Singing Truth to Power

Protest songs have been a part of the Memphis music scene for more than a century.

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Americana and rock-and-roll singer/songwriter John Paul Keith, a fixture on Beale Street, recently released a new song, “Take ’Em Down,” on social media. It’s a powerful call to arms against Confederate symbolism. But it begins, surprisingly, with a bit of Southern pride. “You can tell I’m from the South when I open up my mouth ...” he sings, before turning to the chorus, “Them statues got to go in every state across the USA!” This is no “white pride’”but a refashioning of what “Southern” can mean. As the song goes on, it’s clear that Keith is celebrating a new vision of Southernness that embraces our diversity.

Can you hear the Southern feet marching in the street

And someone saying on a megaphone

No Trump, no KKK, no fascist USA

And we ain’t gonna rest until they’re gone.

Like many of us, Keith was deeply moved by the #TakeEmDown901 movement, organized by Tami Sawyer, which claimed a major victory in December 2017 when statues of Ku Klux Klan founder Nathan Bedford Forrest and Confederate president Jefferson Davis were removed from Memphis parks. The songwriter’s latest work is a rare hybrid of blunt political observations and subtle identity politics, and it works. Yet Keith is not alone in perfecting this blend: It’s been the stock-in-trade of Memphis music for over a century.

The blues, of course, have always offered both commentary on the powers that be and affirmation of Black identity and culture. So it’s a bit surprising that one of the city’s first political songs, and one of the first published blues tunes, was not a protest at all: W.C. Handy’s “Memphis Blues,” subtitled “Mr. Crump,” was based on a campaign song for Edward Hull Crump’s first mayoral bid in 1910. Oddly, it’s often mistaken for Frank Stokes’ less reverent political song from 1927, “Mr. Crump Don’t Like It,” a sardonic celebration of the mayor’s moral code, as if it were made to be broken.

Other blues and folk songs would feature topical themes. The Memphis Jug Band’s 1930 cover of “In the Jailhouse Now” dealt frankly with corruption:

I remember last election

Jim Jones got in action

Said he’s voting for the man that paid the biggest price

Next day at the poll

He voted with heart and soul

But instead of voting once, he voted twice ...

He’s in the jailhouse now.

Others would sing of corrupt cops, as with Memphis Minnie’s “Reaching Pete.” But few of these could be construed as calls to march or protest.

That all changed with the civil rights movement. The 1960s and ’70s were a golden age of the political song, and Memphis offered up countless examples, largely because of Stax Records. Most of the label’s socially engaged tracks were released in 1968 or after, under the politically astute guidance of label chairman and owner Al Bell, who consciously built bridges with civil rights activists, especially in Chicago. One byproduct of that was Stax signing the Staple Singers, already a popular gospel group trying to cross over to pop.

As Bell recalled recently, “The Staple Singers were very close to Dr. King. And they would write, sing, and record songs that were motivational to those involved in the movement. I love ‘Reach out and touch a hand, make a friend if you can.’ And ‘Love comes in all colors.’ I mean, they spoke the word that Americans needed to hear, just to come together.”

William Bell, a Stax artist then and now (no relation to Al), feels the same way. When I asked him to name his favorite politically engaged song from Memphis, he said, “I would have to say one of those Staples songs, like ‘Respect Yourself.’ Authenticity — Mavis Staples lived that. You feel it in every little nuance of her voice. Every time she utters a word, you can feel it.”

But then he adds another song to the list, not normally considered political: “Respect,” by Otis Redding. “Otis recorded it and wrote it,” says Bell, “but Aretha made it hers, and she’s from Memphis also. So those two artists really contributed to a song that just, given the times that we were living in in those days, said it all.”

It’s an important reminder from someone who experienced those times firsthand. Though it’s ostensibly about relationships, it encapsulated the basic demand of the entire movement in a single word; doubly so when Aretha imparted a feminist message to it. Another, less heralded Stax track from the early era is Mable Johns’ remarkable “Don’t Hit Me No More.” If “Respect” expressed frustration and jubilation in equal measure, Johns’ lyrics hit the listener square in the face with almost punk bluntness.

You don’t have to beat on me, so daddy, watch your hands

And don’t you hit me no more

Don’t hit me no more

If I have to take another lick

I’m gonna whip up a little trick.

