#so it's given me and my sister not only a real respect for DIY and second hand and generally not spending extortionate amounts

[hella1975]

im due on and not in the mood for much of anything but of course there are stepladders that must be painted

[motherhenna]

Writers Rants: Backstory

How to Smoothly Integrate a Character’s Past into the Narrative

---

If you are even remotely interested in the process of writing, then you’ve probably heard this phrase at least a hundred times over: show, don’t tell.  Such a vague sentiment, but hell if it doesn’t pack a punch. In fact, it’s probably one of the only “rules” of storytelling that ought to be followed as closely as possible and as often as possible—at least in my opinion. But what, exactly, does it mean? In layman’s terms, show don’t tell is a simple recommendation: that authors should actively illustrate a concept rather than passively explain it. Why? Simple. One leaves the reader more room for interpretation and draws them deeper into the action at hand, and the other just…well, tells them what to see and what to feel in the same way a set of DIY instructions describe how to make a quirky set of kitchen lights out of mason jars. While yes, you got a straightforward idea of what to expect, did you actually have fun reading it?

These basic concepts are important to understand if you consider yourself a writer of any kind, as they function as the foundation for a) improving your prose, b) strengthening your characters, and c) forming a flowing narrative that will catch and keep readers’ attention.  And naturally, this also applies to the art of exposition.

Most people with even a cursory knowledge of telling a story know that characters should never be blank slates. If you have any desire to portray even a facsimile of real life, you have to put at least some effort into fleshing out the main characters. And when I say ‘flesh out’, I mean do more than just describing what they look like, a laundry list of personality traits, and what they’re wearing. I’m not going to go into this process deeply, as that’s a matter for another think-piece entirely, but it’s a starting point for the more convoluted parts to come. What I’m building up to is that your characters need a backstory, especially if they’re the one(s) through whom we, as readers, experience the story, i.e., the point of view (POV) character. This applies to both first- and third-person limited narratives, unless you’re going for a more anonymous / incidental narrator, like Mr. Lockwood in Wuthering Heights.

Now, these backstories don’t have to be a strict, detailed, chronological transcription of every year in that character’s life (though doing so certainly doesn’t hurt!) Rather, you should write it much like you would describe your own life if you had to plot it out on a timeline. At first, just stick with the most essential elements: where and when in history they were born, whether they have siblings or present family, and a simple list of significant events from various periods in their life. What specific things have most influenced who they are as a person, for good or ill? Next, it’s time to look at the family, since nothing impacts an individual more than how they were raised and how they were treated during their formative years. Were their parents present during their childhood? What was their parents’ relationship like before and after your character’s birth? Are they natives of the country in which the story is set, or did they immigrate—and if they immigrated, why did they do so? All of these and more are, to me at least, vital to developing a well-rounded and realistic character. I’ve even gone so far as to type out entire timelines for each character as well as their parents. Personalities, quirks, trauma—these are all just as hereditary as one’s genes, though this doesn’t mean that this inheritance has to be through blood. Nature vs. Nurture: they’re both equally important in the formation of an individual.

…So, what to do when you’ve finished all that? Do you dutifully transcribe it into the first chapter of your story? Absolutely not. Copy it into a separate document window and keep it there. A large chunk of this is for your benefit: most likely, less than half of it will make it into the written canon of the novel, and for good reason. All of that detailed history isn’t for the reader, it’s for you to use as a framework. Some of the most powerful elements to realistic characters are the unseen, the implied: all the hidden little things that lie just under the surface, but are never fully visible to the naked eye.

What a lot of inexperienced writers may not realize is that everything doesn’t always have to be stated unequivocally through dialogue or info-dumps. How often, in real life, do acquaintances explain upfront that this specific behavior they often exhibit is a result of how they were abandoned by their father and raised by an emotionally distant mother? Most people don’t psychoanalyze everything, nor do we ourselves do it to others—at least not often! Plus, it’s boring. Getting to know characters over the course of a story should be comparable to meeting a new friend. You find out the surface things at first, but pick up bits and pieces along the way that hint at what lies deeper inside. Little by little, you learn about their family, their hopes, dreams, fears…not always directly, and sometimes even in spite of their desire to keep up a front of normalcy.

