Rock finds roots in black history
African Americans give gift to world through passion, soul of
music
By Aaron Howard
As we enter Black History Month, a month of reflection and
celebration, I want to talk about the gift that African Americans
gave America. Oh no, I’m not talking about our backs, which we gave
to be scourged and bruised. I’m not talking about our labor, which
we gave untiringly in service to oppression. I’m not talking about
the economy of the South which was built on the tobacco and cotton
labor provided by slaves.
But I am talking about the product of that labor; the result of
those beatings. I’m talking about the perseverance that came from
life in slavery. That gift is music – music as we know it
today.
America never had any music. We appreciated the Russian and
European compositions. We indulged ourselves in the works of Mozart
and Bach, and we lithely danced to the sounds of harpischords and
minuets. But it wasn’t until black folks hit these shores that
music became distinctively American.
We can trace this odyssey back to the sorrow songs that W.E.B.
DuBois ruminated on in his book, "The Souls of Black Folk." As
black folk struggled to endure the hardships of slavery, they had
to leave everything distinctively African behind. No more native
languages or dialects. No more rituals. No more close-knit family
structure. No more anything that could remind them of home.
I can see those slaves, shadows against a starry backdrop. And
as I picture it in my mind’s eye, I can see that old weary mother
stand up amid a circle of my brethren. I can see the tears in her
eyes, wondering if the Lord will ever see about her. I see her torn
and tattered clothing, and her back etched with the markings of the
nine-headed beast.
But I see her lift up her head, and out from the depths of her
soul comes a powerful sound more powerful than the lion’s roar and
more heartfelt than the baby’s cry. She sings. If you listen you
can hear her say, "Steal away … steal away … steal away to
Jesus. I ain’t got long to stay here."
And then I see that brother. That defiant field slave who says
through his actions, "You can take me from my home and strip me of
all my identity, self-worth and sense of purpose, but you can’t
take my spirit." And I can hear him launch into a chorus of "By an’
by, I’m goin’ to lay down dis heavy load."
As their voices danced into the night air, God sent a little
more strength. Enough for them to make it one more day. Enough
until they sang again the next night.
As time went on, I see those slaves adding some clappin’ and
dancin’ to those songs. As a jubilant people, we believed the
prophet Isaiah when he said, "but they that wait upon the Lord
shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as
eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and
not faint."
Through these songs of joy and praise, we were determined to
seek our deliverance. Through these anthems of hope and
celebration, joy came in the midst of sorrow and optimism came in
the midst of oppression. From these spirituals, the first true form
of American music, did all other American forms descend.
Blues and gospel were the most closely related to the
spirituals. Blues came from the heartache and the pain embodied in
those songs. Gospel came from the joy and faith that the spirituals
talked about. We can see James Weldon Johnson adding classical
music to early gospel to create the Negro National Anthem, "Lift
Every Voice and Sing."
Then, along came the likes of Thomas Dorsey and Bessie Smith.
Soon, jazz entered the scene. Re-harmonizing the traditional chords
and adding that swing were the likes of Louis Armstrong, Duke
Ellington and Count Basie. Later on, the fathers of bebop were
steppin’ out with a new brand of skittering jazz in the 1940s and
’50s that saw folks groovin’ to Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and
Bud Powell.
Then I see a couple of black brothers taking that straight ahead
church beat, adding a guitar and some straight ahead chords, and
then come Little Richard and Chuck Berry. This new form of music?
Rock ‘n’ roll. Yes, black folk came up with rock ‘n’ roll. If it
weren’t for us, there wouldn’t be any rock ‘n’ roll because most of
y’all still didn’t know how to clap on beat.
Of course, as always happens, there were those who decided to
re-enact slavery and profit from the innovations of my people.
These included the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis. The King.
The king of what? Thievery? For even Elvis admitted most of his
music was derived from the blues that black folks were singing long
before he knew what a guitar was.
Pioneers like Jimi Hendrix (the greatest, not Eric Clapton) came
along. Then Stevie Wonder, James Brown (who invented any notion we
have about funk), George Clinton (who took those notions and ran
with them), Sly and the Family Stone and others brought the true
unadulterated soul into the 1970s and reinvented everyone’s concept
of what music really was and is.
With hip-hop artists sampling from these funksters all the time,
the timeless beauty that we as blacks have configured becomes
abundantly clear.
I could go on and on, speaking about the passion and soul that
blacks have given the world through their gift of music. There’s
nothing like seeing a blind Stevie Wonder feel his way to a piano,
and then listening and watching him paint a beautiful picture of
life and his surroundings. To hear him sing "Ribbon in the Sky,"
without him having the faintest idea of what a "sky" looks like,
almost brings tears. To hear him sing "Lately" is to hear a
gorgeous creation from an impassioned soul.
And yet, Wonder didn’t come across this passion alone. This
passion is the same passion that leaked down through many ancestral
generations and touched his heart. This is the same depth of
experience and feeling that his ancestors sang when they cried out
"Ev’ry Time I Feel De Spirit." Only now, we must claim this passion
as our own.
Don’t get me wrong. All American people, regardless of color,
have contributed greatly to American music, especially Europeans.
But since we get to read about that music every doggone day in The
Bruin, I just want to take a break from all that alternative and
punk stuff and give black folks some props for bringing rhythm here
way back in the day.
Music has the power to heal, console, rejuvenate, reaffirm and
restore. Just as King and Abernathy walked side by side singing "We
Shall Overcome," making it the anthem of the Civil Rights Movement,
it’s time for a new song. It’s time for us to take our gift of
music and use it to do more than make love, make up and make
out.
Let’s empower ourselves once again through the art form that
helped so greatly to bring us this far. Another sweet melody, and
one more beautiful refrain … I can’t wait.
Peace.
Howard is a fourth-year anthropology student. His column appears
on alternate Thursdays.Comments to webmaster@db.asucla.ucla.edu