The new season of Lost Notes will be here in September. Meantime, this summer, we’re sharing a couple of bonus episodes.
Fifty years ago, an unlikely musical group evolved out of the Oakland chapter of the Black Panther Party. They were called The Lumpen. And although they quickly gained a following for their air-tight funk, they were always meant to be much more than mere entertainment.
Where other bands of their era were content to coast on good vibes, the Lumpen were out to preach a message of revolution in places where that message wasn’t always wanted. They were a musical cadre whose mission was to spread the seed of social revolution, armed with funk, attitude, and matching outfits.
In this special bonus episode of KCRW’s music documentary series, Lost Notes, producer Peter Gilstrap speaks with former members of the Lumpen, as well as affiliated members of the Black Panther Party. These exclusive interviews include conversations with Michael Torrence, Saturu Ned, Emory Douglas, and Billy Jennings. It's the story of the rise and fall of an unlikely R&B group born out of social upheaval.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: We were definitely as hardcore as anybody cause we dropped everything to come. Okay? We left everything to come. We didn’t join to sing. We joined to be revolutionaries. We joined to make the revolution. We joined…to be Panthers!
In 1973, Michael Torrence is a 22-year-old Black Panther. He’s dedicated himself to the cause and obeyed every command. He’s a true soldier.
But five years of complete devotion to the Panthers has taken a toll. Now, Torrance is desperate to focus on his personal life, just for a while.
But to do this, he needs to get permission, and it's got to come from the top.
Torrence shows up at the Lamp Post — it’s a bar in West Oakland — where Panther leader Bobby Seale is having a birthday party. The two men huddle in a corner and talk for a while, but it’s all good. Seale gives Torrence his blessing for some time off.
Torrance is relieved … but as he’s making his way out of the bar, someone tells him that Huey Newton wants to see him. And he wants to see him now.
Newton is Seale’s comrade and co-founder of the Panthers.
Seale gives Torrence his blessing for some time off. Torrance is relieved … but as he’s making his way out of the bar, someone tells him that Newton wants to see him. And he wants to see him now.
For years, Newton has been a strong and charismatic leader. But recently his moods have been unstable. Tonight, for whatever reason, he’s agitated.
Torrence is ushered into a back room. And there, flanked by a couple enforcers, is Newton.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: And he says, “Comrade, I hear you want to leave us. Well, do you want to leave bad enough to die? Do you really want to leave bad enough to die?” I don’t understand the question. And [Newton’s associate] June takes a gun and puts it to my head. Oh no, comrade, I don’t want to die. He say, “Okay. So this is what’s going to happen, you say…” But comrade! “Would you tell this brother not to talk when I’m talking?” And so comrade give me a boot to the mouth. I stand corrected. “Okay then. So. You say, all power to the people.” All power to the people.
So, Michael Torrance has just been persuaded to rethink his request for some time off. And a pistol to the head is hard to argue with.
Torrence’s five years in the Panthers have been intense. It’s been a rollercoaster life of extremes. Many times he’s picked up a gun.
But he’s also picked up a microphone.
Torrance did not join the Panthers to sing. But the movement’s Minister of Culture gave him and three other young soldiers a special assignment for the cause. It was a musical cadre whose mission was to spread the seed of social revolution through the Trojan Horse of funk and soul.
It was an R&B group called the Lumpen.The Lumpen’s music is explosive. The band is powerful, and so is the message.
The Lumpen work non-stop for the cause, killing it wherever they perform: San Francisco, LA, New York, Philly, and the Midwest.
But it only lasts 11 months. Then things in the Black Panther Party begin to implode.
What you’re about to hear is the story of the rise and fall of an unlikely R&B group born out of social upheaval. But why did the Black Panthers even need a musical act? Why did they need a band whose militant agenda would put them up against the forces of prejudice and law and order with every downbeat? Thing is, the Lumpen weren’t out to make hit records, they were out to change American culture.
It’s a journey unlike that of any other band.
And Michael Torrence was at the center of it.
In 1966, Huey Newton and Bobby Seale co-found the Black Panther Party. They’re both students at Merritt Community College in Oakland.
Within a few years, the Party offers educational programs, food service, free medical care, and drug rehab to the Black community. And the Panthers lead the fight against rampant police brutality.
