Something that's come up more than once in our class discussions is the idea of a modern-day prophet in popular music. While we are certainly not the first to say this, Kendrick Lamar has been identified by our class as the musician who comes closest to fitting this mold. Indeed, Kendrick is very much a cultural iconoclast. His albums have managed to be both critically acclaimed and wildly commercially successful. His collection of studio leftovers untitled. unmastered. (2016) was better than most other hip-hop projects that came out that year. He's given legendary performances at the Grammys and was the first NCAA halftime show. And now he has a freakin' Pulitzer. The dude is hot stuff right now. The discussions we've had about Kendrick paint him as a figure that our generation, the millennials, look up to and admire. He's been called a prophet. And when I think of a prophet in hip-hop, there's really only one other person who comes to mind: Tupac Amaru Shakur.
To be clear, I am not all that familiar with Tupac's music. I've heard a few songs and like most of what I've heard ("Keep Ya Head Up" is my favorite). One of the essayists in Secular Music & Sacred Theology, Daniel White Hodge, talks about Tupac as an evangelist in the post-soul context. He agrees with Quincy Jones, who said that "Tupac was touched by God[;] not very many people are touched by the hand of God." In his time, Tupac was the voice for the marginalized, unabashedly talking about growing up and living in life in poor neighborhoods. Sure, he had songs that were just as flamboyantly braggadocious and faux-violent as anyone else (see "Ambitionz as a Ridah" and "Hit 'Em Up"). But he also made songs about where God is in the world of the under-privileged. Songs like "I Wonder If Heaven Got a Ghetto?", "Panther Power", "Lord Knows", and "Only God Knows" deal with the spiritual and the dirtiness of life. Systemic injustice and personal failure come up a lot in Tupac's songs, but also a sense of hope. The way Hodge describes him, Tupac absolutely was a prophet in his day, at least to his fans. Kendrick, I think, is a different kind of prophet. Yes, he invokes God in his songs, and he wields arguably more cultural capital than Tupac did. But I think that where Tupac was a beacon of light for people, helping them to point the way to the Gospel of the ghetto, Kendrick is emblematic of the existential anxieties my generation faces. Take Kendrick's song "u" from his 2015 masterpiece To Pimp a Butterfly. In the song, Kendrick gets drunk and berates himself for not doing more to be there for a friend of his from Compton who was murdered while he was living the life of a glamorous celebrity. Kendrick gets downright depressive and suicidal, telling himself that even God thinks he's a failure. Two songs later, on "For Sale? (Interlude)", he feels the temptation by Lucifer to forget his community and lose himself in a life of materialism. On his 2017 album DAMN., Kendrick mentions several times the belief that he and America generally has failed God and that there will be a harsh judgment. In contrast to Tupac, who sought to uplift and evangelize, Kendrick brings a message of apocalypse. Perhaps this makes the idea of Kendrick Lamar as a prophet more true than in the case of Tupac. The prophets of the Hebrew Bible frequently told their audiences that God was displeased with the way they were living their lives and ordering society and that this would be costly. Kendrick follows in this tradition, using his platform to warn everyone that things cannot continue the way they're going, or punishment will come. Talking about a prophet walking among us today can be uncomfortable even for the most devoted Christians. We think of prophets only existing before Jesus's day, and that Jesus abolished the need for prophets at all. I too am hesitant to say outright that Tupac Shakur or Kendrick Lamar are at the same level as Amos and Micah. But, both men have messages that resonated and still resonate with their audiences. Both have used their status as rappers to talk explicitly about God and the relationship between God and God's people. It's an interesting idea to toy with, that Kendrick is a prophet with a dire warning to give us. I don't think I subscribe to it. But, the phenomenon of hip-hop prophets, like Tupac and Kendrick, is a fascinating one. One that says a lot about the power of popular music and its champions to speak to their listeners.
