Ted Rall: Not Mean, Just Dumb

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This review of America Gone Wild ran in The Comics Journal a while back.

America Gone Wditpsh

In his preface to America Gone Wild,” Steve Bell links Ted Rall to the illustrious tradition of American cartooning that began with Thomas Nast. It’s an odd comparison. Nast was a highly skilled illustrator with a knack for dramatic composition and striking images. His cartoons were instantly understandable, by literate and illiterate alike. As Nast’s nemesis, the corrupt machine politician Boss Tweed moaned, “My constituents can’t read. But, damn it, they can see pictures!”

Ted Rall, on the other hand, is a shockingly bad draftsman — one TCJ message board poster correctly noted that Rall’s drawings look as if he holds his pen with his sphincter. Moreover, his strips are wordy and unimaginative, often featuring little more than panel after panel of talking heads. In the introduction to this book, Rall claims that his visual drabness is a sign of iconoclasm. “Back when I first began taking cartooning seriously in the ‘80s, I had promised myself to throw out all the old rules,” he intones sententiously. “Gone would be Democratic donkeys and Republican elephants…the conceit that political cartoons should be single-panel, and the big head-little body school of caricature.” All of which would be a lot more convincing if (a) there were any sign that Rall could draw an actual caricature if his life depended on it, and (b) Gary Trudeau had never existed.

Personally, I sometimes wish Gary Trudeau had never existed — his half-assed graphics and smug whimsy have had a horrible effect on comics in general and on editorial cartooning in particular. And while he has inspired some great strips — like Bloom County — I can’t help feeling they would have been even better if it weren’t for his influence. Be that as it may, given the extremely confining limits of Trudeaudom, Rall’s drawings aren’t so awful. In fact, compared to Tom Tomorrow’s clunky collages, or David Rees’ lame clip art, or Trudeau’s stylistic nullity, Rall’s cock-eyed, snarling, anatomically unhinged characters start to look pretty good. It’s true that when Rall draws Ronald Reagan in Hell, it doesn’t look like Reagan, it doesn’t look much like Hell, and it’s not evocative in any usual sense. But at least the illustration is genuinely ugly rather than just bland. I can appreciate that.

Similarly, Rall’s jokes rely on boilerplate liberal outrage and are massively overwritten. But that goes with the territory, and, within those limits, Rall can be fairly funny. For instance, the gag in the Reagan-in-Hell panel is that Reagan’s in heaven — which now looks like the Pit because of budget cuts and privatization. “Funding Good Deeds to Cancel Evildoing”, in which Rall suggests that the U.S. should get the right to torture an inmate at home every time it frees a political prisoner abroad, is great gallows humor. Rall’s vicious portrayal of “Generalissimo El Busho” as a drooling, toothy coup leader is nicely done too, if that’s the way your politics swing. And the non-partisan Fantabulaman comics are entertaining, especially the one in which our invincible hero destroys a giant robot by mentally calling into existence 1000 barrels of acid rain. I like super-hero satires — so sue me.

If this were all there were to Rall, he’d be just another competent career gadfly, cheered by the lefty choir and ignored by most everybody else. But instead, and improbably, Rall is one of the most polarizing cartoonists in the country, extravagantly loathed by the whole spectrum of right-wing indignation-peddlers (Limbaugh, Colter, O’Reilly, etc.) and by a good portion of the comics industry as well. I mean, it would be one thing if Rall were a Marxist advocating violent revolution, or a Klansman spouting racial genocide. But he’s just a liberal. How does a moderately talented cartoonist with solidly mainstream views manage to cause such a ruckus?

His detractors would argue that he does it by being an enormous flaming asshole. His supporters — and Rall himself — maintain that Rall is a target because he’s a fearless, articulate opponent of the establishment, one of the few people with guts enough to point out that the emperor has no clothes. There’s probably something to both of these views. To me, though, they both ignore the most essential facet of Ted Rall’s art: its incoherence.

As I mentioned, there are some strips in this collection that are pretty funny. But there are also an embarrassing number that simply don’t make sense. For example, a cartoon called “Everything That’s Wrong: Case Study: The 1/13/05 New York Times” is a series of black blocks with arrows and captions, topped by a super-imposed, blurred-out newspaper article that is almost impossible to read. I had no idea what the hell was going on until I read the explanatory text added for this book, in which Rall informed me that he was attacking the NYT for burying a news item about the discovery of WMDs in Iraq. Rim shot, I guess.

