‘Cause I knowI think I knowHow everything is classifiedThat ain’t no lieI’m so glad someone told meHow everything is classifiedThat ain’t no lie— James Booker, “Classified”
Let me pass some light through the social prism of James Carroll Booker III (December 17, 1939 – November 8, 1983)
performing his fonky original “Classified”
(first released on The Piano Prince From New Orleans,
Aves, 1976), and investigate how it projects onto the wall of mostly-postwar
mostly-American music.
Relentless Taxonomy
Our poor puny brains do the best they can to handle
everything, but cognitive limitation is axiomatic. The supply of environmental
stimulus far exceeds, to put it lightly, and all the time (which is to say even
under the best of circumstances), our capacity to process it. This particular
manifestation of Original Sin –I once heard it gently poetized as “traces of Eve”– means we’re
drinking out of a sensory fire hose, and making sense presses into service, at best, a bucket brigade. Cognitive resources being scarce, we strive to
use them efficiently. Among many other tricks of the human trade, we taxonomize
relentlessly, constructing mental categories around environmental stimuli or
sorting them into available baskets, hastily sketching targets around hits,
arranging pots and pans under the leaks, and re-dealing life’s cards into the billions of
conceptual containers strewn across the mindscape. As one scholar has put it, “to cognize is to categorize” (Harnad 2005). All of this occurs
preconsciously, the first link in lots of long and interesting causal chains. (I have been reading a number of brain and language books, but I should certainly cite at least Kahneman 2011 here.)
everything, but cognitive limitation is axiomatic. The supply of environmental
stimulus far exceeds, to put it lightly, and all the time (which is to say even
under the best of circumstances), our capacity to process it. This particular
manifestation of Original Sin –I once heard it gently poetized as “traces of Eve”– means we’re
drinking out of a sensory fire hose, and making sense presses into service, at best, a bucket brigade. Cognitive resources being scarce, we strive to
use them efficiently. Among many other tricks of the human trade, we taxonomize
relentlessly, constructing mental categories around environmental stimuli or
sorting them into available baskets, hastily sketching targets around hits,
arranging pots and pans under the leaks, and re-dealing life’s cards into the billions of
conceptual containers strewn across the mindscape. As one scholar has put it, “to cognize is to categorize” (Harnad 2005). All of this occurs
preconsciously, the first link in lots of long and interesting causal chains. (I have been reading a number of brain and language books, but I should certainly cite at least Kahneman 2011 here.)
Categories help us make our way in the world, and are thus
highly adaptive artifacts. In the ancestral environment it would have been
useful to know whether that flash of movement you see on the path back from a
constitutional is just a moonlit leaf shaking a little in the wind, or a pouncing
big cat. It remains useful as ever, wherever people are found, to parse the intent
of shadowy men in dark places. And there’s the good stuff, too, a
little farther up Maslow’s (1943) hierarchy – clean water, ripe fruit, sexual attraction,
random consonance or a beautiful view. We have all kinds of reasons to take
stuff in; we just have to do it efficiently as possible, aware of the tradeoffs
forced on us by our quivering grey matter.
Categorization doesn’t just operate at the interface of
nature and individual, of course – it’s a profoundly social enterprise. I have
no idea what convention dictates, but I’ll try to reserve use of the term
“classification” to refer to social categorization. My thin
understanding sees it bound up irreducibly with language (Searle 2009), with
concept, language and meaning all co-constituted with and by the other, but I
can’t go down that rabbit hole. Because through classification
society normalizes, it defines what is to be taken-for-granted (sparing
cognitive resources) and what problematic (and thus attended to). It sorts and
processes us into buckets and baskets and demographics and statistical groupings.
In the aggregate society benefits tremendously from the smooth routing of
environmental stimuli out, around and through our brains and out, around, into
and through the less tangible but no less real body social.
nature and individual, of course – it’s a profoundly social enterprise. I have
no idea what convention dictates, but I’ll try to reserve use of the term
“classification” to refer to social categorization. My thin
understanding sees it bound up irreducibly with language (Searle 2009), with
concept, language and meaning all co-constituted with and by the other, but I
can’t go down that rabbit hole. Because through classification
society normalizes, it defines what is to be taken-for-granted (sparing
cognitive resources) and what problematic (and thus attended to). It sorts and
processes us into buckets and baskets and demographics and statistical groupings.
