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Steve_s
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Steve_s
Post Number: 173
Registered: 04-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 10, 2005 - 04:20 pm: | 
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Prologue
If you walk down Seventh Avenue today he is a man who never existed. On this broad Harlem avenue a torn curtain might stir in response to the tug of a hand. Dark hand, now waving. If you walk down this broad Harlem avenue today it will soon become clear that old-fashioned dignity and civic pride have long fled the scene, and this would have broken his stout heart. Back then he dressed well, he walked tall, and the bright glare from his shoes could pick a man's eyes clean out of his knobby head. Women watched him pass by, his hardback carriage upright, and they whispered half sentences about him from behind perfumed hankerchiefs that they held close to their full lips. But they never eyeballed him, for this was a man who lived way beyond their hips, and it didn't make no sense to look too interested in such a man. Men watched him too, with their collars turned high, pulling on ash-heavy cigarettes, their broad feet helplessly anchored to the earth, but this was a man who looked neither left nor right as he strode through the steets. Children followed him at a respectable distance -- down as far as the park -- and then their young spirits were seized by the grass, and the trees, and the Harlem reservoir, but the neighborhood man continued on his way, stepping purposefully toward his daily rendezvous with midtown business. White man's business. Today, if you walk down this broad Harlem avenue as far as the park, and then continue walking through the park to midtown, he is a man who never existed. He has gone. Back uptown, in his Harlem, a needle-borne pestilence has been visited upon the people. The handsome brownstones have now faded, the streets are unswept, the stores are boarded up, and clumps of weeds search out dull sunlight through broad cracks in the sidewalk. Old-fashioned dignity and civic pride have fled the scene, and this would have broken his stout heart.
In his time these wide boulevards, with their agreeably appointed row houses, exuded the quiet civility of an emerging middle-class elegance. The occasional corner boasted a "clean" theater or bar, but nothing that might alarm the local pastor or disturb the churchgoing population. In his time there were no moonlit migrations from downtown, there were no neon signs to bedazzle, no heavily perspiring tuxedoed Negro musicians, and no white men or white women dolled up in fine firs and bright jewels lingering after hours in the hope of an authentic thrill. In his time this was a respectable colored world peopled by those who had yet to learn how to grind and bend over for the white man. In this new colored world above the park, this tall, light-skinned man was king, and his subjects were happy to bask in his long ambling shadow.
Proud new twentieth-century world where the four El lines stretched their arms and came right uptown, stitching the great New World city to the suddenly Negro suburb. The Italian baker and the German brewer and the Irish policeman had no inclination to travel to, or live in, such a far-flung place, and so some forty years after the end of the war that was fought to liberate blistered wrists and ankles, New York City Negroes were finally becoming American citizens with homes of their own. Peering through Du Bois's newly embroidered veil, they saw before them a new century and new possibilities above 110th Street, where a powerful Harlem harmattan was blowing fresh news from Africa. Tan maidens, with peachy bleached skin and recently straightened hair, stepped around tall muscular men fresh off the ships from the Caribbean, who in turn rubbed shoulders with excited southerners who had tilled enough soil for a dozen lifetimes and were overjoyed to have finally arrived in the north. And then, of course, there were the formerly enslaved New Yorkers who could trace their ties with the city back to the entrepreneurial, mean-spirited Dutch. Quick, everybody, hurry uptown to the barbershops and restaurants and funeral homes that colore men now owned in New York City. Hurry home to Harlem. West Indian Bert Williams's Harlem. And then, after Bert Williams left, everything changed and Harlem began to sell her smile, and her vitality, and her energy, and automobiles began to clubfoot their way uptown and sit right on down -- sometimes they didn't even have the good sense to turn off their engines -- but by then Harlem was better known to the world as a place where one might buy a front row seat and witness the clumsy metal hooves of Bojangles stomping poor Africa to death and replacing her with Showtime.
