Beyonce: A League of Her Own by Sheldon Taylor

In an August 2022 npr.org article Revolutionary Fun: Why we can't stop talking about Beyoncé's 'Renaissance' music critic/musicologist Jason King shared fellow culture/music critic Greg Tate's summary of Beyonce Knowles' enduring appeal: 

“She's a curatorial genius whose magic is to bring together collaborators and other people's intellectual property into a unique artistic vision that is a sum often greater than its parts.”

 Critics frame the singer as a country music interloper even as Country Music Television (CMT) features acts who cribbed her machine-gun vocal as well as unique elements associated with urban music. A 2004 video from contemporary country singer Gretchen ("Redneck Woman") back then reeked of early 2000s106 and Park.

Knowles' biggest critic is John Schneider, the New York-born/Atlanta raised actor whose claim to fame was his portrayal of southern good ol' boy Bo Duke on the hit TV series the Dukes of Hazzard. Like conservative counterpart John Wayne---Schnieder's screen persona was grounded in Hollywood bait-and-switch. 

Wayne never served in the military, but his rugged war hero roles immortalized him as the symbol for America. Ditto for Schneider. 

In a 1985 People Magazine interview he revealed donning "a fake Southern accent" to obtain his signature role allow ultimately masquerade himself as would-be country connoisseur ("I think I know something about country music") and protector. 

Schneider's comments likening Beyonce to a "dog marking its territory in a park" in a response to a radio host's conspiratorial comments ("the lefties in the entertainment industry just won’t leave any area alone, right? They just have to seize control over every aspect, don’t they”) plays like an outtake from D.W. Griffith's 1915 Birth of A Nation---a film that portrayed the Ku Klux Klan as a protector of America's value system, white womanhood and white supremacy. While Schnieder stops short of Griffith's dogma---his sentiment is clear: country music would never be imminent domain on his watch. 

Stevie Wonder’s "Sir Duke" (1976) proclaimed that "music as a world within itself" containing a universal language of mutual understanding. Unfortunately, his message has been lost in translation; a lesson in hypocrisy given Black music’s historical pillage of its aural heirlooms---- a creative carcass left for dead. 

Just as water takes shape in respective vessels, Black music’s own liquid configurations exist in hip-hop /R&B, adult contemporary, hot rhythmic airplay categories and beyond. It all makes for exciting listening. However, there is a price to pay for its stylistic tendency to shed its creative skin. The absence of historical vigilance allows industry gate-keeping adversaries like Rolling Stone Jann Wenner who dismiss Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield as not being “articulate” and unworthy of inclusion within music's greater pantheon.

Without this vigilance, Black music is akin to a towering skyscraper constructed on a shaky foundation straining to support it.

The next time Kiss group member Gene Simmon launches into his latest tirade about rap taking up residence in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame---we need to know that the blueprint for his band’s campy horror comes from coffins, skulls and makeup of 1950s early Black rock and roller Screamin’ Jay Hawkins (“I Put A Spell On You”) predating Alice Cooper and Ozzy Osbourne’s ghoul by two decades.

When looking for an alternative to the dungareed-clad attire of their counterparts---the group's management looked no further than the flamboyant costumes of 70s Black funk-rock trio Labelle for inspiration. Without these signature elements Simmons and his Kiss comrades would just be---to paraphrase Pink Floyd----another ordinary brick in rock's wall.

The guitar may be rock’s eternal centerpiece, but we can point to Charlie Christian (jazz) and Sister Rosetta Tharpe (gospel) for ushering the instrument’s electric arrival. It's hard to imagine early rock-n-roll without Chuck Berry’s lyrical ability to tap into America’s teen spirit. Louis Armstrong's gravelly scat-singing may have ushered in 20th century modern singing yet historians frame Bing Crosby’s urbane version as the superior to his predecessor. As Pat Boone plundered Little Richard's catalog ("Tutti Frutti", "Long Tall Sally") he boasted that his gentrified renditions were an upgrade to the originals. 

