Wax On Wax #2: Protest
Protest albums. When a societal fire alarm is going off, we have always called on the more musical among us to cull our feelings together and make some sense of whats going on. Musicians have a unique place in society because the primary language we speak is non-verbal. Music crosses borders and boundaries undisturbed unlike politics or even religion. Music can bring us all together around a common cause in times of hardship and now, especially, we need music that can speak truth to power. We need music that doesn't ask for forgiveness or permission. Take a listen to four very different and very unique protest albums this week, and as always sound off in the comments below.
Zombie combines Curtis Mayfield-Esque funk with African Jazz and biting social commentary on the Nigerian Government of the 1970s. The album contains four songs, each about 15 minutes long which makes for a unique listening experience. At times it's more like being at a live concert than listening to an album. Players weave in and out, drift back and forth in the mix, and each song has extended instrumental passages that sound like some kind of blaxploitation soundtrack from The Cradle of Humanity. The 70s funk influence on this album is so strong and persistent. The guitar especially sounds like a mash of Catfish Collins and Steve Cropper. This is truly contemporary African music, made in the city. A far cry from what I think most Western listeners may be expecting.
Afrobeat is like a musical smoothie. Genres swirl and combine into a wonderful melange of sound made all the more interesting by whichever part of the world is doing the mixing. Afrobeat can encompass cumbia, reggae, jazz, rock, funk, soul, as well as traditional West African rhythms, and to me, there is nothing better than multiple genres creating something completely new. Especially if you can dance to it. Fela Kuti is a master of this, and even with my limited exposure to his music that much is incredibly evident.
Fela Kuti and Nigeria 70 (as they were known at the time) spent an undocumented 10 months in Los Angeles playing gigs on Sunset Boulevard and around the city. While there Fela was introduced to The Black Panthers, The NAACP, and other student-run organizations and through this education decided to start writing more socially conscious music. By the time Fela and his band were forced back to Nigeria due to their undocumented status, Fela was a changed man. His time in The United States had given him new purpose and a sense of urgency in his music.
Once back home Fela decided to start a commune known as the Kalakuta Republic which served as a home for his various band members and (numerous) wives, as well as a recording studio and free medical clinic. Fela declared that the Kalakuta compound was independent of the state military junta under Olusegun Obasanjo, which did not sit well with the ruling class at the time. Kalakuta was, by all accounts, a party as much as it was a refuge. Friends and family alike lived and worked there, made music, and created a unique society of sorts all on their own. Fela Kuti has a cult-like personality among his listeners and followers, and he truly walked the walk in that sense with the emergence of Kalakuta.
Zombie was a battle cry against the conformity and compliance of the soldiers in the army that had harassed Kuti at his compound while ignoring the rampant corruption of the government they served. Songs like "Zombie" and "Mister Follow Follow" were pointed critiques at failing state. In 1977 after the release of Zombie as many as 1000 soldiers stormed The Kalakuta Republic and burned it to the ground as a response to Kuti's open defiance. Fela Kuti's mother was even thrown from a window and died of her injuries 8 weeks later after falling into a coma. Fela's recording studio, master tapes, and instruments all burned completely during the raid. A year later, to mark the occasion, Fela married 27 of his backup singers.
The more I look into Fela Kuti the more fascinated I become of him as an extremely esoteric individual. It is so clear while listening to his music that he was completely divorced from any kind of oversight; be that government, record label, or otherwise. Here is an extremely talented musician making completely independent music in his own recording studio, without any strings or the preconditions that most artists would have to endure. It's a truly rare thing to see, especially with someone as genius as Fela Kuti. To observe something, you must shine a light on it, but by doing so you will inevitably change it. Attention brings the good with the bad and the way an artist handles that can define them. Zombie is a snapshot in time of a genius musician taking a stand both lyrically and musically and the repercussions he faced for this album make it all the more fascinating. Give this one a listen, especially if you've never listened to Afrobeat.
