How To Rock Like A Black Feminist Critic

Again, i really should shut up and let Morley interject.

The cited line is a smart one about the way vanity/power needs a concept of something beneath it, something subordinate. So yeah Smith could have said "This is the home of the vain, where is obligatory concept of the subordinate?" The actual line gets there much more deftly, and not without some discomfort which is appropriate.

But your friend's friends are basically saying "she's black, she just hears the word 'nigger' and that's it, all rational thought shuts down." Bah.

Allow me to amend your quote: "she's black, she just hears the word 'nigger' from a band of white people doing rock music, and that's it, all rational thought shuts down."

I know this is what you meant, but I thought a direct amendment was necessary.

Funny you should mention it, there was a thread about this song last year, and lots of ilx0rs didn't seem to realize this. Proof!

Who was it said Mick Jagger was an updated Zip Coon who went and hunted some cool in order to turn those lips into an asset?

The reaction of a Black woman who attends metal concerts is akin to being a one-legged leper at the Oscars: Folks will stare at you in disbelief and after a second of silence, point and laugh. If you share your love of Slayer with your friends and family, get ready for such remarks that imply that you are somehow a traitor to your race. Some will befriend you because your perceived difference means that a great story will be told with you as the unlikely protagonist – i.e. freak.

Also, this is semi-unrelated, but my (African-American) friend Janine sang "Brown Sugar" at a kareoke bar on Saturday, and after the song was over she came off the stage and said, "Holy shit, I just realized what that's about! You can't say that, English dude!"

Was anyone besides donut and MT even at the freaking panel? I'm dying to hear even the gist of the Nona Hendryx paper. That woman is awesome and my fictional band is partly named after her.

I have a feeling this thread is going to die a painful death. Or else, silently read but barely nothing added. ILM speechless? That's unheard of.

I admit I'm self-obsessed, but I am not bald. I didn't go to the the conference. But truly, I hope you clear your head and say what you need to.

Conversely, back in my clubbing days I would tend to get mobbed by irritating E-heads who wanted to strike Benetton poses with me because we are all one! Argh, go away and let me dance (but leave your cute friend in the miniskirt, perv perv).

(see the thread's going already -- )

Funniest bit:

My parents were already horrified that I dreamt about Bobby Gillespie rather than Bobby Brown (although their parallel drug-use paths eventually led them in the same direction).

Best bit:

But the thing was, Mark E. made me feel better about being black. Before, I’d felt so uncomfortable in my own small-town skin that I fell into self- loathing. I was bad at being a girl, and even worse at being black if it meant I had to go to church every day and listen to the Jets in order to feel at one with my people. But seeing a wiry ex-dockworker from Manchester spin tales that he didn’t expect anyone to understand, much less sing along with, made me breathe a little more easily.He did what he thought was right (although often it wasn’t), took the rap, and remained steadfastly himself. And I thought, If he can do that, why can’t I?

:-D

Clearly the next step is the electric slide.

I. 1. In-ah the begin-NING-AH...

Didn't stop me from spending $700 on concert tickets, concert t-shirts and paraphenelia when I got back to Boston. I miss my disposable income.

Were there any other British bands similar to the Fall that were signed to Motown around this time? That would add some credence to Smith's story. Otherwise, I find it exceedingly dubious.

MT, that piece was great! And believe me, that growing up stuff was just as true in the late 90s as it was in 1985. (Someone needs to write some sort of paper about how afrocentric music/culture of the '90s made it finally okay to be darker than a paper bag -- it can be stiched together for sure.) I ended up lucky by growing up in NYC with parents who were listening to Living Colour, country, and Kraftwerk, among other things. So, me listening to something like Steely Dan was more notable for being elevator music-ish than strange. I used to go to South Carolina every summer and I'll never forget the joy I felt at running into this ultra punk rock black chick with neon yellow hairin Gr33nvill3. I always wanted to die my hair but couldn't bring myself to strip it.

Anyways...I love it at shows when everyone's so curious to know if I'm enjoying myself. Music? Live? What a new experience for me! I do need someone to explain those strange things happening on stage!

Any thoughts on the Source petition?

Do male critics/fans even have the problem of going up to opposite sex musicians and having things so clouded because they are convinced you obviously want them? There's this band I became really close with via my rabid fangirl raves on my blog and at one point I had to step away because it became "what exactly do you think is going on here? I'm not your fucking Band Aid!"

