Showing posts with label Quincy Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quincy Jones. Show all posts

Monday, January 24, 2011

The Color Purple: Controversy At 25



The Color Purple marks its 25th anniversary this week with a Blu-Ray DVD release, prompting comparisons about the points of controversy it shares with contemporary films For Colored Girls and Precious.

The Color Purple: Controversy At 25
by Mark Anthony Neal | TheLoop21

When The Color Purple was released in December of 1985, Whoopi Goldberg was most known for her one-woman Broadway show and Oprah Winfrey was just a fledgling talk show host in Chicago. The film, based on Alice Walker’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel of the same title, went on to earn 11 Academy Award nominations including Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress nominations for Goldberg (Celie) and Winfrey (Sophia) respectively. This week the film will be released on Blu-Ray for the first time.

Though we often look back lovingly at The Color Purple, noting in particular the beauty of the cinematography, and its role in helping create mainstream interests in “Black” cinema—the film earned nearly $150 million—its release was shrouded in controversy. The Color Purple courted contention very much the way recent releases from Lee Daniels (Precious) and Tyler Perry (For Colored Girls) (films that, like The Color Purple, were male directed screen adaptations of literary works originally produced by Black women) did.

Read the Full Essay @ theLoop21

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Quincy Jones' Long and Restless Song


Quincy Jones in Bel Air on Nov. 24, 2010. (Liz O. Baylen / Los Angeles Times)

The peerless producer has a new book and album, but he's in a looking-back mood too.

Quincy Jones' Long and Restless Song
by Geoff Boucher|Los Angeles Times

It had been a long night — a concert, a reunion with an old friend, a midnight meal — but as the clock ticked past 2 a.m. Quincy Jones sat in a rare state of silence in his estate at the very top of Bel-Air. The man they call Q nodded at the cellphone sitting on the kitchen counter.

"I've deleted 188 names this year — all the people who died, all these friends of mine," Jones said. "That's what happens when you're 77, man. That's life, man. You start out playing in bands and doing duets and then you worry that in the end it's all going to be a solo."

The song of Q's life began on the South Side of Chicago. It was March 1933 when a new president named Roosevelt told the American people that the only thing they needed to fear was fear itself. Ten days later, Quincy Delight Jones Jr. was born as part of a staggering boom-time in the nursery of modern music: Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, James Brown, Johnny Cash, Leonard Cohen, Jerry Lee Lewis, Nina Simone, Willie Nelson, Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson were also born in that golden window between September 1930 and September 1935.

Most of those peers are gone now, but Jones remains a man in relentless motion. He has a new tribute album, a recently published book and a schedule dense with award shows, fundraisers and jet-set parties. Still, he feels the weight of the years and he also thinks quite a bit about legacy maintenance.

"We all wonder how we will be remembered," says Jones, who rarely gets through any conversation without mentioning the famous friends and sparkling moments of the past. His friendship with the late Charles, especially, tugs at his memory, but instead of maudlin repetition a conversation with Jones is like talking to a jukebox loaded with platinum singles. He's just playing the old hits so new generations can learn the beat.

"You can't know the present or the future without knowing the past, and for young black Americans especially, it's a sin to forget where we've been and what we've done in music," Jones said. "The history is who we are. Without it we're in trouble. We need to teach music history the same way we teach science history."

Elementary school

A few weeks ago, Jones — resplendent with a shiny, blue pinstripe suit that could have been worn in a "Guys and Dolls" production and a striped scarf that reached his knees — trekked down to East 33rd Street. The Los Angeles Unified School District had invited him to cut the ribbon on Quincy Jones Elementary, which sits less than a mile from the old Dunbar Hotel, the hub of the Central Avenue jazz scene and the place where Duke and Dizzy and Basie and Billie all played.

