If he hadn't been kidnapped in the dead of night and murdered by Roy Bryant and his half brother JW Milam for whistling at Mr. Bryant's wife Carolyn on a dare, Emmett Till would be 73 years old today.
It really wasn't that long ago, was it.
The nation (read: white people) couldn't believe that an all white, all male jury took less than an hour to deliver a not guilty verdict. They really couldn't believe that they weren't ever brought up on kidnapping charges. The kicker for the rest of the world was that nobody in Mississippi (read: white people) seemed to care. It was just another day, same as any other -- except it wasn't. This became the spark that started the civil rights movement. To read an account of the murder trial, click here. If you'd like to read the killer's confessions as published in the January 1956 issue of Look magazine (including letters to the editor -- some of which are straight up creepy), click here. To view the documentary The Untold Story of Emmett Louis Till, watch below.
Yep, that's right: yours truly will be performing -- singing, folks, not stripping (!!!) -- at Bushwick Burlesque tonight, in a bar called Bizarre. The show starts at 9pm, there's a $7 suggested cover and it will be way, way too much fun.
I love this hot little gig. It makes me feel like I finally ran away and joined the circus.
Hosted by Fancy Feast and Scary Ben (with Dick Jones taking care of pick up!) the line-up includes:
DJ Johnny Horrible
Chris McDaniel Rosie 151 Apathy Angel Charlene Witti Repartee Cherry Typhoon (Japan/ Canada) Baron (Japan) Leena Vie (India) ...and yours truly!
Here's Pearl Noire, going for broke at a Bushwick Burlesque a few months ago...
“I am invisible, understand, simply because people
refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus
sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard,
distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings,
themselves or figments of their imagination, indeed, everything and
anything except me.” -- Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
Bob Dylan wrote it but Pops Staples simply owns this song. His version is so good, the original doesn't cross your mind at all when you listen to it. That's what's supposed to happen when you hear a cover song. A great artist makes it their own so completely, it obliterates any other version.
Who's thinking about Bob when they're listening to Jimi Hendrix's cover of All Along The Watchtower? Is anyone thinking of Otis Redding when Aretha Franklin sings Respect? Does anyone even know that it was his song first?
Here's Pops Staples version of that gospel song/secular favorite, Serve Somebody. Listen in and be blessed.
I had a real chip on my shoulder ever since I can remember about Bob Dylan because everybody talked about him like he was some kind of almighty but whenever I listened to his voice, it went through my head like a nail. He's not a vocalist, he's a poet, everyone would say. I just couldn't hear the words. His voice was in the way. And then I tripped up over Tangled Up In Blue on Napster a million years ago when everyone was listening to Napster and couldn't stop clicking repeat. Actually, I still can't hear that song without fighting the urge to hear it again and again. It's like I'm overhearing this jagged, random, scattered conversation with someone else that's so full of feeling and wonder and his voice, it moves me so. And then it's over. And I don't want to be over. So I click repeat.
That's how I found Manu Chao, too. Napster! And I'm still crazy about him. I have dreams about writing music with him, collaborating with him, running away to South America with him to make beautiful art. But that's another story.
So now that I can hear the poetry inside of the sound of his voice, I don't hump his leg feverishly like the rest of the world does but I have to admit, there are moments when I hold him in my arms. This is one of them.
Contrary to popular opinion., there's a lot of beautiful gospel in secular music. I'll be featuring some of it here in the next few weeks. I quite like this song because it's a complex subject (for some) and yet his delivery is so nursery school simple and straightforward, it's almost sing-songy.
You may be an ambassador to England or France
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world
You may be a socialite with a long string of pearls.
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
It may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
Might be a rock'n' roll adict prancing on the stage
Might have money and drugs at your commands, women in a cage
You may be a business man or some high degree thief
They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief.
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
You may be a state trooper, you might be an young turk
You may be the head of some big TV network
You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame
You may be living in another country under another name.
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
You may be a construction worker working on a home
You may be living in a mansion or you might live in a dome
You might own guns and you might even own tanks
You might be somebody's landlord you might even own banks.
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side
You may be working in a barbershop, you may know how to cut hair
You may be somebody's mistress, may be somebody's heir.
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
Might like to wear cotton, might like to wear silk
Might like to drink whiskey, might like to drink milk
You might like to eat caviar, you might like to eat bread
You may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed.
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
It may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
You may call me Terry, you may call me Jimmy
You may call me Bobby, you may call me Zimmy
You may call me R.J., you may call me Ray
You may call me anything but no matter what you say.