"I'm a part of a reading on Thursday at 7:30 p.m., Room 555, Lerner Hall, on the Morningside Campus of Columbia University. It's sponsored by OUR WORD, the Columbia School of the Arts' Organization for Writers of Color. It's the fifth annual reading, for second-year MFA students -- Jennifer Assef, Meredith Broussard, Diana Marie Delgado, Gail Dottin, Aisha D. Gayle, Tania James, and Rhena Tantisunthorn -- but they invite MFA students from around NYC, so there's also Mohan Sikka and Victoria Bond of Brooklyn College, and myself and Steve Caratzas from The New School. If you're uptown, do stop by. I don't even know for how long we get to read, maybe 5-7 minutes? Dunno. But I'll be reading from Bliss and hopefully a tiny bit from More Like Wrestling. And so it begins!"

Some statements in this thread prove there's a need for far more such panels. [and speaking of The Source miasma: things have obviously devolved to such a state b/c my self-hating homeboy from Chocolate City foolishly decided to enact "Lott's process" in yoking himself to that Thug-By-Numbers.....Whoever brought up white listeners suffering for hip-hop is blatantly ignoring their white (male) power everywhere else. You don't have good ole boys at the label trying to kill your (laudatory) piece about one of their bands on the one hand nor your colored parents on the other telling you to just stop going to hear the crackers and write for VIBE/cover Puffy instead (as if it were that simple!)...nor are you accused, yes, of being a race traitor/"white"...nor have to tangle with some prominent members of the Cornbread Cosa Nostra wanting you to fulfill their MANDINGO fantasies backstage...]

It's very true that one need not be called "Nigger!" to have a nightmare experience at the rock show. Metal's Laina's thang but, having covered my beloved rednecks for so long, I am here to tell you that being the "only one in the room" is not fun. It's not a question of feeling branded --- I've mostly not even consciously let it impede my fun w/ the bikers and the farmgirls and Yueh-ling twirlers...but cumulatively, it's a bitch, VERY wearing. And if I only had a dime for everytime some ig'nant chile asked me if I was Jaimoe's daughter...

Can someone drag Daphne Brooks to the thread now?

All of those issues aside, and that "over-academia in presentation" issue, I feel like I missed an otherwise great piece on Hendryx... as she is definitely overlooked, from what I heard at the tail end of the piece.

i bet i'll regret this but um, what the heck does that mean?

Well, he is isn't he? Why was this even controversial? I think Jagger himself would even admit it to a certain extent!

A national dance craze in Ivory Coast has spawned a black market in treatments claiming to increase one's bottom size.

The dance in question has been inspired by DJ Mix and DJ Eloh's hit song Bobaraba, which means "big bottom" in the local Djoula language.

When it plays you can be guaranteed that the dance floor will be packed with people shaking their derrieres.

Even Ivorian footballers have adopted the moves and could be seen wiggling their bottoms in a curious on-pitch dance after each goal scored during the just-ended Africa Nations Cup.

However, doctors have warned of the possible dangers of some of the concoctions on sale.

While the dance has been embraced by both sexes, DJ Mix says it was inspired by women.

"We made it as a tribute to women, because African women are defined by the shape of their bottoms," he says.

"Move your bottom, jump, you see, it's alive."

Kady Meite, one of his dancers, says the song is a message for women.

"There are women today with large bottoms who are embarrassed, so it's to say don't be ashamed - be comfortable," she says.

The message seems to have been taken on board - so much so that some women are now going in search of a "bobaraba"

In the sprawling Adjame market just north of the city centre in Abidjan, women sell "bottom enhancers".

"You need to inject this liquid into your bottom once a day," says a market trader, showing a vial of coloured liquid labelled "Vitamin B12".

Each vial costs $2. The label claims it is made in China.

If you do not like the sound of injections, the same amount of money will also get you a small tub of cream.

There is no description of what the product contains or how to apply it; just the words "Big bottoms and big breasts", and two illustrating pictures.

Local gynaecologist Dr Marcel Sissoko is sceptical about the concoctions.

"This medicine could be dangerous for your health because we don't know the ingredients. It's being used without a medical prescription," he warns.

"The health ministry hasn't authorised this and doctors don't know what's in there, so there are risks."

At the Micronutrient Information Centre at Oregon State University in the United States, Dr Victoria Drake says she knows of no scientific evidence that vitamin B12 can be used to treat anything except vitamin B12 deficiency.

DJ Mix admits there is now a growing fashion for young women to show off their bottoms.

"If a woman goes dancing and wants to take two or three treatments, no problem," he says.

"But we don't say to girls that they must take treatment to enhance your bottom, no."

One man on the streets of Abidjan agreed: "Us boys, we appreciate these things because when women use the treatment it attracts us, but for women it's not good."