And so his world became a famous nighttime venue for people who wished to purchase a thrill and temporarily escape the cage in which they lived their ordered downtown lives. They would climb into their vehicles and ask to be driven uptown in order that they might go back to the jungle and behold tall and terrific women shaking their hips and dancing with an abandon that was beyond the control of a rational mind. They wished to go back to a place that they imagined they had long ago fled on two legs with a silk scarf tossed casually around their necks. The dark past in their city, coons tight like spoons on brightly lit stages, and champagne flowing like the Hudson at full tide. These were bright new monied times in which sociey people were encouraged to enjoy the primitive theatrics of those who appeared to be finally understanding hat their principal role was now to entertain. Listen. The wail of a trumpet as it screeches crazily toward heaven and then shudders and breaks and falls back to earth, where its lament is replaced by the anxious syncopated tap tap tapping of clumsily shod feet beating out their joyous black misery in a tattoo of sweating servitude. Performative bondage. Yes sir, boss, I will be what you want me to be, and when you climb into your automobile at five o'clock in the morning with Miss Ann on your arm, and a gently buzzing in your veins, the lights will be turned off, and the shoes will be eased from my burning feet, and the spit shaken out of my instrument, and the tie loosened from my fat neck, and we men will appear where previously only shades lived, and we men will speak to one another in grave low tones, cutting fatigue with relief and anticipating short bouts of loving before the chain of streetlights blink out one after the other and the sun clears the horizon and sleep finallly reaches down and smoothes our furrowed American brows, bringing us some kind of peace until the afternoon is new and strong and full again. |
Steve_s
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Steve_s
Post Number: 174
Registered: 04-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 10, 2005 - 04:22 pm: |
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Act One
(1873-1903)
It is February 1903 and at present he is impersonating Shylock Homestead in the musical In Dahomey, but only after dark. He shambles about as though unsure what to do next, as if a wrong turning has placed him upon this stage and he may as well stay put until somebody offers him the opportunity to withdraw. Every evening Mr. Williams wanders aimlessly, but despite his size there is some elegance to his movement. When the audience raises its collective voice and asks him to reprise a song, Mr. Williams acts as though he is first shocked and then somewhat embarrassed that they should be stirring him out of his befuddled anonymity. Of course, this is all the more comical to his audience for they have never before witnessed a Negro performer affecting such indifference in the face of such overwhelming approval. Back uptown in Harlem, few residents have actually seen him perform, but everybody is fully aware of his stellar reputation. However, there are some Harlemites who have sat upstairs in the balcony and looked down at the senior partner in the Williams and Walker comedy duo, who are unsure what to make of his foolish blackface antics. These days Mr. Williams seldom looks up at the parcel of dark faces that stare down at him from nigger heaven, but he is always grateful to hear a good number of these colored Americans applauding enthusiastically as In Dahomey unfolds.
He stares at the contented white faces in the orchestra stalls knowing that he can hold an audience like nobody else in the city. He knows when to go gently with them, and he carefully observes their mood; he knows not to strain the color line for he respects their violence. At other times, when he can sense something close to warmth, he might push and cajole a little, and try to show them something that they had not thought of before; he might try to introduce them to the notion that music and wit are the colored man's gift to America, and then impress them with his own unique style of carefree dancing. All the while he listens closely for a single dull note, and should he detect it he will proceed with caution and neither irritate nor provoke. He is keen that at the end of the evening, they should all leave safely and without either party having broken the unwritten contract that exists between the Negro performer and his white audience. If they can achieve this, then it will be possible for them to come together again in good faith. He cares what they think about him, and he understands that one false step and he risks toppling over into the musician's pit and being replaced by Bob Cole or Ernest Hogan or one of the scores of other colored performers who are keen to usurp him without fully understanding that they do have the choice of offering these white faces in the orchestra stalls some artistic drollery and a little repose instead of clownish roughness and loud vulgarity.
But these days an increasingly impatient George does not share his partner's circumspect feelings with regard to their white audience. Before In Dahomey, neither Williams nor Walker objected to being presented as "The Two Real Coons" on the New York stage. They were young men, freshly arrived in the city and making their determined way in the world of vaudeville, often sharing the boards with acts billed as "The Merry Wops" or "The Sport and the Jew," and when money was in short supply they were happy to play on the same bill with trained dog and monkey acts. But it is now 1903, and times have changed and they are successful, and although Bert does not like to heat up the white man's blood by being flash in his face, George feels differently. George takes the role of the dude of the pair, the Broadway swell with silk cravat and fancy spats who blazes with energy, and who is not afraid to eyeball the audience. He is always pushing and demanding more, and the more George agitates, the more sorrowful his partner becomes both in performance and in person. He thinks, No need to be like that, George, as his gold-toothed partner grins and winks and seems determined to create a palpable flutter of feminine hearts both onstage and in the orchestra stalls, but Bert never says anything to dandy George in his colorful vests. Some days, Bert feels that their act, although seamless and coherent on the outside, is beginning to fracture internally for George has absolutely no interest in going gently with an audience and learning how to seduce them, and Lord help the man, white or colored, who would dare refer to him with an unpleasant epithet. In fact, an increasingly successful, and confident, George is beginning to act as though he doesn't give a damn about white folks.
