Corey Harris, a fine blues guitarist, songwriter and singer in a neo-traditionalist
blues style writes a provocative column on his blog Blues is Black Music entitled 'Can White People Sing the Blues? " Harris, a musician specializing in a style of blues that's been around much longer than his years on this earth insists it's an important question. His primary objection to the idea of whites playing what is a black art form is that while listeners find themselves entertained by technical competence and show business bedazzlement, they do not have legitimacy because the music is robbed of historical context and is, as a result, merely ornamentation, not art that convincingly interprets personal and collective experience in a cruel, problematic existence. There is no culture without the long, collective memory to inform it and keep it honest,
" Without culture there is no music. Music is the voice of a culture. Separate the two and the music can never be the same.I agree that those aspiring to perform blues, jazz or soul should forever know what they are picking up is black music created by and defined by black artists and the culture
Of course, itmay be in the same style as the original, but the meaning of a song such as Son House's 'My Black Mama' will always be changedwith a different performer. This is especially true if the performer is not from the Black culture that gave birth to the blues."
The new black culture that gradually arose and developed as the response by black communities to the decimation of the institutional, social and spiritual traditions that had been theirs in their own land. The new culture
The case is that while self-righteous revisionist scolds like Harris is articulate will limit the range of blues to exclude all who are not black from having true blues authenticity, art does not sustain itself by remaining in a vacuum. No matter how righteous the argument who the music belongs to, without the constant input from musicians attracted to it and perform it according to their the narrative of their personal lives, the music ceases to grow. It shrivels up and dies and becomes only a relic that is notable mostly for how distant and antiquated it sounds.
I have always insisted that blues and jazz are black-American inventions and it's important to keep that fact in mind, but the blues, being music
, is something that catches the ear of the blues lover , regardless of race, and speaks to those people in deep and profound ways, giving expression to perceptions, emotions, personal contradictions in ways that mere intellectual endeavor cannot; it is this music these folks come to love and many aspire to play, to make their own and stamp with their own personality and twists and quirks. That is how art, any art, survives, grows, remains relevant relevant enough for the born-again righteousness of Harris to reshuffle a less interesting set of arguments from LeRoi Jones' book "Blues People".
There is the aspect that blues is something in which anyone one can play the game, an element that exists in any instance of arts one thinks ought to
be restricted to particular groups, but what really matters is less how many musicians have gotten in on the game as much as how many are still on the playing field over the years, with great tunes, memorable performances, slick licks, and most importantly, emotions that are real, emphatic, unmistakable. Without real emotion, new inspiration from younger players bringing their own version of the wide and disperse American narrative to the idiom, there is no music. There is no art. It dies, falls into irrelevancy, and is forgotten altogether.