Preachin’ the Blues.

Son House is the truth. Praise is due. Poor Mike Bloomfield... These two passages [one + two] from Kintespace do a wonderful job of I th1ink of clarifying exactly what The Blues is and what it is concerned with -- namely and specifically, Love -- and, by the proactive process of elimination called definition, what it ain't and ain't concerned with. The modern equivalent might be similar to the ongoing arguments between Hip-Hop amateurs (keepers of the art, dedicated to maintaining its purpose AND its context) [...]
quick break for some word history... Amateur: "a lover, an admirer," ... clearly descended from the senses of the word's ultimate Latin source, amātor, "lover, devoted friend, devotee, enthusiastic pursuer of an objective," and from its Latin-derived French source, amateur, with a similar range of meanings. [The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language]
[...] and Hip-Hop imperialists, and the larger majority too fearful or not yet ready to claim a side. And I think that just like when we talk about Whiteness, it seems necessary to maintain the sanctity of certain definitions and the specific understandings that accompany the symbols that are words in order to know what is progress and what is not. And this obviously has some relevancy to the whole Nigger/Nigga conversation. I don't think it's as hard as people make it out to be though. In short, if we use the direction of Son House, Nigger and Nigga would be seen and interpreted as two different words, yet we'd also recognize that the latter cannot be separated from the former. So while Nigga may be an improvement over Nigger, it can never be the equivalent of Brother, Lover, Mother, Sister or Father. The same would ring true over the battle over what to call ourselves. And I hope the Sharptons of the world see this parallel. Negro is greater than Nigger, just as African-American may be greater than Negro, but none of these equal African, ya dig? Anyway, let me not detract too much from those two passages I was talking about: Heres one:
In the “Feels Like Going Home” episode of Martin Scorsese Presents the Blues, Son House is emphatic about defining The Blues as what consists between male and female in love. There is no Big Black Cadillac Blues, no Captain Blues, no Credit Card Blues—just one what consists between male and female in love—not this New Kingdom of Babylonian entertainment. And, yes, Cornel West has his ideas about The Blues as well—but remember that this guy showed up in The Matrix with a broken, post-apocalyptic harmonica around his neck. Son House, his Blues, is a perfect fit in two contexts: one is the story of the loss of pre-Islamic-pre-Christian African matriarchy and the other is my story as a child of divorce. My second collection of poetry, Provisions, is totally preoccupied with the effects of being a child of divorce. And see clearly here: I am saying that this work is preoccupied with the effects of divorce—when you want to experience divorce per se watch Kramer vs. Kramer. At bottom, Son House encourages me to say that my poetry is Blues poetry. Son House was married five times. It renders so clear to me why The Blues should be. The racism of imperial slavers was merely an agent that caused the breakup between male and female. There would be no Blues about the ‘boss man’ when the wife and husband are bound with renewal and vitality. Leave pre-Islamic-pre-Christian African thought and you end up with The Blues. That is my simple formula. Test it for validity with your scientific methods. Ease up off the anti-depressants.
And two:
The suggestion here is that this particular billboard plays on the tendency of petty jealousies among egocentric women of patriarchy. This cultural norm is often sold as “human nature” instead of the pervasive power of the Imperial Cultural Revolution. I’m going to take a wild guess and say that egocentric women of patriarchy is large demographic so it’s probably worth it… Swaddled in the white-liberal idealism of my youth, it took me a very large time to consider the possibility that some women are not happy for other women when they get married. Such petty pleasures may be fine entertainment for the “silent majority” but for those of us who are fully conscious when we speak of community—namely African community—we know that laughing at fundamentally flawed unions between man and woman is very difficult. Son House calls this The Blues. We know that children suffer when they are raised in this fundamentally flawed situation. Many of these children grow up and provide more human resources for The Prison Industrial Complex. To paraphrase something I read in a Basquiat painting, “There’s good money in savages.”
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