WALKER: I tell you I'm letting you in on this because you're a friend of mine. I could do this alone and let no one in on it. But I want you to share it just because we're good friends. Now after you get into the bank, you fill the satchel with money.
WILLIAMS: Whose money?
WILLIAMS: That ain't the point. We don't know who put the money there, and we don't know why they got it. And they won't know how we got it. All you have to do is fill the satchel; I'll get the satchel -- you won't have nothing to bother about -- that's 'cause you're a friend of mine, see?
WILLIAMS: And what do I do with the satchel?
walker: All you got to do is bring it to me at a place where I tell you.
WILLIAMS:-When they come to count up the cash and find it short, then what?
WALKER: By that time we'll be far, far away-where the birds are singing sweetly and the flowers are in bloom.
WILLIAMS: (With doleful reflection) And if they catch us they'll put us so far, far away we never hear no birds singin'. And everybody knows you can't smell no flowers through a stone wall.
He listens to the applause for his slow and cautious character. He listens to the applause for George's dapper, city-slick Negro dude. Do the audience understand that his character, this Shylock Homestead whose dull-witted antics amuse them, bears no relationship to the real Egbert Austin Williams? Every evening this question worries him, and every evening as he takes his curtain call he tries to ignore it, but he often lies in his bed late into the night trying to calculate where he might force a little more laughter here, or squeeze an inch more room to work with there, and therefore impress them with the overwhelming evidence of his artistry. Every evening he listens to the rainstorm of their applause and every evening he takes his bow, careful to make sure that he bends from the waist in tight unison with George, careful to make sure that the pair of them move and offer their best smile as one. George talks without moving his lips or turning his head. "You want to give them more?" Bert looks straight ahead. "Not tonight." Again they bow as one. "Everything okay?" "Sure, everything is just capital." The band begins to play their number and Bert waves a slow-branched hand to the audience and turns to leave. He holds the curtain open for George and makes sure that his partner passes safely through the velvet drapes. The thunderous applause continues, but Bert does not turn again to look at the audience for, at this moment, he wants something from them that he suspects he can never have: their respect. However, from the very beginning, this reluctant seven-legged word has failed to make an appointment with him.
-- Mr. Williams?
He listens to the stage manager hollering out his name in the busy corridor. Why can't the impatient man wait until he has taken off his face?
-- Mr. Williams, you'll be wanting me to keep a seat at tomorrow night's performance for your pop?
Every night the same intrusive question, and every night the same polite answer.
-- Sure, Mr. Kelly, you keep that seat nice and warm. I reckon he'll be coming back either tomorrow night or some night soon.
He places the newly soiled towel by the bowl of murky water and he stares into the mirror at his fresh, clean face. He knows that his father has no desire to return and witness his son transforming himself into a nigger fool. He knows his father well enough to understand that beneath his placid exterior a quiet frustration burns within him, and he believes that his father does not like to place himself in situations that might cause him to get heated up. Father and son have never spoken of this fact, but since their arrival in America father and son seem to have found it difficult to communicate on any subject.
-- Mr. Williams, will you be needing anything else tonight?
-- I don't believe so, Mr. Kelly.
-- Well, you just remember. I'll be holding that spot for your pop. Tomorrow night, or whenever he's ready to see you perform, you just let me know.
-- Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I surely appreciate it.
He averts his eyes from the mirror and listens to the sound of retreating footsteps in the corridor beyond his locked dressing room door. Although no words have been exchanged between them, it is clear that his bewildered father is deeply ashamed of his only son.