Robin Thicke crafted a career of copying Marvin Gaye's velvet-crushed vocals, sultry romance and message songs. In the wake of his biggest hit ("Blurred Lines") he failed to give to credit to the Master. Madonna's chameleon-like career is hailed as a symbol of pop music durability, yet the versatility of predecessors Donna Summer and Phyllis Hyman is held in lesser regard.

Like the Jazz Age set slumming uptown to Harlem only to disappear back downtown at the crack of dawn----Miley Cyrus, Post Malone, Justin Timberlake Kid Rock and a host of others are invited to the cookout, trying on urban music for size only to retreat to greener pastures when the novelty wore off unlike Teena Marie---the Vanilla Child (and Rick James protégé’) weaned on many musical styles yet never wavered from her loyalty to Black music even when crossover came calling:

“You know I love spirituals and rock

Sarah Vaughn, Johann Sebastian Bach

Shakespeare, Maya Angelou

And Nikki Giovanni just to name a few……”

"Square Biz" (1981)

As critics come for Beyonce, many welcome her in the country fold with welcome arms. Fans and admirers come to her defense, unearthing moments from Black country’s past, many of which were captured in detail in Ken Burns’ brilliant 2019 documentary The History of Country of Music.

 Dig deep, you’ll find that the Black footprint is deep in country music. While Roots fictional character Fiddler entertains his slavemaster's company with his nimble virtuosity Kunta/Toby---traces the stringed instrument back to a similar one from his native Gambia: the konin---immortalized in the 1976 miniseries as "ko."

Dig deeper and you’ll learn that Oakland soul siblings the Pointer Sisters---auteurs of soulful soft-rock ("Fire") pop ("Jump for My Love, "I'm So Excited"), New Orleans-tinged funky R&B ("Betcha Got A Chick On The Side", Yes We Can Can")) and breezy jazz boogie-woogie vocals---- released their self-penned “Fairy Tales” in 1974, becoming the only Black women to win a Grammy of Best Country Vocal Performance.

 In interviews the group put the public on notice of their musical pedigree:

"People think because we're always trying something different, we're not sincere. Like country music. For us, it's no joke...Our folks came from Arkansas, and we grew up singing country songs. It's part of us."

The yodel, a country music cornerstone---was introduced by Jimmy Rodgers ("the Father of Country Music”) came from the singing Black railroad brakemen of Rodgers' youth whose work songs were spiritually rooted in chain-gang chants and call-and-response Negro spirituals from slavery's past.

As contemporary music's hybrid continues to explode into the galaxy, country remains rooted on Planet Nashville: a musical firmament rooted in traditional spaces---a final frontier for live musicians looking to earn a living plying their trade. New acts are on the scene, yet country's early heroes are eternally revered. Conventional writing and production models persist. Against this backdrop it's easy to see why purists shade Beyonce's ongoing curational conquest.

In 1987, Public Enemy's "Bring the Noise" put the public on notice: music is transitional ("soul control/beat is the father of your rock-n-roll") and transactional ("beat is for Sonny Bono/beat is for Yoko Ono!"). Beyonce continues this tradition. Merging Tina Turner's sexy swagger, Diana Ross' penchant for pageantry and MJ's gift for the big show, her audience can catch the evolutionary scent of Aretha ("Respect") and Helen Reddy ("I Am Woman") wafting from her female empowerment anthems ("Bootylicious", Single Ladies'). 

Those in the know detect Bob Fosse ("Sweet Charity) and New Edition ("If It Isn't Love") signature choreography in her music videos and recognize Black dance music's timeline in last year's "Renaissance".

Withstanding whispers of swagger-jacking (Amerie) and critics of industry dominance, at 42---an age where peers and predecessors have leveled off or peaked, the Beyonce career trajectory continues. Grammy Album of the Year nods may continue to elude her, but her curative legacy is her greatest accomplishment.

 Beyonce's music exploration is more than just reaching for aimlessly for low-hanging creative fruit. For those too young to witness Black music's mighty reach in real time and others unaware of its rich history, Beyonce's genre-hopping is a modern-day hieroglyphic of sorts---a model of ancestral continuation: a reminder that we were there.