Pieces of a Man contains some of Gil Scott-Heron's most famous and most sampled works. Hearing some of these songs gives immediate thought to the era in which they were conceived. Woodstock, Altamont, JFK, MLK, RFK, Nixon, Watergate, Vietnam, Kent State, and the like. It's always struck me that by slightly missing the beatnik era (where he may have felt more at home), Gil Scott-Heron gave another era a voice and a life that it would have sorely missed out on. On this album, he is keeping one foot in the door of his poetic roots, and another foot stepping through the door of more traditional songcraft. It's a balance that is anchored by classic songs and a near virtuosic band of jazz/funk greats.
This album's sound was crafted beautifully with Brian Jackson, who would go on to create ten more albums with Gil Scott-Heron throughout the 70s. Jackson's keyboard timbre on "Home is Where The Hatred Is" almost sounds smooth, but it's played with the weight of Scott-Heron's words and spirit behind it. The album was recorded at RCA Studios with Bob Thiele on production duties. Thiele had an immaculate background in jazz recording, and he along with many others on this album worked with many of the greats. That throughline from more traditional jazz is felt on this album, despite Pieces of a Man not exactly being a "jazz" album per se. If anything I would compare it more to Bill Whithers output at the time than anything referenced on "Lady Day and John Coletrane". The jazz is in there, but there is plenty of soul, funk, and R&B to keep listeners on their toes.
Scott-Heron is seen as a progenitor of hip hop and rap music and listening to Pieces of a Man it is easy to see why. A decade before "Rappers Delight", I don't know what else you could call "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" but hip hop. The seeds are all there, the structure is in place and Gil is more than gifted behind the mic. Ron Carter, who plays bass on this album, famously appeared on A Tribe Called Quest's masterpiece The Low End Theory. Alt hip-hop owes a debt to this record, and that much is very clear when listening to De La Soul, Nas, and even harder artists like Wu-Tang and Biggie. Like dubplates in reggae music, you can easily see how these tracks could be recycled and reused by hip hop producers in a million different ways.
The album touches on themes of revolution, class struggle, drug addiction, and during some of the lighter moments the uplifting power of music. I was caught off guard by this the first time I listened through the album. I was expecting variations on "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" but instead found that song to be an island on its own. The irony of that song is that it seems the revolution is being televised and we are all the better for it. The movement we've seen erupt around the world this year is driven by social media, and the catalyst was the filming of a horrific event by a bystander's iPhone. The depth of Scott-Heron allows for much more than just a "protest album", despite those songs defining the album for those less familiar with the other tracks on this record.
One thing that should be noted about this album is that Side B slows down considerably and seemingly deliberately compared to the first few songs. There is a very sharp dividing line in the energy of the songs at the midpoint. Side A's anger is fueled by the sadness on Side B, and it proves to be hard to maintain. Maybe it's not something one can or is supposed to maintain, and what results is a beautifully balanced album that paints a portrait of a wonderfully complex man. Nothing more needs to be said about the big songs on this album, but don't sleep on "You Are Who You Are" and "Lady Day and John Coletrane".
This album took me by surprise. Based on the cover, I had expected some kind of cult, Manson-Esque, wannabe Donavan folk album. I was wrong, but I can't help thinking I was kind of right too. Time of the Last Persecution was released in 1971 to, essentially, no one and this album slipped into obscurity along with Fay's career for decades. Nearly every song contains at least a passing reference to God, Jesus, or the Bible, but Fay manages to sing about these topics in a way that does not feel evangelical. Fay is not preaching, he is merely resigning himself to the apocalyptic nature of his faith, expressed beautifully with a series of pensive songs based on the Biblical books of Daniel and Revelation. Time of the Last Persecution is a cold look at the consequences of society's transgressions, and a soft repudiation of the prevailing winds of the 1960s.