The balance has gone. Five years ago, when she first met him, young Mr. Williams was a man with a purpose. Handsome, well dressed, and still in his mid-twenties, he possessed courtesies that belonged to an earlier era. He rose early, and retired early, and drank and smoked only in moderation, and he possessed a fierce ambition and work ethic. And talent. Lord, he had a talent that others could see, but none, she believed, could imagine it in full bloom the way she could. This, she thought, was a man fit for a widow who had already mastered the art of nurturing a man's dreams. This new man had traveled a long way from his Caribbean birthplace and twice crossed America, first to the west and then back to the east. This was a man whose brow she might soothe, a man she could encourage to relax and stay focused as he journeyed toward his destiny. Truly, fate had blessed her, but five years later the balance has gone. On that momentous day she accompanied her friend Ada, and sat quietly in the corner of the photographer's studio. The tobacco advertisement was to feature Ada and another woman, all dressed up in their finery, sophisticated ladies ready to step out on the arms of two gentlemen. Quality colored ladies, quality product, and then the two dandies entered the studio, one tall and tan, one dark and short, and her eyes were drawn to the tall man, who bowed gently before Ada and the other woman and then turned to her and smiled with a sweetness that caused her body to tremble, so much so that Ada had to shoot her foolish friend an unambiguous glare. She lowered her eyes, for there was now no longer any need to look at this tall man for his image was burned deeply into her soul. She had immediately noticed that this lofty man, with long fingers to match his legs, possessed a strange spring in his step. She expected a less nimble gait from a man with his build, something that might betray the fact that he was overly conscious of his size, but there was a curious buoyancy to his movement. She looked up as the photographer set the first pose, and she observed that it was his arm that Ada's companion was instructed to take but the woman began to act uppity with him, and then plain downright cold, for she had noticed him looking across at Lottie, but it made no difference for he kept right on treating this difficult woman like a queen upon whom he was honored to attend. Lottie observed that the darker man also had manners, although he did not possess the same courtesies as his taller friend. She scrutinized the darker man and immediately sensed that beneath the sugar he would probably be quick to anger and express his mannishness, and should a woman attempt to slip a noose around his ankle he would soon be stepping clear. A heartbreaker, she thought, but if Ada wished to make reckless eyes at this man, then who was she to say anything? Her friend's new preoccupation left her free to secretly pursue her own interest, although, of course, she had no intention of letting this man know that her heart was already beating to his tune. And yet again the photographer moved this tall man and Ada's tiresome friend into another position that suggested both courtliness and intimacy, and the tall man turned his head so that his eyes once more met those of Lottie, who remained seated quietly in the corner. She reminded herself that whatever thoughts might be coursing through her mind she was a widow and she should not forget herself and allow her heart to fist up so rapidly for this young man.
Sitting across the table from him at a fine restaurant on Fifty-third Street, Lottie melts. But he does not blow any hot air on her. He just listens to what she has to say about her late husband's painful final days in Chicago, and he drinks up her words as though they were the finest red wine. She is helpless in the face of his stillness. He is balanced, and he seems to understand that the first duty of love is to listen. She looks closely at his hands, for she knows that gentle hands that are afraid of loss are the only hands for her. Lottie wishes to apologize for her somewhat coy behavior at the photographer's studio, but saying sorry seems unnecessary. She toys with her food while, inside of her, certainty falls like an anchor.
He insists on walking her the four blocks back to her rooming house on Forty-ninth Street, and as they step out of the restaurant he offers her his arm. They ignore the unsavory odors that emanate hereabouts from dark hallways and open windows, and they promenade regally as though crossing a meadow that is high with the scent of flowers on a bright spring morning. He tells her that there is no other girl; that there has never been another girl, that his life has been selfishly dedicated to performing, but now he is ready for something else. He confesses that her quiet dignity has captured his heart and he wonders if she might consider hitching her fortune to his. She smiles coyly and suddenly he feels overwhelmed with embarrassment. |
Steve_s
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Steve_s
Post Number: 175
Registered: 04-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 10, 2005 - 04:24 pm: |
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Good writer. Great writer, actually. But what does everyone think of the idea, contained in the Prologue, of the Harlem Renaissance as "bending over for the white man," and "performative bondage"? I personally don't like it, I think it's historically innacurate and revisionist. However, you may disagree, I'm fairly open-minded.
