Everything, always, now, and forever
‘Coin Coin Chapter 4: Memphis’ by Matana Roberts and ‘Analog Fluids of Sonic Black Holes’ by Moor Mother
These two records couldn’t be more different and my comparison or grouping here (inadequately explained by the proximity of their release dates) basically reveals the way in which institutional racism continues to be a viable force that guides, at least in part, the author. This is not a disclaimer or apology. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe my grouping of these two extraordinarily different records by black women is a sign of my own racism. At the same time, I know each album is worth talking about on its own. And in some cases each song can easily generate enough content for a deep dive.
But here I am, having had big reactions to these two albums that came at me at roughly the same time. I’m on my own journey, questioning my prejudices and motivations. Sometimes I will make wrong turns. Sometimes the world is fear and horror. And sometimes it is so beautiful.
And that is what brings me to these two amazing records.
To write about these two works in a way that involves even the least bit of substance is really to write about myself. Protest music has shown historically how it can change the world. This music changes the listener, and it happens fast. The best strategy that I can recommend is to simply raise the garage door of your self open and see how much you can fit in. Try to sort it out later. And once you think you’ve got a handle on it, repeat the process. Trying to sift through my reactions feels like a transformative process, but the most substantive jolt comes from just listening and trying to deal in the moment.
Is this protest music? Did I say that? If I did, it’s probably not right. These records fit in to no category that I know of, so I suppose that joins them a bit.
Even a meditation upon the various intentions (which I have done a little with Memphis, and not at all for Analog Fluids) is probably a waste of time. I have always thought the important thing is what the artist put on the tape. Not what’s in the liner notes or the bio or wherever. If the musical experience is dependent on that stuff, it’s usually a bad sign.
Music teaches you how to listen to it. Repetition helps. Classical composers will endlessly play with a motif to give a warped repetition that merely suggests a theme, rather than endlessly restating it. Lyrics and musical references create context. This invites the listener to join the dialog that searches for meaning within those lyrics and references.
And then there is the music that exists without reference, or where the reference includes an absence of any ordering principal. Certainly Roberts’ ‘Memphis’ brings out the free jazz with an experienced confidence of someone who could make a living doing just that. But this is certainly not a free jazz record. There is so much order and such strong thematics. The poetry is a unifying principal that recounts, over and over, a particular memory:
I am a child of the wind
Even daddy said so
We used to race
And I would always win
And he’d say
Run baby run
Run like the wind
That’s it, the wind
Memory is a most unusual thing
This verse is so vital to everything on the record, that it’s unfair to compare Roberts’ work to strictly improvised music, although it does contain those elements.
The self-referential nature of everything in this new century is playfully invoked when, after a few particularly virulent moments of instrumental improv, the narrator gets back to her story:
Friday
God forgive me and help me get myself straight
Those sounds…!
Calling the record “Memphis,” and including images of men in hoods and burning crosses anchors much of the chaos in meaning, but the appearance of creativity and beauty and love (in word and in music) are so pronounced that even the ‘noisiest’ bits bear repeated listening. The experience is made more immediate and given more gravitas for the way it was made. This is an ensemble playing live music.
Memphis is challenging and that is, of course, part of the point. But it is the substance of the journey, and not just its difficulty, that makes this record a universe I keep wanting to revisit.
For sheer emotional power, it is hard to top Memphis, but Moor Mother’s Analog Fluids of Sonic Black Holes is an incalculable force to be reckoned with.
I know nothing about this record, other than what I hear on the recordings. Moor Mother is a Philly artist and that geographical proximity to my own roots creates meaning even before I listen to the first track. Philadelphia has a vibrant afro-futurist culture that is a longstanding point of pride. Musically, it makes me think about the legacy of Sun Ra. In literature, our city has been adopted by no less than queer sci-fi icon Samuel R. Delany, who has taught at Temple for many years. I don’t know if Moor Mother self-identifies as part of that culture, but it helps to create context for me, the listener. Here is why:
The picture painted by Analog Fluids of Sonic Black Holes feels like a slick and horrifying dystopia where the apocalypse brought about by technology and hatred has already happened. Or it could just be the real world. But having ‘Black Holes’ in the title connotes unambiguous association with a real interstellar force of incredibly dangerous power.
This work is so much about past and present also. The first song is called Repeater, after all. It gets a long, strange intro with shuddering strings, droning bass, and vocal refrains that suggest an ancient culture speaking (praying) in a language not my own. It is an invocation that takes more than a full two minutes to set the stage for blistering poetry. But it must be remembered that the invocation is a poetry all its own.
The poem/lyrics describe a tentacle of evil that stretches through time, fueled by greed, and creating interminable suffering. And our narrator rejects it, utterly and completely. But something is coming, death is coming, and then the emotional mountain climbing begins in earnest.
Moor mother is not going to tell me about this confrontation. She is taking me through it and making it happen to me. Like the ad at the beginning of “Don’t Die” says: “… spiritual enlightenment now!” By the time the laughing changes to weeping, we are already on our way there.
‘After Images’ is the third song and it was my initial exposure to the record. It was released a few months before the full length came out. I was blown away from the first “Five four three two,” but it’s a bit like those times when a single doesn’t really encapsulate the whole record. So, that groove is not really repeated on the record, but having it in the context of the other tracks amplifies the effect of After Images. I guess the complaint is that I got to eat dessert first, when in fact it’s not dessert, it’s just the third track.
I think the musical experience of each track on this album deserves it’s own essay. I just want to keep going into the minutiae of each song to see where it leads me. Should I keep going?
Black Flight takes me from the streets of North Philly, running from the Feds to off-world colonies and mythical landscapes. Delete the era.
The Myth Hold Weight puts the artist’s poetry front and center with a thick underneath that would make Brian Eno proud. “Everything falls apart. North Philly rooftop view.” And through clenched teeth we are shown “Like all the money from cotton. The myth hold weight, like.”
Sonic Black Holes is basically the title track and in some ways presents the greatest challenge, although it is little more than a minute long. This is the electronic musician’s version of venturing into Matana Roberts’ free jazz. Another beautiful Philadelphia tradition.
There’s no need to go on. I have no doubt of having said too much and not enough. The burden of past, present and future is in every phrase and every note. How can this much emotion not overwhelm?
The end is happening and it keeps happening
And you keep checking the clock as if time ever protected you
Part of the experience is learning to be overwhelmed. Just because something is inexplicably large and complicated doesn’t mean I should ignore it. In fact, there’s a good chance the opposite is true. And whatever ugliness is revealed in that exploration, there is no reason to look away. Moor Mother and Matana Roberts are looking into the pasts, presents and futures of this land in a way that allows the process itself to be something the listener can undergo and survive. I won’t go so far as to say that these works create a reckoning, but there is so much here, in both, that I can’t help feeling changed.
