Country Music's Prejudice Paradox Pt. 1

 
 

I can’t say that I am a fan of country music per se, though I confess to admiring two artists who deeply resonate with me, and I may write about them eventually. Nevertheless, it is difficult to ignore the genre's historical origins in the American South, where my ancestors were enslaved. The emblem of violence against African American people hangs prominently in regions where country music is like oxygen in the blood. Is it possible to appreciate an art form that is symbolized by the Confederate flag?

Singers Darius Rucker and Mickey Guyton do not appear to be troubled. They are among a handful of Black artists who have found success in contemporary country music despite the industry’s resistance to fully embracing diversity. This is, ironically, in direct contrast to the invaluable contributions Black people have made to the genre, with some arguing that their influence was crucial to country music’s very inception. Then again, as is the case with most things in life, the broader context is rife with contradictions. 

Hank Willis Thomas, Black Righteous Space, 2012

The most glaring example is pop star Beyoncé’s rebranding as a country singer. With the 2024 release of the album Cowboy Carter, she pitched a big ‘ol tent in the country camp, and it paid off, making history at the 2025 Grammys when she won for Best Country Album, becoming the first Black woman to win in the category. In addition, she was awarded the Album of the Year.

But, her streak sputtered when the guardians of authenticity, the Country Music Association (CMA) Awards, barred her from their “genre-specific” nominations. Evidently, being a Texan held no sway. And it seems that passing as a country music singer requires more than having long white hair and a fair complexion.

The CMA’s long-standing history of racism is an open secret; however, on occasion, an unexpected cultural shift forced them to stash their hoods and robes in the back of the closet. Singer Charley Pride’s surprising rise to fame was impossible to ignore. Emerging in the late sixties, country music’s first Black superstar had a triumphant career that peaked in 2000 with Pride’s induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Thanks to his enormous popularity with white fans, the CMA sanctioned Pride’s country pedigree with three career wins and, in 1971, the “Entertainer of the Year” award. Then something changed. With no explanation, the association ended its fling with the “coloreds.” A telling thirty-eight-year “blackout” followed, ending with Darius Rucker's 2009 award for Best New Artist.

In recent years, Rucker, Kane Brown, Jimmie Allen, and, in a striking turn, the acclaimed singer/songwriter Tracy Chapman have taken home CMA Awards, yet they constitute a tiny fraction of overall winners. Honoring Beyoncé presented an opportunity for meaningful progress in an industry that prioritizes the sanctity of whiteness rather than addressing its racist practices.

Contrarily, if Beyoncé believed Cowboy Carter would signify greater inclusivity in the kingdom of Nashville –– simply because she’s Queen Bey –– then she is not as savvy as people believe. Beyoncé responded to the CMA’s decision by saying, “I think sometimes genre is a cold word to keep us in our place as artists.” All I can say is that the definition of an artist is up for individual interpretation. 

Therefore, deliberating whether she deserved the CMA’s recognition will drain brain cells I will never get back, which brings me to another outsider who pushed boundaries without being fixated on cosplay. Almost two decades before Beyoncé was born, an exceptional artist shook the foundations of country music's narrow conventions, and, for a fleeting moment, transformed the genre.

 
 

EXPERIENCE BEYONCÉ BEING “COUNTRY”

 
 
 

Country Music’s Prejudice Paradox Pt. 2

 
 
 
 

Racism did not deter the great R&B singer Ray Charles from reimagining 15 country standards that culminated in the 1962 album, Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music. He shared his enthusiasm with Billboard magazine, saying, “I think a lot of the hillbilly music is wonderful. I think I could do a good job with the right hillbilly song today. If you really have the ability, that’s what counts.”

With a resolute commitment to the art of music, Charles sat down at the piano and claimed hillbilly anthems as his own, trading country’s strum and twang for the vibrant swing of a Count Basie-style big band or lush and ambient string arrangements that complemented his emotive singing. His soulful phrasing was perfectly suited to country songs, adding an aching melancholy to immersive stories about love, heartache, and loss—emotions that all human beings relate to. Demonstrating extraordinary self-expression and freedom, Charles transcended the racist hypocrisies that dictate who is allowed to perform country music. 

Ostracized by segregated country radio, Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music still achieved an unprecedented level of success. The album shot to the top of the pop and R&B charts, and Charles’ definitive rendition of Don Gibson’s “I Can’t Stop Loving You” reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart, where it remained for five weeks.

