It would seem that a sensory environment drenched in sampled blackness is once again rewiring the aesthetic sensibilities of the general populace. Even the spin-talk of government officials makes use of rhythm, rhyme and meter in ways directly borrowed from black vernacular as filtered through commercialized hip-hop music (small ‘h’ intentional). Catch phrases like ‘24/7’ now grace tv spots for Citibank. Diagonal lines mimic spray-can scrawl in animated advertisements for cartoons and clothing. If the Smithsonian Institution’s recent inauguration of its Hip-Hop collection and the past decade’s experience of Hip-Hop as a growth industry within academia offer any indication, perhaps it is this: the time has come to recognize Hip-Hop as a culture whose apex during our era has transformed nearly every arena of public discourse, just as black cultural developments have done in every epoch of our history.
Cultural critics, historians and curators have in recent years produced a significant body of scholarly analysis, museum exhibitions, and symposia on the subject. While the Smithsonian Institution’s collection at this early stage focuses on artifacts such as Zulu Nation gear worn by seminal artist Africa Bambatta, New York City’s Studio Museum in Harlem has, through its public programs series, become a participant—not merely a collector/dissector of—Hip-Hop culture. Among the five Hip-Hop elements— Dancing, DJ-ing, MC-ing, Writing/Graffitti, and Knowledge of Self— the art of DJ-ing has asserted itself as a viable portal into the museum’s curatorial universe. The Studio Museum’s performance series— entitled Vital Expressions in American Art— recently introduced a new genre of presentation: the ORCHESTRA OF DJs.
Frequency, a survey of new work in two and three dimensions at the Studio Museum in Harlem from November 9, 2005- March 12, 2006, was the impetus for a collaborative experiment in sound, featuring seven DJs spinning simultaneously in symphonic orchestration. Importantly, Frequency is not a show about Hip-Hop. Director/Curator Thelma Golden writes in the Fall/Winter collectors’ issue of Studio, the Museum’s magazine, that Frequency is rather “a snapshot of the current moment we live in,” featuring “artists exploring a range of ideas in a wide variety of media.”
The innovative practice of ‘orchestration’ in the art of DJ-ing— and the equally fresh project of creating sound-sets to museum exhibits—paradoxically bring turntablism back to (one of) its roots as an element of the Hip-Hop aesthetic which marries visual and aural disciplines (read graffiti and beats). The third ORCHESTRA of DJs event is scheduled for Fall 2006. A paradigm-expanding performance, the ORCHESTRA reveals a desire on the part of museum audiences for an authentically interactive experience. It also encourages the cross-fertilization between artistic disciplines that has been crucial to more than one creative renaissance in recent memory.

Uniquely, with the ORCHESTRA of DJs, the Studio Museum uses the central ritual of Hip Hop— the cipher— to bring this cultural phenomenon ‘back to the people’—repositioning DJ culture within the context of museum culture. Amidst the sculptures and video installations of the main gallery, seven turntables form a circle. At the wheels, a collective of artists perform a sound-scape created in response to the gallery exhibition. In the ORCHESTRA, DJ Ron Paisley/Interplanetary Soul Brother #1, DJ Bill Coleman, Lynnee Denise Bonner, Loganix aka Blessed Productive, DJ Reborn, DJ Kofi Obafemi, and Brett from Boundless join as a septet, periodically breaking into solos. A two-year-old from the boogie-down Bronx bops to the beats nonstop as his parents reminisce, bouncing on their Adidas. Graying cats in berets stand and sway, their gazes at gallery paintings broken only by the shift from one DJ’s solo to the next.
In her introduction to the ORCHESTRA of DJs ‘concert’, Sandra Jackson-Dumont, the Museum’s visionary Director of Education and Public Programs, describes the germination of the concept: “I had dreamed for years of seeing the art of DJ-ing elevated, given the respect it deserves as an art form. These are musicians.”
A pastiche of recorded music invites museum patrons to engage the world as interpreted by the artists of Frequency. Southern trees bend to Hendrixian windstorms. Toaster-style vocals scratch aural strobes of gospel. Sonic treatments chosen by the DJ’s refer directly to themes and constructs of the art included in the show. The orchestra selected Crisis, Transition, and Celebration as guiding principles for the concert, each theme receiving its own symphonic movement.
“I’d imagine that the abstractness of the mix forces active listening,” muses DJ Brett from Boundless: “In conventional settings, the DJ almost never requires this much from its listeners. We were all out of our comfort zone.” Indeed, the zone to which the ORCHESTRA was passing out tickets is a zone of true synaesthetic resonance. Viewers of Michael Paul Britto’s Dirty Harriet—a movie poster featuring Harriet Tubman cast as a Clint Eastwood/Pam Grier hybrid, advertising the film of the same title shown in the gallery’s video room— could hardly avoid the synaptic click that followed when DJ Brett dropped a sample from THE CONFESSIONS OF NAT TURNER narrated by the late Brock Peters.
“That’s the gospel/ rhythmic continuity— the music I hear in my head as I’m sitting there meditatively rhinestone-ing each painting,” says Mickalene Thomas, whose paintings from the Brawling Spitfire series enliven the gallery’s upper level. “All of the titles for the “She Works Hard for The Money” series (the series which preceded the wrestling paintings featured in Frequency) are taken from album covers by Diana Ross, Eartha Kitt, Donna Summer, and Stevie Wonder.”