You're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
Charles James (American, born Great Britain, 1906–1978) "Butterfly" Ball Gown, ca. 1955
Brown silk chiffon, cream silk satin, brown silk satin, dark brown nylon tulle The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Purchase, Friends of The Costume Institute Fund, 2013
Maybe it's because of Ted Turner's 24 hour fledgling station Channel 17 and how he flooded the airwaves with 1930s screwball comedies and all kinds of classics when I was a kid, but when I imagine what a gown is supposed to look like, I can't help but think of a Charles James creation. Many of the vintage cocktail dresses I found at Domsey's when I first crash-landed in Gotham looked a lot like this and embodied everything I wanted to be as a performer and a woman -- structured, solid, dramatic, overtly yet delicately feminine, beautiful.
Imagine stumbling onto a darkened room full of these gorgeous dresses, along with a display that delves into the man, the myth, his work ethic, his sketches -- and yes, even videotaped conversations and notes and personal touches. This exhibit is breathtaking, in part because it allows you to take each dress apart architecturally and explore them from the inside out.
I'm getting rid of my beautiful old upright piano by the end of the summer. No need to donate it to a church or anything like that. The action is busted and it'll cost more than its worth to fix it. Needless to say, it hurts a lot to let it go. For all of the songs it pulled out of me. For the songs I could have written on it and won't. For the intervals I learned and the ones I didn't. For the chords I dug up and dissected for a melody that wouldn't leave me alone. For all the weeks that went by when I didn't touch it at all. For the one who gave it to me in the first place -- God bless him, where ever he may roam.
Believe me, I'll keep plunking away at this piano until it's all the way out the door. I'm still smoothing out all the wrinkles on a new song cycle for the next Black Americana album. I don't know the chords I'm hearing in my head and the only way I can find them is if I sit at a piano and feel my way through them. Until it goes, here's to the next piano I get. Hopefully, it'll be another wooden upright.
And yes, that whole declutter the apartment extravaganza is going quite well, thanks for asking.
My summer reading list is full -- and yet, I'm squeezing this in, anyway. My response to this question was usually something like, "Where are we supposed to sit?" As it turns out, I was right.
From the Amazon.com review: Anyone who's been to a high school or college has noted how students of
the same race seem to stick together. Beverly Daniel Tatum has noticed
it too, and she doesn't think it's so bad. As she explains in this
provocative, though not-altogether-convincing book, these students are
in the process of establishing and affirming their racial identity. As
Tatum sees it, blacks must secure a racial identity free of negative
stereotypes. The challenge to whites, on which she expounds, is to give
up the privilege that their skin color affords and to work actively to
combat injustice in society.
I've celebrated my birthday for an entire month before the actual day hits for quite some time now, for lots of reasons. Mostly, it's because one day just isn't enough. The build up feels epic. And let's face it, it ups the fun factor considerably. Although I have to admit to the purchase of a Byron Lars shirtdress yesterday (thanks, ebay!) I make it a habit to give myself intangible presents, like an afternoon goofing off with good friends or an especially long walk home in the moonlight.
Last week, I was thinking long and hard about what I really want this time around. Since my birthday hits at about the year's halfway mark, a certain amount of introspection seems to come with the territory. To tell you the truth, I'm getting what I want, big time: my Black Americana albumThe Other Side is climbing the Americana charts steadily with reviews coming soon (hopefully); I've already written the songs for my next Black Americana album; I'm losing my "Yay, I'm married and I'm happy!" 20+ lb weight gain; my hair is growing like crazy (finally!); and as unbelievable as it seems, I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel with my dental work, which has been extensive, costly and extremely painful -- and worth it, for what it means to my overall health.
And oh, yeah -- that beautiful Byron Lars dress. So dope.
What I really want is to edit my closets and get rid of all this extraneous crap in this apartment -- and yes, in my life. So this week, (just about) everything must go: clothes and shoes I've emotionally outgrown, paperwork that's lingering and anything else I can't stand. I'm hoping for a fresh start by the end of the week.
Interestingly, I'll be eating clean for the next 30 days and trying new things physically -- like yoga.
This was a banner day. Paperwork and errands in the morning and
rehearsals all afternoon, with an audition for an episodic in the
evening. Everything just clicked and I don't know why. Each rehearsal was work but it was fun. I walked 9 miles. I didn't eat or drink any garbage. I wrote a
new song. I called my mother. Somewhere in there, I stopped at Grounded for a cup of tea. And then I came home to this.
And as if all of that weren't enough, my beautiful new hat that I'll wear to the Jazz Age Lawn Party is done, according to my wonderfully brilliant milliner in Phoenix, Arizona. Hopefully, I'll get it in a week.
Gee, I'd love to delete Facebook. (Really.) This SuperGeek has more than a few excellent points. Unfortunately, everybody's in there. It's too easy to reach out to the world. And as an unsigned musician, I can't afford to make it difficult for anyone to find me.