 
 

A Black man’s daring foray into the hostile backwoods of country music staked a claim for racial unity in a United States that was just beginning to come to terms with the appalling injustices of Jim Crow laws. Before embarking on a tour to promote the record, Charles threw down the gauntlet by refusing to perform in segregated venues in the South. Reports later surfaced detailing scenarios in which southern whites willingly gathered alongside blacks –– perhaps for the first time in their lives –– to hear Charles sing songs they had assumed were exclusive to white performers. This phenomenon was a testament to Charles' faith in humanity and the transformative power of art.

What is indisputable is that Ray Charles held a deep appreciation for country music. His hillbilly experiment failed to resolve the genre's diversity problem but achieved a more profound outcome: it undermined the very ideals that the Rebel flag represents – a significant legacy that is wholly relevant today. Regrettably, the emblem of the Confederacy continues to loom large over country music. It stands proud and defiant against the harsh winds of bigotry and ignorance.

P.S. In 1965, Ray Charles released a second country album with a cover that featured some subtle cowboy cosplay. What’s great about it is that he looks like a Ralph Lauren ad.

 
 

EXPERIENCE TWO VERSIONS OF HILLBILLY MUSIC
I CAN’T STOP LOVING YOU
Don Gibson Ray Charles

 

The Accidental Performance Artist Pt. 1

 
 
 
 

Would you sacrifice a million dollars to stand in your truth?

Manosphere comedian and podcaster Theo Von said: “I thought if more people liked me, then I would like me.” I'm sure many of us can relate. In an American culture where individuals are encouraged to measure their value against the opinions of others, people are desperate for social acceptance, usually by way of joining a group. Yet it is our insecurities that feed our need to belong and as attractive as belonging might seem, conforming to a group mentality is not without repercussions.

When people relinquish free will, they no longer think and speak independently for fear of ostracism. The group is given the power to not only control them but define their identity, obscuring any possibility of personal autonomy. And when fame and money are at stake, capitulation is the foundation on which superstar careers are built, especially in the world of sports.

One notable exception is former football player Marshawn Lynch. Years after retirement, his refusal to submit to the NFL –– one of the most coveted cliques of all –– continues to be a topic of debate. Lynch’s aggressive, powerful running style earned him the name “Beast Mode” during his twelve seasons as a running back, primarily with the Seattle Seahawks.

Plantation analogies have forever plagued the NFL’s relationship with Black athletes, not that the upper echelons give a damn. In 2023, 53% of players identified as African American, many of whom, like Lynch, grew up in single-parent, low-income communities. Once contracts are signed, players are paid exorbitant amounts of money to do their job and, moreover, adhere to the demands of the organization without question. Freedom of choice is stifled (Colin Kaepernick), replicating a master/slave relationship in which money is used as a means of control.

Hank Willis Thomas, The Cotton Bowl, 2011

Lynch’s stint with the league can only be described as acrimonious. As far as he was concerned, his obligations to the league were fulfilled by playing the game of football. Outside of that, his life was off-limits. His agent, Doug Hendrickson, confirmed his client’s reticence, stating, "He plays football for game day and Sundays… Everything else he doesn’t like." His defiance was simply a matter of principle.

What makes Lynch unique is the way in which he communicated his resistance, not through hyperbole or bravado, but stoicism and, more intriguingly, silence. Since he did not pursue acceptance or validation, his silence relieved him of explaining and justifying his actions, further signaling he wasn’t the NFL’s property. The dearth of his voice so unnerved sports enthusiasts, armchair quarterbacks flooded the sphere with critiques questioning his sanity.

I should explain that I was not aware of Lynch until a friend suggested him to me. An aspect of my art practice examines the nature of human autonomy within repressive cultures. Although I found Lynch’s individualism fascinating, much has been written about his issues with the NFL, along with considerable speculation regarding his silence. However, my interest really piqued when I recognized a by-product of his self-determination: performance art, which most people outside the art world have never heard of –– including Lynch.

 
 
 

The Accidental Performance Artist Pt.2

 
 

Hank Willis Thomas, Football and Chain, 2011

Why would a professional football player know about performance art? It’s not exactly a common topic. But it is a dynamic form of expression that can take place anywhere, like, for example, a museum or gallery, a closet, or the Great Wall of China. Works might be mundane or experimental or involve one person or hundreds. Ideas may be more important than actions and outcomes. Sometimes questions can eclipse answers. Logic is seldom the point.

Post-game press conferences became Lynch's crucible. Contractually required to participate, he loathed them to such a degree that he blew them off; in fact, he skipped so many that the NFL fined him more than a million dollars.

In a 2024 interview with Shannon Sharpe of the YouTube channel, Club Shay Shay, Lynch said it was the NFL who offered a compromise. "Show up, sit down, and make yourself available. No need to actually speak to the press." So, whenever summoned, he sat before a phalanx of reporters hoping for some modicum of analysis. They were invariably disappointed, setting the stage for some of the most spectacular performance art I have ever seen.