Fumbling one punchline could be an accident; fumbling a series of them, as Rall does, starts to look like carelessness. A strip called “Inappropriate Emphasis Comics” makes little sense — and even less when Rall explains it’s supposed to be a blistering attack on cartoonists who bold the wrong words in their strips. Another cartoon shows Bush as the medieval king Henry IV asking penance from Jaques Chirac; Rall comments, somewhat bemusedly, that “No one understood this obscure historical reference.” In a strip called “Do You Know Where Your Children Are?” a character named Barbara has her baby snatched from the hospital nursery, then a series of children kidnapped by her ex-husband, then a child taken by alien abduction, and finally her last kid is stolen from her well-defended island fortress by a child welfare agency. And that’s the joke. Get it? (In his explanatory text, Rall notes — not all that helpfully — that “A spate of child kidnappings increased parents’ paranoia.”)

This last example illuminates Rall’s standing as a controversialist. As far as I can tell, the strip is meant to use absurd, exaggerated humor to poke fun at a widely touted cultural phenomenon — the equivalent of a humorist suggesting that people are relying on their Blackberrys to schedule their bowel movements. The problem is that the phenomenon Rall is caricaturing — child-kidnapping — isn’t a transitory news item, but a problem that’s been around for years, even decades (unless Rall’s talking about a particular, localized series of kidnappings, in which case, why doesn’t he say so?) Furthermore, the target of the humor is unclear and confused — is Rall making fun of the media for sensationalizing these stories? Is he mocking the paranoia of parents who are overly concerned about their kids being nabbed? Or is he mocking people who have actually had their kids stolen? You could certainly read it the last way — and if you did, you might well be extremely pissed off.

This particular cartoon didn’t get Rall any bad press, but those that did — most of which Rall discusses in his introduction — work in much the same way. For example, in his famous “Terror Widows” cartoon, Rall tried to call attention to the apparent hypocrisy of particular women, like Lisa Beamer, who parleyed the death of her spouse on 9/11 into lucrative media exposure. This is certainly explosive material, and Rall might have gotten flack for it anyway. The clincher, though, was that he never mentioned Beamer, or anyone else, by name. Instead, the cartoon reads as a vicious and arbitrary attack on anyone who lost a loved one on 9/11. In his introduction to this book, Rall acknowledges that he “should have referenced the original media whoring that had inspired the cartoon more carefully.” But he refuses to apologize, on the probably true but nonetheless irrelevant grounds that while “’Terror Widows wasn’t my best work…it was far from my worst.”

Rall’s refusal to back down here lends validity to the “asshole” interpretation of his career. But the fact remains that in almost every case where his cartoons have caused a brouhaha, it’s because of his incompetence, not his malice. “New York City Fire Department 2011” was meant to be a light-hearted goof about the number of donations New Yorker’s made to the firefighters after 9/11. Thanks to Rall’s ham-fisted writing style, though, it is possible to see it as an attack on the firefighters’ morals — and many readers did. Even more telling is Rall’s bizarre cartoon comparing the U.S. to a school run by a mentally-handicapped student. The strip ran after the 2004 election, and Rall intended the handicapped student to be a stand-in for Bush — I think. But the allegory is tenuous. Instead, what really comes across is the image of the barfing, drooling retard, and Rall’s suggestion that the mentally handicapped should be locked away so the rest of us don’t have to see them.

Rall got lots of angry letters from parents of special needs kids, and this time he did apologize. “Looking back on it now, I probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind to work my high-wire act on a piece of Bristol board,” he muses. Check. But the real problem here isn’t that he made one mistake, or two mistakes. The real problem is that, with apologies to Mark Twain, Rall sees as through a glass eye, darkly. Aesthetically, I’m not automatically put off by confusion, opacity, or offensiveness for its own sake and, from that perspective, I can enjoy Rall as a kind of aphasiac dada experiment. But even if some art doesn’t need to be clear or pointed, surely editorial cartoons should be. That’s why Thomas Nast, who could communicate without words, is one of the masters of the genre. Ted Rall, on the other hand, often seems unable to communicate at all.

Toya

Outside of Brooke Valentine , the most underrated R&B performer of the last 10 years is almost certainly Toya (not to be confused with LeToya. A St. Louis native, Toya released one self-titled album in 2001, had a minor hit with the single “I Do!!” and then completely disappeared.