These comments by Thomas and Brett represent the crux of a liminal idea: that in the ORCHESTRA of DJs, The Studio Museum in Harlem has hit on a cultural practice which pushes several envelopes at once. It destroys boundaries between street and museum. It requires DJs to create arrangements as ensemble musicians—linking turntablists to great arrangers in the line of Duke Ellington and Alice Coltrane. It asks audiences to activate kinetic, synaesthetic—rather than merely cerebral— responses to gallery exhibitions. In so doing, the ORCHESTRA plants seeds of an organic, multidimensional consciousness that catalyzes the growth of an aesthetically engaged, Hip-Hop-literate audience.

Works Cited

Britto, Michael Paul. Dirrrty Harriet Tubman. 2005. Studio Museum in Harlem, New
York.
Golden, Thelma. “From the Director”. Studio: The Studio Museum in Harlem
Magazine. Fall/Winter 2005-2006: 1.
Thomas, Mickalene. Instant Gratification. (Brawling Spitfire Series) 2005. Studio
Museum in Harlem, New York.
Turner, Nat. The Confessions of Nat Turner. [sound recording] Narrated by Brock Peters.
Feat. John Henrik Clarke and Herbert Aptheker. CMS, 1968.

But if you’re going to this film to laugh your ass off, you might be a little disappointed. While there’s plenty of comedy to go around, Chappelle’s team-up with director Michel Gondry is more about the comedian bridging the two worlds in which he lives, bringing the folks from the Ohio town where he resides (including the entire Central State University Marching Band) to collide with the African American enclave in Brooklyn where so many artists like himself were either born or have lived during the past decade. The end result is a documentary that is unique, often engaging (though I might’ve trimmed it down by 15 minutes of so) and meditative when it comes to the state of black music. Plus you get to see the Fugees performing for their first time together in almost a decade.

As a child of the same era that reared these artists (Chappelle and I actually met during our high school years when he was a guest on Teen Summit) , it’s always a proud moment to see folks with politics that mirror my own making music for like-minded individuals. It’s even better when that music does goes great business for Hollywood on Oscar weekend. With a $3 million budget the film raked in $6.5 million, which means that with halfway decent word of mouth, it might top out at $10 or $12 million at the box office. Translation: Any little film side project Dave Chappelle wants to do after this will get made.

More importantly, Dave Chappelle’s Block Party and the artists it showcases are evidence that contrary to Cosby belief, there is a next generation of artistic activism beyond the Baby Boomers, and one that while not packing the wallop that King, Malcolm and the Panthers did, can still get Black people together, can still make them think about who they are and where they’re going, and can still master their crafts far beyond any of their contemporaries. This film is the first thing in a while that’s sent me to my keyboard inspired, to remind me of how needed art is in the minority communities that has a sense of things beyond the overblown and coonish status quo. Viewing the trailer for the latest Wayans offering, Little Man, just before “Block Party” easily reinforces my point.

I personally believe that almost everyone who’s reading this would’ve been at that block party if they’d known about it (except for silly little me, who told my man Rich is was too cold and rainy to walk the few blocks down there. Damn!) I think we all would’ve loved to spend a day taking in some dope sounds and remembering the first times we’d seen or heard Black Star or Erykah or Dead Prez. We would’ve moved to the rhythm all night, no matter how much our feet hurt in the end, and gone home to tell the tale a million times over. If that’s the case then maybe we should do this more often. Maybe, music and a venue with some other things in between might help us to reach the seemingly unreachable. I could be too geeked about this, but what the hell? What would we have to lose by trying?

more from kenji @ kenjijasper.com

by RHEA L COMBS
Fuck Bush. Motherfuck Bush. That’s how I felt after coming home from watching Fahrenheit 9/11, the new documentary by Michael Moore. I had been looking forward to seeing the film for quite some time and fortunately got a ticket opening night.

Knowing the controversy behind the film, its director, and because this is the first documentary to ever win the coveted Palme d’Or award at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival in France, I was anxious to see the movie. Looking around at the roughly 350 people in the sold out theater, I was among a bunch of baby boomers and activists of yesteryear. It was a great feeling. Before the film I overheard folks reminiscing about seeing Jimi Hendrix perform, their frustrations with the current government, and the importance of voting. One silver fox recalled taking her college graduation pictures donning an afro and with no underwear — much to the chagrin of her parents, of course — in solidarity with the women’s rights movement. For this woman, and I imagine for many others coming to watch this film, being active in the government’s political process is what they know.
For them, supporting Fahrenheit 9/11 was a continuation of their efforts to promote peace and protest the vained war in Iraq. Unfortunately, people in my age range (18-34) were present to a much lesser degree, which seems to also reflect the voting trends. The youth, generally speaking, are apathetic and apolitical. Meanwhile the elders recall Vietnam, rally for peace, and root for a better tomorrow. Unfortunately that might not be enough to get Bush’s ass out of the Oval office.

