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Life in Music inspired by Joe Henry


vrijdag 8 maart 2019

Songs of our Native daughters

Songs of our Native daughters  

This album is  Musical journalism.


What better day is there than today, international Women's day, to thank, honor and put on a pedestal these 4 women, and what they have created.

How do I start writing about this album? I can’t get my thoughts in line, they are all together pushing their way out, as if there was a fire in my head. I am supposed to write a logical, structured text, and not this uncontrolled stream of thoughts. Who knows where this entry is ending up?



Songs of our Native daughters is an album that shines light on African-American women’s stories of struggle, resistance and hope. It is a confrontation with America’s history of slavery and racism seen from a woman’s point of view.  It was Rhiannon Giddens who felt the need to address these stories, and she invited Amythyst Kiah, Leyla McCalla and Allison Russell to a, how to say it…, a custom-made recording studio in Louisiana. A studio created by their producer Dirk Powell. In the meantime it is also an ode to a centuries old musical heritage of minstrelsy, bluegrass and folk. This interweaved with a celebration of the banjo, which can not be left aside in these histories.
On top of that : the title is a tribute to James Baldwin's essay : 'Notes of a Native Son' .

Several reviews for this album have already been written, and they all, righteously, praise this album, this music, these wonderful musicians. If they don’t know it yet, they will know it now: I truly admire these musicians, these human beings. It is indeed great music, powerful music, and only for that a must to hear.

But that’s not what I wanted to write about.

Although this album consists of stories from the past, it still is relevant today. Although these are stories about the African-American history; the issues addressed here can easily be translated to a global scale, and any kind of disrespect from 1 side to another more unfortunate one. The re-interpretation by Dirk Powell, from William Cowper’s poem “Pity for Poor Africans” from 1788 is the clearest proof of that. You can listen to it in the song ‘Barbados’.

This album is, what I would call, Musical journalism. It is like the war journalist who doesn’t search the big overall story of a conflict, but the one who tells the stories of innocent inhabitants who have to endure it all against their will. It is, for me, the most important form of journalism, for it tells you exactly how brutal it all is, and not how political just or unjust.
William Cowper displays us the problem of using only such journalism. Or is it propaganda? It depends on which side you are on, I guess.  In the poem a person starts talking about his disapproval of slavery, but soon comforts, maybe mostly himself, by explaining that it is for a good cause: coffee, tea…. And if they didn’t someone else would… and so on. The de-humanization of these Africans is taken for granted. They were addressed as slaves…. Not as Africans or humans, but with a word that has no human connotation: Slave. That makes it easier for people to accept the inhuman behavior towards these people. Step 1: you de-humanize them.
Today, in Europe, a same thing is happening for people who are fleeing from parts in the world where it is (or is becoming) impossible to live. Mostly because of war or climate change. These people are not called humans. No, we use words like refugee or luck-seeker. In my country, last year, a 2-year-old child was killed by a police bullet. “It was only a refugee” was something you heard a lot,... too much.
No! A 2 year old child died !

But back to the poem: Dirk Powell’s re-interpretation talks about modern slavery where it is not anymore about wool or sugar, but about the raw materials for our electronic devices. (Yes, I am aware I am typing this on an electronic device.) You can also easily interpret it towards cheap clothing, coffee from farmers in Africa, Shrimps for our summer barbecue, hazelnuts for our chocolate spread…
All (actually) luxury items we (also me) take for granted in our Western society.
Cynically Dirk Powell’s version ends with “So relax, my friend-we’re not all complicit.”
Should I, or we, feel complicit? Is it OK if I ask myself, or you that question? – There are politicians in my country who literally say we live in a superior society, so I think they don’t ask them self that question. But I do, … I ask myself more questions then I can give answers. I sometimes wish I didn’t, because that would be easier for my mind. Hellas, or luckily, I am who I am…

Am I complicit because (f.e.) I use smartphones and tablets? The easiest simple answer is: ‘no, because I can’t help it.’ But there is a more difficult complex answer. I don’t think you can point at it to individuals. We must question the society we live in. We all agree that any kind of slavery must end. Why do we, even today, close our eyes for such? I think, deep down, we all know there are people suffering so that we can have our ‘self-called-basic-needs’. Why do we find it for ourselves normal to be payed well, and work in healthy conditions, but don’t speak up for other parts of the world?
If we can do it for our own society, we can do it for everyone in the world, and that starts with thinking of this earth, this universe as 1 big society. a society of different people but all equal.

Bringing back a human face to the oppressed helps with that.
Stories of the innocent people who have to endure it, do exactly that.
This musical album does that.

That’s why, besides being a fantastic album, this is a very important album.

"We can do better, We can be better. We are 1 family, blood and bones, one race-human- and so many beautiful colors. We have love. We can take better care of eachother. Music helps, Music heals."
Allison Russell

And I thank you Rhiannon,
And Amythyst, Leyla, Allison and Dirk.



1000 words in - : my electronic device tells me, and if you made it up to here with me, you can maybe understand a little why these thoughts needed to come out.

Much Love,
Stefan.


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