With all this said, I think it’s become clear where I stand on backstory: it should be subtle, woven gradually into the narrative rather than stated by the character themselves or described by an omniscient narrator. Not only does this make the process of reading about it flow better and progress more naturally, it’s also far more interactive. Instead of being told why a character acts the way they do, the reader can catalogue said character’s actions, motivations, dialogue, and the way they interact with their surroundings, gradually putting the puzzle pieces together for themselves. In a sense, it’s almost a reward for those who read with a careful, inquisitive eye, and can be just as satisfying as solving a mystery before the detective does in a murder mystery.

I’ve used—and will continue to use—a lot of metaphors in this section because it’s the most thorough way I can to explain this process and why it’s so important. That being said, I approach backstory in the same way I might organize a scavenger hunt. It’s not about a treasure map, but rather an ongoing set of little discoveries without which the ultimate prize can never be found. But in keeping with this analogy, why would anyone want to take part in this if a) they’re just given the prize’s location outright, or b) don’t really care about the prize anyway?

When you’re straight-up told about character’s backstory within the first few chapters, there’s no groundwork for investment. Why should I care about this character’s history if I don’t even know them yet? Investment is a gradual process, and ought to be an interactive process too. One of the best strategies of implying backstory without stating it directly is illustrating how a character reacts to specific triggers. Yes, you can tell the reader in the character’s introductory paragraph that he was almost killed in a house fire as a child, which still haunts him to this day—but how else can you impart this information more effectively and poignantly? For some examples, he might…

Be too frightened to turn on the stove.

Avoid any type of matches or aerosol at all costs.

Get anxious when filling up his car at gas stations.

Constantly check and re-check the smoke detectors throughout his apartment

Panic when he smells her neighbor’s lit fireplace.

Why would we need to explain to readers what made him this way when we have all the evidence we need to figure it out for ourselves? Of course, there’s nothing wrong with, later on down the line, this character actively opening up about this trauma to a friend or therapist, as this is only natural and also supplies us with details we would have never known otherwise. This just shouldn’t be the first way we find it out.

Another efficient and interesting approach to gradual backstory incorporation is through dialogue. The way a character responds to nosy questions, criticisms, or simple observations tell a lot about the kind of people they are and how they’re coping (or not coping) with potentially painful parts of their personal histories / insecurities. For example, Character A can ask Character B, “Why don’t you want to go out tonight?” In truth, B is trying to back out of these plans because she can’t fit into a dress she was supposed to wear for the party, and is trying desperately not fall back into the pit dug by the various eating disorders she has suffered from since adolescence. She is afraid her friends will want to take group pictures, or remark on what’s she’s eating or not eating, or notice the extra pudge in her stomach. She remembers how her mother would chide her for eating second helpings when she was young, or all the times her ex called her fat. But B is not going to be capable of explaining all of this to her partner. So how does she respond?

1.     “I just…feel tired all of a sudden…but don’t let me keep you from going.  I don’t want to spoil your night.” Implication: saving face—she doesn’t want to reveal her real insecurities, so she uses a physical illness as a cover story.

2.      “What’s it to you? If this stupid party so important to you, then you can just go without me!”  Implication: defensiveness—she is uncomfortable being vulnerable, and lashes out instead.

Now obviously these are just two examples of a plethora of different responses a person might have to a question like this. But what matters is that each answer should give the reader some sort of information as to why said character reacts the way they do. And these reactions don’t have to have traumatic roots, either! Perhaps, because Character C’s older sister always encouraged them to stick up for and respect themselves, C is able to take that positive reinforcement and pay it forward, inspired to protect others who may not know how to protect themselves.  Positive change ripples and spreads just as much as negativity, and should never be discounted just because a character has gone through their fair share of tragedy, too.

