Gotham City Soul

This is a reposting from several years ago, hence the myspace references. Since then I have seen her in concert at the Bowery Ballroom, with Naomi Shelton & the Gospel Queens opening—they were both pure dynamite I promised you art last week, a big promise to make, and delivered three out of five days. So I have two to make up, and I will. But I had to take a break to talk about a soul sister. I first heard of Sharon Jones when I was listening to my eagerly-awaited Oxford American ’s annual music cd, which comes with their annual Southern music issue. The song on the cd was "How Long Do I Have to Wait for You?" and it was far and away the best cut on the cd. This was in 2006. I can’t remember why the editor-in-chief Marc Smirnoff and his colleagues included her, except that she was born in Augusta, Georgia, which technically make her a southerner. She moved to New York City, I’m presuming with her family, at an early age, so that makes her a New Yorker. At any rate,

To Alsana’s mind the real difference between people was not color. Nor did it lie in gender, faith, their relative ability to dance to a syncopated rhythm or open their fists to reveal a handful of gold coins. The real difference was far more fundamental. It was in the earth. It was in the sky. You could divide the whole of humanity into two distinct camps, as far as she was concerned, simply by asking them to complete a very simple questionnaire, of the kind you find in Woman’s Own on a Tuesday: (a) Are the skies you sleep under likely to open up for weeks on end? (b) Is the ground you walk on likely to tremble and split? (c) Is there a chance (and please check the box, no matter how small that chance seems) that the ominous mountain casting a midday shadow over your home might one day erupt with no rhyme or reason? Because if the answer is yes to one or all of these questions, then the life you lead is a midnight thing, always a hair’s breadth from the witching hour; it is vola

This is a reposting from 2009, but in the wake of Ferguson, we need to be reminded that if this is how a black President was and is treated, how do we expect your average black person to be treated? There are some people who don't believe that they have to account to anyone for their actions. They walk this Earth believing they are superior, and they give themselves permission to do or say whatever they please. Joe Wilson claiming that his emotions during our President's address to Congress the other night got the better of him is correct; but it wasn't about healthcare. It's the fact that a black man is standing in a place he, Wilson, a white man, will never be. A black man is in a position of power, and contrary to what he and the rest of the racists in this country would like us to believe, he is an exceptional person. He may even be a great leader if he doesn't have to pause every time an idiot like Joe Wilson opens his mouth. He acted like a left-back fifth

Ruckus affray [ chiefly British ], broil , donnybrook , fracas , fray , free-for-all , melee ( also mêlée ), rough-and-tumble , row , brawl , ruction Related Words battle , clash , combat , conflict , contest , fisticuffs , handgrips , hassle , scrap , scrimmage , scuffle , skirmish , struggle , tussle ; horseplay , roughhousing ; altercation , argument , dispute , kickup , quarrel , spat , squabble , tiff , wrangle Poets (people I know David Winter, Elizabeth Hoover, Keisha-Gaye Anderson, Jennifer Milich—and people I don’t—Saeed Jones, e.e. cummings, Robert Hayden, Nikki G., June Jordan, on and on and on, and on and on and on) have been all up in my face lately, making me think, and I have to say I'm liking it. They should be all up in my face, my head, my brain, pulling me over and away from the foolishness set out there to distract me and “foolish me up,” drain me, keep me from creating and contributing and helping and living. Keep me from . What brought this on