That one album, though, is something else. Toya was clearly influenced by Destiny’s Child rhythmic, quasi-rap sing-song, independent woman stance, and Kevin Briggs beats. But she’s also a huge fan of disco and of Latin music. The result is one of the most distinctive sounds of the oughts. The first track, “No Matta What (Party All Night) beats even Prince’s “1999” as a rapturous ode to partying. It opens with a quiet piano figure — the first skittery, fuzzed-out beats sound like a series of bombs detonating. Then the producer adds layers of ping-pong vocals, electronic burps, and Toya’s vocal soaring up, tinged with that retro-eighties yearning that always gets me right in the thorax. I’ve listened to this track about 20 times over the last couple of days, and it just never gets old — if there’s a Platonic pop single, this is what it sounds like.

The rest of the album is great too. “How Can I Be Down” flirts with a Latin percussion sound mixed into more standard R&B rhythms. “The Truth” is a gloriously full-bore Saturday Night Fever tribute. “What Else Can I Do” funks up the drum part from “Scentless Apprentice” and adds some seventies waa-waa guitar. “Fiasco” has a huge, off-kilter beat which almost drowns out Toya as she wonders should she or shouldn’t she, noting that “sometimes boys can treat you so ghetto/I don’t want to say I told you so.”

As this suggests, the lyrics, like the music, are smart and winning throughout. The subject matter is about what you’d expect — cheating, partying, love. But it’s put across with just the right balance of street smarts, earnestness, and intelligence. “I Messed Up” is a nicely gender-switched plea for forgiveness — with a few more curse words, and a more old-school backing you could see Amy Winehouse singing it. “Moving On” is a Soulshock/Karlin number about mourning which recalls some of the emotional complex vacillations of classic Rod Stewart — “And it was God that made me able/To finally sleep at night/Though you’re not by my side….I tried to move on but you’re not gone/Cuz in my heart you still live on.” Best of all, though, is “I Do,” which couples a killer strutting beat with some of the goofiest hipster patter going — “He had a hickey in his pocket/A fat rock in his ear/He made my heart start palpitating/every time he came near.” What’s a “hickey” mean in this context, you ask? Well, a glossary is helpfully provided with the liner notes.

The only downside to this album, in fact, is the knowledge that there aren’t any more. Toya’s still out there somewhere, probably still in her twenties, probably still bursting with ideas and talent. But this is it — I doubt she’ll ever make another record. Which really sucks.

Black Hole

I just finished Charles Burns’ Black Hole. From glancing at bits of it in the past, I had thought it might violate my “art comics are trying to be literary fiction” paradigm…but on closer inspection, it really doesn’t. Again, we have a bunch of standard pulp tropes (essentially the horror/super-hero-romance hybrid perfected by Lee/Kirby) slowed down, arted up, and spit back out as coming-of-age narrative. And while the premise (teens contract a sexually-transmitted plague which results in unpredictable mutations) sounds original and surprising, the story as it unfolds is both cliched and predictable. Here’s the earnest first person narration…the awfully nice guy who isn’t going to get the girl of his dreams…the sexually wiser (slightly) older woman who saves him…the popular girl who gets her come-uppance…the geeky losers who turn out to be okay…the geeky loser who turn out to be secretly murderous. And then there’s the whole generation gap, parents just don’t understand, tiresome tripped out baby-boomer fetishization. And, as I’ve mentioned in a few posts, it just wouldn’t be comics if we didn’t appropriate minority (black/gay) experience (the kids marked by sexual difference, the few less-affected who can, in Burns’ words, “pass”) without ever acknowledging the existence of actual minorities.

Still, there is a lot to like. Burns’ layouts aren’t especially inventive in general — we’re dealing with basic grids for the most part. But his stark, wood-blocky art, all blacks and whites, turns each page into a kind of ink blot; his style is so unique that the pages are visually unified even when, in terms of action and composition, there’s not much to distinguish them from any number of other American comics. What he draws is great, too; he clearly has a real love of the macabre. The sequence at the beginning of one issue is particularly amazing, as a disgusting Freudian dream transforms into an equally disgusting Freudian reality: the female lead, Chris dreams about penis-corkscrew, a fetal potato creature, and a the male lead as a gigantic snake; she then then wakes up as a vaginal wound on her back splits open…and she precedes to tear her skin off in one big piece.