 ---

In short, there is nothing simple or easy about creative writing—there is so much nuance involved in every aspect, though that shouldn’t discourage newcomers from experimenting and taking everything step by step. There are no absolutes in writing, and every rule can be challenged, so take what I say with a grain of salt. But still, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of backstory when developing strong characters, nor how much more natural a narrative will feel when these things are integrated with subtlety and grace. Your characters should never be objects, concepts, or a means to an end: if you want to make them seem real to your readers, then they must first seem real to you.

...And real people all have their own stories: to find them, all you have to do is watch and listen.    

[comicreliefmorlock]

Orthopedic Surgeons Like Pink Hair, Apparently

I have always wanted to be a redhead. 

My admiration of fiery locks stretches back to my earliest memories and my absolute adoration of Jessica Rabbit. (Which I mean everyone had that period of adoring Jessica, but...) And cursed with chestnut hair that had, in my mother’s words, “gold and red highlights” did not assuage this desire for flaming red hair in the slightest. 

Naturally, one would assume I began dyeing my hair the moment I realized such a thing was possible, but I wasn’t actually lured into the magic of hair dye until late high school. My sister-in-law--who remains the girliest person I’ve ever met--dyed her hair regularly, heard my profound desire to become a redhead and dutifully set about to fulfill said longing. 

My hair was red and I was astoundingly happy.

Thus began my dedication to the magic of some incredibly stinky chemicals making my scalp itch, my shower looking as if Lars Thorwald was my roommate and an increasing number of shirts with red/dark brown/pink stains on them. 

Now having naturally dark hair meant I was unable to achieve truly red hair. I’m talking flaming. I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt that my hair was RED. For a considerable time, however, I was a coward. I feared what might come if I were to attempt bleaching my hair to get that real red I was eternally chasing. 

Until 2011.

Working in an operating room meant two things specifically: a stringent dress code (mainly for the sake of safety--i.e. no fake nails) and a lot of flexibility in said dress code simply because focus was on patient care and not on making sure everyone followed the hospital code to the letter. 

[One example? I kept my nails black for a month, got acrylics (painted black) and policy changed so personnel who didn’t interact with patients were allowed to have acrylics. HAH. Make me follow rules? I’ll show you what’s what.]

I wasn’t intending on flouting the dress code when I bought a DIY bleach kit and a couple boxes of BRIGHT red hair dye. It was simple math--I’d dyed my hair black a few months back, wanted to go back to red and the only way to effectively do that was to strip off the black and give my red dye a fresh bleached blonde base to settle into. 

Now, you should probably have someone help when you bleach your hair for the first time ever. Preferably someone with actual experience dyeing hair (their own or someone else’s). My second ex had no experience whatsoever, but I blithely submitted my head to him as he slathered on the bleach. 

I hadn’t taken a couple of things into account. One, the bleached areas we started with were going to be saturated for muuuuuuch longer than the rest. Two, I hadn’t chosen a dark red dye. I’d gone for a bright, lovely RED-red, because every time I’d dyed my hair before, I’d always gone up a shade or two in order to get a brighter shade on my naturally dark hair. 

When the bleach was washed out, I was a punk dandelion. 

My hair went from bright yellowish-white at the crown to an amazing orange at the tips. I looked like a Q-tip on fire.

Needless to say, this was not what I’d anticipated happening post-bleach. However, I still had me two boxes of red dye (I always bought two because long, thick hair = needs lots of dye) and I could fix this. The red might be a little brighter than usual, but it’d cover up all the strange tonal areas and be a pleasant red. 

The result?

Pink.

Not just “pink” but neon rose straight through to pale pastel. There was no ‘red,’ that was not a shade that happened. Somehow, through the magic of inexpertly applied chemistry, I ended up with absolutely wild pink hair. 

Having committed this error of judgement, I had two realizations: it was Sunday night and I had less than 24 hours before I had to show up at work. In the conservative hospital. With the stringent dress code. 

Two possibilities presented themselves: run to the nearest store, grab dark red dye and hope for the best or cover up as much hair as possible with a scrub cap and wait out a few days to avoid burning my hair any worse than it’d already suffered. 