What few listeners had recognized at the time was a masterfully crafted album, overseen by guitarist Ray Russell. If Fay plays the part of the pious, quiet monk, then Ray Russell is the maniac street preacher. One minute Ray's playing very bluesy and sounds like he could fit right in on a John Mayall album or Highway 61. Some songs he plays beautiful nylon string guitar, reminiscent of Jose Feliciano. But seemingly out of nowhere, his guitar erupts with wild, guttural, noise. It's the kind of screeching mania that was at least a generation ahead of its time; ten years before Sonic Youth and Public Image Ltd. offered similar guitar madness. That dichotomy in Russell's guitar playing masterfully encapsulates people of faith. For example, a quiet churchgoer, known for their reverence and piety could, at a moment's notice, start writhing on the ground, screaming, and speaking in tongues. Russell's production is sparse, and tasteful, and leaves plenty of room for Fay's beautiful songs and arrangements. The addition of Memphis style soul horns is a welcome one as well. Russell is the MVP of this album and brings sonic characteristics to match the lyrical ones.
Deram, a subsidiary of Decca Records, seemed to be the perfect fit for Bill Fay before Time of the Last Persecution's release. The label had seen success releasing early singles by artists like David Bowie and Cat Stevens, and for an up and coming artist like Fay, this is where you would want to be. But Deram saw little success with Fay's handful of singles and first album. His second album was the nail in the coffin and Fay's career never recovered. Fay had essentially accepted that no one would ever hear his music, and Time of the Last Persecution would be an unfortunate victim to time and circumstance.
After this album, Fay returned to the studio for a follow-up album that didn't see the light of day until the mid-2000s when Jeff Tweedy and Wilco pulled him out of obscurity. Tweedy is a self-professed fan of Fay's, and some even compare Wilco's A Ghost Is Born with Time of the Last Persecution in the same way Gainsbourg's Histoire de Melody Nelson is compared to Beck's Sea Change. Tweedy wears his Bill Fay love on his sleeve, and I think he'd be the first to admit it, and thanks to him, there has been a resurgence in Bill Fay's career as of late. A friend of mine who suggested this album pointed out that 1st pressings are currently selling for up to $1500, which is insane for any record, but it shows how far Fay's standing amongst music fans has grown.
Initially, I had trouble squaring the circle of "is this a protest album?" After listening to it a few times, I've realized it is certainly a spiritual one. I look at it like this: punk rock is not just wearing safety pin shirts and an egg wash mohawk. Punk is about being ruthlessly opposed to conformity, authority, and to be as contrarian as possible. At the height of America's initial decoupling from its faith in the 60s, there was nothing less hip than making religious folk music. The damn had broken amongst the pop music intelligentsia, and it was decided that God was for country music and Nixon's "silent majority." Despite Jesus being a superstar around this time, it wasn't exactly cool to release an album based on The Book of Revelation.
Time of the Last Persecution is a wildly different take on what a protest album can be. It's an unflinching look in the mirror and a dive into the depths of one's faith. Apocalyptic visions, divergent attitudes, and isolation are commonly found by those who tread the path that Bill Fay takes here. It may not be a protest album for marching in the streets, but it is a protest album for your psyche and character. It may help to think of Time of the Last Persecution as more Martin Luther, and less Martin Luther King.
Black Messiah is such a fantastic album for so many reasons, but I have one major problem with it. The first song "Ain't That Easy" is so good that I have trouble not repeating it a hundred times before moving on to the rest of the record. It's the kind of song that you wish could just follow you around all day. Its 'the soundtrack to life' kind of music. This album kicks the door down from minute one with a barrage of Prince meets Sly Stone funk magic through to the end. Black Messiah is an incredible way to cap these four records because I think it incorporates the best aspects of all of them. This album is funky like water is wet, it's as timely now as it was when it was released in 2014, and the religious and political connotations of the title feel prophetic here in 2020.
