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About Your Gaddy
If you’re a Gen Xer who loves reading about music as much as I do, chances are you grew up glued to the reviews in publications like Rolling Stone, Spin, and The Village Voice during the ’80s and ‘90s. But if you’re a Black Gen Xer, you were probably just as often scratching your head—or clenching your fists—at the way Black music, the backbone of all popular music, was routinely omitted, overlooked, or outright disrespected by these same outlets.
Take Rolling Stone, for example. On their much-hyped list of the 200 Greatest Singers of All Time, they had the audacity to rank the incomparable Gladys Knight at a criminally low #101—just one spot behind Elton John, one of the very “friends” she sang circles around on “That’s What Friends Are For.” And as if they could feel the hypocrisy creeping up their own necks, the editors had the nerve to open her write-up with the self-owning line: “Gladys Knight never quite gets the respect due to her.” From whom, Rolling Stone? Who do you think has been holding the respect back? Duh.
And can we talk about the absurdity of Bob Dylan landing at number 15—above Mahalia Jackson, Marvin Gaye, Chaka Khan, Ella Fitzgerald, and Luther Vandross? How? In good faith, how does Dylan rank above Miss Piggy, let alone some of the greatest vocalists to ever touch a microphone?
Yes, he’s an undeniably gifted songwriter. No one’s taking that away. But as a singer? Please. All you have to do is watch that Netflix "We Are the World" documentary to see just how wildly out of his depth he was. In a room full of powerhouse Black vocalists, Dylan literally clammed up—until Stevie Wonder (bless him) had to sit him down and teach him Bob Dylan how to sing like Bob Dylan.
And while we’re on this nonsense: how in any universe is Curtis Mayfield (#40) ranked as a better singer than Bobby “Blue” Bland (#44) or Donny Hathaway (#49)? No shade to Curtis—he’s a legend—but vocally? Come on. If the same criteria that put Aretha Franklin at #1 applied across the board, Hathaway belongs in the top 5. Full stop.
But apparently, there’s no room for Donny Hathaway in the top tier because John Lennon is somehow holding court at No. 5—wedged between Marvin Gaye and Sam Cooke. Really? Lennon was that good of a singer? Let’s apply a little logic here.
If you’re high on a “Greatest Singers” list, the implication is clear: you possess vocal abilities that those ranked beneath you do not. So let’s run a simple test. Picture Patti LaBelle—who Rolling Stone insultingly tossed down at No. 74—singing “Imagine” exactly like Lennon. Easy, right? She could do it in her sleep. Now flip it. Picture Lennon attempting to sing “If Only You Knew” the way Patti sang it, especially that soaring, holy-shit breakdown at the end. Your brain just malfunctioned, didn’t it? That’s because Lennon couldn’t do it—not in this universe or any adjacent ones.
Isn’t the very foundation of great singing rooted in vocal dexterity, emotional delivery, range, control, and the ability to bend notes into feeling? If so, then how does Rolling Stone justify putting Bob Dylan at No. 15? Or Elvis Presley at No. 3, as if cultural icon status and vocal talent are one and the same?
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And let’s talk about Solomon Burke—the man Mick Jagger once called “the best soul singer of all time”—getting thrown in the basement at No. 183, just barely above Karen O (da fuq she is). It’s not just absurd—it’s the musical equivalent of malpractice.
And when Rolling Stone decided to rank the Greatest Artists of All Time, their top four were: The Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan (a-fuckin’-gain), and The Beatles. Now, I’ll allow a little more leeway here, since “greatness” in this category isn’t just about vocal skill—it’s about impact, influence, and artistry. But even by those standards, the list is still suspect.
Every single one of those white dudes—every last one—openly admitted that they were directly and indelibly influenced by Chuck Berry (No. 96!) and Little Richard (No. 11). So the question remains: how do you rank the students above the teachers? How do you put the imitators on pedestals while the originators are left cleaning up the glitter?
I mean, in what universe do we rank Bronny James above LeBron just because he learned to dribble from him? We don’t. So why does disgraced former Rolling Stone boss Jann Wenner insist on doing it in music?
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Answer: Because jive-ass dude don't got no brains anyhow. Shiiiiit.
The problem for us Black Gen Xers—those of us who came of age before Vibe magazine or the internet—was that the criteria for judging all music were mostly shaped by white journalists and critics, folks who experienced music in a fundamentally different way than we did. We didn’t grow up strumming air guitars to Metallica or losing our minds over Eddie Van Halen’s “Eruption.” That kind of virtuosity didn’t speak to us. We were more likely to get chills from the horns and drums in Earth, Wind & Fire’s version of “Got to Get You Into My Life” than anything the Beatles ever did with it.
But those kinds of emotional, spiritual connections—the cosmic relationship Black folks have with music—are often dismissed by white critics as unserious or unsophisticated. That’s why they can turn around with a straight face and tell us that Patti Smith (No. 47) is a greater artist than Bessie Smith, who, somehow, doesn’t even appear on the list. They write the history, and they keep rewriting the rules to suit themselves.
This is exactly why I wrote this blog. Black music was arguably at its peak when I was growing up—give or take five to seven years before my 1971 birth and five to seven years after I tapped out on most contemporary music around 1995. But unless you were Prince or Lauryn Hill, white music critics either ignored your work or shat on it. And because we didn’t have legitimate platforms to defend our artists back then, the legacies of those we held sacred—Cameo, Phyllis Hyman, Maze featuring Frankie Beverly, Vesta, and so many others—were quietly erased or willfully forgotten. I refuse to let that stand. We cannot wait for white critics to finally “come around” and do right by our music; they can’t even manage their own broken institutions like the Grammy Awards or the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. (Twenty Grammys for Pat Metheny? Three Hall of Fame inductions for Eric Clapton? Gimme a phuckin’ break.)
This whole experience I’m laying down is a tribute to the incredible creators of Black music who touched our lives—and more specifically, my life—during the eras spanning the mid-60s through the early 2000s. These are the artists who rarely, if ever, received the recognition they deserved from the white press. Many of them—Rahsaan Patterson, Angie Stone, The Trammps, D-Train, Fatback, Rachelle Ferrell, Loleatta Holloway, and so many others—never saw the top of any chart. (Hell, Rahsaan never even cracked the top 50.)
When mainstream media gushes over the so-called “British Invasions,” you’ll never hear them mention the Black Brits—Hot Chocolate, Loose Ends, Junior, Five Star—who gave Black Gen Xers plenty of reasons to Smurf the night away. But thank God, many of us are still here, still alive and kicking in the age of blogs and podcasts. We can now bypass the stuffy gatekeepers at Rolling Stone, Spin, NARAS, and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and shine a light on the artists who actually meant something to us—without having to hear another goddamned word about the Grateful Dead or Dylan.
My goal here is to offer critiques and personal perspectives on Black music from that era—delivered with professional journalistic integrity. Well… not really critiques, because I’m not a critic. And I don’t have any formal training or academic background in music. Also, there’s not a whole lot of journalism happening here either, since I’ve never studied that field. So technically, my views aren’t exactly “professional.” And whether or not I have “integrity” is really a judgment call. So I guess we’re right back where we started.
But I’m not letting my lack of credentials—or your judgment—stop me from writing about Black music. Because it sure as hell didn’t stop all those assholes at Rolling Stone and Spin from doing it.