By the end of the ‘60s, change is in the air, and the Bay Area is ground zero.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: San Francisco at that time, we were in the Fillmore District. It was very high-tension. Police were riding, you know, four or five deep. If you were out selling your papers they would come and harass you, snatch your papers, maybe arrest you, threaten you. But at the same time there was a lot of energy. That’s the best thing about it. You could really feel the energy, particularly among younger people, that we felt we could really make a change. Not only could we make a change, we were going to make a change. There was this commitment to die if necessary.
Those “papers” are the weekly bible of party information, a publication called The Black Panther. And the Howard Quinn Printing Company on Alabama Street is where the Lumpen story begins.
SATURU NED: Wednesday night was distribution night, where we would get out the paper. Everybody would come.
That’s James Mott, now known as Saturu Ned. In 1970, he’s newly arrived from the Sacramento chapter.
All the future members of the Lumpen are in attendance that Wednesday night: Torrence, Mott, William Calhoun, and Clark “Santa Rita” Bailey. They all have musical backgrounds ranging from church choirs to pro-level experience, but when they meet, they’re just loyal young soldiers taking orders along with everybody else.
SATURU NED: It was a community gathering in Fillmore. I want you to imagine, at that time, Fillmore is not like it is now, changed, and the gentrification. It was, Fillmore.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: And on those distribution nights when various chapters would all come together from the Bay Area to get the paper out, we would sing.
SATURU NED: And we would sing at that point just doo-wop songs. So one night I went over there and the three of us sang and I joined in. And we started harmonizing. We just blended in so cool!
MICHAEL TORRENCE: And then what we began to do was we’d just put other words to the popular songs. Because we would be singing what we called revolutionary songs to encourage us in the struggle. In terms of the Lumpen, it kinda grew out of that. Just us singing together. Part of, I guess, the tradition of just singin’ while you work.
It’s a typical Wednesday. The four Panthers are at the print shop, stacking and racking and harmonizing into the night. But this time, there’s someone listening: Emory Douglas, the party’s Minister of Culture.
SATURU NED: So after I got back to Central, Emory comes in and says, “Hey brother, Comrade James, you know, everybody relates to music.” I say, yeah Emory, they do. He says, “You guys sound good. We could create a group and the group could be part of the Ministry of Culture, where we could be able to get that message out in the music.”
EMORY DOUGLAS: Oh yeah, well that was from when I first heard them.
Emory Douglas is the brilliant style guru and visual artist whose iconic posters and flyers helped brand the movement.
EMORY DOUGLAS: I just would make suggestions, possibly adding some social justice context to the lyrics.
At this point, Bobby Seale and Huey Newton are both behind bars. So Douglas approaches Panthers Chief of Staff David Hilliard. He understands the value of spreading the word through music, and he greenlights the project. He also gives the group a name: The Lumpen.
It’s a play on Karl Marx’s idea of the lumpenproletariat: the lower class that would rise up to crush the capitalist power structure.
BILLY JENNINGS: At the time the party was coming about, political education, political awareness, was growing tremendously.
Billy Jennings is a former Panther and the party’s long time historian. He was tight with the Lumpen members fifty years ago, and still is to this day.
BILLY JENNINGS: In 1968, James Brown put out a song that really changed everything, because black people, prior to that time, referred to themselves as Negro. You know? James Brown came out and said, we’re black and we’re proud. And once that record come out, you could never go back and say you’re a Negro. You could never go back! James Brown couldn’t have did that in ‘68 if there wasn’t a group like the Black Panther Party that had set up a foundation of knowledge already.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: Well, Emory was the Minister of Culture, so recognizing the role of music historically in black people’s struggle and part of our culture period, he began to say, we can do something with this! You guys sound decent together anyway, because we just clicked like that. And so he encouraged us to put something together.
SATURU NED: It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t like, [yawning] Okay guys, we’re starting at nine. Your day was never ending. If you were able to get some time…it’s like, hey look, we got 45 minutes to rehearse!
MICHAEL TORRENCE: Whatever rehearsal we would do we would have to do after whatever other assignments or duties we had. So we had to go sell the papers, we had to do the breakfast program, we’d have to do the garbage run, we’d have to do security. We’d have to do whatever it is that any other Panther would do.