I slathered on conditioner like it was going out of style, used every bit of coconut oil I could and made sure I had the hand-sewn cutsey scrub caps available that one of the OR nurses had lovingly given me. 

Once I arrived at work and was faced with the woman who I have eternally proclaimed “Best Supervisor Ever,” I was struck with a guilty conscience. There was no way I couldn’t tell her about the mishap and let her know I was going to remedy this as soon as it was safely possible. 

So with only her in the office, I tugged off my scrub cap, unfastened the clip and revealed the elbow-length rush of sheer pink that my hair had become. Her response was to laugh so hard she nearly cried, all the while trying to gasp that it actually didn’t “look bad.”

As I’m sharing a laugh with her--because if I couldn’t laugh at myself, I’d be absolutely insufferable--the office door opens and one of the orthopedic surgeons walks in. He was one of the nicer doctors in the OR, always pleasant and treated the support staff with respect. 

And all he managed to say was “...it’s so pink!” 

He’d never seen so much pink hair before. He was fascinated. As I’m standing there between the printer and the desk, awkwardly trying not to laugh, he circled me, staring at the flood of pink that was floofing out over my shoulders. And then he nearly killed me by giving me the most Earnest Look and asking “...can I touch it?”

I, of course, said yes and his surgeon-skilled hands were immediately buried in my hair. He floofed it, fluffed it, held it up, turned it over and rubbed it between his fingers, all the while whispering “It’s so pink! ...and soft! ...and pink!”

This went on for a full five minutes. 

With my supervisor’s assurance that I wasn’t going to be fired for a “hair mishap,” I settled back in to work and my only concession to the whole thing was to make sure I wore a full-coverage scrub cap every day for the week or so that I gave my hair to recover. 

Except for what became the evening routine. 

Between five and six in the evening, the surgeon would come into view, peering towards the office from around the corner. He’d always check to make sure I was alone before creeping up to the window--open to let people hand in paperwork without breaking stride--and whisper “Can I?”

I nodded. And he’d dash around to the door, pop into the office and wait with eager anticipation until I’d gotten my scrub cap and hair clip off. 

And then he just went to town. This MD with decades of experience and specialized training, nearly in his early sixties, would stand behind me and act like my hair was a brand-new toy JUST like one he’d always wanted as a kid and now he could damn well have it. 

Floofing, flipping, petting, braiding, unbraiding, petting, smoothing, stroking my hair with an expression of absolutely childlike glee while whispering “...it’s so pink! ...and soft! ...and pink!”

The day I came to work with my hair redyed a more subdued, appropriate red, I saw what true disappointment looked like. He never asked to play with my hair again, but every so often, he’d bring paperwork to the office and say “It was just so pink.”

[newssplashy]

The story had been unfolding in real time for days, since initial reports that Gray, 25, had been arrested, on April 12, and in the course of a 45-minute police van ride, suffered a spinal injury that left him in a coma.

Joy Postell was living in Los Angeles when the news broke of Freddie Gray’s death in her hometown, Baltimore, on April 19, 2015.

“I was in a state of panic,” Postell said. The story had been unfolding in real time for days, since initial reports that Gray, 25, had been arrested, on April 12, and in the course of a 45-minute police van ride, suffered a spinal injury that left him in a coma.

On social media, Postell saw that her city had erupted in protests against police brutality. She wanted her pain and frustration to be heard, too, even if from a distance.

Postell, 26, channeled her emotions into an incisive lyrical illustration of the violence and discrimination that melanin-rich people have suffered. The track, “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot,” was written as an ode to a lineage of young black men bonded by their unjust deaths, including Emmett Till and Michael Brown. But history repeats itself.

Music, for Postell, often acts as a reflection of what is happening in the world and as a means of speaking truth to power. “You have to hold people accountable for what they’re saying,” she said. Though the themes — oppression, loss, psychic pain — are universal, her music often focuses acutely on Baltimore, where she moved with her mother at age 8, and returned to shortly after Gray’s death.