In the aggregate society benefits tremendously from the smooth routing of
environmental stimuli out, around and through our brains and out, around, into
and through the less tangible but no less real body social.
How we are classified has major
distributional consequences, both reflecting and contributing to stratified systems of privilege and power. Probabilistically speaking, you reading this are
likely to be white, male, intelligent, educated (not the same thing),
relatively affluent and straight, among other things. Think about what all of
that has meant and means for your life! If privilege is a measure of hassle and
anguish averted as much as of opportunity presented, we are a lucky bunch
indeed. How many legal hassles have our race and class inoculated us against,
where a white guy toodling a late model around American suburbs gets a pass
from the local forces of order, while a black or brown guy, and/or a beat-up car, might have earned a flashlight in the eyes, an already confirmed suspicion that
something’s a little fishy, a little suspect? Smarts help, too. And this is to say nothing on
the torture inflicted on those hit by the business end of, say, the sexuality
stick, or women who never, in the aggregate, enjoy anything close to an equal
shot at the good life.
distributional consequences, both reflecting and contributing to stratified systems of privilege and power. Probabilistically speaking, you reading this are
likely to be white, male, intelligent, educated (not the same thing),
relatively affluent and straight, among other things. Think about what all of
that has meant and means for your life! If privilege is a measure of hassle and
anguish averted as much as of opportunity presented, we are a lucky bunch
indeed. How many legal hassles have our race and class inoculated us against,
where a white guy toodling a late model around American suburbs gets a pass
from the local forces of order, while a black or brown guy, and/or a beat-up car, might have earned a flashlight in the eyes, an already confirmed suspicion that
something’s a little fishy, a little suspect? Smarts help, too. And this is to say nothing on
the torture inflicted on those hit by the business end of, say, the sexuality
stick, or women who never, in the aggregate, enjoy anything close to an equal
shot at the good life.
Finally, as our artifact, classification can never be
perfected, and in consequence some folks are always falling through the
cracks, obscured by conceptual shadow (a “grey area”), spinning
toward taxonomical limine, running
along interstitial lines, and flat out, hold-the-barbwire crossing boundaries.
If conceptually induced negative distributional consequences might be called
“disfit”, these might be referred to as “misfit”, between
square individual pegs and round social holes. Being a misfit can be massively
beneficial in certain times and places, with respect to certain categories, and
all that. It can also be a huge bummer, as mis-fitting stuff draws society’s
not-always-tender gaze, which prefigures its inevitable effort to bring the
wayward unit into conformity. Across this distributional span, marginality can
just be a flat out wild and combustible ride.
perfected, and in consequence some folks are always falling through the
cracks, obscured by conceptual shadow (a “grey area”), spinning
toward taxonomical limine, running
along interstitial lines, and flat out, hold-the-barbwire crossing boundaries.
If conceptually induced negative distributional consequences might be called
“disfit”, these might be referred to as “misfit”, between
square individual pegs and round social holes. Being a misfit can be massively
beneficial in certain times and places, with respect to certain categories, and
all that. It can also be a huge bummer, as mis-fitting stuff draws society’s
not-always-tender gaze, which prefigures its inevitable effort to bring the
wayward unit into conformity. Across this distributional span, marginality can
just be a flat out wild and combustible ride.
Why don’t we play Everybody’s Favorite Fun-Game –
“Let’s … Classify!”
“Let’s … Classify!”
James Booker, Classified
Society classified James Carroll Booker III (December 17, 1939 –November 8, 1983), as it does everyone, in myriad ways. Let’s start with an area in which, given the alternatives,
Booker won the stratification lottery: gender. Being classified
“male” confers privilege in every known human society (Brown 1991).
Booker won the stratification lottery: gender. Being classified
“male” confers privilege in every known human society (Brown 1991).
Socioeconomics is a rather mixed bag. His father was a
Baptist minister, a gig which, while far from lucrative, could probably in
principle sustain a family in the 1940s. So much for the “objective”
class situation into which James was born – what else do we know? We know his
sister had a music teacher (All About
Jazz), a whiff of the middle class. Not much to go on here.
Baptist minister, a gig which, while far from lucrative, could probably in
principle sustain a family in the 1940s. So much for the “objective”
class situation into which James was born – what else do we know? We know his
sister had a music teacher (All About
Jazz), a whiff of the middle class. Not much to go on here.