Jones gigged at the Dunbar too ("I didn't know where Sunset Boulevard was when I moved to L.A., but sure I knew Central"), but he tried not to talk about all those old ghosts too much as he looked out on a schoolyard of young faces. "When I was growing up as a poor kid in a crime-ridden neighborhood in Chicago, I could not have imagined that I would stand here with you today and witness the dedication of a school with my name on it," Jones said. "This is one of the greatest honors of my life."

Jones found his path to fame in Seattle where, as a youngster playing trumpet, he found Charles and the defining friendship of his life. His career seemed kissed by fate. Count Basie became a mentor, and Lionel Hampton invited him to bring his trumpet on tour. He became a coveted arranger and wrote charts for Ellington, Tommy Dorsey and others. One day the phone rang and it was Frank Sinatra, and Jones knew he had reached the summit. "When you get to work with Sinatra, well, that's the best there is."

Jones has won 27 Grammys, more than any other living person, but he's prouder in some ways that he was named vice president of Mercury Records in 1962, breaking the color barrier as far as top-level music executives at major labels. Today, he's just a few notches below Oprah Winfrey as cosmic-level macher for black America — instead of arranging musical notes he now arranges careers and seeks to compose history.

It's telling that on his first visit to Southern California as a presidential hopeful, Illinois politician Barack Obama ended up in Jones' living room listening to war stories about Cairo concerts with Dizzy Gillespie or the view from the soundboard on the night "We Are the World" was recorded in 1985.

As the producer of Michael Jackson's three signature albums — "Off the Wall," "Thriller" and "Bad" — Jones created a sonic template for pop that can still be heard in the music of Usher, Justin Timberlake and dozens of other stars. "I watch what Quincy Jones has done, and that's the guy I want to be," says will.i.am, leader of the Black Eyed Peas and a Grammy-nominated producer himself. "He is the man."

Read the Full Article @ The Los Angeles Times

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Vibe Magazine and the "Death" of Criticism?



With diminishing resources available for thoughtful and accessible criticism, mainstream black cultural critics exists as little more than commentators on the Obama White House and complainers about Black Entertainment Television. Blackness has been reduced to a news cycle.

The Demise of Vibe Magazine and the Future of Criticism
by Mark Anthony Neal

There’s no small irony to the fact that the announcement of the folding of Vibe Magazine occurred the day after the death of Michael Jackson. Though Jackson’s career was on the downside in the United States when Vibe Magazine published its first issue in September of 1993, the magazine was the product of a cultural landscape that Jackson had a large hand in crafting. Presenting a glossy and urbane view of urban culture, Vibe Magazine became a preeminent site for journalists and scholars chronicling contemporary black popular culture. The lists of writers who can claim a Vibe Magazine by-line represent the cutting edge of a critical intelligentsia, many of them black writers who would have had few other legitimate options to hone their craft. As such the death of Vibe Magazine raises questions about the future of popular criticism at a moment when few print or on-line journals see the value of paying for such content.

Vibe Magazine was launched just as rap music and hip-hop culture were gaining mainstream credibility in terms of delivering a substantial buying audience to advertisers. The galvanizing of that audience was set in motion years earlier when MTV embraced rap music in the form of Yo MTV Raps—an embrace that was made possible, in large part, due to the efforts of Michael Jackson, CBS Records head Walter Yentikoff and Vibe founder Quincy Jones to force MTV to open up its playlists to Jackson, and by extension, other popular black recording artists in the early 1980s. As scholar Todd Boyd recently opined, “In the early ‘90s, hip-hop had made the successful transition from Sedgwick and Cedar through Compton on its way to global dominance. Along the way, as the music grew more and more pervasive, its influence had started to become evident in multiple cultural arenas.” Vibe Magazine was a blatant attempt by Jones and publisher Len Burnett to trade on hip-hop’s increasing commercial and cultural influence. In the process the magazine helped establish a generation of black writers and critics as tastemakers for an American—and increasingly global—public desiring to consume the best of blackness.