So I gues my question is, is Caryl Phillips taking the A Train up to Harlem, or carrying coals to Newcastle? Well that's an expression meaning something superfluous, or more of same. I'll admit that it's a trick question, since the IND 8th Avenue uptown (better known as the A Train) did not go into operation until 1932, a full 10 years after Bert Williams had passed. And yet . . . |
Snakegirl
Regular Poster
Username: Snakegirl
Post Number: 39
Registered: 05-2005
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 10, 2005 - 05:16 pm: |
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Steve
How many words can you type per minute?
Are you a writer?
A musician?
I've always been so fascinated, wondering who you were.
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Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 965
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 10, 2005 - 06:14 pm: |
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Steve_S: I'm probably not going to read the book. You have posted too many bad reviews...lmao!
At any rate, many writers during the 20s and 30s questioned the integrity of the HR....so, Phillips's assessment is not unusual, inaccurate, or revisionist. |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 2985
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 11, 2005 - 01:57 pm: |
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Steve says in regard to the prolog of Caryl Phillips "Dancing in the Dark:
"Good writer. Great writer, actually. But what does everyone think of the idea, contained in the Prologue, of the Harlem Renaissance as "bending over for the white man," and "performative bondage"? I personally don't like it, I think it's historically innacurate and revisionist. However, you may disagree, I'm fairly open-minded."
Cynique responds:
The black writers, poets, actors and musicians of the Harlem Renassiance, although not lacking in accolades, were woefully short on cash and this made them very dependent on the grants and prizes and awards handed out by predominately-white literary foundations. These tokens of recognition all came with cash gratuities, something which did have a repressive effect on these black artists because it influenced them into conducting themselves in a manner that would not draw the disapproval of white patrons. Specifically, we all know how Charlotte Mason was the white benefactor of Langston Hughes and Zora Neal Thurston, keeping them under her thumb, doling out money and gifts only if they remained true to her concept of primitivism in the Arts. They even called her "Mother." |
Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 977
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 11, 2005 - 11:30 pm: |
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Cyn: yes cynique, but these same artists zora and langston criticized the Harlem Renaissance. In fact, McKay's Home to Harlem was a contemporary critique of the HR, since to contradicted much of what the HR sought to espouse. DuBois, already known as the old man, criticized McKay and others because of their focus on "the folk." In addition, Hughes stated that the HR did nothing for the Harlem proletariat.... |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 2986
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Saturday, November 12, 2005 - 01:33 am: |
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Well, in later years a lot of artists including Langston Hughes declared that the Harlem Renassiance was nothing more than a short era during which white people recognized what black artists had been doing all along. Black folks allowed themselves to be labeled the "new negro" and went along with the charade, basking in the praise and adoration of the white literati to whom this interlude was nothing more than a passing fad. Thurston, Hughes & company may have criticized the HR in hindsight, but they were caught up in the times and did court white patrons in the hope of gaining fame and fortune. |
Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 979
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Saturday, November 12, 2005 - 03:28 am: |
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Cynique: I don't know. I think they needed to pay their bills, and that they were hustling like very body else...again, the content of Hughes poetry was not exotic at all, but it was certainly working class--the folk!
No, Garvey and A. Philip Randolph of the Messenger called themselves new negro; they were not labeled by whites at all. They responded to the disappointment of world war i. They called themselves "New" in the sense that they were different from the old.
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Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 2987
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Saturday, November 12, 2005 - 12:48 pm: |
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Well, Yukio, the "new negro" term got co-opted by a lot of people. Steve said he had a problem with the prologue of "Dancing in the Dark" because it accused HR artists of "bending over for the white man" and "performing bondage". In view of the fact that white folks were holding the purse strings, there is a grain of truth in this. I never said anything about Hughes' poetry not being of the folk but I'm not so sure that some of his fiction didn't contain an element of the exotic. |
Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 982
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Saturday, November 12, 2005 - 01:00 pm: |
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Sorry Cynique. I was agreeing with you about whites holding the reins of power. Similarly, I was trying to state, unsuccessfully mind you, that hughe's folk poetry was (a) an affirmation of black folk culture and (b) a rejection of what DuBois and others tried to sell white people. Thus, although white folk held the reins, so to speak, Hughes and his cohorts were both criticizing the engineers of HR, as Phillips apparently suggests, and appropriating the exoticism of white philanthropists... cuz from an economic stand point, black folk in Harlem primarily had access to jobs in the domestic and personal service sectors! |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 2989
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Sunday, November 13, 2005 - 12:47 pm: |
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Gotcha! |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1612
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Monday, November 14, 2005 - 11:16 am: |
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Steve:
You really have a thing for this book, don't you? If you don't stop I'm going to think that your mother was frightened by a man in blackface while she was pregnant with you.