Still and all, I can't deny the truth in what he's saying and how much it creeps me out.
Writing every day never fails to shake ideas loose and inspire things to bloom in other directions. Morning pages are one thing but this is something else. Let's see if I can keep this up every day for a month, shall we?
And yes, something in me will pick up where I left off with Black Jesus on Holy Week. I promise.
This is an African-American print of the DaVinci classic. Beautiful, isn't it? Click here to get yours.
Today is known to many Christians as Maundy Thursday or Holy Thursday. Everybody's got a theory on this one but most scholars think that the word maundy comes from the Latin word mandatum, the first word of the statement Jesus made to his disciples as he explained why he washed their feet.
Latin: Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos.
Translation: A new
commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved
you.
Here's more Black Jesus -- Christ washing the feet of the Apostles. Icon of Pskov school (school of late medieval Russian icon and mural painting), 16th century. I suppose this explains why Eastern Europeans and Soviets don't have a problem with images of Black Jesus.
On Holy Thursday, everything takes a very serious turn. Jesus washes the feet of the disciples, then celebrates the Passover Feast with them in an upper room in Jerusalem and has the first Communion. Somewhere in there -- probably before the dishes are cleared from the table -- the disciples argue over their rank and greatness (huh?) while Judas skips off to betray Jesus to the Jewish authorities and Peter declares his undying loyalty (“Lord, I’m ready to go with you, both to prison and to death!”), with Jesus promptly putting him in check. (“I tell you, Peter, the rooster won’t crow today before you have denied three times that you know me.”)
Jesus goes to The Mount of Olives with the disciples to pray, they eventually get ambushed by Judas and the horde he brought with him -- high priests, officers of the temple guard and the elders -- and after betraying him with a kiss (yeesh!) Jesus is taken away to the high priest's house, where his trial begins.
Most of us know this already. For the rest of you that choose to ignore the obvious, I'm gonna tell it to you, anyway: Jesus Christ was not of European ancestry. There, I said it.
“The ‘raceless’ American Christ has a light skin, wavy
brown hair, and sometimes – wonder of wonders – blue eyes. For whites to
find him with big lips and kinky hair is as offensive as it was for the
Pharisees to find him partying with tax-collectors. But whether whites
want to hear it or not, Christ is black, baby, with all of the features
which are so detestable to white society.”
Most Europeans are much more familiar with Black Jesus than Americans, in part because his image resonates throughout much of their artwork. This one is from a church in Rome and dates from AD 530.
Today is called Silent Wednesday because the Bible doesn't say much of anything about what Jesus did today. After yesterday's hi-jinks, I can only imagine that the good Lord and the rest of his folk slept in. I know I would.
This is a portrait of what Jesus might actually have looked like -- based on a first century skull (and Jesus' African-Asiatic bloodlines) by medical artist Richard Neave for Jesus: The Complete Story.
After he and his associates pass that fig tree, they go back to the Temple, where Jesus is confronted by the
religious leaders who try to ensnare him in some sort of an argument
that will create an opportunity for his arrest. After he flummoxes them and chews them out, he gives them the slip
and leaves the city for the Mount of Olives, where -- prompted by the
disciples casually admiring the Temple's architecture -- gives a
prophesy on its destruction and
then launches into what Biblical scholars call the Olivet Discourse, wherein he talks at length about the end times in parables.
This is also the day that Judas Iscariot negotiates with The Sanhedrin and makes arrangements to betray Jesus.
What a long, pivotal, exhausting day.
Matthew 24 Now Jesus left the temple and was going away. His disciples came to point out to him the temple buildings.2 He responded, “Do you see all these things? I assure that no stone will be left on another. Everything will be demolished.”
As Jesus predicted, the Temple was destroyed -- in 70 AD when the Romans torched it. Apparently, the fire melted the gold in the Temple, which ran down into the cracks in the stone walls. Later, people searched for that gold, knocking over the stones to find any of it.
Interesting stuff.
I can't even begin to touch the history of this region
with a stick -- and yet, a little history goes a long way...!
The Mount of Olives (it was covered with olive trees at one point, hence the name) is one of three mountain ridges -- Mount Scopus to the north and Mount of Corruption (or Mount of Offense) to the south -- located east of Jerusalem's Old City, in an area called The Valley of Jehoshophat. The ridge isn't suitable for construction, so man-made burial caves were built. A portion of the mount has been a necropolis for well over 3,000 years -- with an estimated 150,000 graves. (A Jewish group is in the process of mapping every tombstone there.) Several Old Testament prophets are buried there. So is Absalom.
