the same thing. And landing my first job at NPR was the perfect way to tell my disorder to piss off, once and for all.

Although I've gotten better, I really still prefer writing to speaking, in the same way someone who's ambidextrous might still prefer to use the first hand they started writing cursive with. When I finish a blog post, I experience a high. And when you "Like" my blog links, or comment on what I've written, I love it more than you'll ever know.

Like just about everyone else, I write to let it all out. To say what needs to be said, and then some. But it's something more for me, because for a large portion of my life, there was just no other way to say it at all.

I tell myself that when I play music, I speak directly to God. And when I write, I just speak -- directly. Your reading this blog helps free me, from any impediment, any disorder, any deficiency. And ultimately, the act of sharing my writing makes me whole. That's why I write. That's why I'm thankful to all who take the time to read. And it's why I forgive myself for not doing is as frequently and as thoroughly as I should.

How often I write is secondary. That I do it at all is important, and why I do it is something I finally feel comfortable sharing. So, I might not blog again for a while, but I got this one out, and it feels good. Because for me, every word penned is an act of liberation, even if those words are few and far between.