Brimming with antipathy, tension, and subversion, Lynch’s performances distilled press conferences into bizarre satire that melded absurdist twaddle with eerie moments of silence. On Super Bowl Media Day 2015, Lynch answered each question with, “I’m just here so I don’t get fined, bro.” At a subsequent event, his face obscured by a ski mask, he responded to queries by declaring, “I’m grateful.” At yet another, questions were met with “yeah” fifteen times, “maybe” twice, and “I don’t know” once. When he brought up a fundraising effort to build a youth center in his Oakland community, reporters, eager to seize the moment, pressed him for insights on the game. Lynch stonewalled until wrapping up with one final “yeah.”

By exploiting the relationship between himself, the performer, and his audience, Lynch relegated reporters to unwitting collaborators in what were ultimately exercises in futility, and thus undermined the objectives of news organizations, sponsors, and the NFL. Basically, he sabotaged the mechanisms of capitalism.

Hsu Hua notes in the New Yorker article titled “The Profound Silence of Marshawn Lynch” that:

“A black athlete's insubordination, particularly when it is public, is rarely apolitical, and many wondered if there were deeper motivations behind Lynch’s silence that he was declining to elaborate.”

The underlying motivations that drive him are a private matter. Lynch’s fierce autonomy has everything and nothing to do with the politics of race. Historical trauma and social justice are used to define the entirety of the African American experience, and I have argued time and again that the Black community is not a monolith.

What people do not understand is that Lynch’s insubordination deviated from the chronicles of black male victimization, and conversely, symbolized an extraordinary level of power seldom associated with Black athletes, much less with Black men. Lynch, the nonconformist, controlled his narrative by weaponizing his silence. He unapologetically exists outside the norms of people’s expectations and beliefs –– the rare nonpolitical figure that Hua alluded to.

While the NFL’s relationship with black players remains suspect, the majority abide by their contracts, proof that conforming to the demands of others has nothing to do with race. Lynch was not fined because he was black. He was punished because he would not follow rules, opting instead to follow his own conscience. A human attribute. A human choice. The man sacrificed a million dollars to maintain his integrity for God’s sake! Think about that for a moment. Would you give up a million dollars to stand in your truth?

In the way that negative space around a figure defines its shape, Lynch’s performances framed his sovereignty within a repressive system. With tremendous fortitude and inner resolve, he withstood the backlash from entities determined to control him, and in the process, redefined his life and humanity as a work of art. The rest was grist for the mill.

 
 

EXPERIENCE LYNCH’S PERFORMANCE ART

 

FAVORITE PERFORMANCE ART EXAMPLES

Yoko Ono - Cut Piece
William Pope.L - Crawls
KimSooJa - Needle Woman
(time stamp 8:00)

 
 

Much Ado About?

 
 
 
 

The Tragedy of Macbeth starring Denzel Washington as Lord Macbeth and Frances McDormand as Lady Macbeth is Joel Coen's first film without his brother Ethan. Yet this 2021 adaptation of Shakespeare's tale of madness and violence remains firmly rooted in the Coen brothers' brand of idiosyncratic filmmaking. Washington in the lead role was an audacious choice.

But he's not the first black actor to inhabit the part. Orson Welles 1936 staging of "Voodoo Macbeth" featured an all black cast with unknown Jack Carter in the lead. It has been reported that Washington was the only actor Coen considered. And as expected the internet, or Hissy Fit Guild erupted into feverish whinging over matters of authenticity: Washington can't be Macbeth! There were no black people in 15th century Scotland!

I suppose authenticity depends on who's defining it, especially where Shakespeare “purists” are concerned. I would be remiss not to point out that for centuries multitudes have lauded white actors portraying Othello in black face, the most familiar being Laurence Olivier and Anthony Hopkins. Racism provided a convenient means to authenticate Othello on colonialist terms given that during the Bard’s lifetime black actors were supposedly nonexistent, thereby sanctioning white actors in black grease paint for all eternity. Or so they thought. During the early to mid-twentieth century, African American actors Paul Robeson and James Earl Jones did their best to fill the void. But it was contemporary culture’s surprising hypersensitivity around political incorrectness that finally rendered the black faced Moor obsolete. Laurence Fishburne, Chiwetel Ejiofor, André Holland, and Clark Peters quintessential interpretations of General Othello restored much needed equity.

