THE NEW YORK AMSTERDAM NEWS
December 16, 2021 - December 22, 2021 • 17
Arts & Entertainment Music page 17 | Dance page 19 | Jazz page 23
Pg. 20 Your Stars
Greg Tate: A massive loss for cultural criticism, a bigger loss for those who loved him By JORDANNAH ELIZABETH Special to the AmNews Greg Tate, known to the world as the “Grandfather of Hip Hop Criticism“ and a profound voice in Black culture, shared his unique, Boombastic, ironic voice with the world as a longtime journalist for The Village Voice from 1987 through the 2000s. He was also the founder of the Black Rock Coalition, giving a powerful platform to Black rock and roll musicians who made undeniably important contributions to the genre but were largely unacknowledged by the white media in America. His debut book, “Flyboy in the Buttermilk,” published in 1992, became an essential collection of cultural criticism often read in university courses across the world. Not only did he cover rock and hip hop, but he examined jazz and Black films with his humorous and insightful understanding of what would become staples in music and entertainment history. He wrote like no other, his writing voice displayed in colorful, often made-up Black colloquialisms that could not be duplicated. As he got older his voice did not become more refined by the standards of white colleagues but smoothed out, became
whose protagonist is a mercurial, silent hulk of an antihero. And most especially for the director of ‘Ghost Dog,’ whose script requires his leading man to convincingly deliver stoic savant, vulnerable puppy dog, self-possessed everyman, effortless charmer of precocious but wary hood children, sharkeyed triple-tap professional assassin.” Greg Tate reading at New York University in 2013 I personally am (File:Lozgregtate.png: Alex Lozupone derivative work: a humble disciple, Innisfree987 (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ mentee and journalFile:Greg_Tate_2013.jpeg), “Greg Tate 2013”, https:// istic descendent of creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/legalcode) Tate’s. He took me more buttery than rebellious, honing under his wing while I was writing an his mind-expanding, at times eccen- article for The Village Voice on the Black tric linguistic stylings into vivid and shoegaze rock group, The Veldt, who imaginative descriptive offerings. are mutual friends of ours. I was having In one of his last pieces for the Crite- some trouble with one of the editors rion Collection he wrote a thoughtful at the Voice (it’s all under the bridge, critical exploration of Jim Jarmusch’s thanks to VV for the opportunity), and “Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai” Danny Chavis of the group exclaimed (1999) in which he writes, “Whitak- “Don’t you worry about it, baby girl! er’s man-strong eyes are a Technicol- We gonna call Greg Tate!” Danny conor dream machine for any director nected us via instant messenger, but
it wasn’t until I wrote an essay-manifesto entitled “Black Voices in Music Criticism are Essential” for East Bay Express that Greg reached out. We quickly became collaborators, as I hosted the Baltimore book release of his book “Flyboy 2: The Greg Tate Reader,” and added him to a panel of the same name as my East Bay Express essay at the Baltimore Book Festival. Over the years, we’ve sat on panels and shared coffee as he listened to my woes at the best hangouts in Harlem. Greg knew everyone, he was at the center of the International Black glitterati––he was a connection and source of love and friendship between Black intellectuals and artists who only grew in stature and prominence while in association with him. Nonetheless, Greg was humble and never boasted of his worldwide acclaim and never spoke of his A-list friends, giving everyone attention as if we were his only comrade. He was far from intimidating and as wise as an owl in his prime––sharp senses, clear vision and deeply aware of his surroundings. I can tell stories, but I cannot find the words to truly express how important he was to me. I called him Baba Greg Tate. “Baba” is a Persian word for a See GREG on page 21
Greg Tate, visionary cultural critic, dies at 64 By RON SCOTT Special to the AmNews Greg Tate, journalist, essayist, and author—one of the most influential writers of this century, who elevated writing on Black culture and all it influenced from jazz to hip hop, art and film—died on Dec. 7, in New York City. He was 64. His daughter, Chinara Tate, confirmed the death. No cause was given. Standing on a long line in Trader Joe’s, casually glancing down at my phone and suddenly without any self-control, I yell out, “What, What the hell!!!!!” Immediately all eyes are on me. People standing near me on line started inching away. Tears were running out of my eyes like a waterfall at the cashier, words were difficult. No, they didn’t understand: the text on my phone stated, Greg Tate has died. NO, not Tate. He was our indestructible “Iron Man,” a Black warrior, fighting through America’s dark cloak of myths, swinging his sharp words like a long sword penetrating through the B.S. Just
acknowledging he is gone is very difficult. No fronting here, Tate and I weren’t running buddies but we were kindred brothers. We appeared together on a few panels some years ago. Every time he spoke I wanted to pull out a pen and take notes, he was that prolific. This cat was like a ray of sunshine: in his presence he made you glow, gave you confidence to move forward with your project or another perspective on whatever subject. He was a mentor to thousands from around the world. After contacting a friend in South Africa, he texted me the following, “I will never forget the long silent walk in the direction of the mountain of the San and Khoi gods, Table Mountain, in Cape Town where we were both scheduled to talk at a literary festival, Open Book Fest. I will never forget Greg. I will never forget not to forget Greg. Even if, in a fit of exorcism I try to: because Greg now fully lives in our spiritual and intellectual blood streams. The realm of the gods,” said Bongani Madondo, personal friend and one of Tate’s mentees by osmosis, in Johannesburg, SA.
You didn’t have to be in his presence; just read his works to feel his WORDS and understand the urgency of Now. His “Flyboy in the Buttermilk: Essays on Contemporary America” and “Flyboy 2: The Greg Tate Reader (2016)” are mandatory readings. If you date back to the 1980s like me, then reading him every week in the Village Voice (which hit the newsstands on Tuesday night) was an automatic reflex. His weekly afro-futurism interpretation of the music from funk, jazz, hip hop, art, literature, sci-fi, race, film, and history were astounding (at the same time he opened doors for so many young folks in all these fields). He was a Black intellectual with roots in the hood never looking to take prisoners, writing in the middle of a Cecil Taylor tune which only the hip or inspired could really dig. Not seeing him playing and conducting his big band Burnt Sugar the Arkestra Chamber is a big loss. They were unlike any other, but you wouldn’t expect any less from the cofounder of the Black Rock Coalition. Their repertoire of classics and original compositions swung
in deep funk, hip hop, avant garde and everything in between. Earlier this year, Tate conducted the Arkestra during a live performance at the Apollo Theater during the screening of the original Gordon Parks film of “Shaft.” Kicking a new rendition of Issac Hayes’ theme song “Theme from Shaft.” And, lest we forget, his collaboration with one of the most important figures in jazz, composer Butch Morris on the Burnt Sugar Album “The Rites.” The rock group Bad Brains would have never entered my vocabulary if not for Tate. Those in-person chats made it possible to see that smile, the twinkle in his eyes and hear his words that flowed like a Wayne Shorter solo. Always one to ask “How is the writing going?” or “What are you working on?” It wasn’t about him, it was about him sharing his knowledge and just being real. During his time at the Village Voice, young Tate was writing with big willie cats like Stanley Crouch, Nat Hentoff, Gary Giddins and investigative See TATE on page 21