From the Panthers’ perspective, The Lumpen was not about show business. It was about contributing to the revolution.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: As a matter of fact, for us it was a point of pride, to prove that we were 100% Panthers. Singing for us was just political work. And if they said the next day, okay, that’s it. Fine. Cause we didn’t join for that. If I was really about that, I could have been trying to do it out there in the world. I could have been out there trying to get paid. We never got paid, it was just, if this is how we can be helpful, if this is how we can be useful, if this will advance the cause, this is what we’ll do. But it was always, we follow orders.
And now, only a few months since they were harmonizing to the oldies at the printing plant, their orders are to get onstage and get to work. Educate the people, spread the word, and earn money for the party.
The Lumpen assemble a six-piece interracial backing band from local players sympathetic to the cause. They’re called the Freedom Messengers.
By the summer of 1970, the group is performing at rallies, community gatherings and Panther events around the Bay Area.
And they’re good. They’re tight. It’s a professional show on par with almost any act. They’ve got the energy of James Brown, and the dance moves and harmonies of the Temptations. But the lyrics are all about what the Panthers are all about.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: And Bobby Seale had just been arrested in New Haven, so the first thing we put together was “Bobby Must Be Set Free.”
That song, titled “Free Bobby Now,” was recorded at a studio in San Jose in August 1970.
Bill Calhoun, the group’s songwriter, thought the session was intended to be a demo. But the Panthers decided to release the single as-is, putting another one of Calhoun’s songs, “No More,” on the flip side.
The record was released on the Panthers’ own Seize the Time label, with credit to Black Panther Party Productions. It was promoted in the Party newspaper, and sold at live shows and Panther events. Any profits were funneled back into the party.
The Lumpen took the single around to Bay Area radio stations, but the lyrics were considered too provocative for airplay.
RICKEY VINCENT: They took the craft seriously.
That’s Rickey Vincent. He’s the author of “Party Time: The Inside Story of the Black Panthers’ Band and How Black Power Transformed Soul Music.” It’s a subject he knows well. His mother was an early Panther.
RICKEY VINCENT: When they did “People Get Ready” by Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions, they hit those notes that you had to hit that show respect for those aspirations that were in that song in 1964, ’65. The Lumpen flipped the lyrics, obviously. Instead of saying “People get ready there’s a train a’comin’,” they said, “People get ready, the revolution’s come, you don’t need a ticket, you need a loaded gun.” And it was like, wait a minute, that’s soul music the way it’s supposed to be sung, but those are not lyrics the way we’ve heard them before
The Lumpen start headlining their own shows. Their single isn’t getting radio play — ”Free Bobby Now” is considered too controversial — but word of mouth and constant promotion in the Panther newspaper are drawing crowds. They’re gigging weekly, doing benefits and playing college campuses up and down the West Coast.
And when they’re not headlining, they’re on bills with the Grateful Dead, Carla Thomas, and Curtis Mayfield
And not only is the music on fire, but the live show takes choreography to a whole ‘nother level.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: Non-stop. Once we hit the stage, non-stop. Even mixed in a dance routine where we would act out, brothers on the block playing dice, and James Mott would be a cop. He’d come and harass one and he’d be beating this brother up and—oh, it was Funky Broadway—and he’d be beating him with a club and I’m watching it and then I’d finally get disgusted and say, I’m not going to take it anymore,” and I’d jump on the cop and Clark and I together, we’d beat the cop down. So it wasn’t just the singing, it was the choreography. The whole experience was something they hadn’t seen before. They’d seen it, but they hadn’t seen it like that.
In the winter of 1970, the band hits the road for a tour of the Midwest and east coast. The crowds are enthusiastic. But tension is in the air.
DAVID LEVINSON: And I’ll never forget this…
David Levinson is the Freedom Messengers’ 19-year-old sax player. After a show at the University of Minnesota, a snowstorm is kicking in. The band is packing up their gear when they’re approached by members of the Black Student Union.
DAVID LEVINSON: They invited the Lumpen and the black members of the band to stay with them, but they didn’t want the white members of the band, of which there were two of us.
SATURU NED: These guys from the student group come out and they look like a military junta, got on the black berets and the black boots. I’m like, what are you guys doing? Oh, uh, who are those white guys? Excuse me? They’re a part of the Lumpen band. Well, they can’t stay! We told’em, look you motherfuckers, we’re not staying if they’re not staying. I said, this is a people’s revolution and these are our brothers that we stand behind.
DAVID LEVINSON: That’s just a small example of the kind of camaraderie and unity we felt, so there never was any racism promoted for or practiced by the Black Panther Party at all.