Anyway to answer some of your questions I think Caryl Phillips is not so much trying to re analyze this era as contemplate the dilemma of the black artist in white society--the degree that all of us feel we must tailor our message (or perform in blackface) to get over with white audiences.
In agreement with Cynique his view of the Harlem Renaissance is not revisionist. At the very moment artists like Countee Cullen were writing poetry in imitation of Keats and not Phyllis Wheatley or Paul Lawrence Dunbar or Dubois himself--some analysts were grumbling about them selling out. At the height of the movement WEB DuBois, one of the originators, criticized the Arts for Arts sake stance of many of the artists, such as Wallace Thurman and Zora Neale Hurston, stating the aim of the renaissance was to uplift the race instead.
Somebody wrote an essay, I think it was Langston Hughes, about this--The Negro artist and the racial mountain? Have to look it up--and George S. Schuyler, another Renaissance figure who is buried today because he became a raving right wing lunatic, wrote an essay about "The Negro Art Hokum" where he even stated that there was no such thing as Black Art.
The Renaissance itself collapsed with the Crash of 1929 when all the support money and the crowds coming to Harlem dried up and the black art was not to be revived until the New Deal programs and the Leftists and Communists came forward with more support, which bolsters Cynique's argument about all the money for this coming from white folks instead of black--and therefore the audiences being white. |
Soul_sister
Regular Poster
Username: Soul_sister
Post Number: 36
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Monday, November 14, 2005 - 02:27 pm: |
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Hey all
Good chat going on here -- I have the book and have since put it down around pg 100 because it was moving slowly -- I was reading in tandem with Step N Fetchit -- which allows you to see the early 20th century through a lived memory and a contrived one
In learning about the talent these performers had it was unfortunate that racism limited their mobility -- I believe someone mentioned this --
What I would like to know is how far have Black performers come in "representing" the race in music & film -- and if not so far are we going back to a dark era where $$ is the bottom line -- Remember Hattie McDaniel's said I would rather play a maid and make 500 week verses being one for 5 is that so wrong??
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Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3002
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Monday, November 14, 2005 - 04:26 pm: |
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Hi Soul Sista. To me, Hattie McDaniel was a woman of her times and she capitalized off of playing the roles for which vacancies existed. Other ethnic groups such as the Jews and Irish and Italians and Germans and Mexicans and Japanese and Chinese and American Indians were all stereotyped on the screen. America has always been a country which demonstrated insensitivity to each other's nationalities. So Hattie wasn't really disgracing her race by playing a maid. She was taking advantage of a money-making situation. Or do I fault today's black performers for taking secondary roles in order to earn a living because when it comes to the media, art does imitate life. In the real world, black people are not leading players and the black population is rife with feisty sistas and smooth brothas, the roles they are often cast as in TV series and Hollywood films. It is the bodaciousness and coolness and ingenious music that fascinates white people and when white people are fascinated, then black people can manipulate them. LOL |
Soul_sister
Regular Poster
Username: Soul_sister
Post Number: 37
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 01:01 pm: |
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Cynique
A rose by any other name...I feel ya but what bothers me is that the degenerate art has crept in and his being driven by a market of white suburban teens who are not interested in being conscious about anything never mind race -
Is there a true black art form and if so - how does hip hop add or subtract from that definition -- I am sure that we could argue the pros and cons - and I appreciate all opinion.
To me the renaissance (sp) era in Harlem was the first post slavery generation taking a chance to artistically exhale and recieve the rewards for such a time - unfortunately, like Scott Joplin and Ragtime, Bert Williams and minstrely and even Hattie McDaniels and Freddie Washington -- all never got to be just entertainers - they had to be race entertainers and I believe they never experienced their full/greatest potentials - which is a lost to race and humanity.