Domestic Circumstances. Whatever his “objective”
employment status, James’s father didn’t keep his family intact: “Papa Was A Rascal”.
employment status, James’s father didn’t keep his family intact: “Papa Was A Rascal”.
There was a sweet white woman down in Savanna GAShe made love to my daddy in front of the KKK.She made love to my daddy ya know in front of the KKK.…She made my papa move to BostonHe took a gangster galShe stole away with my papaThe whole Italian affair.She stole away with my papa, a way the Italian affair. Yeah
A recent report says merely that “his childhood was
troubled [and he was] raised by an aunt in the Mississippi town of Bay St.
Louis” (O’Hagan 2013). (In rehearsals with the Jerry Garcia Band on1/7/76, Booker dedicates “Slowly
But Surely” to his “Aunt Bessie down in Bay St. Louis”,
attributing that song’s words to her.) From reading around it seems he spent a
chunk of his childhood down there, returning to New Orleans maybe as a young
teen. Again, though, things are a little blurry. If he came from a somewhat
“broken home”, he seems to have had plenty of church time, which can
sometimes help compensate homelife difficulties, and he enjoyed access to elite
cultural materials, such as Rachmaninoff, Bach, Chopin, Liszt and untold other
composers’ scores. The fact that he was a classical music prodigy just smacks
of access to relatively rarefied air, though whether it was as more than just
the entertainment I can’t really say. Overall, here, another rather mixed bag, but shaded toward disadvantage, once we control for the door-opening effects of Booker’s musical talents.
troubled [and he was] raised by an aunt in the Mississippi town of Bay St.
Louis” (O’Hagan 2013). (In rehearsals with the Jerry Garcia Band on1/7/76, Booker dedicates “Slowly
But Surely” to his “Aunt Bessie down in Bay St. Louis”,
attributing that song’s words to her.) From reading around it seems he spent a
chunk of his childhood down there, returning to New Orleans maybe as a young
teen. Again, though, things are a little blurry. If he came from a somewhat
“broken home”, he seems to have had plenty of church time, which can
sometimes help compensate homelife difficulties, and he enjoyed access to elite
cultural materials, such as Rachmaninoff, Bach, Chopin, Liszt and untold other
composers’ scores. The fact that he was a classical music prodigy just smacks
of access to relatively rarefied air, though whether it was as more than just
the entertainment I can’t really say. Overall, here, another rather mixed bag, but shaded toward disadvantage, once we control for the door-opening effects of Booker’s musical talents.
Education is the social sorter par excellence (Domina, Penner and Penner 2017), and young James seems to have steady access to what
appears to have been a good education. To take one indicator, documentarian
Lily Keber posted some of Booker’s handwritten lyrics, and his penmanship is
delightful. He speaks with great fluency, and just gives evidence of a certain
level of schooled refinement. I read something about him attending catholic
school as a kid, implying in his early child, but in any event at some point he
attends Xavier Academy, a black catholic college preparatory school. He later matriculated
at Southern University before dropping out in order to go pro (and thus be able to pay for drugs) (McDermott 2013). Overall, and controlling for the fact that he had faced some domestic instability,
Booker seems to have had considerable access to educational opportunity, almost
certainly driven by his prodigious talent.
appears to have been a good education. To take one indicator, documentarian
Lily Keber posted some of Booker’s handwritten lyrics, and his penmanship is
delightful. He speaks with great fluency, and just gives evidence of a certain
level of schooled refinement. I read something about him attending catholic
school as a kid, implying in his early child, but in any event at some point he
attends Xavier Academy, a black catholic college preparatory school. He later matriculated
at Southern University before dropping out in order to go pro (and thus be able to pay for drugs) (McDermott 2013). Overall, and controlling for the fact that he had faced some domestic instability,
Booker seems to have had considerable access to educational opportunity, almost
certainly driven by his prodigious talent.
So much for relative privilege. Let me move to Mac Rebennack, a.k.a. Dr. John,
a.k.a. The Night Tripper as his canonical praise for James Booker as “the best black, gay, one-eyed
junkie piano genius New Orleans has ever produced.”
a.k.a. The Night Tripper as his canonical praise for James Booker as “the best black, gay, one-eyed
junkie piano genius New Orleans has ever produced.”
Race: James Booker was born black in New Orleans, Louisiana
in a dangerously martial year, 1939, and he grew up in coastal Mississippi.