0 Comments
One of my favorite rock albums growing up was Pearl Jam's Ten. It's eleven tracks of some of the best alternative rock the 90's ever made. Every song is packed with a ton of energy and soul from all members of the band, particularly vocalist Eddie Vedder. And while many of the songs feature driving grooves and strong, charged riffs, the overall theme of the album, if one can be identified, is the cycle of trauma. This is what Myles Werntz writes about in his essay for Secular Music & Sacred Theology, how Pearl Jam invokes suffering and tragedy into the lyrics of Ten. What I want to focus on upon reading Werntz's essay is the ability of the band to channel these lyrical topics into such extremely passionate and adrenaline-boosting performances. It's difficult to read into the lyrics of Ten and not notice how dark all the subject matter is. "Alive" and "Once" are two parts of a story about a young man who learns that the man who he thought was his father is actually his stepfather and that his real father is dead. His mother makes a sexual advance on him, causing him to run away from home. The man descends into madness and goes on a killing spree. "Even Flow" is about a homelessness. "Why Go" is about a young woman institutionalized by her misunderstanding parents. "Jeremy" is about a boy, ignored and mistreated at his school and by his parents, who kills himself in front of his classmates. It goes on. So, the question I'm asking is how can a band who writes songs about topics like these do this? Pearl Jam's performance at the Norwegian music festival Pinkpop in 1992 is one of the most inspiring concerts I've ever seen. The video starts in the middle of a song, "Even Flow", and the band continues with a lot of cuts from Ten and ends with a few covers. Every member of the band is on fire here. The drummer and the guitarists are perfectly in sync with each other. At one point, bassist Jeff Ament falls on the floor and just keeps playing, bouncing back up after ten seconds. And Vedder is earning his status as a rock god in this performance. It's crazy how on point he is. Every ounce of him is being channeled into his singing. It's genuinely awe-inspiring. Whenever I watch this performance, I get chills. There's this crazy adrenaline boost throughout, but especially during the songs "Why Go" and "Black". I feel like I'm witnessing the magic of music in this video. And I ask myself, how are they able to do that with songs about suicide, depression, and depravity? I think Werntz's essay helps me answer this question. He challenges the idea that Ten is "simply a dystopian collection of songs" and instead puts forth that "it is a work designed to question whether past violence inevitably leads to future violence." Werntz draws on the work of John Howard Yoder to suggest that perhaps what Pearl Jam hints at in the album is that "the solution to trauma and violence lies not in repeating it, but in breaking free of its bonds and presuppositions." The band has created something like a "secular parable" to orient its audience. This requires a telling of the story, a full acknowledge of the trauma suffered, so that it may be overcome. In light of this, I can read Pearl Jam's Pinkpop performance as the act of breaking free. With this incredible live concert, Vedder and the band stake the claim that trauma does not have to entrap or suffocate. It can be broken and transcended. Maybe it's an exorcism of demons, maybe it's giving the demons the middle finger. But Pearl Jam, I think, at Pinkpop demonstrated that suffering doesn't have to be the end, that there's a chance for redemption. It may not be a Christian telling of redemption, but its powerful all the same. At the 2011 Grammys, Lady Gage performed her new hit single "Born This Way". Christian Scharen, in one of the essays in Sacred Music & Sacred Theology, discusses this performance and two others in the context of what he calls sacramental theology. This idea of calling Gaga's performance a reflection of Christian theology can come across as startling and perhaps to some crass. But I think there's a lot of merit in discussing the "festive" in relation to musical performances. Gaga does this, absolutely, but so does one of my favorite bands of all time, U2. Scharen refers to how Rodney Clapp calls Gaga a "Kierkegaard in fishnet stockings" and says that the message of the song is how to accept yourself if you're a misfit, if you're someone who has only found their identity by shirking social expectations. Certainly, when Gaga implores the listener to love yourself because you were made perfectly, she is invoking a Christian God to come down on the side of acceptance and inclusion. Much of Gaga's career has been made from identifying herself as a champion of the outsider, and in "Born This Way" she stakes this position even deeper. Our class had a really interesting discussion regarding the theology of acceptance as opposed to the norms of traditional Christian power structures. My own denomination has struggled to see our LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters as just as worthy of God's love and purpose as anyone else. It's nice to see someone like Gaga, who has such a wide audience, say that God loves for who you are. In some sense, I see the idea of the Christian "festive" and sacrametnal theology invoked when U2 performs. Throughout their career, the band has had an uncanny knack for creating a space that feels as deeply sacred as it does secular. U2 have never boxed themselves inside the world of Christian music, but many of their songs have undeniable Christian themes and messages. Scharen himself mentions how he's seen U2 perform and how witnessing them sing "40" is a confirmation that "rock concerts ought to be sites for serious thinking about religion today." I can't help but agree. U2 is more explicitly pleading to God than Gaga does, but both see their performances as possibilities, opportunities for exploring spirituality, asking questions, and reckoning with injustice. The lyrics of "40" are extracted from Psalm 40 as well as Psalm 6. U2 incorporate direct Biblical references into their music and still regularly carry their audiences to heightened moments of transcendence, as if they're being taken to church right then and there. Scharen asks the question, "ought Christians claim a baptismal practice like Lady Gaga, shaped by a baptismal 'no' to the death-dealing world's order of things and a 'yes' to new identity as beloved, as opened to the fullness of all God intends?" Personally, yes, absolutely. Gaga may not be a pastor, but when she sings "Born This Way" she calls all of us who claim God to a way of seeing people that is truly loving and Christ-like. And U2, when they take their audiences to church, show us how "secular" spaces are viable avenues for spiritual expression and longing. One the books we've read for this class is called Secular Music & Sacred Theology. It's a series of essays compiled by Tom Beaudoin, all of which deal with topics concerning popular music and its explicitly religious/spiritual dimensions. Topics range from discussions on Barth and Lou Reed to rock music and the NAACP. These next few blog posts will be addressing some of these essays and reckoning with their content. For the first, I'd like to talk about Michael J. Iafrate's idea of "staying punk" when it comes to Christian theology and the church.
