67. Anthems – Jon Batiste
Our ancestors used music as a way to communicate deep truths, hidden messages, collective wisdom and unspoken joy and pain.
There was a time before music was commodified—before people sold tickets to “see” it, streamed it over the information superhighway or pasted logos of it on compact discs and t-shirts. Our ancestors used music as a way to communicate deep truths, hidden messages, collective wisdom and unspoken joy and pain. But even in the modern realm, at its best, music remains a divine source. We still get glimpses of that power from time to time from our great artists, and these moments frame our lives.
– Jon Batiste
Prompt:
When was the last time you experienced art that transcended enjoyment and overwhelmed you with its power. How would you translate that magic into words? If this hasn’t been an experience you’ve had—make it up.
Cristina De La Rosa
Location: Monterey Park, CA
About: Poetry, Racism, Lynching, and Protesting. How as Americans keep on trying to live up the ideals in the Declaration of Independence.
Age: 38
Over the course of the last few weeks as peaceful protest increased and few incidents of looting and rioting: I felt sad as I watched grieving families address the nation; I felt anger as watch incident after incident of police brutality; I felt hope as I watch moment of humility as people protect others; I feel compassion for the protester and the good police officers; I felt optimistic as killers are arrested; I felt pure fury and disbelief at Trump as Barr ordered the National Guard to disband a peaceful protest prior to the curfew just so Trump could have disrespectful photo op in front of a church after the curfew and the following day they spoke lie and lie; I feel a sense of respect for those simple acts of defiance.
There were a few days in there where the only thing I could do was just the news coverage. I could not go protesting, my body would not be able to handle it and the coronavirus risk was too high for my family. The video of George Floyd’s death was on a loop and one thought went through my mind: it is a lynching. Personal, my idea of a lynching was from the civil rights era: a black person being hung from a tree for being black in America. I was curious, what is the legal or historical definition of a lynching? So, I did my research looked it up. According to dictionary.com: lynch – to put to death, especially by hanging, by mob action and without legal authority. I also learned that Lynch Law started during the American Revolution. Simply, Charles Lynch (Virginia planter and justice of the peace) would execute British Loyalist with extraordinarily little regard to a proper trial. Basically, I was on the right tract: a lynching is a mob decides a person is guilty without looking for evident or simple for the color of their skin and killing that person right then and there.
As I grapple with my boiling emotions and watching the news, watching protesting across the country and the world, I want to figure out a concrete way I can contribute to making American society less racist and for her to become more true to the words in the Declaration of Independence.
One thing that did happen to me watching TV in those weeks was my ability to use my words to express what I was seeing. I ended up writing two poems.
#ModernDayLynching
a knee to his neck
I Can't Breathe
the knee stays
onlookers plea for George
police ignore their pleas
George Floyd Can't Breathe
it is simple
listen
remove your knee
check his breathing
a man lives
make the arrest
let justice decide
it is his Right as an American
Eight Minutes and Forty-Six Seconds
A Knee Crushing His Throat
stopping the air
Pleas Continues
that knee is Still at his neck
I Can't
21st Century Protesting
Another black man in handcuffs.
Lights. Camera. Action.
Police put a knee to his neck.
I can't breathe.
Pleas
Continue.
He can't breathe.
Pleas coming from others.
Eight Long Tortuous Excruciating Struggles Frightful Painful Agonizing Miserable Minutes and Forty-Six Seconds.
George Floyd life ends.
We can't breathe.
Anger. Frustration.
One Down. Three to Go.
How is this Justice?
Outrage. More Frustration.
No Justice. No Peace.
Fear Everywhere.
What else can we do?
Knees on the Ground.
Hands in the air.
Palms out facing the Wall of Police.
Stone Faces in Blue.
No Justice. No Peace.
Our Fist in the Air.
Poverty Generation After Generation
Injustice Generation After Generation
Under Education Generation After Generation
Racism spreads across America
Unemployment Risings and Hunger Spreads
Poverty endures
Fear is Contagious
More Death at the hands of Indifference
Patterns Repeat Once Again
Generation After Generation
What's next?
Flynn
Location: Stuart, Florida
About: More SinkCoffiti, art originally created with coffee and then photography.
Age: 58
I feel so in touch, so very much connected with/to art and music. I have a tattoo on my wrist which represents that I am tied to music.
Art and music is such a tremendous part of my life, my soul. I hear music in my head almost all the time. I see "art" in so many things. I love to visit art museums. I love to create art. I love to make music. Art is life. Life is art.
I am frequently overwhelmed by the power of it.
My favorite artists are Jean Michel Basquiat, Jackson Pollock, Van Gogh, Georges Seurat, Rembrandt...oh, I could just go on, and on....
I was blown away by our own Patrick McDonnell's art just the other day. It's inspiring to me.
To Jon Batiste,
"The Northbound F Train is out of service...The Northbound F Train is out of service..."
One of the best, most personal and sincere compliments that I can pay any musician is to let them know that I'm listening, critically, and I keep going back to listen more. I'm truly loving "Meditations." It has given me very much peace since the first time I listened to it. I do keep going back for more, and I've been sharing it with my friends. It reminds me of NYC, which will always be home to me. ("Big up to Brooklyn!") I'm a fan. Great job! 🙏
Here's a SinkCoffiti piece I did this morning, in honor of all of you, and dedicated with love and respect to Suleika Jaouad for everything that she has done here.
Love to all.
🎶☮️❤️☯️♾️🎶
Janis Farmer
Location: Arizona
About: Even though I have little ability to create it, music has always sung to me, transporting me from the boring-ordinary to the extraordinary.