Discrimination is expected, and alluded to in materials around the documentary Bayou Maharajah, though I know of no
specific instances. Let’s just say I feel safe in asserting that he would have
faced a great deal of racism, structural, behavioral, and every other kind,
visible and invisible, in this place and time (a characterization which
includes not just the deep south, but “mostly-postwar America” more
broadly).
in a dangerously martial year, 1939, and he grew up in coastal Mississippi.
Discrimination is expected, and alluded to in materials around the documentary Bayou Maharajah, though I know of no
specific instances. Let’s just say I feel safe in asserting that he would have
faced a great deal of racism, structural, behavioral, and every other kind,
visible and invisible, in this place and time (a characterization which
includes not just the deep south, but “mostly-postwar America” more
broadly).
Gender and sexuality: If James won the gender stratification
sweepstakes, his homosexuality probably wiped out any most of the masculinity premium.
Society demands and subsidizes conformity, while deviance is generally taxed.
Now, insofar as the prices line up right in general equilibrium, when people
are willing to pay more to engage the artist’s art than it costs to supply that
commodity, net of the nonconformity penalty and the transaction costs and all
the rest of it, then to that extent deviance can be tolerated. The “Black
Liberace” was flamboyant and outlandish, even by the standard of land’s
end New Orleans, represented in some iconographic, Village People style,
leather and briefs 1970s imagery, all wigs and hairpins.
sweepstakes, his homosexuality probably wiped out any most of the masculinity premium.
Society demands and subsidizes conformity, while deviance is generally taxed.
Now, insofar as the prices line up right in general equilibrium, when people
are willing to pay more to engage the artist’s art than it costs to supply that
commodity, net of the nonconformity penalty and the transaction costs and all
the rest of it, then to that extent deviance can be tolerated. The “Black
Liberace” was flamboyant and outlandish, even by the standard of land’s
end New Orleans, represented in some iconographic, Village People style,
leather and briefs 1970s imagery, all wigs and hairpins.
Physical disability: Booker had one eye, though how this
came about seems lost in the mists of time, something about a drug deal gone
bad, selling it to a tourist, other vague and perhaps mobbish criminality,
Jackie Kennedy, or maybe a simple infection (Rubien 2006; Chilton 2013; van
Syckle 2013). When, in “Classified” Booker sings “I know it’s
real | what this one light lets me see” he alternately owns his incomplete
fenestration and, courageously, minimizes it as a limitation. Adorned in a
dashing array of eye patches, James Booker’s problems had little to do with a
physical disability, though it seems unlikely that it could have helped.
came about seems lost in the mists of time, something about a drug deal gone
bad, selling it to a tourist, other vague and perhaps mobbish criminality,
Jackie Kennedy, or maybe a simple infection (Rubien 2006; Chilton 2013; van
Syckle 2013). When, in “Classified” Booker sings “I know it’s
real | what this one light lets me see” he alternately owns his incomplete
fenestration and, courageously, minimizes it as a limitation. Adorned in a
dashing array of eye patches, James Booker’s problems had little to do with a
physical disability, though it seems unlikely that it could have helped.
“Junkie”: James Booker was a heroin addict.
Filmmaker Lily Keber discovered
that “when Booker was a kid, he was hit by an ambulance and dragged down
the street; he broke his leg. They gave him morphine for the pain, and he
always pointed to that to being the beginning of his addiction”. Now,
personal responsibility is a linchpin of society, but a little kid getting
hooked on opiates via the medical system of the late 1940s doesn’t sound
implausible to me, and if true would represent just one of those lovely random
fuckings over that life administers. Bad luck, kid.
Filmmaker Lily Keber discovered
that “when Booker was a kid, he was hit by an ambulance and dragged down
the street; he broke his leg. They gave him morphine for the pain, and he
always pointed to that to being the beginning of his addiction”. Now,
personal responsibility is a linchpin of society, but a little kid getting
hooked on opiates via the medical system of the late 1940s doesn’t sound
implausible to me, and if true would represent just one of those lovely random
fuckings over that life administers. Bad luck, kid.
I was a young boy about the age of 9.I found a sweet russin’ woman.You know I made her mine.I found a sweet russin’ woman, you know that I made her mine.— James Booker, “Papa Was A Rascal”
If he had a particular taste for heroin, Booker’s embrace of
the old New Orleans roller “Junco
Partner” — a prize contender in the long line of great American drug
songs – allowed him to testify to a broadminded pharmacological ecumenicism.
