By this stage of the proceedings, pretty much everyone's heard Gil Scott-Heron's anthem, "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised." By 2010, it almost sounds quaint and lends itself to volumes of tasteless, smarmy commentary ("…but will it be available on Netflix?"), but you have to remember how incendiary it must have sounded upon its release in the early 1970s. Alongside the equally rabble-rousing Last Poets, Scott-Heron laid down the foundation for the conscious hip hop of Grandmaster Flash's "The Message," the entire militant oeuvre of Public Enemy and virtually everything beyond in that genre. But to pigeon-hole him as simply the "godfather of hip-hop" (as he's often called) almost does him a disservice. That song speaks beyond genre parameter. Forget your "Anarchy in the U.K." and "Kick Out the Jams," "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" is insurgent art that is as real as it gets.
While I'd been familiar with that song, I'd never heard anything else by the man until about 1998, when I happened to hear the entirety of Pieces of a Man -- the album from whence "Revolution…" sprang – whilst hanging out in a since-vanished bar in the Lower East Side. While still just as steeped in social commentary, the rest of the record isn't quite as volatile as Scott-Heron's signature call-to-arms. Ranging from lovestruck euphoria ("When You Are Who You Are") through jazzy catharsis ("Lady Day") and soulful mourning (the title track), Pieces of a Man is a striking work from start to finish. Though light years away from my standard fare (Killing Joke, Motorhead, The Clash et al.), I've since counted Pieces of a Man as one of my all-time favorites.
I've only heard bits and pieces of his other work (I'm also quite fond of his funky, cautionary single, "The Bottle"), but have always meant to check out more. He was also in the habit of playing S.O.B.'s on Varrick Street fairly regularly. Peg and I frequently talked about going to see him play, but never got around to it. More recently, Scott-Heron's had a series of problems, including a couple of drug convictions, spells in the slammer and dealing with HIV. The man hasn't traveled an easy road.
Gil Scott-Heron released a new album this month, his first in thirteen years. I spotted an article on same in Pitchfork today, citing the track "New York is Killing Me" in its "best new music" roundup. Having not heard anything he's recorded after the mid-70s, I was deeply curious. I hit play and was blown away. As the Pitchfork piece says, Scott-Heron does indeed sound "torn down by time." Where once his baritone was a sharp, piercing instrument, the voice captured here is weathered, bruised and weary. If, like myself, all you're familiar with is his earlier work, this taste of the contemporary incarnation of Gil Scott-Heron is almost disturbing. I found the below clip on YouTube so I could share it with you here.
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