That pretty much sums up the book’s themes right there; sexuality as the prelude/initiation to a monstrous adulthood. It’s a neat metaphor on which to hang a story (probably better than the high-school-is-hell analogy of the comparable teen horror vehicle, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.) The fact that Burns doles out the worst mutations to minor characters, allowing all his major ones to retain their good looks, does turn the end of the story into a nostalgic reconcilement with adulthood which is rather a cop out. But if we’ve got to have Bildungsromans, I wish they were all as creepily ichorous, and as beautifully drawn, as this one.

The Gangsta in the Closet

So how gay is gangsta rap? I just got Chamillionaire’s The Sound of Revenge and the answer seems to be, pretty darn gay. First of all there’s his name (pronounced Camille, like a girl or, even worse, a Frenchman.) And then there’s the subject matter. In “Picture Perfect” Chamillionaire primps and preens, boasting about his diamonds and good looks and encouraging the male chorus to “take a picture, nigger.” In “No Snitchin’” he discusses the importance of keeping secrets with the ardor of a man who’s spent some time on the down low. “Peepin’ Me” is about the glances which precede a hook-up — with a woman, supposedly, but the surreptitiousness of the set-up and the emphasis on getting off and getting out strongly suggest a male-male context. In “Think I’m Crazy,” Chamillionaire is nervous as a woman seems to be coming on to him; the emotional climax comes when the rapper is shown a picture of his (male, naturally) “ex-best friend”— who died of AIDS. But the clincher is “Grown and Sexy” an ode to ass in which Chamillionaire watches a woman walk away and declares “you look better from behind.” Indeed — and we all know what it means when a man doesn’t go for specifically female sexual characteristics but becomes excited by buttocks, don’t we?

Of course, this isn’t just about Chamillionaire. Gangsta rap in general is, and has always been, subliminally flaming in exact proportion to its desperate surface masculinity. It is, after all, about the denigration and rejection of intimacy with women, the glorification of male-male bonds (“it ain’t no fun if the homeys don’t get none”), and the fetishization of that mother-of-all-penis substitutes, the gun.

As R&B and rap have fused, you might have thought that this inward-turned masculinity would have been diluted. Radio rappers work with female performers on a regular basis, after all. Yet the barrier between male and female remains firmly in place; in fact, if anything, it’s accentuated. On the video for Get Up, Chamillionaire performs beside Ciara. Yet he’s entirely oblivious, spitting out his rhymes in front of his all-male crew as if he hasn’t even noticed that one of the hottest women on the planet is gyrating nearby. The disinterest signals of course, that he’s a manly man who doesn’t need no woman…but, you know, it might also signal that he’s a manly man, who doesn’t need no woman.

Or (to give poor Chamillionaire a break) consider a recent appearance by the big bad father of the genre, Dr. Dre. Dre makes a recent guest appearance on the Timbaland track “Bounce”. It’s an amazing song; Timbaland provides one of his best productions, all squeaky stuttering, tripped-out beats. Unfortunately, the lyrics are just embarrassing for everyone. Timbaland’s monotone is, as always, lame, and Dre isn’t a whole lot better — he sounds old, tired, and bored as he mumbles on about an Asian girl named “Some Young Ho”. Then Justin Timberlake starts babbling cluelessly about a menage a trois, and one is forcibly reminded that what we’ve got here is not two girls with one guy, but several guys and no girl. That is, until the last verse, where Missy Eliot shows up — hitting hard on the “bs” of “big old butt”, punching out syllables behind the beat, mocking Dre’s lame rhymes, and generally making the other guys look like pansies. A track which (like pretty much all gangsta tracks) is supposed to solidify the male bona fides of the participants ends up suggesting that the only one in the room who can swing that thing is a (butch) woman.

In Epistemology of the Closet, Eve Sedgwick points out that heterosexual masculinity is always and everywhere caught in a “double bind.” On the one hand, associating with or being intimate with women feminizes you, and makes you gay. On the other hand, associating with or being intimate with men also makes you gay. The result is a desperate, constant, and unconvincing denial of homosexuality. Black men — who have been relentlessly emasculated in our culture — have responded with a cartoon masculinity which needs constant shoring up, not only because of outside pressure, but because of its internal contradictions. You can never be man enough, because being man enough means not being a man, which means you have to prove your man enough…and on and on, repetitive track after repetitive track.

