Method vs. Madness

A New tribe of soundmakers insist their music is not defined by race. It is the next face of the once and future movement that is rock

Text by Alex Barnes

Photography by Brendan Tobin

Trace Magazine 44, March 2003

What are we to make of the term “black rock?”

“I don’t really know what that is,” says Christian Alexander. “ Black rock: maybe that’s a stone you’d find at the beach? I’m not really sure.”

This is a valid question for one of New York’s preeminent promoters, whose professional fluidity has led him from the house music scene in his native Chicago to New York’s downtown underground.

Christian Alexander is a man of many outfits–his work as a promoter, DJ, producer and Creative Director has led to an impressive resume that includes collaborations with artists ranging from legendary house DJ Frankie Knuckles to Apollo Heights, Kelis, Mos Def, and his latest gig promoting a monthly party for Star Tracks Records, the new label founded by tastemakers du jour, the Neptunes.

“The Neptunes produce everyone in the industry,” Alexander explains.  “The grimiest, most gangsta hip hop artists in the world need them; they cannot put an album out without the first single being a Neptunes track.  But the Neptunes aren’t gangstas themselves; they’re skaters.”

The ever-present duality of the Neptunes–their street cred versus their skater roots– has been as perplexing as it has been entertaining and profitable for those inside and on the sidelines of the hip hop community.  Ever since the Virginia-based duo of Chad Hugo and Pharrell Williams took the music world by storm with their eclectic production style, there has been a watershed of hip hop artists who have “crossed over” into supposedly uncharted musical territories. While some of these stylistic changes have been as blandly revolutionary as adding a live guitar player with beefed-up distortion, many artists have managed to put forth truly engaging and boundary-crossing work that defies traditional categorization. Such an outpouring of innovative production should always evoke a thoughtful response from, media and industry alike.  Unfortunately, this has not always been the case.

It has been rapped, written, spoken and sung past the point of cliché that folks are getting disillusioned with hip hop in its present state. Yet there is neither rhyme nor reason for the language that has been used to describe the so-called rediscovery of Rock and Roll by black people.

“Black is rock, black is hip hop, black is everything and everything is black,” professes Alexander. “This is not something we can just move into or out of.  It is an acknowledgement of what we are; of the resources that are within us.”  The fact remains: the so-called new black rock revolution is neither new nor revolutionary.

For starters, there is the obvious fact that black folks invented rock and roll. No need to stir that pot any further.  Still, even deeper than this argument lies the problematic assumption that rock music’s ascent in the black community has come about as a total rejection of hip hop. As if it is a clear-cut decision: either you only dig rap or you only dig rap.  And up until now it has been widely assumed that if you’re black (unless there is something wrong with you), then you most certainly dig rap.  This assumption has created a divide so deep within our contemporary culture that it runs all the way from high-school lunch tables to the upper echelons of corporate marketing departments.

While the polymorphic appetites of white youth have been discussed at length (the booming suburban hip hop market, for example), the acknowledgement that black kids too can have multi-genre tastes has been much quieter.  Yet over the same 25 year period that hip hop has been synonymous with young, urban and black culture, our mainstream media has infused households in every American city and suburb with sounds images and ideas from around the world.  Why then all the surprise over of an eclectic black rock revolution when our own youth have been exposed to much of the same media sources as other groups?
TAMAR-KALI

The very nature of Tamar-Kali’s musical endeavors make categorization rather difficult. A deep connection to her African heritage is readily apparent in her music, finding a natural outlet in punk. Born and raised in Brooklyn, her roots run deep in both the city and the country.  Her family history can be traced back to South Carolina’s Gullah Islands whose culture is rich with West African customs and languages that have been passed down from generation to generation, from slavery through the modern era.

“My mother’s side of the family is from St. Helena Island, South Carolina. When I would go down south as a child, I stayed on my family’s land.  I saw my family growing food; my aunt kept that tradition going.  So I felt like I really belonged somewhere– I wasn’t just sprouted out of this concrete.”

“I started listening to new wave and then got progressively into harder stuff,” explains Kali. “My love for hardcore coincided with me coming to political awareness as an African-American girl.  There was a certain rage that goes along with finding out your own culture and your history; hardcore really suited that emotion.”