Such words grow from the Stax writers’ commitment to staying grounded in real life, more than any ideological goal, but that very quality puts it on par with Stax’s greatest songs. And it expresses the basic demand for dignity that lives on in the heart of today’s Black Lives Matter protests or the Women’s March on Washington.

Much of Stax Records’ output had a socially empowering aspect, even when songs did not have political lyrics per se. David Porter, who co-wrote hundreds of Stax hits with Isaac Hayes, says, “‘Soul Man’ is the perfect example of a song that speaks about the pride inside of individuals who don’t have all the resources that others may have for whatever reason. It’s the fact that, even though I’m coming to you on a dirt road, coming to you from humble beginnings, there is a comfort level in who I feel I am and who I know I am.

“And when he says, ‘I was educated in Woodstock,’ many people think they’re talking about the music festival, but the festival had not even been created then. There was a county school out near Millington called Woodstock. So it had more to do with, ‘I’m going to, in the best way I can, get an education, to feel all the dignity and pride I have — which makes me a soul man, a man of accomplishment and abilities, regardless of the circumstances. I’m dealing with it.’ The multitude of meanings inside of that song become an informational kinda thing.”

Other labels from the era created socially aware music as well. Dan Penn, who produced many hits for American Studios in Memphis, released a rare solo album in 1972 with the song “Skin,” in which he intoned, “Aw, skin. Ever thought about skin? No one seems to know which bandwagon to hop on … some wheels with guts and do right principles do right until they’re shot down … People sure are proud of their skin. It’s just skin.”

The later ’70s brought new changes, like punk rock. In its earliest days, punk was more an attitude than a particular sound. One decidedly punk move at the time was when roots rockers Mudboy & the Neutrons did a local take on John Lennon’s “Power to the People.” “Hey hey, MHA, someone moved downtown away,” sang Mudboy member Jim Dickinson, referring to the Memphis Housing Authority. “I’ve got a new way to spell Memphis, Tennessee: M-I-C, K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E!”

That era also saw the debut of Tav Falco, who sang Leadbelly’s “Bourgeois Blues,” then cut his guitar in two with a circular saw. With his Unapproachable Panther Burns, he would continue to dip into political waters for decades, with songs like “Agitator Blues,” “Cuban Rebel Girl,” or even 2018’s “New World Order Blues”:

The world is hanging by a string

America and Korea just itching to light the fuse

The fuse our degenerate in chief

Clown prince God emperor has already lit!

But others soon took the impulse in heavier directions. One of the sharpest purveyors of political pith since the 1980s has been onetime Memphian Joe Lapsley, now a college history instructor in the Chicago area. “I’m the lead singer of Neighborhood Texture Jam,” says Lapsley. “If anybody knows about having to explain progressive issues to white people in Memphis, it would be me.”

With songs like “Rush Limbaugh, Evil Blimp,” NTJ made no bones about their leftist tendencies. “Wanna see the rebel flags, wanna go and see ’em?” Lapsley bellows in “Old South.” “They’re next to the swastikas in a museum!” At times, Lapsley took the lyrics a step further, shredding or burning Confederate flags in their early shows. “Listening to Texture Jam back then,” Lapsley says now, “you were getting a taste of Black Lives Matter before it even happened.”

Pezz was formed in 1989, gained traction in the ’90s, and carries on today. Their 2017 release, More Than You Can Give Us, updates the Reagan-era punk that first inspired them to fit the twenty-first century, as captured by the album cover: an image from the 1968 sanitation workers’ strike juxtaposed with one of protesters shutting down the I-40 bridge in 2016. Pezz frontmen Ceylon Mooney and Marvin Stockwell carry on to this day as community organizers and activists.

Yet songs of political or social critique need not wear their outrage on their sleeve. Bassist MonoNeon wrote “Breathing While Black” after seeing the first footage of George Floyd’s murder under the knee of a Minneapolis policeman, but gave his outrage the soft-sell. “While the song came from being saddened by George’s murder, the song is for every black man and woman that has dealt with police brutality,” he says. And the mellow mood set by the sparse funk and quirky harmonies makes the track a universal song of mourning, in a way, with enough bounce to keep listeners motivated.

And according to David Porter, motivation and inspiration is key. Brandon Lewis, a new artist with Porter’s Made In Memphis Entertainment (MIME) label, has just released a track which relates indirectly to the current Black Lives Matter movement, titled simply “Black Man.”