This is why, I think, R&B has really surpassed rap as a creative force on radio at the moment. Gangsta has (ahem) swallowed rap, and gangsta as a genre is, it seems to me, deeply neurotic. The obsession with masculinity limits the subject-matter, the style, and the ambition of its performers. Female R&B performers are just able to talk about more stuff — they can be tough, but they can also be vulnerable; they can talk about wanting sex, but they can also talk about wanting to save themselves. And without the burden of always being dangerous and manly, their tracks can take more musical risks as well. That Ciara track with is sure as hell trickier than anything on Chamillionaire’s album; it actually has different parts, for example.

All of which helps to explain why OutKast’s last, brilliant fusion of rap and R&B went precisely nowhere. Idlewild is certainly about the relationship between Dre and Big Boi — but that relationship is both acknowledged and loving, not a fraught, sublimated mess. As a result, it leaves room for Dre to dress fastidiously while singing feyly off-key, Big Boi to get chewed out by his woman, and both to rely on a goofy stew of influences which includes such manic, semi-androgynous geniuses as Prince and George Clinton. Billed as their break-up album, Idlewild is actually Dre and Big Boi’s most definitive statement that they care more about each other than they do about being tough — and the rap world’s predictable response was, “Fuck that gay shit.” Then they all went back to contemplating each others’ hardness.

Brooke Valentine

This appeared in the Chicago Reader a month or two back.

Just out of curiosity; is there anybody (except me) who would like to see me post more about music and perhaps slightly less about comics? Leave me a note in the comments if so….

It Might Go Pop, But It Won’t Blow Up

Rihanna’s “Good Girl Gone Bad” has all the ingredients for pop R&B success. Comely, limber, light-skinned singer/dancer to put on the album cover? Check. Cameo by hit rapper on the single? Check. Two or three tracks produced by Timbaland? Yep. Songs about booty-shaking, sex, loving your good man, and dissing your no-good man? There you are . Now just spend an obscene amount on promotion and prepare to rake in even more obscene amounts of cash.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Whether its roots rock, bop, 60s soul, or metal, genres are formulaic — otherwise they wouldn’t be genres, after all. Rihanna’s album has great songs, superb production, and has been spending happily spinning away in my CD player. She’s simply a traditionalist rather than an innovator — Otis Redding rather than Sly Stone; High on Fire rather than Khanate.

Contemporary R&B has its innovators, too, of course. But — in comparison to other genres — the recognition they get for their efforts is small, and their careers circumscribed. Kelis, for one, had to trade in her Afrocentric pose and some of her rock stylings to achieve even partial success. And Houston native Brooke Valentine’s story has been even more painful.

If you just asked “Brooke who?”…well, yeah, that’s the thing. Valentine’s debut album, “Chain Letter” came out in 2005. She appeared on the cover sporting a half-shirt emblazoned with a big-winged bat and holding a pen topped with a plastic eyeball. By the fashion-shoot standards of pop R&B, such a display of quirky humor qualifies as willfully eccentric — and one of the interior photos, which shows Valentine standing in front of a gigantic wall of records, is just as odd. We all know divas spend their money on shoes and bling —we’re supposed to believe she collects vinyl?

The answer is, yes indeed. “Chain Letter” is one of those albums — like The Beatles “Rubber Soul” or OutKast’s “Stankonia” — that turns a genre inside out. R&B becomes the world, and the world gets swallowed by R&B. Valentine’s producer and co-writer Deja the Great is a hyperfertile genius; every song has unexpected twists, layered bridges, and gimmicks on its gimmicks so, for example, you can listen to the album fifty times before you fully catch the delicate music-box fade on “Tell Me Why (You Don’t Love Me).” On “Cover Girl” the pair channel folk-rock through Stax; on “American Girl”, they bash Prince-inflected funk into riot grrrl while suggesting that two are bound together by a patriotic adoration of pop-culture detritus (“This Disney World’s your underworld/ Try to escape it/ Just face it you’re an American Girl.”)