Denzel Washington is a Shakespeare veteran having played Richard lll at the New York Shakespeare Festival, Prince Aragon in Kenneth Branagh’s film, "Much Ado About Nothing," and on Broadway in the starring role as Julius Caesar. He is not only an astonishingly versatile actor but a movie star whose innate magnetism lends itself to Shakespeare characterizations. While it’s often necessary to define equity within the context of race and ethnicity, what is obvious is that Washington never defines himself within the narrow perceptions of others, invariably choosing roles which stretch and challenge his abilities. Washington is first and foremost an actor. Not a black actor. An actor. So why shouldn't he play the paranoid murderous Scotsman?

Traditionalists are plagued by selective memory. They conveniently forget that Shakespeare's plays are studies in human behavior, mirrors held up to our lamentable predilections to destroy one another. And while the naysayers would have us believe otherwise, Macbeth is not so much about cultural identity but the vicissitudes of human nature. The profoundly flawed Lord Macbeth traded his humanity for evil. Washington capably inhabited those flaws so as to create a human psyche gone awry. This is the type of challenge actors love. And the type of prowess directors seek. What does equity look like? Skill and merit. Fearlessness. Embodying paradox. Washington's Macbeth is a singular performance in service to Joel Coen's distinctive vision of Shakespeare's tragedy of human suffering: The art.

 

Tolerated Margins of Mess

 
 

Pancho Villa, 1971

 
 

Artist Robert Colescott's explorations of human absurdity reveal ambiguous relationships between belief and practice, individual and culture, and sex and morality. His works illuminate what writer Barbara Babcock calls, "a tolerated margin of mess," which she defines as areas of duality that obliterate conventional societal codes.

Colescott’s provocative paintings are worlds saturated in satire, where mischief and transgression are not mutually exclusive. He colors outside the lines of societal standards by subverting our self-insulating insistence on the need for comfort and safety. With a wink and a mischievous smile, we’re invited to observe a rogues gallery of contradictions prancing through surreal "Taboos'R'Us" pastiches or bucolic settings –– some cloaked as stereotypes, others in Disney dayglo –– behaving in ways we'd rather not know about. Colescott lays waste to our preconceived notions of social order. Are women sexually harassed or willing participants? Is the Black man a victim or the aggressor? Are we trapped in history or is history trapped in us? Should we really believe what we’re seeing? These dichotomies are not meant to be understood concretely, but more as something to be seen through, offering something beyond the superficialities of consumerism, structures of the past, or plain old complacency. There’s always more than one story. Colescott shows us, in the words of James Baldwin, "the masks we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."

Colescott provokes examination of a kind of counter-culture experience, an immensely uncomfortable process of inquiry and shedding. I believe that this kind of assessment and the discomfort that results is the most powerful vehicle for transformation, a gateway to personal and societal accountability. In a culture where our worst attributes are treated as virtues to aspire to, Colescott’s art is a portal to reimagining unconventional societies where broadmindedness, compassion, and wisdom prevail. Where all people are POC (People of Consciousness.) Then, and only then, can we evolve into a culture where egalitarianism is categorically defined as a birthright. From this perspective we can reclaim our humanity.

What are you willing to let go of? What do you want to grow into? Whatever life you're in is a channel for change. Herein lies the beauty of Robert Colescott's tolerated margins of mess. He has shown us the way. It would behoove us to follow.

 

George + Ahmaud

 
 
 
 

The outrage over the deaths of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery is justified. I hope that everyone responsible will be held accountable by receiving very long prison sentences.

Here's what's bothering me. What is lost in all the machinations for justice is a sense of who the victims were as human beings. In other words, George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery are now and will forever be defined by the circumstances of their deaths, which by default, links them to, and amplifies the stories of the white men who murdered them. George and Ahmaud lived lives filled with stories of their own, chapters of experiences which are buried beneath headlines, pundits, and soundbites. The media hangs around until it's distracted by a random Kardashian or another black man murdered for no good reason. Then the cycle begins again, the new name placed alongside previous victims, and so it goes, and goes and goes.

Perhaps some of you are already doing this, but while you're reading about or posting information relevant to these tragedies, please take time to also discover whatever you can about the lives of Ahmaud or George, or Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Rodney King, or Amadou Diallo. There's not much available about Roosevelt Townes and Robert McDaniels, however, the gruesome details of their deaths will live on in perpetuity. 

A human life should not be measured or valued this way. Do not only remember Ahmaud as the black man who was "chased after and shot," or George as the black man "on the ground with a knee on his neck." They did not deserve what happened to them. What they do deserve is to be defined as something immensely greater than senseless acts perpetrated by white men. Murder is not a legacy. A more powerful form of justice is to hold these men in our hearts and remember them by prioritizing their humanity, again, and again, and again, for as long as we draw breath. 


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There is nothing more important than the human being.