Anything that’d twist him up a little bit, or rather as much as possible,
suited his taste and appetite – liquid, pill or powder; by no account was he
choosy. Unsurprisingly, this all didn’t play out very well, with James all too
frequently not “making good choices”, as the euphemism has it. David
Torkanowsky:
the old New Orleans roller “Junco
Partner” — a prize contender in the long line of great American drug
songs – allowed him to testify to a broadminded pharmacological ecumenicism.
Anything that’d twist him up a little bit, or rather as much as possible,
suited his taste and appetite – liquid, pill or powder; by no account was he
choosy. Unsurprisingly, this all didn’t play out very well, with James all too
frequently not “making good choices”, as the euphemism has it. David
Torkanowsky:
I remember there was a regular Tuesday night Booker solo at
Tipitina’s. Finally, the lights dim and Booker walks out to the middle
microphone on stage. He was wearing nothing but a huge diaper with a huge gold
pin holding up the diaper, and from behind the diaper he pulls out a .357
magnum, puts it to his own head and announces to the audience, ‘If somebody
doesn’t give me some [expletive] cocaine right now, I’m going to [expletive]
pull the trigger’.
“His addictions — heroin, cocaine, alcohol — got the
better of him” (NPR
2012). Promoters would “book him, shovel cocaine up his noise, feed
him Crème de Cacao or Seagrams 7, and make money off his performance”
(O’Hagan 2013). Booker recorded his final album –Classified xxx—in a single troubled four-hour session.[1]
“By that point drugs and alcohol
had taken over his life. After downing a mixture of Antabuse and gin, he had a
seizure during the photo session for the album, which was recorded in his home
town of New Orleans in October 1982” (Chilton 2013). Just over a year
later, on November 8, 1983, James Booker “died alone of renal failure in a
wheelchair waiting for help at Charity Hospital in New Orleans” (Chilton
2013), done in, proximately, by drugs and alcohol.
better of him” (NPR
2012). Promoters would “book him, shovel cocaine up his noise, feed
him Crème de Cacao or Seagrams 7, and make money off his performance”
(O’Hagan 2013). Booker recorded his final album –Classified xxx—in a single troubled four-hour session.[1]
“By that point drugs and alcohol
had taken over his life. After downing a mixture of Antabuse and gin, he had a
seizure during the photo session for the album, which was recorded in his home
town of New Orleans in October 1982” (Chilton 2013). Just over a year
later, on November 8, 1983, James Booker “died alone of renal failure in a
wheelchair waiting for help at Charity Hospital in New Orleans” (Chilton
2013), done in, proximately, by drugs and alcohol.
Bonus Round! Topic: Stigmas and the Institutions that Wield Them.
Here are a few that Dr. John neglected to enumerate.
Mental Health: Booker strikes an exasperated,
sarcastic, slightly indignant tone in expressing how glad he is to be informed
of how things are classified. He’s clearly had this conversation before, and
society, or rather society’s minions, definers and defenders of the normal,
were his interlocutors. Booker was arguably mad (bipolar disorder,
schizophrenia, depression, manic depression and paranoia have all been advanced),
and I presume (only!) that at some point he brushed against normality’s A-Team,
the psychology profession, the Diagnostic
and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) of which is a crowning
achievement of taxonomy. “Classified” progresses interestingly on
this dimension. Booker first asserts his sanity (“I know it’s real | What
my mind is telling me”), but later he allows as how “I may be
crazy” and, later in the song, having been classified (“Some say I’m
crazy”), he seems to accept the premise, but plead for compassion:
“it [his premised craziness] doesn’t mean | that you know where I’m coming
from”.
sarcastic, slightly indignant tone in expressing how glad he is to be informed
of how things are classified. He’s clearly had this conversation before, and
society, or rather society’s minions, definers and defenders of the normal,
were his interlocutors. Booker was arguably mad (bipolar disorder,
schizophrenia, depression, manic depression and paranoia have all been advanced),
and I presume (only!) that at some point he brushed against normality’s A-Team,
the psychology profession, the Diagnostic
and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) of which is a crowning
achievement of taxonomy. “Classified” progresses interestingly on
this dimension. Booker first asserts his sanity (“I know it’s real | What
my mind is telling me”), but later he allows as how “I may be
crazy” and, later in the song, having been classified (“Some say I’m
crazy”), he seems to accept the premise, but plead for compassion:
“it [his premised craziness] doesn’t mean | that you know where I’m coming
from”.
