Today I finally had an emotional reaction to Obama’s victory. I saw years of human indignities - slave ships and food troths, “yassum”s and “nassir”s, second hand books, and broken down buildings - thrown instantly into relief. I cried for my ancestors who endured these indignities. Then, something I have heard many times rang true for me in a way it had not up to that point. It struck that the power of this moment is not just the political victory, nor is it an identification with the person, Barack Obama himself. It is, more than anything, the power of the Barack Obama symbol.

The strength of this symbol is rooted in contrasts. Growing up brown and other in the US gives one access to powerful form of vision. This vision is personified time after time in the wise Black characters of countless American narratives such as the Oracle in the Matrix. This vision manifests itself in many cultural forms and is probably most widely recognized in its incarnation as the Blues or Soul music. Obama mixes this vision with a kind of confidence that, if unchecked, might be interpreted as entitlement. One wonders if this confidence is not, at least in part, owed to having a white parent. The tension of these insider/outsider statuses culminated yesterday in a moment of resolution. The promise of America and the reality of our internal ethnic tensions, the rhetoric of democracy and the history of oppression, resolved themselves in the person of Barack Obama. This resolution came to life in his face during the pauses between phrases of his acceptance speach.

E pluribus unum. From many one. Obama, the symbol, reflects a longing for shared humanity, for ever increasing inclusiveness. If one were to rewrite the creation of the Obama symbol as an ancient myth, one might imagine him as being built from the scraps of human remains left on the ground after a long war. Humanity, having torn itself apart, only to be reassembled, and reanimated, but this time more deeply connected than before.

Obama is arguably the most powerful living symbol on the globe right now. His global appeal is not too far removed from what Michael Jackson became during the Thriller era. In the cases of both mythical figures, it is important that they hail from the US. Both represent the longing for a post-tribal geo-politics in the age of US dominance. Both represent the hope for global relationships that rise above the racial and political narrowness of the US’s imperial bullying from Slavery to Mexico, from the Philippines to Vietnam, from El Salvador to East Timor.

At the same time the symbol of Obama is threatening. If taken seriously, the Obama symbol is a challenge to find a way to live with the un-live-with-able. There are the cliche divides that he implies must be bridged, black/white, Muslim/Jewish/Christian. But then there are the more nuanced identities that he threatens as well. Green party democratic socialists must learn to work with neo-liberal centrists. Peace activists will need to find common ground with the militant. Obama has managed to become a symbol through his ability to remain vague and impartial to a wide breath of political identities without seeming to pander or speak out of both sides of his mouth (though many would say he did just that in his speech to APAC, the conservative Jewish lobbyists).

By exploring what hopes dreams and shared values the symbol of Barack Obama has activated, we be more able to realize the dreams that have been penned on a flawed political system and on Obama, an extraordinary but imperfect man.

An influential cultural figure here in the bay area vexed me with his facebook status this week. In fact, it was the day after Obama was elected. It was also the day after this influential cultural figure threw a celebration that I attended in which the full force of Obama mania was uncorked.

On the day after so much history was made and so much redemption was obtained, this was the facebook status I saw: “I’m not waiving any m__f__in American flag…suckas…”

First of all let me acknowledge that I do not fully know what was meant by this declaration. Based on what little I know about this guy, he seems intelligent and well informed. There may have been a joke implied. Perhaps biting sarcasm was intended. Perhaps a thorough political analysis erupted into a flaming one line critique.

However, this guy is well-known in the Bay and he is not African American. More interestingly - and maybe this is the part that makes me the most wary - he is a hip-hop artist, a maven of Black music and culture. Here we are, a day after arguably the most significant milestone in African American history since the March on Washington, the day after, at this very DJs party, anthems like “Poppin Champagne” were re-purposed for celebrating a political victory, and this guy seems to be calling those of us relishing the moment “suckas.”

This was irresponsible no matter what was intended. I have heard every rhetorical device in the world used in the defense of the contradictions that dog hip-hop music. The talk of violence and misogyny has been described as the result of a “realist” aesthetic or a poetic catharsis. The commercialism that has increasingly shaped and been shaped by hip-hop has been written off as a symptom of a larger American moral failure. Some, including myself, have even argued for the idea of a sort of Taoist acceptance of the instinctual appeal of outlaw narratives and ego-maniacal, hyper-sexual persona especially in a repressed, left brain dominated society like ours.

So, if you need to brush off your shoulder, lean back, throw some bows, or whatever. I get that. Pose for the camera phone, pop your bottle. Its a guilty pleasure. A small concession for the stresses of everyday life in the modern world and especially everyday black life in the still anti-Black modern world.

Clearly, the dude who posted this facebook status, agrees with me that sometimes you just have to let your inner jiggy free, surrender to the song, even go as far as picturing yourself as the limo driven, all powerful gangsta portrayed in the songs lyrics. So how the hell is it that this guy cannot understand why after hundreds of years of grappling with all the cynical arguments for a mono-culture of violent, inhumane capitalist oligarchy that is premised on the fractioning of Blacks to 3/5s of human, we black folks are quite proud of Barack Obama thank you very f___in much.

We are not under any illusions - at least no one I have spoken with - that racism will disappear in 4 years or that American policies will reverse hundreds of years of violent oppression. We are simply enjoying a little “Come up.”

One test of this dilemma is the work of two jazz schooled songstresses who are straddling the traditional jazz world and the underground soul/nujazz worlds.