Watching Tamar Kali perform is an intense experience: a confluence of brown skin, studded belts, cowrie shells, tattoos and piercings wrapped in a body that rocks harder and funkier and sexier than you thought possible.

Tamar-Kali began performing in the East Village in the early 90s, with bands like Funkface and Song of Seven.  A deep connection began to form with other black folks around her as she became more-and-more entrenched in the scene.

“I had a very unique experience being in New York in the early 90s. There were a lot of black kids in the hardcore scene.  I basically went from being the only one to having a crew of people who knew the same things that I knew¬¬–that the first skinheads were black, working class Jamaicans in England for example.  And we could build upon those facts. This is what we clung to. There was a real euphoria of having this community where you could express yourself.”
After years of heading various hardcore bands, Tamar-Kali branched out and began writing her own material, which she incorporated into a five-piece band.  As she developed as a writer, Tamar-Kali’s musical sensibilities continued to expand, allowing her to bring new concepts into her repertoire.

“I came up with the Psychochamber Ensemble because I’ve always loved strings, and in the music I listened to as a kid– Stevie Nicks, the Beatles, Prince– strings are very present. So I decided that I wanted just a string project with all female instrumentalists.
Then I started composing stuff just for that project.”

After forming the Psychochamber Ensemble, Tamar-Kali began crafting songs for yet another project, Pseudoacoustic, which incorporates her power voice and the same raw, emotional edge of the Psychochamber. Though she performs each project independently, the full scope and evolution of her musical capabilities are on full display when all three projects are on stage together.  The instrumental depth behind Tamar-Kali’s voice is astonishing; a cohesive soundclash that takes place within each song.

“I have an outlet for all types of expressions; now, I have a mouthpiece for ever single mood.”

As for her categorization as a “black rock” act , grouped into a nebulous category with other so-called alternative black artists, Tamar-Kali’s main point of contention lies with the motivation behind such a classification.

“I believe that the ‘black rock’ label is another obstacle for artists like myself.  For all intents and purposes it continues to marginalize black artists to a group defined by race as opposed to genre.”
AFRO-PUNK

James Spooner, equipped with a video camera and his own memories of sorting through his racial identity as a teenager in the punk subculture, set out on a cross-country trek in search of black folks in various punk scenes in America.  The result is a 90-minute documentary, “Afro-Punk: the Rock and Roll Nigger Experience,” which delves into the ambitiously complex world of race and rock n roll.

“People had different reactions to the film,” Spooner recalled. “Most were like ‘oh that sounds cool,’ but others simply said, ‘nope. Not interested at all.’ That was really shocking. Those were the people I wanted to talk to the most.”

“Once the interviewing started going down, people were blown away¬– no who had ever asked them these questions before. And they weren’t really tough questions, just things like ‘what do you think when you are the only black person at a show? What do you think when you see another black person at a show? And people really freaked out!”

I asked James why he thought that was. Perhaps we have reached a point where black folks can in fact find themselves in a scene is not the definitive element of their experience.

“I think that for most black people who are into alternative scenes, when they come into contact with other black people, it’s very confrontational. It’s like, ‘why are you trying to be white?’ And I was basically asking them the same kind of questions, only from their side, and I wasn’t confrontational.  And when I put it to them like that, they really had to think about it, when previously they had put a lot of energy into not thinking about it.”

Spooner is currently putting the finishing touches on “Afro-Punk” and is seeking a distribution deal.  In conjunction with the film’s release, Spooner has big plans to build a network for black kids can come together to discuss their experiences with punk.
His website, afropunk.com, is one manifestation of this goal. Another is his “Double Consciousness Rock Series” showcasing rock bands featuring black musicians.  For all his hopes of building this network, Spooner understands that this audience will not materialize automatically.

“I’m trying to do things that are empowering to black people, but I don’t just big up any black artist. You have to be good.  If you’re just some jackass with a guitar, then you’re just a jackass with a guitar.”