There’s little doubt the man was troubled. Charles Neville “links
his mental decline to the deaths of his mother and sister in 1970, and
remembers Booker becoming increasingly obsessed with “plots” and
“threats” against him at that time” (Chilton 2013). (Note that
this would be a pretty direct read of Booker’s “Papa Was A Rascal”:
“You know my sister and my momma | They both begin to say | You know we
all better watch out | for the CIA | I said we all gotta watch out | watch out
for the CIA | We all better watch out | watch out for the CIA.” [Speaking of things being classified …]) John
Parsons, who employed Booker at the Maple Leaf bar in the last several years of
his life recalls “One person once asked me if James Booker was crazy. I
thought about the question for awhile and I couldn’t think of any way he wasn’t
crazy” (O’Hagan 2013).
his mental decline to the deaths of his mother and sister in 1970, and
remembers Booker becoming increasingly obsessed with “plots” and
“threats” against him at that time” (Chilton 2013). (Note that
this would be a pretty direct read of Booker’s “Papa Was A Rascal”:
“You know my sister and my momma | They both begin to say | You know we
all better watch out | for the CIA | I said we all gotta watch out | watch out
for the CIA | We all better watch out | watch out for the CIA.” [Speaking of things being classified …]) John
Parsons, who employed Booker at the Maple Leaf bar in the last several years of
his life recalls “One person once asked me if James Booker was crazy. I
thought about the question for awhile and I couldn’t think of any way he wasn’t
crazy” (O’Hagan 2013).
Criminal Record: And the cherry on top: as his mental health teetered, struggling
emotionally over the recent loss of his mother and sister (Chilton 2013), in
1970 “Booker was arrested for possession of heroin outside of New
Orleans’s famed Dew Drop Inn and was sentenced to serve two years at the
Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola.” Angola is a terrible hard place
full of meanness, fear and sweat –the Central Convict Sugar Plantation kept slavery alive in West Feliciana Parish, Louisiana (Szwed 2010, 44) long after the Emancipation Proclamation. Booker was there during a more recent bad spell, just
before the federally-mandated reforms
took shape, a time when it “garnered the reputation for being the ‘bloodiest
prison in the South’. Stabbings were common: forty inmates were murdered
between 1972 and 1975. In the early 1970s, four inmates sued the state for
violation of their civil rights due to the barbaric conditions and poor
supervision of the inmates and facilities” (Tolino 2013). Men still cut
sugar cane on the prison grounds at this time (van Syckle 2013), though Booker apparently
“worked in the prison’s library and developed a musical program for
inmates” (McDermott 2013) – hopefully he worked up some killer renditions
of “Junco Partner” for his “boys in Angola” (wiki). It was fitting work — Leadbelly himself had done time there.
emotionally over the recent loss of his mother and sister (Chilton 2013), in
1970 “Booker was arrested for possession of heroin outside of New
Orleans’s famed Dew Drop Inn and was sentenced to serve two years at the
Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola.” Angola is a terrible hard place
full of meanness, fear and sweat –the Central Convict Sugar Plantation kept slavery alive in West Feliciana Parish, Louisiana (Szwed 2010, 44) long after the Emancipation Proclamation. Booker was there during a more recent bad spell, just
before the federally-mandated reforms
took shape, a time when it “garnered the reputation for being the ‘bloodiest
prison in the South’. Stabbings were common: forty inmates were murdered
between 1972 and 1975. In the early 1970s, four inmates sued the state for
violation of their civil rights due to the barbaric conditions and poor
supervision of the inmates and facilities” (Tolino 2013). Men still cut
sugar cane on the prison grounds at this time (van Syckle 2013), though Booker apparently
“worked in the prison’s library and developed a musical program for
inmates” (McDermott 2013) – hopefully he worked up some killer renditions
of “Junco Partner” for his “boys in Angola” (wiki). It was fitting work — Leadbelly himself had done time there.
