To be young, gifted and Simone. About Nina. The British poet Shelley once said, “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.” When the historical record of the 20th century is finally written, a special chapter will have to be penned about the remarkable and talented singer who is called Nina Simone. In any true history, words, no matter how skillfully crafted or masterfully molded, will fail to capture the brilliance of the woman. Some recording must be appendixed, so that the student will be blessed to hear her thrilling contralto, dark, full, rich as earth in the promise of spring. Also required will be a collection of her lyrics, so that no one may miss the words that she dared set to music and bring to life with a fury, a passion and sheer artistic courage that continued to dazzle years, decades, even after their creation. She was an artist with a Capital A in every sense of the word, but she was far more than that term now suggests. She was proud, imperial, majestic and deliciously arrogant, as say, the late jazz great Miles Davis was, in his prime.
This commentator remembers her appearing in the late 1970s in an outdoor midday concert at the Bell Tower, at Temple University. She looked out at the crowd with nervous irritation, not fear driven by the uncertainty of her performance, but a barely suppressed anger that there were only hundreds of people gathered to hear her, and not thousands. She sang songs with bite and grit and pride and longing and rage; deep down bone set rage at how cheaply life was lived for Africans in America. Her “Mississippi Goddam!” was an anthem that steered not merely the Civil Rights Movement but also the Black Liberation Movement. “You don’t have to live next to me. Just give me my equality,” she demanded. Her songs could also be tender, loving oaths to the multi flavored beauty and spirits of Black women, as in her signature, “Four Women,” which spoke of the various moods and hues of her sisters. Decades before Erica Badu would wear the head wrap, Simone did so, and walked as regularly as the Nubian princess that she had become. Although she was born in the Jim Crow South, the apartheid way of quiet acceptance was never hers, and she spoke out boldly in her art, in her interviews, against the injustices suffered by her people.
When the Nixon era began, she bid her homeland adieu, and like a generation of other brilliant Black Americans, like the writer Richard Wright, who could not abide the nastiness, meanness and racial indignities of the time, she migrated to live with dignity in France. Some reviewers have pronounced her career essentially over when she left the U.S. during the 70s, never to rise again. But great artists, like great music, have a habit of resurrection. In the early 90s, an American film emerged that was a borrowing from the French. Bridget Fonda portrayed an alienated, drug addicted youngster who got caught up in a failed drug store robbery turned killing. She was spirited into a shadowy spy agency where she worked for the government. The character when she was alone, invariably played Nina Simone records in the background, to reflect her moodiness. The film was titled point of no return, a U.S. remake of La Femme Nikita. A generation of young film goers were thus exposed to the wonder and power of Simone’s magnificent instrument.
Where are the Simone’s of this generation? They’re there, in the shadows perhaps, but they are there. They’re perhaps afraid of giving as much as their recently departed ancestor, for even they know that she sacrificed a good deal to sing the songs that moved her great heart. Such a prospect is no doubt scary. Yet, one wonders who among the maddening throng will be remembered, not to mention revered, 30 years from now? How much of what is produced now furls its way into the heart, or rings the deep bell of recognition in the soul? Who will sing of the wonder, the terror, the beauty and the madness of Black life in this new century? From death row, this is Mumia Abu-Jamal.
These commentaries are produced by Noel Hanrahan for Prison Radio.