What do we as heirs to their talent become - Lil kim's and foxy browns, snoop dogs and jay z's -- what is wrong with that progression??? To me a whole lot -- but I believe that there are still artist with talent, poise and consciousness -- out there -- I just aint heard of 'em yet - - peace |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1615
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 01:37 pm: |
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Soul_Sister:
There are plenty of artists with talent poise and consciousness--Sweet Honey and the Rock, the Roots, Taj Mahal, many--
No they don't make no big money and they won't ever make any. The public is apathetic, ignorant and doped up.
The average person lives at a level such that only the basest art can reach him or her. If he or she is scrabbling for existence they are too tired or jaded to want to hear anything that will make them think--if they think they will realize how bad off they are. |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3007
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: 
Votes: 2 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 01:58 pm: |
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What is dengenerate about Rap is its subject matter, Soul Sis. But its clever use of words to make intricate rhyme schemes, and the cadence in which these lyrics are delivered give structure to this genre and, to me, this qualifies Rap as an art form. And Rappers do pay tribute to old school music by sampling it on their cuts. I also think the idea of whites teens being the biggest fans of rap music needs to be challenged. Young white fans are just as much into heavy metal and grunge music and alternative music as they are Rap. And Rap still remains the music of choice among young black males. Also, Rap isn't the only music that blacks fall heir to. There are best-selling young artists out there like Usher and Alicia Keyes and Fantasia whose music is more mainstream. And among the baby-boomer generation there is still a big market for R&B and Jazz and Blues. Rap music harks back to the African girote tradition and if its lyrical content could just be cleaned up and its use as a learning tool expanded, something positive might come from the black sheep of hip-hop. I do agree, however, about the lack of black progress in the Arts and this can be laid squarely at the feet of blacks themselves. Until we elevate our tastes and challenge our intellects, our affinity for entertainment rather than enlightenment will continue to stunt our growth as a race. |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1621
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 02:18 pm: |
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Cynique:
I would expect such a load of bilge from somebody who posts about "African girote traditions"
You need to go back and sharpen up your act. You are becoming a parody of yourself. |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3010
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 02:28 pm: |
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And I would expect your response, Chrishayden, because as usual, you can't stand for anybody to say something that doesn't meet with your personal approval. Tough shit. Everything I said in that post, I've said many times before. Ask the people who corrected my spelling of the word "girote". And I've always claimed that Rap was a art form. So if you gotta problem with what I said, blow it out your ass, bunky. |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1625
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 02:38 pm: |
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Cynique:
The gist of my disquiet is that you don't even know as much about hip hop as me. |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3014
Registered: 01-2004
Rating:
Votes: 1 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 02:53 pm: |
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What a stupid remark. I wasn't talking about hip hop. I was talking about rap music. And all one has to do to make the observations that I did about Rap, is to listen to it - which me and my grandson do on a regular basis. So take your disquiet and flush in down the toilet. |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1628
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 02:55 pm: |
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The fact that you call it rap music shows that you are out of date as bustles and high button shoes--which no doubt you are wearing right now. |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1629
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 02:58 pm: |
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Definitions of Hip hop on the Web:
Hip hop is a cultural movement that began among urban African Americans in New York City in the early 1970s, and has since spread around the world. Some consider beatboxing the fifth element of hip hop; others might add political activism, hip hop fashion, hip hop slang, double dutching (an urban form of rope skipping) or other elements as important facets of hip hop. The term has since come to be a synonym for hip hop music and rap to mainstream audiences. ...