Among locals, Baltimore is known as a “by-the-block” city. You can take a ride down a street laden with abandoned buildings, an open-air drug market and other signs of poverty, then, around the corner, find gentrification in full bloom.

Over the years, the city has been the backdrop and incubator of some of the nation’s most heated racial tensions and class uprisings. These conflicts have borne artistic fruit: A generation of young musicians is writing Baltimore’s present, and future, into their oeuvre.

The city’s emerging musicians represent a collage of perspectives, aesthetics and reasons for being. Some of them are decidedly activists; others wear their political views more lightly, or express skepticism about art’s ability to effect change. Most of the artists acknowledge the influence of jazz and hip-hop in their music, even as it defies categorization. And each in their own way believes Baltimore informed their creativity.

Al Rogers Jr.'s heartfelt and playful energy honors the bounce and house music produced here in the 1980s. Affectionately called Baby Al, the 20-something musician recalled his early teenage forays into the city’s night life: going to the Patapsco River docks, “which were low-key dangerous,” he said, to dance.

“Coming up in the club solidified that people could coexist as long as the vibe is right,” Rogers said.

His music poses big socioeconomic and existential questions. On “Godina,” a track buoyed by a yearning hook and an easygoing rhythm, Rogers muses, “I ask, what if God was a Her (huh?) / Would I pray to? / Be on my knees every day for Her? / Worship, spend my money in that Sunday morning service? / Or spend it on that purse she ask for?”

All of his work adheres to a philosophy he’s termed “swooz”: the notion that love, togetherness and positive expression have transformative potential.

Not everyone shares his optimism about music’s power to bring strangers together. In fact, some dispute it. The rap collective Refugee formed in 2013, after a group of artists had commiserated over feelings of creative alienation in the city. Its members — Gunther, Faraji Jacobs, DDillon, Mikey $ and Buffa7o Jackson — spoke of “covert support” from their peers and the exclusion they sometimes feel in the city’s dedicated art spaces.

“Respect is not given publicly,” Jacobs said. “It’s like a backhanded slap then a kiss on the cheek. It’s confusing.”

Abdu Ali, an experimental rapper who uses nonbinary honorifics and pronouns, is familiar with the sense of outsiderness that Refugee’s members expressed. Ali is vocal about the financial and social challenges that independent artists — and especially those who identify as queer — face in Baltimore.

Ali grew up on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Pennsylvania Avenue with their mother and grandmother, and would pass Billie Holiday’s statue every day on the way to their “very black” school.

Holiday’s legacy loomed large in Ali’s childhood, but it was Sunday mornings spent with their grandfather at the Bethel AME Church on McCulloh Street — singing with the choir, channeling the spirit of ancestors — that ignited Ali’s musical awakening. Their work is inspired by Baltimore’s club music, and relies heavily on percussion and call-and-response.

“My music is literally not only a product but also an evolution of Baltimore musical history,” Ali said. “I take pride in owning the sound of my city and honoring those like Miss Tony, who opened sonic doors for me as a musician.”

In 2013, Ali created Kahlon, a platform for independent genre-nonconforming artists to meet and perform music through a continuing event series.

“I had to create a community to foster,” Ali said of Kahlon’s founding. “The gatekeepers weren’t radical enough to let people like me in.”

Ali’s style tends toward the flamboyant: They might wear floral-pattered bell bottoms with a long-sleeved black turtleneck and a cropped snakeskin jacket, and the stage is where they feel the greatest freedom.

Ali’s spiritual lyrics (“I am the universe’s mother, father, sister, brother, cousin, daughter, son / Am I the Holy Spirit? Who Am I?”) transform performances into sermons of sorts, which draw on a Methodist upbringing but allow audience members to meditate and feel as close to whatever one may define as God.

Butch Dawson, 25, as another example of the DIY imperative underpinning the city’s independents. By his estimation, it’s not the amount of equipment you have, or your degree, that makes you an innovator. “It’s you,” he said.