APOLLO HEIGHTS

I was playing a show with Greg Tate once,” recalls Micah Gaugh of the Brooklyn based group Apollo Heights. “And someone came up to me and said ‘so you’re a part of the Black Rock Coalition.’ I said, “I am?’”

Apollo Heights sound like no other band around right now. Their aesthetic has sent writers and promoters scrambling for new terms to describe their sound: “negroclash,” “avant-pop,” “black futurist,” “blacktronica” – terms the band appreciate for their creativity, but try not to get caught up in.

“People try to come up with all these terms for us, to try to get us, but we just get on stage, play and go home,” explains Danny Chavis, who started the band with his twin brother Daniel.

The Chavis twins hail from a community in North Carolina from which the band gets its name.  Apollo Heights was built in the late 1960’s, shortly after the return of the famous NASA space mission for which it is named.  Perhaps growing up on streets with names like Solar Drive that the band derives its not-yet-on-this-planet sound.

Danny and Daniel previously performed with a band called the Veldt and moved to England to record with the Cocteau Twins.  Things didn’t quite work with the record label and the twins soon found themselves in New York, where they linked up with avant garde saxaphonist Micah Gaugh.

In Apollo Heights, one can hear a composite of wide ranging musical influences, from soul to free jazz to electronic music.  The opening sequence from their ultra-catchy single, “Disco Light” is derived from a traditional Japanese folk song.   Apollo Heights’ sound is build from tidbits picked up from around the musical stratosphere.

“When we first came out, the press had a field day.  The compared us to every black group that was out.  They compared us to Living Colour, to Fishbone.  I said ‘What!?’ We don’t sound anything like those bands. It’s all ignorance. You don’t compare one white group to another because they’re white.  That’s why I don’t necessarily agree with the whole black rock thing, ‘cause it’s corny.  And now we’ve got all these guys who start dressing really rock, but they don’t even sound like rock!”

KALI HAWK

While Apollo Heights orbit somewhere high above and beyond existing musical definitions, Kali Hawk is looking to put a new face on the pop-rock world.

“Kali Hawk is the future,” predicts Christian Alexander. “A year from when hits the streets, every little girl is going to want to be Kali Hawk.”

After losing her job as a waitress, the native New Yorker went out on a limb and used her rent money to buy her first guitar. She taught herself to play and began writing songs based on her personal experiences. Coming from a mixed Native American and African American family, Kali’s music offers a bubbly blend of rock and roll grittiness augmented by an impressive amount of confidence, beauty and intelligence.

“My look is rock and roll. People see it, but what I do is still a little unexpected,” Kali explains. “When people hear my CD and then meet me in person, they never think that that voice came out of me.”

Don’t let the pop sensibilities fool you: Kali’s sound comes from deeply entrenched rock and roll aesthetic.

“A lot of other black female artists who come out doing pop-rock music approach it from an R&B standpoint, so you can usually tell where their influences lie.  But when people hear me sing, they usually can’t tell where I’m coming from.”

Her first single, “Pintak,” is a heaping load of raw emotion laid out with distorted vocals and a driving guitar background.  The video, directed by Emory Wells, is equally provocative¬¬– a trait that can be traced to her wide musical influences from Guns and Roses, Ani Difranco and PJ Harvey.

Kali Hawk’s self-awareness as a black female musician delving into a musical world where what people see, is not necessarily what they will get.  This fact nips at the heart of what all the artists in this article are dealing with.  Misinterpretation seems to go hand-in-hand with making innovative music.  The industry is just not adequately built to accommodate artists whose music does not fall into pre-existing categories.  Categories can be packaged; packages can be marketed and sold.  The idea is generations old: the abstract ideas and emotions that go into creating good music are rarely a perfect fit with the commercial enterprises aimed at marketing them.

The reality remains that Black musicians are more likely to be categorized by their racial background than by the music they make.  The sad results are awkwardly pasted together “movements” based on paper thin ideas with little relevance to the music in question.  This is what these artists are fighting against; it goes to the heart of the double consciousness that comes with the territory of being utterly committed to your own independence in an industry that is not ready to comprehend you. Yet by pushing those boundaries, these artists are also setting themselves up to make musical milestones.

We wait with baited breath.