Iafrate talks a lot about how he grew up in the DIY punk community and how that world has never been fully separate from the world of theology. (He mentions playing in a hardcore punk band at the same time he was getting his masters.) As a more established adult, Iafrate reflects on how important it is to him that he maintains some aspects of the punk community in his professional life. Towards the end of the essay, he outlines how to do so. He says that "staying punk" will require his "theological production to be committed rather than neutral or objective." This involves accepting that the world is fraught with systemic injustice and that combating injustice is one of theology's highest callings. He goes on to say that the punk rock ethos challenges many of the boundaries and sense of importance we place on individuals rather than whole communities. Finally, Iafrate claims that "DIY punk's construction of alternative networks of culture making in response to mainstream gatekeepers can offer insights and perhaps even concrete models for alternative practices of theological production and dissemination that make room for the emergence of suppressed theological voices." In other words, punk theology makes room for people that have been historically silenced in the elitist realm of academic theology. He also mentions that punk has a certain messy edginess that could conceivably challenge the pristine "corporate rock" aforementioned elitist theology. Certainly a lot to take in here, but what Iafrate says is, in an interesting way, both refreshing and threatening. I absolutely believe that the marginalized must be heard and that traditional power structures must be dismantled for justice to reign. As Jesus Christ said, "Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth." At the same time, I have, intentionally or not, subscribed to the narrative of Great Thinkers in theology. The canonized few who have defined theological studies for generations. Not that these men (and they are overwhelmingly men) have made bad theology, but that they have been lifted up in disservice to the many. Similarly, I follow the Great Bands and Artists who have made the most "important" rock music. Iafrate speaks to a call for justice I without hesitation agree with, but he also challenges my notions of traditional power structures both in academic theology and rock music. That makes this kind of message really powerful. I've never been a punk. Indeed my chosen musical community has been heavy metal. And the more I think about it, the ethos of punk and the ethos of metal share a lot in common. They both have a strong counter-cultural urge, a commitment to authenticity in the face of the corporate machine, and dedicated underground networks of musicians and fans. Maybe there is a way that I can "stay metal" when I become an pastor or a theologian? That 's definitely an idea worth exploring too. This past week, our class read Partridge's chapter on romanticism in his book The Lyre of Orpheus. It's his longest, moving from topic to topic pretty quickly and covering a lot of ground. There's a lot to unpack, such as the influence of Eastern mysticism on the hippy movement and the tradition of the English folk song, but there were two passages that caught my eye the most, the sections on Bjork and black metal.
Without explicitly tying the two together, Partridge uses Bjork and black metal as discussion points for the idea of the romanticized Northern European landscape. Bjork is Icelandic, and much of the philosophy behind her music, particularly on albums like 2011's Biophilia, focus on re-capturing the grandeur and beauty of the primal countryside and reminding her audience of an untainted wild. And while black metal did not exclusively originate in Norway, much of the early classics have been made by Norwegian musicians who also sought to evoke a sense of the untainted Northern landscape. Where these two diverge quite strongly is the politics behind the music. I am not as familiar with black metal as I am with other sounds in the genre, like thrash or prog, but I have heard some of the classics, and I enjoy them. Venom, Bathory, and Emperor have all made records that I like, in spite of their low-fi recording. And it's weird to think that a band like Darkthrone can make an album as good as Transilvanian Hunger and explicitly label it as Norwegian Aryan Black Metal, effectively marking the art with the same neo-Nazi views the members themselves subscribe to (or at least subscribed to in the 90's). It taints the music in an uncomfortable way. Because as Partridge describes in Lyre, "[black metal] makes certain far right concerns matter to liminal minds, which then authorize bands to speak for them 'as a surrogate voice'". There is an intention in a lot of black, early and modern, to pass on a far-right ideology to the listeners, one that I find abhorrent. There is the concern in the picture of the romantic wilderness, though often bleak, yes, but there is also the baggage of Neo-Nazism. Can I still digest black metal without supporting the ideology? Bjork, on the other hand, espouses beliefs opposite from far-right black metal artists. Partridge identifies her stance as a "biocentric egalitarianism". Instead of attach the idea of a lost romantic wilderness to violent beliefs of the far right, Bjork's ideal world is all-inclusive, where every human is made equal before the vast wonder of the natural world. She isn't concerned with pushing people out; she cares about welcoming all. I'm a little familiar with Bjork's music. "Joga" is one of my favorite songs of the 90's at this point. And it's nice to see that her work is supported by an environmentally conscious all-inclusive worldview. I wanted to bring this up because out of everything Partridge covers in his chapter on romanticism, these two ideas stood out the most. The contrast between Bjork and black metal, of how romanticized nature can relate to a political idelogy, is uncomfortably stark. I want and hope to lift up Bjork's far above those of, say, Burzum. But I like the music of both. How to approach this problem? I'm sure I'll be mulling over this for a long time to come. |
AuthorSam Coker Archives
April 2018
Categories |