The last time I experienced art that transcended enjoyment and overwhelmed me with its power was when a singer-songwriter was performing a song he'd written and felt a deep connection to. What the feeling? I stopped thinking about the music. My eyes leaked spontaneously and I had to remember to breathe. I felt lifted, carried to a place of deep feeling on the melody and the lyrics. It was like the artist opened the door to a private place within himself, and shared that space with anyone present, and attentive, enough to notice. Time ceased to exist. After he finished the song there was no applause for the longest time. I've come to see that an extended silence is the most sincere applause a performer can receive from an audience.
Lori Tucker-Sullivan
Location: Detroit, MI
About: I live in Detroit where I write nonfiction and essays. I am currently working on a book about the widows of rock stars who died young and what they have taught me about grief. Forthcoming from BMG in spring, 2021. My inspiration for this entry is my life-long love of the music of Queen and their lead singer, Freddie Mercury.
Age: 56
Deep gratitude to Jon Batiste for your thoughtful prompts this week. They did more than prompt—they nudged and encouraged serious reflection. Thank you.
Five years ago, I took my son to see Queen, the 70’s glam rock band once fronted by the iconic Freddie Mercury. Last summer, I saw them again, with my best friends from elementary school. Both times were transcendent experiences.
These were my eighth and ninth Queen concerts, in one form or another. I saw them first when I was only fourteen. Just barely a high school freshman, I attended with my two best friends who were sisters. We told our parents we were spending the night at each other’s house and convinced my sister to drive us to the show and drop us off in downtown Detroit—at the time, the murder capital of the country. I saw them five more times and met them twice in the span of ten or so years.
How do I explain my enduring love and fascination with this musical group except to say that they are a part of me, a part of my adolescence, my teen years, and my adulthood, woven into my life like threads of actual DNA.
As teens, we did the typical activities—we joined the fan club, collected magazine articles and pictures, hung posters on our walls and bought all their records. Bits of the band are connected to so many facets of my life. They were smart (four degrees and one PhD between them), good looking, and formidable musicians. And they were more. They quoted Tolkien and Shakespeare in their songs, they wrote about time travel, fairies, and other mythical creatures. It was rock music for geeky bookworms like us; it felt like home. The music, especially that sung by Mercury, was sexual in an androgynous way that I didn’t quite understand, but knew I liked. It was dangerous in a way that made us brave enough to lie to our parents. It was loud and romantic and rhythmic and rock and roll. It was black nail polish (but only on one hand), costumes, song lyrics in Japanese. It was sensitive and rebellious.
By the time I finished high school, my tastes changed. I moved on to punk and new wave. My clothing, haircuts, and multiple piercings reflected this. I completely lost touch with childhood friends. We shared so much in our young lives, but Federally-mandated busing in Detroit led their parents to flee to the suburbs. I saw them for the last time at my wedding in 1986.
As Kevin and I began married life, my Queen records were dusty, but still maintained an important place in my collection. I often had to defend my love of the band as they fell out of favor. I continued to collect their records including a signed copy of a very rare 45 by Freddie Mercury from the day he met the other members of the band and they became Queen.
It wasn’t until ten years later, as news of Mercury’s imminent death became public, that I revisited my enduring love of him and his music. By that time, I was eight months pregnant with the son I would later take to concerts. The memories, mixed with the hormones racing through my bulging body, put me into a deep funk. I cried for days at Freddie’s death. I sat in front of MTV for hours, watching as fans lay flowers at Garden Lodge, Freddie’s home in London.
I believe it was the first time I took stock of what it meant to have a full life. I mourned the too-early passing of this man and was devastated by the way in which he died—the way in which AIDS took from him his voice, his sight, the very essence of his creativity. I thought a lot, in the months after his death, about what it means to leave a legacy, especially one of creativity; of dedication to craft, of choices we make. I thought of regret, of how one moment can change everything.
With the news that the band was touring again, I knew I could share a few minutes of joy with my son, who now loves and knows their music too. It was with a certain amount of ambivalence that I purchased tickets to the show. They now tour with Adam Lambert, who sounds like Freddie but is stylistically different. John Deacon has retired from music, so it was just those two—a bit wider in girth and grayer of hair—that perform, along with anonymous back-up musicians.
When I saw them in 2015 with my son, it was pure joy. I stomped my feet, I screamed, I danced, I shouted their names. I pointed out Brian May’s “Red Special” guitar that he and his father made. I hugged Austin and teared-up when Freddie appeared on a screen to sing Love of My Life. It was wonderful to share this moment, to see him enjoying the music too and to see him mouthing the words to the songs. I’m not certain what my legacy will be, but if just a tiny part of it is passing along the love of this music, then I think I’m ok with that.
Three years later, I received a surprising Facebook friend request from my childhood friends. I reconnected with my best friends thirty years after last seeing them. Our lives have taken such different paths, it’s hard to understand. We have tried to maintain a new, adult friendship, but even that is sometimes challenging. I am determined to try, again and again, to not lose this connection. One thing we knew for sure was that we would see Queen again if they came to Detroit.
That night happened last summer. We took our seats and waited for the lights to go down. The first beats of the bass put us right back into 1979. There is something magical feeling the beat of that very loud music tingle the bottoms of my feet, pierce the tip of my spine, and travel upward and outward through my body. Transcendent is the only word that comes close to describing. It makes me feel alive in a way that nothing else can. The show included the usual nods to Freddie, including a film of him from old concerts. The three of us locked arms, we swayed, we sang every word to every song, we openly cried—for the many lost loves in our lives, including Freddie, for regrets, mistakes, for small triumphs; for second chances to not turn our backs, for forgiveness, and for the never slowing passage of time.