Right now the whole world is on fire and you get the keen sense that D'Angelo saw it all coming. The sample of Dr. Khalid Muhammad at the beginning of "1000 Deaths" makes clear: the "Black Messiah" in Black Messiah is not MLK, Malcolm X, or even D'Angelo. It's Jesus Christ himself with "hair like lambswool". Black Messiah is not in search of a savior, or even proclaiming D'Angelo as such; it is D'Angelo's reclamation of black society, black music, and black culture all at once since his long departure began in 2000. What goes into the D'Angelo machine, always comes back out D'Angelo-fied, whether it be politics, religion, music, or otherwise. Black Messiah is the ultimate D'Angelo record.
Black Messiah gives back as much as it takes, but it takes a lot. Am I hearing Sly & The Revolution? Prince & The Family Stone? Jimi Hendrix sitting in during a Bitches Brew session? Is that Stevie Wonder smoking a joint with The Beastie Boys next to the reel to reel?
I don't even know, but this is all a good thing, right?
YES.
The album's influences are so wide-ranging and comprehensive, what comes out of the speakers is just incredible to hear. D'Angelo could be categorized so many different ways that it would be easier just to put him in a category unto himself; and with the departure of Bowie and Prince, I believe that he is. No one these days carries musical weight quite like D'Angelo does on Black Messiah. He's programming drums, playing guitars, bass, keys, singing, writing, and you have to believe he has his stamp all over the overall direction and production. That is not to say that he doesn't employ the absolute best of the best players on this album. Questlove, Pino Palladino, James Gadson, and Roy Hargrove are just a few of the heavyweights that show up. They all bring their absolute A-game and provide D'Angelo a playground to build his castles made of sand. What a band on this album.
It's not surprising that D'Angelo had no problem courting superstars to play on Black Messiah. His previous album, 2000's Voodoo made D'Angelo a megastar and an international sex symbol. I could make the obvious Chinese Democracy comparison to this album's 14-year incubation, but I'd rather make a friendlier one. It's more like Smile. D'Angelo took 14 years to make this album because of the toll fame and fortune took on his life. He wasn't tinkering away on this album, wasting millions of dollars on something that ultimately didn't live up to its own hype. Like Brian Wilson, he became trapped in a prison of his own art, and prisons built by perfectionist-geniuses are rightfully hard to escape. The 14-year journey to this album's release was marred by car accidents, alcoholism, spats with friends, labels, producers, and the expectation of the entire industry on his shoulders. D'Angelo was supposed to be a very particular thing according to everyone around him, but instead, he became something better. It just took him a while.
The amazing thing about this album taking so long is how relevant it was upon its release and still is today. D'Angelo apparently had more work to do on the record but rushed its release after a Grand Jury refused to indict the Ferguson Police Officer involved in the fatal shooting of Michael Brown. Likewise, the killing of Eric Garner by Police made not speaking out through Black Messiah an impossibility.
All we wanted was a chance to talk / 'Stead we only got outlined in chalk
Feet have bled a million miles we've walked / Revealing at the end of the day, the charade
These were the lines from "The Charade" in response to the police killings in 2014 that rocked the country. These words show that six years later in 2020, after a series of events that gave birth to Black Lives Matter - a national civil rights movement Americans haven't seen the likes of since the 1960s - we still have not made the necessary steps towards equal rights in this country. Six years later we are still stuck in 2nd gear, and the chants of "I can't breathe" are nothing new, especially to the loved ones of Eric Garner. Six years later for the struggle for equal rights to stretch into 2020 is an embarrassment to our society. And six years later all we've gotten are platitudes and empty gestures after so much innocent life has been taken. 2020 is nothing new, we've been through this too many times to count, only this time I hope we are finally done counting.
Black Messiah is a remarkable document of a singular, reclusive artist who used his platform to aid a burgeoning movement. It's a tree with roots that branch off into every genre and every corner of any music that ever made your feet move. Six years later, and a million To Pimp A Butterfly's and Blonde's in its wake, Black Messiah stands at the pinnacle of black music and culture. Just as it was when it was first released, it's an album that we all should be listening to right now.
Stay tuned next Monday, we’ll be covering collaboration albums. Be sure to like, subscribe and follow my social media pages, and for any mixing or mastering work head to the main page of the site. Thanks for reading!