Dawson’s creativity was nurtured from a young age by the women in his family: his mother, grandmothers, aunt and sisters. “I always felt special in some weird way,” Dawson said. And, the area where he grew up was firmly enshrined in the city’s musical history.

“Pennsylvania Avenue in Baltimore was a historical strip for jazz musicians,” he said, “so being from there made me have a better appreciation for jazz and made me want to incorporate that in my music.”

Dawson found his way into Baltimore’s street wear scene, where he met like-minded painters, rappers and designers. Some of them founded a multimedia platform, Basement Rap, through which they were able to proliferate their unique brand of hipster aestheticism. His sonic landscape is as kaleidoscopic as his personal style — grungy, minimalist, funky and futuristic all at once — and his rhymes flow like cool waters.

Dawson considers himself part of a larger community of progressive artists “making it out of the city.” And while, for the most part, he perceives the culture as a unified one, he has seen animosity expressed through gun violence, and “that’s not what we need right now.”

In addition to their shared geography, Baltimore’s young artists share “sankofa,” a Ghanaian idea that loosely translates as “remembering our past to protect our future.” Each holds a deep understanding and respect for the rich musical legacy into which they have been born.

Dawson makes that clear in his latest single, “Liberation”: “I’m from Baltimore city / You can’t program me.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

Briona Butler © 2018 The New York Times

via NigeriaNews | Latest Nigerian News,Ghana News,News,Entertainment,World News,sports,Naij In a Splash

[newssplashy]

Opinion: The changing sound of baltimore

The story had been unfolding in real time for days, since initial reports that Gray, 25, had been arrested, on April 12, and in the course of a 45-minute police van ride, suffered a spinal injury that left him in a coma.

Joy Postell was living in Los Angeles when the news broke of Freddie Gray’s death in her hometown, Baltimore, on April 19, 2015.

“I was in a state of panic,” Postell said. The story had been unfolding in real time for days, since initial reports that Gray, 25, had been arrested, on April 12, and in the course of a 45-minute police van ride, suffered a spinal injury that left him in a coma.

On social media, Postell saw that her city had erupted in protests against police brutality. She wanted her pain and frustration to be heard, too, even if from a distance.

Postell, 26, channeled her emotions into an incisive lyrical illustration of the violence and discrimination that melanin-rich people have suffered. The track, “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot,” was written as an ode to a lineage of young black men bonded by their unjust deaths, including Emmett Till and Michael Brown. But history repeats itself.

Music, for Postell, often acts as a reflection of what is happening in the world and as a means of speaking truth to power. “You have to hold people accountable for what they’re saying,” she said. Though the themes — oppression, loss, psychic pain — are universal, her music often focuses acutely on Baltimore, where she moved with her mother at age 8, and returned to shortly after Gray’s death.

Among locals, Baltimore is known as a “by-the-block” city. You can take a ride down a street laden with abandoned buildings, an open-air drug market and other signs of poverty, then, around the corner, find gentrification in full bloom.

Over the years, the city has been the backdrop and incubator of some of the nation’s most heated racial tensions and class uprisings. These conflicts have borne artistic fruit: A generation of young musicians is writing Baltimore’s present, and future, into their oeuvre.

The city’s emerging musicians represent a collage of perspectives, aesthetics and reasons for being. Some of them are decidedly activists; others wear their political views more lightly, or express skepticism about art’s ability to effect change. Most of the artists acknowledge the influence of jazz and hip-hop in their music, even as it defies categorization. And each in their own way believes Baltimore informed their creativity.

Al Rogers Jr.'s heartfelt and playful energy honors the bounce and house music produced here in the 1980s. Affectionately called Baby Al, the 20-something musician recalled his early teenage forays into the city’s night life: going to the Patapsco River docks, “which were low-key dangerous,” he said, to dance.

“Coming up in the club solidified that people could coexist as long as the vibe is right,” Rogers said.

His music poses big socioeconomic and existential questions. On “Godina,” a track buoyed by a yearning hook and an easygoing rhythm, Rogers muses, “I ask, what if God was a Her (huh?) / Would I pray to? / Be on my knees every day for Her? / Worship, spend my money in that Sunday morning service? / Or spend it on that purse she ask for?”