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hip_hop
Chris Hayden
I report
You decide
Cynique cries |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3015
Registered: 01-2004
Rating:
Votes: 1 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 03:05 pm: |
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Time and time again, young folks on this board, have reminded that Rap is a subdivision of hip hop. I take their word for this rather than some post you have to go track down on web. And I didn't claim to be an expert, I specifically expressed my opinion about Rap. As square as you are, you don't need to be trying to hip anybody to anything. Gotta go. |
Solomonjones
Veteran Poster
Username: Solomonjones
Post Number: 75
Registered: 02-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 04:51 pm: |
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Cynique -
I laughed as I read the exchange between you and Chrishayden. Your spirit epitomizes the very best thing about black women ... I love it! |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3020
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 - 06:31 pm: |
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Thanks for the kind words, Solomonjones! Coming from a outstanding author like you makes what you say extra special! |
Soul_sister
Regular Poster
Username: Soul_sister
Post Number: 38
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Wednesday, November 16, 2005 - 09:12 am: |
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Cynique,
Thanks for the reponse - I did not mean to open up old wounds -
As for the degenerate nature of rap - yes it has gone in the toilet - I loved rap during the 80s and early 90s -- but the artists now have such explicit lyrics that every other word is a swear or body part - I aint against spoken word or the creativity it takes to make the music with your mouth -- as of late I peeped Kanye on SNL and he was good - but they edited a lot of language out of his music - which I felt was better than having the language in the lyrics in the first place.
Bottomline - when did cussing become an art form and acceptable speech pattern heard by women and men of varying ages -- elementary to college - everyone is so desensitized that erry thing is erry thing - ya-mean
peace
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Solomonjones
AALBC .com Platinum Poster
Username: Solomonjones
Post Number: 76
Registered: 02-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Wednesday, November 16, 2005 - 10:01 pm: |
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Cynique -
Thanks for the compliment.
Soul_sister -
I consider my time as a rapper in the early 80s as the beginning of my writing career. Back then, in the age of LL Cool J and TLA Rock, you had to be a good writer in order to be a rapper. Rap was about clever lyrics, making stands and having fun. In some circles it still is. Unfortunately, for many rappers, the writing is no longer important. It's all about saying things that are supposed to be shocking. Unfortunately, in many cases, it turns out to simply be vulgar. I too wonder when cussing became an art form. It's not acceptable.
As I heard one critic say, "How can we make music that denegrates and insults black women, then have the nerve to dance to it?" |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3023
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Wednesday, November 16, 2005 - 10:28 pm: |
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Soul sista and Solomon, there is such a thing as "art for the sake of art". Not all art is necessarily good. An oil painting of naked people in a compromising position may be offensive but it is considered art because it adheres to an art form. An abstract sculpture maybe confusing but it is still an art form. A lot of what rapper Kanye West and Lauryn Hill does is "decent" rap. So it is possible to send a good messasge using the art form of Rap. |
Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 999
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 12:03 am: |
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solomonjones: TLA Rock...thats going back!
Soul_Sister: Here may be an interesting read,
Karen Sotiropoulos, Staging Race: Black Performers in Turn of the Century America |
Soul_sister
Regular Poster
Username: Soul_sister
Post Number: 39
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 10:05 am: |
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Yukio -- and all thanks for the insight - peace out
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Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 1001
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 04:07 pm: |
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I try, I try, you know I try! |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3035
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 04:42 pm: |
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You suceed, you suceed, you - usually suceed. LOL |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3039
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 06:40 pm: |
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And did I succeed in spelling the word succeed wrong? Oh me. Time for elder Cynique to go. LOL. |
Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 1004
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 09:20 pm: |
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You are fine...."I try" is a talib qweli song, on his last album! |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3041
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 10:22 pm: |
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Oh. I was thinking about Angela's Bofil's classic song, "I try." |
Yukio
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Yukio
Post Number: 1006
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 10:50 pm: |
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hmmmm....I don't know. Faith is singin the chorus...and it is hip hop, so it could be from Bofil's song! |
Chrishayden
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Chrishayden
Post Number: 1631
Registered: 03-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Monday, November 21, 2005 - 12:03 pm: |
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Do you want some of this, Jones? |
Cynique
"Cyniquian" Level Poster
Username: Cynique
Post Number: 3051
Registered: 01-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Monday, November 21, 2005 - 01:00 pm: |
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You can nip this in the bud, Solomon Jones, if you got a straight pin handy. It works everytime with big bags of wind. |
Solomonjones
AALBC .com Platinum Poster
Username: Solomonjones
Post Number: 77
Registered: 02-2004
Rating: N/A
Votes: 0 (Vote!) | | Posted on Friday, November 25, 2005 - 11:55 am: |
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Chrishayden -
Not in the mood to argue about trivial pursuits ... too busy being thankful for stuff that really matters. Happy day-after-Thanksgiving. |
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