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[pjswave]

We're All In The Water

I was drenched in a sea of the sweat of strangers at some venue near Hollywood. Kyle and I had saved up enough to see our favorite band at the time, it must have been around Christmas because I remember keeping the concert ticket in the new wallet my aunt gifted me. We spent our summers burnt from the sun at Warped Tour, so we were familiar with large crowds and loud music. My favorite thing to do during shows was to help those who wanted to crowd surf. Kyle and I were usually the tallest guys at the shows, which made it easier for those around us to make eye contact. I could just tell when someone near me was looking for help. I’d lean closer to them, asking, “Do you want to go up?” while pointing first at them and then to the sky above us. Those who felt free wouldn’t hesitate. I would interlock my fingers to secure their sneaker between my palms before lifting their body above the surface and shouting for the crowd to carry them with trust. I’d see them roll towards the band they’d listened to all year while they shouted every word of the song like a prayer they memorized. Near the end of that set, the sea of strangers split down the middle as the lead singer beckoned for a Wall of Death. Kyle and I loved mosh pits, skank pits, and circle pits, but we’d never seen a Wall of Death at a show in person. One can’t help but be nervous from a ritual where two sides of a crowd spread apart and count down to run into each other like trains on the same track. I knew there was a freedom in flailing around with others in mosh pits, at times it would feel like being in a pinball machine with a hundred balls, or watching Beyblades spin into each other before they fall. It may look like an ultimate form of chaos or violence, but I learned over time that there were unspoken rules everyone followed in the pit. If someone fell, those nearby would rush to rescue them before they drowned. If someone’s shoe got untied, we would stretch over them like a bubble so they could tie it in a double-knot. With all that in mind, we trusted the ocean and became the waves that crashed.  I lost my wallet in the tides that night, but I got some bruises to make up for it.

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G-funk in the LBC I was born in Socal around the era of G-funk. While I was too young at the time to enjoy it, there was a sense of pride knowing the street names and places that these rappers talked about in their music whenever these songs were played at parties. I once went to a Halloween party in Long Beach, and I’ll never forget the sea of mostly strangers rapping along to these G-funk tracks. While I was only familiar with the chorus of the songs, they knew every word and recited them together between the brick apartment buildings. It reminded me of what happens when someone plays a Selena song at my Latino family parties, sort of like a joint karaoke concert where the closest object available becomes a microphone. Long Beach City had historic shutdowns of factories and Naval bases in the early 90’s. During this time, the Black community of Long Beach had fewer occupational opportunities to choose from, and struggles relating to poverty were prevalent. This set the tone for the rise of G-funk, a style of rap made famous by musicians like Snoop Dogg, Warren G, Dr. Dre, and many more. The sound of G-funk(short for “Gangsta Funk”) is known for its laid-back grooves, house-party vibes, and repping for communities of color. G-funk in its own is a form of resistance to a society that often viewed it negatively with its association of drugs and gang culture. As fewer job opportunities were left for the Black community, those who popularized G-funk on the West Coast found its creation to be a valid way to make money in a system that was built against their favor. During this era of low economic stimulation, a rise in drug and gang culture was seen within the communities of color, and G-funk/Hip Hop/Rap culture was a creative stance of empowerment made by the lower class in Long Beach and the surrounding area(LA/Compton, etc). Gin and Juice serves as an anthem for those surviving troubles involving racism and oppression. Its unbothered delivery and laid-back lyrics give power to the self, unallowing outside forces to break their walls and bonds. Nothin’ But a G Thang by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg sheds light on the community of Long Beach/Compton. The music video takes us from shots of cruising cars to house parties, which come together to set the tone for this era of music. They deliver smooth lyrics that exemplify the “cool” of gangsta life, all while putting their hometowns on the map. Regulate by Warren G and Nate Dogg is a strong example of the self and other ideology of togetherness. It’s a representation of their LBC lifestyle. It feels like a rap duet, which further showcases their strong bond. They define G-funk near the end of the song by letting us know that part of its uniqueness comes from the bass singing the melody instead of the bass being an accompaniment to the melody. Nothin’ But a G Thang by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg sheds light on the community of Long Beach/Compton. The music video takes us from shots of cruising cars to house parties, which come together to set the tone for this era of music. They deliver smooth lyrics that exemplify the “cool” of gangsta life, all while putting their hometowns on the map. The importance of music and its significance within the cultures that create it help bring not only their respective communities together, but many outside that can relate to it, or simply just vibe to it. G-funk still has a heavy influence on the rap created today. It can be heard in songs like King Kunta by Kendrick Lamar from its choice in samples and lyrical content.