All of his work adheres to a philosophy he’s termed “swooz”: the notion that love, togetherness and positive expression have transformative potential.

Not everyone shares his optimism about music’s power to bring strangers together. In fact, some dispute it. The rap collective Refugee formed in 2013, after a group of artists had commiserated over feelings of creative alienation in the city. Its members — Gunther, Faraji Jacobs, DDillon, Mikey $ and Buffa7o Jackson — spoke of “covert support” from their peers and the exclusion they sometimes feel in the city’s dedicated art spaces.

“Respect is not given publicly,” Jacobs said. “It’s like a backhanded slap then a kiss on the cheek. It’s confusing.”

Abdu Ali, an experimental rapper who uses nonbinary honorifics and pronouns, is familiar with the sense of outsiderness that Refugee’s members expressed. Ali is vocal about the financial and social challenges that independent artists — and especially those who identify as queer — face in Baltimore.

Ali grew up on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Pennsylvania Avenue with their mother and grandmother, and would pass Billie Holiday’s statue every day on the way to their “very black” school.

Holiday’s legacy loomed large in Ali’s childhood, but it was Sunday mornings spent with their grandfather at the Bethel AME Church on McCulloh Street — singing with the choir, channeling the spirit of ancestors — that ignited Ali’s musical awakening. Their work is inspired by Baltimore’s club music, and relies heavily on percussion and call-and-response.

“My music is literally not only a product but also an evolution of Baltimore musical history,” Ali said. “I take pride in owning the sound of my city and honoring those like Miss Tony, who opened sonic doors for me as a musician.”

In 2013, Ali created Kahlon, a platform for independent genre-nonconforming artists to meet and perform music through a continuing event series.

“I had to create a community to foster,” Ali said of Kahlon’s founding. “The gatekeepers weren’t radical enough to let people like me in.”

Ali’s style tends toward the flamboyant: They might wear floral-pattered bell bottoms with a long-sleeved black turtleneck and a cropped snakeskin jacket, and the stage is where they feel the greatest freedom.

Ali’s spiritual lyrics (“I am the universe’s mother, father, sister, brother, cousin, daughter, son / Am I the Holy Spirit? Who Am I?”) transform performances into sermons of sorts, which draw on a Methodist upbringing but allow audience members to meditate and feel as close to whatever one may define as God.

Butch Dawson, 25, as another example of the DIY imperative underpinning the city’s independents. By his estimation, it’s not the amount of equipment you have, or your degree, that makes you an innovator. “It’s you,” he said.

Dawson’s creativity was nurtured from a young age by the women in his family: his mother, grandmothers, aunt and sisters. “I always felt special in some weird way,” Dawson said. And, the area where he grew up was firmly enshrined in the city’s musical history.

“Pennsylvania Avenue in Baltimore was a historical strip for jazz musicians,” he said, “so being from there made me have a better appreciation for jazz and made me want to incorporate that in my music.”

Dawson found his way into Baltimore’s street wear scene, where he met like-minded painters, rappers and designers. Some of them founded a multimedia platform, Basement Rap, through which they were able to proliferate their unique brand of hipster aestheticism. His sonic landscape is as kaleidoscopic as his personal style — grungy, minimalist, funky and futuristic all at once — and his rhymes flow like cool waters.

Dawson considers himself part of a larger community of progressive artists “making it out of the city.” And while, for the most part, he perceives the culture as a unified one, he has seen animosity expressed through gun violence, and “that’s not what we need right now.”

In addition to their shared geography, Baltimore’s young artists share “sankofa,” a Ghanaian idea that loosely translates as “remembering our past to protect our future.” Each holds a deep understanding and respect for the rich musical legacy into which they have been born.

Dawson makes that clear in his latest single, “Liberation”: “I’m from Baltimore city / You can’t program me.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

Briona Butler © 2018 The New York Times

source https://www.newssplashy.com/2018/07/opinion-changing-sound-of-baltimore_22.html