Oh Papa; Recovering Bluesman, Part 3

Here’s my position distilled, as best as I’m able, to its essence: music is an expression of culture; it is learned, not genetically or racially imprinted. The logical extension of the argument that blues is black music and can only be authentically performed by blacks, is that opera can only be properly understood or performed by Italians or Germans. Only the French can make a convincing crepe or soufflé, Greeks are the only true philosophers and Christians are the only folks going to heaven.

These statements ring false to any thinking person. Yet when a privileged, educated black guy from New York states that only blacks can perform blues, or some self-proclaimed authority writes a review that a black artist is more authentic then a white one, the argument gains traction. Again, any logical refutation against this position is fruitless. It is a position protected and insulated by liberal white guilt and reverse discrimination and, like the legacy of institutional slavery and racism, only time will lessen its grip.

I’ve had the privilege to hang out and perform with Honeyboy Edwards, Big Smokey Smothers, Johnny Shines, John Jackson, Big Boy Henry, Nat Reese and many other second-generation black blues players. They all said I could play and gave me nothing but encouragement. I’ve played for black audiences and been as well received as any black artist. Maybe they were being polite, but frankly I don’t think so. I’ve heard these same artists and audiences let folks know when they weren’t cutting it. I approach the music with sensitivity and respect for the conditions from which it arose and the artists who created it. I make no apologies for the color of my skin and let audiences and critics alike form their own opinions.