As a singer, Valentine doesn’t have the firepower of, say, Beyoncé, but what she’s got she uses with enthusiasm and imagination, breathily harmonizing with herself on “Laugh Til I Cry,” yodelling over the loping Texas groove on “Pass Me By,” Rasta ranting on “Million Bucks”, rapping like it’s 1979 on the discofied “Taste of Dis,” and wailing like a gospel air-raid siren on “I Want You Dead.” The latter, which starts, from the same man-hating stance as Rihanna’s “Breaking Dishes,” quickly vaults into gleeful, Danzig-worthy horror pastiche — “I’d rather see you in the cemetery, gagging, boxed up, full of maggots…some hopeful thinking never hurt anyone.” Even when Valentine’s just extolling the virtues of the boogie, her brain stays in touch with her butt. “The junk in this trunk’ll put a bump in your pants;” “I move my body left to right/their checkin’ me out like I’m a website.” “Even the girls are lookin,” she boasts — and you can stay in the damn closet, if you want, R. Kelly. Oh, yeah… and did I mention the entirely gratuitous, seemingly endless, spoken-word dis aimed at dumb Valley Girls and their sleazy bimbo ambitions? And a demented duet with Ol’ Dirty Bastard, complete with burping organ accompaniment? Musical eclecticism in R&B has some precedent…but goofy and snide is the prerogative of male rappers. No wonder Valentine declares “They think it’s a dude, but it’s me, they see” — she knows that R&B girls don’t get away with this shit.

And, indeed, she hasn’t. Valentine’s first single, “Girlfight” was a moderate success on the strength of a Lil Jon guest spot, but since then her career has gone precisely nowhere. “D-Girl”, released in 2006, was a tough, stoned, gothic head-nodder, with ominously surging keyboards and a sample from N.W.A.’s “Dopeman” that patters over the Sturm and Drang like a whispered, half-forgotten threat. It stiffed, as did a follow-up, “Pimped Out.” Her second album, “Physical Education,” was supposed to come out more than a year ago. On her myspace blog, Valentine blamed the delayed release on the merger between Virgin and Capitol. Perhaps. But, clearly, if someone there thought it would sell, it would be on the shelves by now. No one has officially pulled the plug, but it seems possible at this point that the album will never be released.

Valentine certainly has a fan base. Her debut sold 250,000 copies — small potatoes by pop standards, but still an awful lot of records. Nor am I the only reviewer whose gushed: writers at both Stylus and Popmatters argued that “Chain Letter” was one of the best albums not just in R&B, or of the year, but ever.

The problem is that, for pop R&B performers, there isn’t any way to translate critical cachét and decent sales into career momentum. If Valentine were a white rock performer, or a male rapper, the fact that her material is smart, distinctive, and self-penned — her integrity— could be, if not money in the bank, at least a possible means to connect with an audience. She could be a perfectly respectable indie artist — a minor influential, eccentric legend selling 100,000 units an album for 15 years. It seems like a natural enough move, since Valentine was first signed by what’s essentially an indie — Deja the Great owns Subliminal Records, a Houston label that distributed Valentine through Virgin. But if you compare Valentine’s success to Rihanna’s, it’s clear that it’s a lot better to be signed directly by the major without the intermediary. And if you don’t have any major-label connection at all? Well, another Subliminal artist is having his album released direct to ringtone. Good luck with that.

To the extent that there is a viable, R&B indie scene, it’s devoted to neo-soul — a subgenre with a lot more cred. When pop artists like Nivea, or Kelis have trouble making it in the majors, they move, not to smaller labels, but overseas, where any black American music automatically has the authenticity needed to pull an underground audience . On these shores, though rockists — that is, music fans who salivate over words like “integrity” and “authenticity” — mostly aren’t interested in chart-chasing, slickly-produced dance divas who dress like sluttier Cosmo models. Meanwhile popists — that is, music fans who love Madonna and Brittney — are busy celebrating, in critic Kelefa Sanneh’s words “a fluid musical world where it’s impossible to separate classics from guilty pleasures.” More power to them — but if you’re chasing the fluid jouissance of the next one-hit wonder, there’s not much motivation to go back and unearth a forgotten classic like Valentine. Even if — or especially if — she rocks. The U.S. loves its pop stars and its indie troubadours. But when you’re not clearly one or the other, no one knows how to market you. And that means that you, and your fans, are screwed.

Good News and Bad Marketing

A version of this article appeared in the Chicago Reader a couple of years back.

