Perhaps Asa Carter, a Klansman and the secretary of the North Alabama White Citizens Council, said it best in 1956:
"Rock 'n' roll is part of a plot to undermine the morals of the youth of our nation. It is sexualistic, unmoralistic, and the best way to bring people of both races together."
Well, yeah.
Music—rock 'n' roll, gospel, hip-hop, country—is probably the best way ever to bring people together. And being that the old bigot was talking about such immorality as people of different races getting along and working together, then, hell yes, music is great for that, too. It is the great equalizer. It is the connector. It is the way young people express themselves, and reach out, and rebel, and ask for help. It is the way older people reconnect with their youth, their idealism, their soul. Music rocks.
Of course, music can be used for negative and selfish purposes. Greed. Misogyny. Violence. But that's usually only true of musicians who aren't trying to reach out to people, and other musicians, around them. The ones who are in it just to get chicks or more bling or just to be cooler than thou. And those are the same ones who would have the same problems no matter what profession they chose to channel their neurosis. (You know the ones: Their hair is more important than their art. Blech.)
This musical reverie went through my mind last week as I sat in the Red Room at Hal & Mal's, listening to Kamikaze explain the mission of the recently formed Mississippi Artists & Producers Coalition at a meet-and-greet sponsored by the JFP.
Kamikaze's presentation was all business, all networking, all-inclusive. It was an effort like I may never have seen to bring diverse artists together under one umbrella, to help each other, to speak with one voice when needed, to stand up for each other.
Kamikaze's focus was both on sending out a message that Mississippi is a Music State to be reckoned with, and on helping individual artists with everything from booking gigs and being treated right by venues to using members' dues to put out compilations of members' music. They've already published Hip-Hop, Vol. 1; they're looking to do Rock, Vol. 1; Blues, Vol. 1, and so on. And once the CDs are out there, the coalition wants to make sure the songs are getting played on radio around the state.
"You get 300 spins on the radio, you can get a record deal," Kamikaze said, holding up the coalition's first CD.
"Mississippi is slowly becoming a hotbed. … We've got to get people to stand up and take notice. We've gotta make noise," he added.
M.A.P. started out as mostly hip-hop artists, but is now focused on reaching out to all types of musicians. Represented at the meet-and-greet were gospel, blues, R&B, indie rock, spoken word. The crowd was impressive: M.L., Compositionz, Vicksburg blues duo Osgood & Blaque, white rapper L'il Shane, The Rockwells, and many more. The tables and chairs were all full—although Kamikaze said later that he wished more rock and indie acts had shown up.
Each person stood up, talked a bit about themselves and their music or poetry. They promoted themselves and their music; afterward, everyone mingled while Phingaprint showed off on the turntables. Business cards were exchanged; CDs and flyers passed out. There was none of the sense of animosity, jealousy and pettiness (one of the musicians called it "fighting like crabs in a bucket") you sometimes witness between artists who are stymied by competitiveness—meaning that negativity holds everyone back. It was refreshing and hopeful.
Kamikaze gave out a four-page explanation of M.A.P. and its goals. The very first sentence showed that there is no sugarcoating going on here: "Mississippi, a state with a longstanding history of cruel civil rights atrocities, also has an extensive history stemmed in blues, Southern soul, spoken word and hip-hop. Many of our musical forefathers have ties to the Magnolia state, but yet Mississippi has often been overlooked during the South's recent rise to prominence in the industry. After decades of crippling racism, Mississippi has now experienced a creative renaissance." All true.
The best part, though, was what followed: not whining, but a detailed plan for uniting, teaching, nurturing and economically empowering Mississippi artists. The event had the tone of what I like to call "going Dr. Laura on your ass." What I mean is not her homophobic side, but her focus on taking responsibility. Not complaining, but working to make things better. Squarely acknowledging past injustices and problems and causes, but then going out and fixing the problems. Not whining about what people think of you if you're just going to do the crap that makes them think it.
M.A.P. is about action, and I dig it. And it captures perfectly what I believe about that age-old riddle about Mississippi: Do we help ourselves by looking backward or moving forward? The answer, of course, is we must do both. Simultaneously. That is what M.A.P. is trying to—use the power of numbers to empower and embolden Mississippi artists to step up and demand to be noticed. And it feels like one kick-butt way to get past that low self-esteem problem that the state suffers from. Who, us? We can't do that. Hell, yeah, we can.
Whether musicians are punk, or indie, or hip-hop, they can demand respect, if they just will. Kamikaze looked at attendees squarely as he declared, "This is not a gang we're putting together here; it's not a social club." It is a coalition—of people from different backgrounds, with varied musical tastes, some from public schools, others from academies. All creatives.
"Each one has to teach one," Kamikaze said. M.A.P. members are expected to support younger artists coming up, give helpful criticism and attend their gigs.
Ultimately, though, M.A.P. is about success. The crowd laughed heartily when Kamikaze said, "I want all of us to hop in our Hummers and leave looking good."
The next M.A.P. meeting is Tuesday, Aug. 2 at 7:30 p.m. in the coalition's new office in Thalia Mara Hall. All are invited. Call 601-212-6381.
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