Cecilia Stalin is a child of a massive generation of jazz musicians coming out of Scandinavia right now. She did some schooling in Europe as well as at the New School Jazz Conservatory in New York. A DJ friend of mine passed me her album, Straight Up, and I was moved by its bittersweet austerity. I’m especially into this track, “Sustain.”

Esperanza Spalding is something of a phenomenon. I have not done my research on her, but I’ve heard she was a classical player who switched over at a young age and became a virtuoso bassist. Eventually she was hired on to the Berkeley College of music faculty at some ridiculously young age. I went to see her show at Yoshi’s in San Fran and saw music heads from all over the bay. She’s incredibly popular for someone I have not seen marketed on any national scale yet. I frankly don’t know the whole story on her, but it seems that her identity as a woman-of-color, a band leader, and a bassist who also sings, informs her popularity as much as her musical style. Don’t get me wrong, I dig what I’ve heard. But, at times, Spalding’s music betrays its music school roots. When she sings the blues, I don’t buy it. She is at her best when she does Brazilian tunes that call for a certain sophisticated lightness (Think Joyce. That’s why I’m rockin’ this tune “Ponta De Areia”.

Black boy, black boy turn that shit down
You know that America don’t wanna hear the sound
Of the bass drum jungle music go back to Africa
Nigga I’ll arrest ya if ya holdin up trafffic
I’ll be damned if I listen, so cops save your breath and
Write another ticket if ya have any left and
I’m breakin ear drums while I’m breakin the law
I’m disturbin all the peace cause Sister Souljah said war
So catch me if ya can, if ya can here’s a donut
Cause once ya drive away, yo I’m gonna go nut
And turn it up to where it was before nice try
But ya can’t stop the power of the bass in ya eye
I wonder if I blasted a little Elvis Presley
Would they pull me over and attempt to arrest me
I really doubt doubt it, they probably start dancin
Jumpin on my tip and pissin in they pants and
Wigglin and jigglin and grabbin on they pelvis
But you know my name so you never hear no Elvis
Strictly the hardcore dirty street level hits
God’s on my side so watch what the devil gets
Positivity hittin 50 levels deep
Comin out, they comin out the woofers in my Jeep

On Saturday, my crew screened Wattstax, the definitive documentary of the legendary 1972 music festival in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles. The festival commemorated 7 years of rebuilding from the Watts riots.

In the doc, Ted Lange, who played Isaac on the Love Boat is interviewed. He says that “up until the point that we had a riot, everybody said: ‘Those Suckas are alright.’” The consensus was that as bad as the riots were for the physical environment of Watts, they at least marked a real and sincere anger within the people that lived there. As one Chinese man said today in an interview about separatist violence in Western China, “where there is oppression, there will be resistance.”

The performances are brilliant. But that is not what made this movie so unforgettable. I think the hook is that more than any blacksploitation flick or any sit com, this document draws you in to the spirit of the times. The longer the doc goes on, the closer you feel to the people in it and the pain, and hope they are living; the easier it becomes to imagine yourself wearing a tassels, bells, a long afro, and maybe even a pink short suit, with knee-high, white, vinyl boots.

My mom, saw the film. We talked about it. She said it reminded her of a more innocent time. She was thinking specifically of the moment in the film when, after causing a rush of dance energy that brought the crowd to the middle of the stadium field, Rufus Thomas (of “Funky Chicken” fame) has to ask all the festival goers to leave go back into the stands. They do. Nicely. Could that happen today?

The rapport between the audience and the artist was so deep. The laughter, the knowing head knods, the call and response reminded one of a family gathering. This is especially true when Isaac Hayes takes the stage as the closing act. He leads the crowd through the chorus shouts of “Theme from Shaft.”
Everyone in the room where I was watching the film yelled out in accord. “Watch your mouth..” But we knew he was “just talkin’ bout Shaft.”

The next day, Isaac passed away. Oh dolce vita is short. RIP sir Isaac.

In this clip the Barkays epitomize the openness and progressiveness of the times. Their hair, their clothes, and their style of funk was on the cusp of dawning Aquarian age:

My goal is to carve out a night at this new venue for a chill zone where my folks and my folks’ folks can  gather, unwind, and build.  I am aiming for Fridays, but this Saturday is a tryout for me with the management at Radio - a way to get my foot in the door.  I am inviting everyone I know to come through and check out the spot.  It’s really chill and the sound is lovely.  It’s a great place to sip a drink, contemplate life, chat up cuties, or just slouch in a booth and soak up the sounds.

Last Saturday Ricardo, Starr, and the Bay Sessions crew screened Wattstax, the definitive documentary of the legendary 1972 music festival in Los Angeles.  I hadn’t seen the whole doc before.  I was blown away.  The film begins with a serious introduction by Richard Pryor and ends with an epic performance by Isaac Hayes.

We watched that on Saturday night.  Sunday morning, Isaac Hayes, Black Moses, made the transition.

Come through, Saturday and help me take this spot over.  Also, help me celebrate the spirit of ‘72, Isaac Hayes, and the generations of folks who created vibes and community that have been passed down to us.

Call me.  We can meet for dinner across the street at Golden Lotus before hand and head over to Lucky Lounge for Magic Milkcrates after.

San Francisco’s black population has dropped faster than that of any other large U.S. city’s.

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