Last month, I spent a week in Berlin. There was a happening – a very Black gathering that pulled participant-artists from across the African diaspora, including Guadeloupe, Toronto, Johannesburg, Switzerland, United Kingdom, Kenya, the U.S., Berlin, and more.
George E. Lewis, who worked to convene us, knows how to instigate a party. He shared that the name of the conference, “Always, Already There,” came from literary theorist James A. Snead’s critique of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s interpretation of African culture. In this moment, I’ll spare us the history of this, but essentially, the conference title was intended to communicate an enduring presence – that these creators and this music have always been here. Our erasure from the textbooks doesn’t make our intentionally-omitted music valueless.
Hegelian presumptions about me and my ancestors aside, let’s get into the accuracy of always, already there. I heard some thangs. Ooowee! Music and art spaces are treacherous: they are not safe for women, they are not safe for trans people, they are not safe for Black and Brown-bodied people. We agreed that if we encountered a terrible organization or situation, we would help others avoid that pitfall through sharing our experiences! I’m a quiet guy, so I didn’t mind being prodded to speak up and out, to share. Thank you Douglas Ewart for the nudge, who said, “I wanna hear from those who haven’t yet shared.” Fair enough. I, too, wanted to hear from everyone. Certainly we all have tales to tell.
Douglas Ewart — Photo by Jonathan Finlayson
In Jessie Cox’s essay written for the conference booklet, he shares, “The question that prompted this essay is: What is the possible meaning of fighting for Black musicians, composers, and Black (experimental) sounds — for representation and more? This question is on the order of the enforcement of the borders of representation. Blackness seems to present a problem for an ‘antiblack’ world and its control over representation, claiming absolute knowledge, authority, and sovereignty. Why are Black lives’ musical activities strongly policed by way of genres, historical narratives, systemic exclusion and by what they may say or sound like?”
When I encounter this question, it reminds me of every instance in which I have been asked what my music “sounds like,” as the inquisitive mind wanted to place me in my box – to pre-judge me. To compare me. To make me feel less than. George threw out the term “mis-genreing,” and we laughed immediately and fully. We so deeply get it. It hurts our spirits that the industry and its derivatives need to box creators in using labels with which we may not identify. My recent albums have been labeled jazz, classical, and classical-crossover. I wouldn’t choose any of those. Duke Ellington told us “there are only two types of music, good music and the other stuff.” But seeing as “good music” isn’t an option for describing our work and is obviously very vague, I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand.
George also tossed out multiple times that we are in need of new experts. The so-called “experts” we’ve had to endure – who have not heard, researched, nor programmed music from the various diasporas – have shown us they are not experts. They lack familiarity with community, and we’ve witnessed them continuously sitting back not seeking what they’re missing. They claim to be knowledgeable. We disagree.
George E. Lewis and Bonaventure Ndikung — Photo by Jonathan Finlayson
It’s taken nearly all of my time on earth to get some things right, chief among them being what I call “the great unlearning.” I’m directly referring to Western music theory and the self-importance “that” all the classical arts boast. Yet, in a macro sense, I’m speaking to learning and creating new ways to exist as an artist and musician outside of the very narrow lanes made available through the academy and the concert hall. I reject the supremacy of those spaces now. I see their ties to chattel slavery and its continued energies, such as insulting commission fees and continuing to gate-block with notation style and quality of scores/recordings as barriers. This means we’re working to heal the ecosystems from within, while imagining and building what comes next – like good Afrofuturists.
The writing of literary scholar Saidiya Hartman illuminates the ways in which “the enslaved challenged, refused, defied, and resisted the condition of enslavement and its ordering and negation of life, its extraction and destruction of capacity.” I want to disentangle from all of the violent ways in which the classical canon and the music industry aim to keep me contained and held. I am struggling against it and working to find new means of production and new avenues for public offerings so I may continue to gift the art back to my ancestors and the communities to which I belong. I struggle deeply to perform for mostly white audiences. I struggle as a concertgoer when the house is mostly white – especially when the music is beautiful and Black and intended for all listeners.
Does this mean we won’t program works from the Western classical canon? Of course not. I will perform and program Bach the rest of my days. Yet, I may, and I do, choose to not engage with some composers who directly benefited from chattel slavery like Handel. This is information I gained from engagement with Loki Karuna and his offerings.
Alyssa Regent and Corie-Rose Soumah — Photo by Jonathan Finlayson
I also stopped accepting invitations to concertize during Black History Month half a lifetime ago – show me you’re lacking righteous engagement with less effort. And then the uprisings happened after the murder of George Floyd. The white institutions were leaping bullheaded over one another trying to drop their letters of support and commitment to a better way from that moment forward. We all knew what that meant for this next season or two of programming — when these same institutions appear to care about what and how we program, and yet, leave much unattended to.
But after attending “Always, Already There,” I am envisioning a future more clearly than ever before. Collectively, we can see it: a better way to exist as creators and performers, and we are very much hands-on with bringing about this promise. It’s about equitable exchange. You should be showing me things I’ve never heard, seen, or studied from both the canon and the wealth of art outside of the canon. I should be showing you things you’ve never heard, seen, or studied that are being made today, that have been forgotten, or come from creators whose legacies touch me specifically. There is an abundance, there is no scarcity. Do the work. Do the research. Dig. Find what’s always been right there; always, already there.
Why did we gather? To air our grievances? A bit. There are many. We’re a part of a really messed up ecosystem. We want to exist in healthier digs. We’re here now and we’re working from the inside and the outside and from within ourselves to make it more equitable and respectful. We need new experts. We need new curators. We need new venues. We need more engaged donors and patrons. We need new record labels and publishers. We need new management. All of it needs to be more loving. The conversations we had were honest and intense, but necessary given the state of affairs for contemporary composers of color. Some of us choose to not play “the game” – instead we choose to make our art. We understand this means you might not hear about us while we’re living and creating, especially if you’re only being led or fed by mainstream news outlets.
We also gathered to share music and creativity. Each of the four concerts left me positively elevated and altered. That was the magic for which I came. Did I mention I wasn’t one of the programmed composers? I was a humble interloper who received an informal invitation from Anthony R. Green, a participating composer. I had been complaining about life as an artist and composer in the weeks leading up to the conference, and he said, “Can you get to Berlin next month?” Absolutely not, I said. But I managed it with much assistance. It’s where I needed to be.
The artists who gathered definitely plan on continuing the momentum that flowed throughout the conference. Since I began working on this article, it’s been publicly announced that Castle of Our Skins, the arts organization co-founded by Anthony and Ashe Gordon, has been awarded a building to house their offerings in Boston. This is exactly what we need and what I’m talking about here.
I went to widen my circle of compassion, to deepen my relationship with my direct community, and to more fully engage my connection to my chosen tribe. I heard nature. I heard truths. I witnessed the advancement of creative musicians. I was present for the birth of future collaborations. I needed that magic to help me keep my head in the game. I want to be here in it and to offer what I have to offer. Despite the challenges and hardships. I am here for beauty.
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