Most women I spoke to preferred to avoid the treatments.

"Me? I prefer to be natural so you can know your true value. It's best not to use these medicines. It's not good - it's actually very dangerous," one said.

Another woman was happy with what came naturally.

"I do the bobaraba because I already have a big bum. When I dance, everyone looks at me."

There's always some "zany" story in the "most read articles" section of the bbc news site that gets emailed round my building. This was today's.

Bobaraba, which means "big bottom" in the local Djoula language.

Boboaraba means big bottom any any language!

Does Donna's article on the Fall still exist anywhere?

To finally answer the Rev, yes it does, and here it is:

Cerebral Caustic: a love story

By Donna E. Brown

Maybe I had something to prove, but I doubted it. Maybe I was trying to get back at my parents for dragging me away from NYC at age 4 and dumping the family unit in darkest South Carolina, where it’s always twenty years in the past. Whatever the reason, whatever the motivation, I fell in love with the wrong man. His name was Mark.

The year was 1985. College radio, irony and ethnicity weren’t yet hip, and the fact that my teachers were still referring to me as 'colored' wasn’t helping much either. I was a little black girl in a place and time when being naturally dark was looked down upon, an agnostic bookworm in a culture that mandated church attendance. Nobody liked me, but that was okay, because I didn’t like them either. I had my books and I had my music (but no boyfriends, thanks to insanely strict parents and a lack of dating material.)

Well, I thought I had music. 1985 was a lean period, a decidedly mean period. The University of South Carolina’s radio station wasn’t coming in too well, and if I heard the Thompson Twins in conjunction with "Donna likes this weird music" one more time, I would scream. There had to be someone out there who felt like I did, who would make Camden, S.C. bearable, who knew that nothing should be taken at face value and that what you thought was what mattered, not what everyone thought you ought to think. That was as novel (and convoluted) then as it is now.

One summer night I was watching MTV after my parents had gone to bed. It was a long dark night of the soul; I stayed awake out of sheer desperation, praying for something better. I’d rejected Simple Minds and Tenpole Tudor already. China Crisis and Scritti Politti were cute and lefty, but I wanted a man who’d "say what you mean and say it mean." And boom, there he was.

Mark E. Smith - the name alone made my heart wobble in a way that told me for sure that I was onto something. Not some pop tart name - it didn’t belong to a man who wore Yamamoto suits and bronzer. This was a man who lived. In the now, on the same earth as I did, thinking the same things I did, and saying them. Sort of. Everything I knew in my heart to be true despite it all, that I knew existed in the world beyond me, everything real, condensed into one word. Not even a word - a syllable. Specifically, a syllable-ah. A big ol’ "yeah RIGHT" to all that was bogus in music. That "ah" kept me going. Even if I had no idea what a Fall song was about, the verbal footnote was there. And if the song was relatively clear, the "-ah" became a rallying cry. "All those whose mind entitles themselves, and whose main entitle is themselves, shall feel the wrath of my bombast-ah!"

It mattered not that Mark E. was possibly the ugliest man who walked the planet. The sunken eyes in the ratlike face were raw and honest, and his words were his own. They didn’t have to rhyme. Hell, he couldn’t even sing, at least in a conventional sense. My parents were already horrified that I daydreamed about Bobby Gillespie instead of Bobby Brown (although their parallel drug-use paths eventually led them in the same direction.) I couldn’t let them know about this. Not just a scary-looking white man from England, this was a man whose deal with Motown was perma-scuppered when the Gordy minions heard the line in "The Classical": "where are the obligatory niggers?" Never mind "Take that, fuck-face-ah!" I was already going to hell. And all for a white boy who couldn’t sing!

But the weird thing was that MES made me feel better about being black. Before, I’d felt so uncomfortable in my small-town skin that I fell into self-loathing. I was bad at being a girl, and even worse at being black if it meant I had to go to church every day and listen to the Jets in order to feel at one with my people. But seeing a wiry ex-dockworker from Manchester spin tales that he didn’t expect anyone to understand, much less sing along with, made me breathe a little more easily. He did what he thought was right, took the rap, and remained steadfastly himself. And I thought, if he can do that, why can’t I?

And that, kids, is the (typically convoluted) story of how a white man helped me become a black woman.

The end-ah.

wtf? Deal with Motown?

Really thought that was gonna be a Hannah Pool piece.

See, this joke was funny because Pool is also female and black.

Oh, I got that. But thanks!

oh dom you minx

that is some nice writing by donna

thank you!

what M@tt said! worth the month-long cliffhanger, even