Good News and Bad Marketing

In the wake of Ken Burns, Martin Scorcese, and the Coen Brothers it’s hard to believe that there’s any roots music left unfetishized. And yet, despite the attention lavished on jazz, blues, and country, classic African-American gospel continues to be largely ignored, both critically and commercially. Hank Penny, a minor western swing performer, has multiple well-annotated recordings in his catalogue; on the other hand, the Ward Singers — perhaps the single most important gospel group of their day — have still not been the subject of a single definitive, or even decent, anthology on CD. It defies reason: I mean, here’s a moving American art form created by and for the oppressed masses: why hasn’t it been mercilessly over-packaged for bourgeois consumption?

It’s not a new question. Robert Christgau, the self-styled Dean of American Rock Critics, asked the same thing 14 years ago, and trotted out most of the usual answers. Gospel (according to Christgau) hasn’t found its niche because it’s mostly vocal and the public prefers instruments; because “the rhythm parts are rudimentary” (i.e., it doesn’t have a good beat to which the kids can dance); and because “personal quirks and oddities are subsumed in communal values of rare solidarity” (i.e., it all sounds the same.) There’s some truth in each of these charges, and they certainly make it clear why classic gospel reissues haven’t knocked Britney off the charts. But they don’t explain why Robert Johnson and Woody Guthrie are bywords among long-haired volk-fanciers, while Roberta Martin, Claude Jeter, and Norsalus McKissik are not.

A recently released Shanachie compilation titled “When Gospel Was Gospel” does nothing to clear up the mystery. The disk — a stellar anthology of tracks from Gospel’s “Golden Age,” roughly 1945-1960 — features a huge variety of styles, from the hillbilly-tinged recitation of Edna Galmon Cooke to the almost operatic baritone of J. Robert Bradley. Moreover, if you listen to roots music with any regularity, the disk is thoroughly accessible. Rosetta Tharpe’s jazzy acoustic guitar on “Little Boy, How Old Are You” would do Lonnie Johnson proud, while R. H. Harris’ yearning vocals, effortlessly detached from the beat, recall Louis Armstrong’s trumpet solo on “West End Blues.” Marion Williams’ crazed, piercing “OOOOOOOOO” on “Traveling Shoes” shows why Little Richard idolized her — though even in his most flamboyant dreams, Richard has never held that note for twelve seconds. Ruth Davis burns through “Too Close to Heaven” with all the aching passion of Etta James, while The Gospel Harmonettes’ “You Better Run,” is syncopated enough to bust your pacemaker. Plus, I’ve been humming the Sensational Nightingales’ incredibly catchy “Sinner Man” to myself for over a week now, “the world’s gonna be on fire….nightmare!” And punks think they’re whimsically dangerous when they sing cheery ditties about beating on the brat….

Of course, there are some veterans of the culture wars who, scarred by childhood trauma or recent election results, would sooner cancel their subscription to Harper’s than subject themselves to pre-recorded proselytizing. Gospel music is about Jesus, which limited its appeal back in the day, and still loses it some listeners. And yet, bluegrass continues to attract an enthusiastic following, even though its message is far more confrontational and judgmental than is black gospel’s. Even when they sing about Judgment Day, the Nightingales seem joyful; white gospel performers, on the other hand, tend to sound genuinely vindictive. Take the song “O Death.” Sung in a trembling, emotionless quaver by Lloyd Chandler or Ralph Stanley, it’s a frigid orgy of sin, death, and hellfire. When you hear Chandler intone, “I’m death I come to take the soul/Leave the body and leave it cold/To draw up the flesh off of the frame/Dirt and worm both have a claim,” you know he’s heir to the same culture that produced Faust and Stephen King.

In contrast, the version of the song on the Marion Williams compilation “Remember Me,” also released this year on Shanachie, seems to comes from a different planet. Though Williams, like Stanley and Chandler, sings a cappella, her vocals drip with emotion and even sensuality, a far cry, literally, from the hillbillies’ paralyzed, sexless keening. Dispensing with most of the lyrics, Williams overemphasizes her breathing like a country preacher (or a rapper) to create a beat, around which she moans and growls, repeating “O Death,” over and over, until the sound becomes more important than the meaning. When death does finally get in the room, she swings his “poor ice hands” so knowingly that their touch becomes a caress. At the end of the song, the listener is left contemplating, not mortality or sin, but Williams’ artistry. Take that, Mr. Grim Reaper.

