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Making Ma Rainey She changed popular music forever, but the “Mother of the Blues” is not the household name she deserves to be. Netflix’s recent star-studded release,
Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, adapted from the Pulitzer-winning dramatist August Wilson’s 1982 play, brings one of the US’s first professional blues singers back into the cultural sphere. The larger than life, gold tooth-wearing Ma Rainey, famed “Mother of the Blues”, is played with regal poise by Viola Davis, who fires off pointed retorts from beneath an impenetrable mask of make-up. Known for her thunderous, moaning voice, sharp comic timing and compelling stage presence, Rainey was a pioneer of early blues music who opened the way for many rebellious, unconventional musicians who followed her. As blues laid the foundations for much of Western music, it is not overblown to say that, without Rainey, pop culture as we know it would be considerably different. But despite her influence on popular
Diary Of A Fugue Year
Can a lifetime of close listening prepare a person for a year like 2020?
I. Short Circuiting
On the first day of December in the year of our collective dread 2020, my editor called me to have the annual conversation. How, Jacob wanted to know, do you plan to write about this year in music? Our back-and-forth fluctuated between the general NPR Music was about to publish its lists of 2020 s best songs and albums and the personal. He talked about listening to sad disco while taking long summer runs in upstate New York. I confessed that while I d marveled at the women rappers, Black country singers and pop-star androgynes who d made social media fun, all I d wanted to do most nights in Nashville was put on headphones and listen to a folkie whisper in my ear. Our talk of bests, our generalizations and volleyed opinions, felt heartwarmingly familiar. But then he asked me a question that jarred me out of that comfort zone.
Renee Klahr / NPR / Armon Dauphin / Getty Images
I. Short Circuiting
On the first day of December in the year of our collective dread 2020, my editor called me to have the annual conversation. How, Jacob wanted to know, do you plan to write about this year in music? Our back-and-forth fluctuated between the general NPR Music was about to publish its lists of 2020 s best songs and albums and the personal. He talked about listening to sad disco while taking long summer runs in upstate New York. I confessed that while I d marveled at the women rappers, Black country singers and pop-star androgynes who d made social media fun, all I d wanted to do most nights in Nashville was put on headphones and listen to a folkie whisper in my ear. Our talk of bests, our generalizations and volleyed opinions, felt heartwarmingly familiar. But then he asked me a question that jarred me out of that comfort zone.