Having put himself to good use, and on good behavior, he was
paroled after six months – “ain’t no sentence”, he sang in
“Junco Partner”, but of course it was. In all of society’s
taxonomical arsenal, few things classify quite with quite the overt violence of
the penal system, and he said he was locked up “long enough to feel the
iron in the bars getting into my head” (O’Hagan 2013). This is some of
society’s most aggressive institutional work, a special alchemy by which it
seeks to transfigure its most disfit and misfit subjects. The experience permanently marks the
institutionalized brain, and worst of all, conviction often begets further
criminality. Upon his release Booker couldn’t find enough work in bust-cycle New Orleans; “he violated his parole by leaving the state” (McDermott
2013). I don’t know what other run-ins with the law he might have faced, though in his work with Garcia he says he wrote “United Our Things Will Stand” in the New Orleans Parish Prison, Angola’s municipal cousin. Either way, and above and the damage done by doing time, “convict” is one of those classifications that you really, really, really
don’t want – it hurts, and it sticks.
paroled after six months – “ain’t no sentence”, he sang in
“Junco Partner”, but of course it was. In all of society’s
taxonomical arsenal, few things classify quite with quite the overt violence of
the penal system, and he said he was locked up “long enough to feel the
iron in the bars getting into my head” (O’Hagan 2013). This is some of
society’s most aggressive institutional work, a special alchemy by which it
seeks to transfigure its most disfit and misfit subjects. The experience permanently marks the
institutionalized brain, and worst of all, conviction often begets further
criminality. Upon his release Booker couldn’t find enough work in bust-cycle New Orleans; “he violated his parole by leaving the state” (McDermott
2013). I don’t know what other run-ins with the law he might have faced, though in his work with Garcia he says he wrote “United Our Things Will Stand” in the New Orleans Parish Prison, Angola’s municipal cousin. Either way, and above and the damage done by doing time, “convict” is one of those classifications that you really, really, really
don’t want – it hurts, and it sticks.
Social Transgressiveness, Musical Transcendence
The most consistent observation from the foregoing is how socially transgressive James Booker was and this, like that flash of
light-in-shadow, draws our attention.
light-in-shadow, draws our attention.
Piano Genius: But it’s because of how we must classify
him musically, where transgression refines to transcendence, that he keeps our attention. And,
in this bucket, the Piano Prince of New Orleans scores as one of the finest who
ever lived. I could multiply the testimonials ad nauseum, but let me just drop a few.
Pianist Jon Cleary: “He had grounding and fingering
techniques that he got as a kid from classical music. Coming from rhythm and
blues and soul music and blues and jazz … gave him a style that was very
distinctive. It’s hard to play. Very clever. Very clean. He could get great
chords and tones, but he also could really hammer it out too” (Kunian 2013).
“Sometimes,” the same article continues, “Booker sounds like he
has three hands”, a theme that arises frequently in evaluations of
Booker’s brilliance.
techniques that he got as a kid from classical music. Coming from rhythm and
blues and soul music and blues and jazz … gave him a style that was very
distinctive. It’s hard to play. Very clever. Very clean. He could get great
chords and tones, but he also could really hammer it out too” (Kunian 2013).
“Sometimes,” the same article continues, “Booker sounds like he
has three hands”, a theme that arises frequently in evaluations of
Booker’s brilliance.
Musicologist Josh Paxton, whose painstaking transcriptions
provided keys to unlock many of the mysteries of Booker’s music:
provided keys to unlock many of the mysteries of Booker’s music:
He figured out how to do things no one had ever done before,
at least in a rhythm-and-blues context. The way that he played derives from
classical music and other things and techniques that he picked up from playing
the organ that he used on the piano. Basically he figured out ways to do a lot
of stuff at the same time and make the piano sound like an entire band. To me
that’s his major contribution, making it sound like there is so much going on
with just one person doing it that he is turning the piano into a one-man band
(Kunian 2013).
As another player and Booker collaborator, bassist Reggie
Scanlan put it, notes flowed “like gems dropping off his hands faster than
you could pick them up” (Rubien 2006).
Scanlan put it, notes flowed “like gems dropping off his hands faster than
you could pick them up” (Rubien 2006).
That technique is best which
expresses most, and Booker’s dripped with powerful emotion. Rubien (2006) saw
him play a few times:
With a left hand like a piston with a heart and brain in
each finger, Booker more or less hypnotized me. His right hand, fanning runs
that didn’t seem humanly possible, engendered a feeling I’d never experienced.
