TV on the Radio

:. e-mail this article :. print this article :. comment on this article

My feelings about TV on the Radio were mixed before I even heard one note of their music. It was similar to the way I feel when I turn on Jeopardy and see a dapper looking black gentleman as Contestant Number Two. First, there's a knee-jerk sense of pride coupled with an overwhelming desire to see the man kick some serious ass. But in almost the same instance, I want to turn the damn television off, lest my brother prove to be a raging ignoramus. And then there's the guilt about both reactions: why should it matter to me if this guy is any good or not? What does the success or failure of this stranger have to do with me, any more than that of the other contestants?

In case you haven't noticed, I'm black; and in case you haven't noticed, despite the foundational place of blacks in rock history, the genre remains an altogether pale one. This means that the few black folk working within guitar-based music, and the handful who seem to be listening in as critics or fans can feel the (irksome? necessary?) imperative to watch out for our own. It's a situation that also can be rife with the difficult conflict of worrying that our creative output is being thought of in racial terms or, maybe worse, that it's not.

The absence of black musicians, critics, and fans in the field of rock these days is especially confusing, given the overwhelming presence of black musicians in the media spotlight, and the incredible force they've come to occupy within the zeitgeist of mainstream popular music. Ever since Michael Jackson desegregated MTV in 1983, the music business has learned the power and prosperity that can come from conceiving of black performing artists as pop, with superstars like Stevie Wonder, Whitney Houston, and Prince leading the way. More recently, the mainstreaming of hip-hop has also been instrumental in changing the texture and sound of what today qualifies as Top 40.

Still, the equation in the music business that black performers = R&B (which until 1949 was called "race music" by Billboard, and has always been a euphemism for "black") not only makes it that much harder for black artists to gain mainstream popularity (having to do double-duty by proving their solvency on the R&B charts before they're marketed as "crossover") but also functions to the detriment of black artists that don't fit neatly into the R&B category. What's more, as the pop mainstream has largely welcomed the sounds of R&B and hip-hop, the dynamic has seemingly had an almost inverse effect on rock music, resulting in a protectionist bleaching of the genre of the same proportion as the pop market's integration. (Lo and behold, we have rock that's whiter than country.) And while rock fans have embraced black music to increasing degrees, either out of cred-yielding novelty or genuine appreciation, rock music itself still seems to be governed by an unspoken apartheid.

Music journalism, despite being a child of the Civil Rights era, continues to promulgate this "separate but equal" ideology. Rock writers are overwhelmingly white and male -- a fact that is unfortunate, but explained by the fact that ours is a society where music is integral to our socialization, and indeed helps us understand who we are as racial and gendered beings. For black rock fans, there's a similar fear (both real and imagined) of being cast as a race traitor. This fear is accompanied by a nagging sense of not belonging in rock circles -- the sense of weirdness that comes from being the only colored face in the indie music shop or at the rock show.

Rock critics have only in recent years found a meaningful way to speak about black musical genres. And there's often more than a shred of anthropology to this praise: a sense that writers are trying to exhibit being down, claiming the moniker "Last of the White Nig-s" from our dear deceased Lester Bangs. Also, there's an understated admittance that part of the appeal of this music stems from its exotic difference: a code that can be critiqued in terms of both ethnophilia and guilt, but is also simply indicative of the difficulties that persist in our culture's attitudes to race.

Case in point: the way people talk about TV on the Radio dances not-so-subtly around these issues. Either Tunde Adebimpe's voice is full of "soul" (a word often not applied to rock in any form), or they're written off as being "soulless" -- again, not a problem for band's whose melanin doesn't suggest that they should have any soul. TV on the Radio acknowledge in their music that race is tricky; it's always there even if it's not specifically mentioned. Either they're a black rock band, or a band that just happens, almost nonchalantly, to be mostly black; either assessment doesn't seem to be quite adequate. Naming race overtly feels pornographic, but ignoring its importance feels dishonest.

I'm not one to tie a complicated state of affairs up with a pretty, multi-culturalist bow, but in closing I must admit that things are changing. Traditionally, African-American music forms like hip-hop are following in the footsteps of rock and roll and disco by garnering as many, if not more, white fans as they do black fans. The popular recognition of the importance of Latino musicians (as woefully insufficient as it continues to be) is making a space for hybridity both in audiences and music. Indeed, better social recognition of racial and ethnic diversity in all its incarnations is creating a situation where music cannot be so simply boiled down to "black" and "white".

Likewise, rock critics are paying attention to the aesthetic vibrancy of hip-hop, just as innovative black performers have found tremendous success in paying heed to all their musical influences, no matter which chart they're from. With books like the recently published Rip It Up, black rock writers are coming out, so to speak, and simultaneously shining new light on the role of African Americans in rock music since the '50s. And yes, there is TV on the Radio, who, regretfully but also thankfully, are challenging established conventions just by existing.