In 1991 I went to Memphis. It was a
stop on a larger trip whose eventual destination was Great Smoky
Mountains National Park. In the city famed for Elvis and barbeque, I
was struck by a high-contrast example of the disparity between black
and white in the United States of America.
On one side of town, there was no
detail of Elvis Presley's life too trivial to memorialize. I
could have bought a laminated reproduction of his driver's license from one
of the half-dozen gift shops across the street from Graceland.
On another side of town, the spot where
Otis Redding, Sam & Dave and Eddie Floyd had recorded some of the
most resonant and indelible soul music ever conceived was an
overgrown vacant lot, with only a U.S. historical marker near the curb.
The converted movie theater that had
served as the recording studio for Stax Records was long gone; the
undeniable truth being it had been torn down to make way for a vacant
lot. There were no opportunities to purchase
a reproduction of Otis Redding's driver's license, much less see
the building where he and the M.G.s had recorded Otis Blue.
It hit me. Hard.
Let me be clear: the intent isn't to slam Memphis. My mate
and I enjoyed an otherwise wonderful visit, topped-off by the elderly
gentleman who escorted us from a McLemore Avenue convenience store to
the nearby Interstate entrance I had somehow been unable to locate.
But with the exception of Detroit and its
Motown museum, this is a story repeated in any city that once served
as mecca for black music. My hometown of Chicago has its own woeful record of neglect.
To wit, 2120 S. Michigan Ave. is a parking lot. Record Row, the home to Vee-Jay and
Brunswick Records (among others) was reduced by the mid-nineties to a
handful of faded, hand-painted company logos in second story
windows.
With the wholesale gentrification of
the South Loop, I doubt even those exist today.
These locales were the purveyors of
what was essentially under the counter music for an under the counter
culture. If the pop music consumed by white teenagers was considered
disposable, you can imagine the status accorded the latest J.B.
Lenoir forty-five.
It is ironic then, that this music
could end up aiding and abetting the entity known as the City of
Chicago.
As it seeks desperately to avoid being
flushed down the toilet with the remainder of Illinois, Chicago is in
dire need of revenue. And what better way to lure tourists from
points all over the globe than by recognizing its musical heritage?
Sam Cooke, Benny Goodman and Herbie
Hancock are just three of the luminous talents birthed by the city. Chuck Berry, Howlin'
Wolf, Muddy Waters and Bo Diddley recorded the music that set an
entire generation of English youth aflame here.
And yet their connections to Chicago
are virtually invisible.
Cities as far-flung as Vienna, Austria
and Kansas City, Missouri have acknowledged their musical heritage
and acted not only to preserve it, but use it as a lure
which simultaneously educates and creates revenue streams.
Even beyond these practical
applications, this serves—in many cases—to pay homage to the
profound contribution African-American culture has made to the
broader culture of the United States, and on a good day might even encourage a
rethink of our racial stereotypes.
Given the junk status of its bonds and
the tautness of its racial tensions, it is high time Chicago did the
same.
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