I can’t really explain it, but it was as if he cracked open a portal in my soul
and poured all his world of pain and wisdom directly in. I looked around the
room, and people were weeping.
“It’s Ray Charles on the level of Chopin,” elaborates
musicologist Paxton, continuing,
musicologist Paxton, continuing,
It’s all the soul, all the groove, and all the
technique in the universe packed into one unbelievable player. It’s like
playing Liszt and Professor Longhair at the same time. I can now say with
certainty that it’s a pianistic experience unlike any other. He invented an
entirely new way of playing blues and roots-based music on the piano, and it
was mind-blowingly brilliant and beautiful.
The legendary Allen Toussaint, who
knew and played with Booker in childhood, strongly concurs:
knew and played with Booker in childhood, strongly concurs:
There are some instances in his playing that are very
unusual and highly complex, but the groove is never sacrificed. Within all the
romping and stomping in his music, there were complexities in it that, if one
tried to emulate it, what you heard and what excited you on the surface was
supported by some extreme technical acrobatics finger-wise that made his music
extraordinary as far as I’m concerned. And most of all, it always felt
wonderful. If it was a slow piece, it wasn’t just a slow piece as opposed to a
fast piece; it has all the meaning that it should have instead of being a slow
piece that just went by. When he played the romping, stomping stuff, it had all
the funk that it should have but with those intricacies that Booker invented
for them. He was an extraordinary musician, both soul wise and groove wise
(Kurian 2013).
James Booker, Sui
Generis
Generis
The Latin phrase sui
generis means “of its own kind”, and connotes that the generic set
is really a singleton, Pop. 1. Colloquially, we’d say “one of a
kind”, and if it’s true for everyone to some degree, that we are each square
individual pegs confronting round social holes, it’s manifestly true for James
Booker, transgressive in life and transcendent in music.
generis means “of its own kind”, and connotes that the generic set
is really a singleton, Pop. 1. Colloquially, we’d say “one of a
kind”, and if it’s true for everyone to some degree, that we are each square
individual pegs confronting round social holes, it’s manifestly true for James
Booker, transgressive in life and transcendent in music.
The hardest parts of Booker’s classified life hang together
as a syndrome – being black, from a broken home, gay, disabled, crazy,
(heroin-, cocaine-, alcohol-, and whatchoogot-) addicted, penalized– a lot of
this stuff is of a piece, a tightly woven tapestry of dis advantage. But what
about the good stuff, the irresistible, undeniable brilliance of Booker’s
artistry, his genius – is that of a piece, too? It’s an age-old question are genius and madness to some extent co-constituted?
as a syndrome – being black, from a broken home, gay, disabled, crazy,
(heroin-, cocaine-, alcohol-, and whatchoogot-) addicted, penalized– a lot of
this stuff is of a piece, a tightly woven tapestry of dis advantage. But what
about the good stuff, the irresistible, undeniable brilliance of Booker’s
artistry, his genius – is that of a piece, too? It’s an age-old question are genius and madness to some extent co-constituted?
Very, very
tough question. I don’t know the science here –
I have heard skepticism expressed, but plan to read around it a little more
myself – but, in Booker, they certainly coincide, and it’s hard not to think the
tonic of his musical brilliance and the demonic poisons that did him in were fruit of the same tree. Socially transgressive and musically transcendent,
Booker demands his own classification. If he thereby deprives us of cognitively
efficient inferential leverage, he more than compensates us with the sheer sensory
exhilaration he provides, well outside the standard channels and utterly
impossible to take for granted.
See Also
“Jerry’s January 1976” (on 1/76 as *the* key GOTS pivot)
“Gimme some chords, Jerry Garcia, gimme some chords!” (JGB w/ JB, 1/7/76 rehearsal)
Flight of the Bumblebee (JGB w/ JB, 1/9/76, live at Sophie’s)
Junco Partners (JGB w/ JB, 1/10/76, live at Sophie’s)
“Gimme some chords, Jerry Garcia, gimme some chords!” (JGB w/ JB, 1/7/76 rehearsal)
Flight of the Bumblebee (JGB w/ JB, 1/9/76, live at Sophie’s)
Junco Partners (JGB w/ JB, 1/10/76, live at Sophie’s)
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[1] “James Booker,” All About Jazz, URL https://web.archive.org/web/20080223150929/http://www.allaboutjazz.com/php/musician.php?id=5177, consulted 1/17/2015.
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