Author: akenmore

White

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Recently I drove from Georgia to North Carolina for the funeral of a friend, leaving before dawn to make it to the service. In the early morning light, I searched for an original version of the traditional shape note song “White.”

Although the name of this blog comes from the song, I had only heard single artists cover it, not a Sacred Harp chorus. I listened to one version, then listened to it again, then a second version, and a third. The song can be lilting, even haunting, with just one singer, but within the foursquare shape note choir it took on a triumphant tone.


Farewell my friends whose tender care
Has long engaged my love
Your fond embrace I now exchange
For better friends above

I’m a long time travelling here below
I’m a long time travelling away from home
I’m a long time travelling here below
To lay this body down

There are many joyful religious songs in the American folk tradition that are about dying — some treat life is a burden of suffering best left behind, others are eager for the infinite joy of heaven. “White” is unusual in that it both celebrates the life that has been lived and looks forward to peace when we lay this body down. There may be better friends ahead, the springs of joy on earth may be dry, but there was happiness and love here below, at least for a time — a triumph indeed.

Perhaps that is why the song has been following me since that morning, driving between South Carolina pines, sleep deprived and uncomfortable in a rarely worn suit. Like a good funeral, it is a celebration of the life that has been lived as much as a marking of its end. It is a reminder that even at the end of a long road, there can still be brightness and joy.

Reflections: “How the Word is Passed”

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“How the Word is Passed” is a hard book to confine to a genre. The author, Clint Smith, is a poet, journalist and academic, and all three of these disciplines shape the book. “How the Word is Passed” is a series of first-person narration of Smith’s visits to sites marked by American slavery — Virginia and Texas, New York and Senegal, from presidential mansions to confederate graveyards.

Smith’s lexicon is a poet’s: ambulances do not pass or wail, they maze through streets, “howling a loud and urgent incantation.” His practice, though, falls into the journalistic and academic. As lyrical as his word choices can be, the interactions are precise. He makes careful observations of people’s appearance and quotes them at length — documented on a digital recorder, he tells the reader early, his methodology and the circumstance of all his interviews is explained throughout. These interactions are contextualized with writings from Du Boise, Confederate documents, the words of the formerly enslaved. Where necessary in the text he includes footnotes, and to supplement he has pages of notation on sourcing at the end.

Smith is no passive observer – he documents his own thoughts just as carefully as those of his interviewees, including when he disputes what they are saying.  The book feels as personal as it is poetic, especially the concluding interviews with Smith’s own grandparents. At the same time, for all the lyricism and reflection, the book feels spare and exact. Perhaps this is, in part, because Smith lets his subjects speak for themselves. While he makes it clear when he disagrees with them, he still gives them ample to speak in their own voices. There is also a reflexive journalistic fairness throughout, he frequently gives those who disagree with his interviewees a right of reply.The result is a book that is personal without feeling like the author privileges his own perspective.

This space creates an invitation for the reader to explore further. It lays out slices of the modern world inextricably shaped by America’s national sin and says, this is what I observed. Now look for yourself.

Reciprocal parasocial relationships

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One of the wonderful things about folk artists is that the there is a high chance you get to meet them and interact with them. There is no social media team handling their Instagram or Twitter, no bouncers at the show — often they are the ones behind the merch table.

All the same, I put little store into these interactions. There no reason to expect their relationship to me is of individual to individual, instead of one instance of a relationship in aggregate — with fame, with the press, with fans, whatever it may be.

An inundation of media makes it easy to form parasocial relationships, where we believe we are close to our favorite celebrities.  We follow them on social media and through podcast interviews until we think we know them, maybe even fantasize that we have some special connection — how many times in a year do stars meet their “biggest fan”?

Because folk music is a very small world, however, I’ve occasionally had an artist who I have met who unexpectedly remembers exactly who I am — a  personal thank you note for an organization they are fundraising for, a “how have you been?” in greeting. One or two even follow me on Twitter, for reasons unfathomable.

It is delightful to be recognized, of course. But I also find another feeling creeping in, a certain self-consciousness. If I share a review of their album, for instance, on a blog such as this, will they see it? Unlikely, but not inconceivable. If they do read it, might I offend them, or just as bad, appear unctuous and excessive?

I am still primarily a fan, they are the artists I am a fan of. I would not go so far as to describe any of my favorite folk artists as friends, but still, in some sense,  we know each other.

Anonymity can be a wonderful thing. Parasocial relationships only really include one person. My favorite artists may delight or disappoint me, break my heart or pull me through hard times, but the only thing really at stake is me. If we know each other, even slightly, then there’s two people in the relationship.

Would I prefer to just be an anonymous fan in the crowd? Of course not – it is a rare and wonderful thing to be able to ask your favorite singer a question after the show, and to get a hug before you leave. But I still find myself startled when I am reminded, again, that the easily spread media that makes it so easy for us to form parasocial relationships with those we admire can also allow those we admire to peer back at us.