The triumph of life over death is part of the Christian message that, making a few allowances, even a secular humanist can love. Yet, while black gospel’s music and lyrics were welcoming, the social structure in which the music existed was narrow to the point of xenophobia. Most musical genres in America accept, reluctantly or otherwise, that performers are in the entertainment business. Blues purists may loath Muddy Waters’ psychedelic period, but they don’t therefore hate the man himself; you don’t have to throw out your copy of Evol just because Sonic Youth later signed to a major label. Gospel, though, is a different story. In her recent book, “Singing in My Soul,” Jerma A. Jackson explains that gospel was seen by its audience and its performers as a continuation of the tradition of the slave spiritual. Thus, gospel’s mission was, first, to transmit the holy spirit and, second, to preserve a uniquely African-American cultural tradition of dignity, suffering, and liberation.

That’s a lot of cultural baggage, and, under the double burden, gospel developed a cult of authenticity which was brutal even by the unforgiving standards of American pop music. Thus, Thomas A. Dorsey, the Father of Gospel Music, won that title only after he had entirely abandoned his career as a secular hokum pianist, and furthermore, made public statements attacking “worldly musicians” — that is, jazz bands — who “desecrated” — that is, performed — his songs. Even so, he was criticized because his religious music was influenced by the blues.

Dorsey, a shrewd businessman, at least managed to make a decent living for himself. Many other performers were simply chewed to pieces by gospels’ demands. R. H. Harris, unable to reconcile his faith with life on the road, quit and ended up working for a florist. Rosetta Tharpe was abandoned by the gospel audience after she booked a series of night-club dates in the late ‘50s — even though her night-club performances consisted of religious music. Forty years later, Jerma Jackson found church people in Chicago still embittered by Tharpe’s betrayal. Similarly, after going pop, Sam Cooke and the Staple Singers both received cold receptions when they performed before gospel audiences. Mahalia Jackson — who was, according to John Hammond, “only interested in money” — did manage to keep one foot in the church while crossing over, but only by performing completely inoffensive dreck like “Trees” and “Rusty Old Halo”. Even so, according to Hammond, she lost the majority of her black audience. Meanwhile, the Country Gentlemen were courting the college crowd by mixing murder ballads with their hymns.

These days, the firewall between black religious and secular music has largely been dismantled, so that, for instance, Al Green — who felt he had to choose one or the other even in the 70s — now performs both. But back in the golden age, the options for gospel singers were very limited indeed, as is clear from the subtitle of Anthony Heilbut’s classic 1971 account, “The Gospel Sound: Good News and Bad Times.” Heilbut also produced and annotated the two recent albums on Shanachie and, indeed has been responsible, it sometimes seems, for every decent classic gospel reissue of the last thirty years. But though he’s a fine and incredibly knowledgeable writer, Heilbut’s enthusiasm for the genre leads him to gloss over its flaws. Sometimes this is charming, as when he insists that Marion Williams’ “Drunkards Down There” would “set any dance club afire” — and a riot might indeed result, if a DJ dared to spin such a trundling, ham-fisted groove.

At other moments, though, Heilbut’s cluelessness takes on a more sinister cast. Like many of the folk-revival anthromusicologists, Heilbut is a long way removed in social class and belief system from the people whose work he has embraced. A German Jew by background, Heilbut is an atheist and a Harvard Ph.D. whose academic interests include gay studies. Yet, his book is blithely dedicated to “the older singers, ‘the ones who didn’t sell out’ but stuck with their music despite the encroachments and temptations of the world.” All right — but if you don’t believe in God, what exactly does “selling-out” mean in this context?

One thing it might conceivably mean is allowing your religious beliefs and cultural identity to be consumed as an aesthetic experience by any collector with a credit card. Gospel has never been as popular as jazz or blues or country in large part because it didn’t want to be — because it’s fans and its artists felt, as a group if not as individuals, that to sell your soul to wealthy, faithless ofays was anathema. Whether they were right or not, they suffered for it, and to ignore the implications is disrespectful. Heilbut was friends with many gospel musicians, including Marion Williams, and all of them clearly appreciated his efforts on their behalf and his sincere appreciation of their work. But at the end of the day (which is where gospel looks, after all) Heilbut’s artistic judgments are as much a part of the world as a record executives’ bank-roll. You choose God or you don’t, and people like Heilbut — and like me, for that matter — are not on the side of the angels.