Figures like Joan Morgan, Kevin Powell, Toure, Karen Good, Danyel Smith, Michael Gonzalez, and Scott Poulson Bryant—what I’ll call the Vibe Magazine generation—along with seasoned critics like Harry Allen, Greg Tate, Barry Michael Cooper and Nelson George (all veterans of the Village Voice in the 1980s) were among the writers that graced the pages of Vibe Magazine, contributing to what became a late 20th century renaissance of black thought and thinkers. The best of those writers brought contemporary black popular culture in conversation with the rich traditions that came before. At its best the Vibe Magazine generation helped establish the criteria for high-end popular cultural criticism and perhaps the first sustained critical view of black youth culture that was informed by black youth culture.

But Vibe’s success would undermine its very role as a critical arbiter of urban culture and ultimately the legitimacy of accessible mainstream cultural criticism. Many will point to the magazine’s role in the bi-coastal tensions that arose between the Death Row and Bad Boy record label camps, personified in the war of words between the late Tupac Shakur and the late Christopher Wallace. As Boyd suggests, “Vibe’s place as a nexus in this bi-coastal war cemented the magazine’s status as a relevant chronicle of hip-hop’s rapidly expanding evolution from sub-cultural status to mass cultural behemoth. Vibe, like the Washington Post during Watergate, no longer simply reported on the story; the magazine had at this point become an integral part of the very story that it was supposed to be reporting on.”

Equipped with a new sense of gravitas, Vibe became a part of the promotional machine that fueled hip-hop’s invasion of the American mainstream. Vibe Magazine was not alone in this regard; the Source Magazine, particularly after Bakari Kitwana’s editorship, was in many ways far more egregious in this matter, though it never professed the kind of mainstream appeal that Vibe Magazine garnered at its circulation peak. Many of the so called urban journals of the late 1990s and early 21st century had become little more than enablers of hip-hop’s most distasteful excesses instead of providing the kind of critical scrutiny that many expected the magazine to maintain. In the process the very criticism that the magazine was founded on became devalued in a marketplace more interested in access to celebrity lifestyles. Magazines like Vibe were all too aware of the price that was to be paid if they didn’t toe the line. Such was the case when Damon Dash, then of Roc-A-Fella records pulled advertising from the magazine after Elizabeth Mendez Berry’s expose on domestic abuse among hip-hop figures placed the mogul in an unfavorable light.

Though many will cite the current recession as the primary force in Vibe’s demise, the magazine’s closing is just confirmation of a trend that began earlier in the decade when print media became challenged by free Internet content. With a wealth of cultural criticism available, print journals have been hard pressed to justify paying for content such as book reviews, film criticism and music journalism. The use of in-house bloggers has been one of the responses by print journals, though writers are paid a fraction of what they were paid even three years ago. The Internet has been an important component in bringing so many more voices to light—voices that were largely ignored a generation ago—but the democratization of criticism has undermined the value of cultural and critical expertise. Thus figures like Stanley Crouch and John McWhorter can be pitched as credible critics of hip-hop culture, though neither man has expertise on the subject.

With diminishing resources available for thoughtful and accessible cultural criticism (the academy remains a viable option for inaccessible criticism), contemporary mainstream black cultural criticism exists as little more than commentary on the Obama White House and complaints about Black Entertainment Television. Blackness, however more visible, has been reduced to a news cycle. Longtime critic and author Nelson George alluded as much in a recent interview on the Michael Eric Dyson Show when he lamented that with a lack of available venues for black criticism to be nurtured, very often audiences and consumers are unable to discern what is essentially “product” and what is “art.” Increasingly many black critics have taken to publishing their criticism on self-contained blogs and websites, without remuneration, simply to make sure that the story of black culture gets told right. Still others, confronting a public less interested in reading, have begun to produce video blogs and podcast in an effort to maintain a critical public voice. The best critics have been able to adapt to the limitations placed on their writing and I have faith that this generation of black critics will do the same.

Mark Anthony Neal is the author of several books including New Black Man and Songs in the Key of Black Life: A Rhythm and Blues Nation. He is a professor of African-American Studies at Duke University.

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