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The Reflection of Freedom One would assume that a performer would want all eyes on them. However, Marvin Gaye flips that notion by giving himself a sense of anonymity through these sunglasses. Those of which also help push the idea that this performance is not about him, but rather everyone. Marvin Gaye’s ability to unite the audience by breathing new life into an old song really speaks to me. His version is so different from the original. Its tempo is slower, and he changes the melody as well, but the audience cheers and is along for the special moment. His performance becomes a collective experience. By singing this song in his own tune, he draws the crowd into another world for a brief moment. He leaves much more space between the lyrics than is typical for this arrangement, and this gives us the time to absorb what he is singing about and why he is singing it. It transports me to a moment in time when I wasn't even alive for it, and it feels so timeless. The way he incorporated his hand gestures into the notes while singing shows his freedom to give in to the music. It takes a while for the crowd to join in by clapping along to the beat, but when they do, you can feel the interconnectedness within the arena. 

[pjswave]

To Be Alive

To be alive is to experience the heartache of being pushed away the sorrow of being labeled–less than the enduring process of proving self-worth the fight for a future that was never promised To be alive is to grow from the mistakes made by oneself from the errors forged by others from the hatred we cannot control from the love we choose to accept They say that Jazz is Dead It was born from the hands of suffering, hands that were forced by unjust rules. Black hands that were stripped of identity came together to hold themselves and each other up In a world that exiled them, they lived outside the norm. Improvisation and adaptation to chaos brought Jazz to life The repetitive changes and forms allowed for an expression That could not be made by the hands of those unburdened by the experiences of being alive. Jazz represented a culture that was excluded from mainstream society. When that mainstream society felt excluded from Jazz, they tried to invite themselves into the circle by breaking apart the Black hands that held it together. Doing so changed the composition, It formed a different meaning, and it killed the body of Jazz, but not its spirit.

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To: Dad

I haven't missed a class yet. I've even been sitting in the front rows. My teachers used to tell you I was a problem, but now they say I'm a pleasure to teach. School has been rough. I flew to California for your funeral, and passed my midterm the same week. I took a class about The Beatles, and learned so much about the songs that played in your car on those CDs. I've been listening to a lot of music lately. School Day by Chuck Berry has been playing on repeat. I bet you've heard it already, because it sounds like something you'd sing. I think it's about the daily hardships that we all push ourselves through, and how the fun parts of life make it all worth it in the end. As soon as three o'clock rolls around, my next hour is spent driving home from class. I don't mind the traffic through, it gives me time to sing—time to breathe. I like to keep the AC on even when it's raining. It reminds me of your cold car when you drove me. I waited until I was twenty-five to tell you that I liked guys. maybe I was ready—maybe it was the psychosis. Either way, I noticed that when you told me that it didn't matter I was sitting in your freezing passenger seat wondering why I let years of loneliness destroy me. It took me a while to realize that I actually went crazy chasing love. There's a song by Bessie Smith called Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl and whenever I listen to it, it reminds me of the seventy-two hours I spent at that hospital. It's a really beautiful song that I've connected with lately. The piano sings in the intro before Bessie does and it sets her up to be vulnerable with her truth. Her relatable truth. She sings about her lust through innuendos and metaphors. There's so much soul and raw energy in her voice, and I find it inspiring to hear someone be so vocal about what they think they deserve, especially at a time back then when Black women were not perceived to be empowered. I think I could have learned from Bessie Smith about being honest about my feelings. if I had listened to this song earlier in life. I wish I could have spent more time with you. When you were home reading, painting, or singing, I was nowhere to be found. Yet, I found the scotch you had in the cupboard and took it to some party that I can't even remember. I toasted to every occasion. I used to drink and smoke too often when you were alive, but now I can hardly handle caffeine. There's a song by John Lee Hooker called One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer. He's heartbroken about his love leaving him, so he drowns his sorrows in alcohol like I did. I really like how in parts of this song, it feels like he's just talking over the beat. The last time I drank was at your funeral. I had two tequilas, two midori sours, two beers— and I'm sorry, but I didn't prepare a speech. The last time I cried was at your funeral, but these blues have been singing to me.