The crowd was full of golf shirt-khaki pants-Rockport wearing activists. I was hoping there would be some right-wingers there, too, but between the hisses and heckles whenever Bush’s face appeared on screen, I didn’t get the sense many Bushites were present. I was just hoping the film wouldn’t be solely preaching to the converted. Be that as it may, in some small way I felt like a part of a movement exercising its democratic rights. And perhaps I am too paranoid, but for a split second I thought, “what if some psycho decided to bomb this building in protest of those coming to see the movie.” You see, one never can tell what Bush and his cronies are up to. You might think I am being a bit extreme, but watch Fahrenheit 9/11 – nothing is too far fetched.

The film logically and succinctly demonstrates the Bush administration’s incestuous relationship with the Bin Ladin family and Saudi Arabia. Fahrenheit 9/11 is a scathing report of the Bush administration and their nefarious business practices. While there have been numerous critiques of the film and its methodology, primarily from right-wing politicians, the film’s facts seem to come from public records. The breakdown of the Bush election hoax is particularly disturbing. And thank god for Michael Moore’s inflections of humor throughout the movie. Like a friend told me, without it people would be jumping off cliffs like lemmings!

The most riveting, and I think powerful, is Moore’s use of a common theme: his hometown of Flint, MI. Flint is the coronary artery for all his films, beginning with his sobering, “Roger and Me,” which is about the impact of General Motors on a small industry town; he returns to this locale in “Bowling for Columbine.” In Fahrenheit 9/11, Moore effectively shows the direct connection with an impoverished town in Middle America and military recruiting. One is able to see who the real victims are: the dispossessed and disenfranchised. The average man and woman are taking hits for the elite. The Axis of Evil (Bush, Cheney, Rice and Rumi) have clogged America’s arteries. And the heartbeat of America is in need of a quadruple bypass. Images of bombed out homes and dilapidated buildings, children receiving sub-par education, and families with their hands out waiting for food like refugees scavenging for grains was gut wrenching. These were not images of Baghdad, quite the contrary, they were scenes from the good ole U.S. of A. The terrorist is not some bearded man chilling in a cave all pimped out with his harem of Taliban roaming the streets ready to put in work for Big Daddy. No, the biggest pimp is G.W. Bush, and we’re being tricked.

I was among a handful of Blacks in the theater. That didn’t surprise me, necessarily, but I was somewhat disappointed. Where were we? Were we too busy praising God over at the Georgia Dome for T.D. Jakes’ Mega Fest? Or were we protesting the real issue that KFC ran out of four-piece chicken dinners? (YES, the first night of Mega Fest KFC ran out of chicken wings, apparently they were not prepared for the increased demand brought on by the onslaught of the Christian flock). Whatever the case, we need to concentrate our collective efforts on understanding that the U.S. presence in Iraq is severely misplaced.

I was very disappointed though at the glaring absence of a black woman’s oppositional voice in the film. Black women have a long standing tradition of activism: Harriet Tubman, Ida B. Wells, Fannie Lou Hammer, Angela Davis – these are just a few of the notables. But there was little presence of Black women in the film at all. With a few comic relief appearances that included Condi Rice, and a few shots early in the movie of women in the Congressional Black Caucus, Black women were generally overlooked. This is troubling considering how Shoshanana Johnson, the first Black woman POW, was held two weeks longer than famed Jessica Lynch and received a fraction of the hoopla in the media.

I am even surprised Moore didn’t mention or use the Lynch ‘Wag the Dog’ travesty as canon fodder for his lambaste against Bush. Although there was some commentary, I wanted to hear more from the Iraqi people, particularly the youth who I imagine are far more politically astute than our lot, or
more of its citizens. Maybe even specific statistics on the screen exacting the number of fatalities, on all sides, would have been a poignant reminder of the severity of this nebulous ‘war on terror.’ Or how this country has a long-standing history of conjuring up wars and choosing who it wants to help. And some of the pro-America comments seemed a bit excessive, but I understand the logic. Moore was trying to squelch the staid argument that being anti-war is anti-American. With this film Moore exercised one of the greatest attributes of American democracy: freedom of speech. And understanding the film couldn’t do it all, what was done was well worth the price of the ticket. Fahrenheit 9/11 is one hot rage against the machine.

Holla @ your gurhl,
–
Rhea L. Combs

http://www.rheality.com

info@rheality.com