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Black Gaddy’s Random Black Album Reviews
1836: The Women’s Anti-Slavery Society barred Negroes from membership. A similar society in Fall River, Massachusetts did admit Negroes to membership despite the protests from other members (The Chronological History of the Negro in America, Bergman, 1969).
The above quote sums up a longstanding belief whites hold that they and they alone know what’s best for Black people. And this includes music because for several decades, it has been left up to them in their publications like Rolling Stone, Spin, the Village Voice, Mojo, Pitchfork and others to decide which songs and albums by Black artists stand and which ones stink. Jann Wenner, founder of Rolling Stone magazine, wrote a book called “The Masters”, and the slavery association of the title was not missed on anybody.
The book consisted of past interviews with the seven “masters” of rock and roll and all of them were white males. When asked why no Blacks were included, he simply said, Of Black artists…I mean, they just didn’t articulate at that level, “that level” referring to the brilliance of “masters” Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and John Lennon. Well, thank God none of them “masters” were directly influenced by Little Richard, (Ike and) Tina Turner, Chuck Berry, John Lee Hooker and Robert Johnson, or Wenner would be looking like a stupid fuckin’ wiener just about now.
I like plenty of music by white artists and I sometimes review music by the white artists I enjoy. But I don’t ever put myself on the throne of authority when it comes to them, nor do I mix them up with Black artists because I fully understand that white artists don’t make and listen to music for the same reasons we do. For the most part, Black artists from my generation were mostly interested in seeing how the consolidation of the voice and the music stir the soul, this is why music that is anchored in the Black church—the backbone of all American rhythmic music—is much more concerned with getting people in the spirit than actually using the word to praise the spirit of Jeebus Cries.
Look at those popular reaction videos of Jennifer Holliday and Minnie Riperton performing live. For people who watch them for the first time, tears sometimes roll from their eyes because something in their voices poke at the limbic system in their brain and cause an emotional reaction. What is actually is being said is secondary to how it’s being expressed. This is how Black people generally enjoy music. But if you ask someone at Rolling Stone to make an analysis of a performance by Rachelle Ferrell or Eddie Levert, they’d just say that none of them could never hold a candle to the “genius” of Patti Smith or Van Morrison because their lyrics aren’t poetic enough.
Fact is, you can’t put apples and oranges in the same basket. I can say that Donny Hathaway is a better singer than Maxwell because both artists made music for the same purposes and with the same audiences in mind. I cannot make a similar comparison between Hathaway and Bryan Adams because one almost literally has nothing to do with the other. And it would be unfair to Adams for me to apply my criteria of what good music should sound like on him, just like it’s not fair that Spin magazine puts on Wilson Pickett the same criteria they use to measure Kurt Cobain’s greatness. They were both great but for different reasons.
But this is what they and when they publish these opinions, our Black artists always end up receiving the butt end of the stick. This is why we gotta keep ‘em separated. I am not going to evaluate music by Bruce Springsteen or Neil Diamond because I have no idea why white people think they rock. Folks like the Village Voice’s Robert Christgau and all them assholes at Rolling Stone should keep their mouths shut and stop tryna tell us what we should think about our own artists like Teddy Pendergrass and Keyshia Cole because white people have no idea why we think they rock. We Black people certainly don’t advise them on which gluten-free rice cake to eat because we are not well versed on their shit.
Quickie Album Reviews
In this section, I try to focus on the more popular albums by sometimes lesser-known artists that you probably rocked on your hi-fi back in the day. There may also be some in here you forgot about eons ago. A few of the artists are not household names and some of the albums profiled here are by recognizable artists but may not rank among their most well-known works. These are albums you had around the house—some are good, some are garbage—that might still be stacked among those cassettes in the back of your closet that you refuse to finally take out and leave in a box next to the dumpster. We loved them and we know how important they are for us because they accompanied us on the school bus and during that awkward first kiss. I review these albums on a scale from 0 to 10 and chose them because I am fully aware that they would never, ever be mentioned among the pages of the racially insensitive and patronizing publications like Rolling Stone.
R.J.’s Latest Arrival
Hold On (1986)
7.6
Nothing like a good play on words to open up an album. “Rhythm Method” is not only the opening track of “Hold On” but also Black men’s preferred method of birth control. R.J. plays off this pun when the lead singer coos “front loading automatic systems of rock”, but we know she meant cock. The rhythm method is a fun way to fuck and “Rhythm Method” is a fun way to funk. After such an auspicious start, the album falters big time with an unnecessary rehash of R.J.’s Latest Arrival’s most well-known hit, “Shackles” [not to be confused with Mary Mary’s uplifting 2000 (gospel? Is that correct?) hit “Shackles (Praise You)”.] Adding a swipe at Ronny Reagan did not sweeten an already sweet pot. Things get back on track with the Calloway-esque “Do You Wanna Be My Baby”, that could have easily been an album track on a Midnight Star album. Then in the most puzzling turn of events, R.J.L.A. suddenly converts into Sucker MCs with the extremely hackneyed rap/rock track “Things We Like”, especially considering that that Fat Boys style of rap had already been laid to rest.
But never fear, Side 2 proves that the shaky material on side 1 was mostly an apparition. They made two crucial decisions: (1) they pushed the sensual Dede Leitta front and center and (2) they stopped trying to chase the 80s dance crowd and focused on solid mid-tempo R&B. “Heaven in Your Arms” has got to be the strongest single in R.J.L.A.’s discography--I say this with confidence knowing very, very little about their music outside of this album—and should have been a breakthrough hit for them. “Past and Future” is sung by a Kool-Aid version of Isaac Hayes and works as a passable transition to the album’s title track, the excellent “Hold On” where Dede turns in her most emotive performance of all. Again, this song should have been a top 10 hit. The “Hold On” album fulfills my love for albums that make you wait for the big payoff; “Please Stay” is worth the wait as DeDe turns up the simmering warmth and sensuality in her vocals for this shuffling, slightly Brazilian-flavored mid-tempo jam. This is my favorite song on the album and does a lot to make up for the major stumbles on side one. Though I have subsequently downloaded the album from the ‘net, I still have it on LP in my modest collection of albums, and I can’t wait to buy a nice turntable so that I can enjoy it with the original acoustics.
According to Wiki, 1988’s “Off the Hook (With Your Love)” was their biggest hit, but this very moment marks the first time I’m hearing this song. They also got back together in 2023 to release the nice throwback single “One Step at A Time”. (They might have spent most of their video budget on getting who appears to be Dave Chappelle’s dad to do some ballroom dancing.)
The Good: DeDe’s laidback and sensual vocals on all the tracks she sings on. The Bad: The kooky, outdated rapping on “Things We Like” is one of the things we don’t like because it blows worse than Kurtis. The Fugly: How radio mostly ignored the two superb singles (“Heaven In Your Arms” and “Hold On”) when they came out.
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