As Porter says, “‘Black Man’ is not a protest song, it’s an inspirational song about enlightened people, about the pride that these young people feel today. Because I know you’re viewing me as a Black man, let me let you feel the pride that I have in being a Black man. That’s why that hook works.” Proffering a positive message of self-affirmation is a far cry from burning the stars and bars on stage, but effective in its own right. As with “Soul Man” and other Stax hits in the ’60s, at the heart of the song and today’s movement is a demand for dignity and respect.

On the other end of the spectrum, hip hop has explored the idea of respect in more confrontational ways. Having erupted out of New York in the late ’70s, rap has now conquered the world, so permeating Memphis culture that, for many, the city is synonymous with the genre. Khari Wynn, son of local music writer Ron Wynn, remembers first hearing rap as a child. One hit that resonated with young Khari was Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power,” in which New York-based rapper Chuck D announced, “Elvis was a hero to most, but he never meant shit to me!”

Little did Wynn realize that one day his talent would lead him to join the group, with whom he’s played guitar for nearly 20 years. One of the first Public Enemy tracks that Wynn had a hand in was 2002’s “Son of Bush”:

Have you forgotten?

I’ve been through the first term of rotten

The father, the son and the holy Bush-shit we all in

Don’t look at me, I ain’t callin for no assassination

I’m just sayin, sayin

Who voted for that asshole of your nation?

It’s the yin to the yang of “Soul Man.” In that sense, it’s closer to what makes Memphis a dominant force in music today: hip hop.

But not much of the trap music ruling the airwaves now is overtly political. I asked Wynn who he thought the Memphis equivalent of Public Enemy might be. “The Iron Mic Coalition,” he said without a pause, and that echoes a consensus throughout the city. Though inactive since the untimely death of group member Fathom 9 (with whom Wynn worked), the Iron Mic Coalition (IMC) are the undisputed kings of this realm, sometimes called conscious or knowledge rap. When producer IMAKEMADBEATS first returned to Memphis in 2011, having spent the early aughts in New York, the first Memphians to capture his attention were the Iron Mic Coalition.

As IMAKEMADBEATS recalls, “While IMC had various talents, Fathom 9 was the most left-wing. I think that’s why I gravitated towards him early on. I went to his funeral, and I heard people say, ‘Fathom was weird in a way that made us be okay with being weird.’ He had no shame. He was past the point of comfortable and cute. … He was daringly uncomfortable.”

A more recent purveyor of conscious rap is Marco Pavé. His 2017 debut album, Welcome to Grc Lnd, was a shot across the bow of complacency, with lyrics like “Bring me a coffin / ’Cos they won’t accept that I am so fluorescent / they place us in darkness / I still see ancestors” capturing the same zeitgeist that inspired Pezz. Blocking the I-40 bridge in 2016 was a turning point for both public demonstrations here, and the artists who were inspired by them.

Beyond hip hop, the Chinese Connection Dub Embassy (CCDE) is one of the few reggae bands in the region, and one of the most politically outspoken. “We’re all about truth and rights,” says Joseph Higgins, “and spreading the word of injustice, and trying to get some kind of solace at the end of the day.” The band played their new single, “Dem A Callin (Flodgin),” for protesters at City Hall in June. “I won’t be bought, I won’t be sold. We will decide how our story’s told … Dem a callin’!” sings guest vocalist Webbstar.

But CCDE is only one example. In fact, it’s only one example from within the Higgins family. Out of that same household sprang the hardcore punk band Negro Terror, who were equally unabashed about calling for progressive change. Sadly, the guiding light of both bands was the oldest Higgins brother, Omar, whose sudden death after a staph infection in April 2019 was mourned throughout the city.

Says brother David of the two bands: “They both were started by Omar out of his love of music and community. He wanted to start a big musical family. And your color, race, religion, sexuality didn’t matter. And that’s how we were brought up. Our whole family is all about truth and rights, fighting against oppression and injustice. My mother was a member of the Urban League. So it’s in our blood. As far as Negro Terror, it’s still going! We’re actually finishing up a new record, Paranoia. Omar’s all over it.”

As Joseph Higgins reflects, “It’s been a slow drip. It’s hard to educate people one by one. With Negro Terror, the name and the concept, Omar was able to not only preach the message of unity, but to teach. And get people to not just understand, but overstand.”