The Lumpen are also in the cross hairs of the cops wherever they go. Late one night after a college show in New Jersey, the police follow the band down an empty road heading out of town.
SATURU NED: They made us get out the car. They knew who we were and it was pitch dark where they pulled us over, we were like, this is it. The gon’ kill us. There was a general rule back then, go to a lighted area. What they did was, one car got in front of us, slowed down. The other one got right behind us. And they waited for that real dark area to pull us over—this is part of the intimidation, right? There were four of’em. They was grinnin’. Sing for us! So we started singing—what was that song—[SINGS] “As we stroll along together…” And who are these guys in the back!? They made’em unload all he band equipment. Okay, you can put it back in again. They was messing with them. We’re gonna still kill you fuckers. This’s the kind of language they’d tell us, right? They would harass us to let us know, we watching you. We know who you are.
But the Lumpen are battling another force besides the authorities. And it’s coming from within the party.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: There were people in the party, some in leadership, some in the rank and file that said, yeah, these guys think they’re something special.
BILLY JENNINGS: If it wasn’t for Emory, I don’t think the Lumpen would have came about because Emory is the one who had the juice. And there was people that wasn’t into the Lumpen. They didn’t think revolutionaries should be doing that kind of thing. But they were older people too , there weren’t R&B people, they were blues people, and during that time there was a difference. Most of the leadership was southern guys. Southern guys like blues. We are young guys, we like R&B. So that’s why they never really got any more higher than they were because they were always related to as Panthers first.
EMORY DOUGLAS: Well, I think some people may have thought of it as not being important. They were not understanding how important the culture was to getting the message out.
But that didn’t stop them. It’s November 10, 1970, at Merritt College in Oakland. It’s the alma mater of Huey Newton and Bobby Seale. The birthplace of the Black Panther Party.
Tonight, to a packed auditorium, the Lumpen will get the message out.
Bear in mind: this group has been together for less than a year.
While almost everybody else in the San Francisco music scene has been getting high and jamming, the Lumpen have been working as full time revolutionaries, pursued by the police and the FBI.
And they still got this together.
And tonight is special. The show is being recorded for a live album, and the group pulls out all the stops. Billy Jennings is there with his fist in the air.
BILLY JENNINGS: It was one of the best shows in my life because the audience was electrified. Once the Lumpen came on and the band start playing, you would hear them repeat something to the crowd and the crowd would throw it back. Like when they say, All power to the people, the crowd would say, ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE with a force! And when they’d say, death to the Fascist pigs, they’d say, DEATH TO THE FASCIST PIGS! If you just listen to the people’s feedback alone, you could get high on that. They were killin’ me boy! And even to this day, when I hear that it gives me that revolutionary enthusiasm cause everybody was on the one that night. We were thinking about the same thing—revolution.
The show was an undeniable success … but no album ever appeared.
The master tapes made that night went missing, and have never been found.
Some have suggested that they were confiscated by the FBI. It’s also possible that they were mislabeled and disappeared in the chaos and discord of the time period.
Or they could be decaying in an attic somewhere, long forgotten.
Only a grainy, multi-generation cassette of the show has ever surfaced, but it captures the raw power of the band.
As 1971 arrives, the Panther Party leadership is in chaos. Bobby Seale is still in prison in New Haven. Eldridge Cleaver, the Minister of Information, has fled to Algeria to escape an attempted murder charge on an Oakland cop.
In a CBS interview with reporter Mike Wallace, Cleaver makes his feelings about violence against authority figures abundantly clear.
WALLACE: When the American people hear you want to shoot your way into the United States Senate…
CLEAVER: No, the White House. And take off the head of Richard Nixon.
WALLACE: What does that mean? This is rhetoric?
CLEAVER: This is not rhetoric.
In February of ‘71, Cleaver appears on the live TV show, AM San Francisco, along with Huey Newton. Newton is recently out of prison after serving almost two years for voluntary manslaughter.
Now the two men are having a serious falling-out.
For this interview though, neither one is actually in the studio—the show is broadcasting a live phone call between them.
When AM San Francisco booked these men, the producers expected things might get heated. And they were right.
HOST: We’ve got lots of things coming up on AM This Morning, lots of things that you’ll like to see, and we’re looking forward to them too.
CLEAVER: Eh, what’s happening.
NEWTON: Yeah, you dropped a bombshell this morning. It was very embarrassing for me. So I’m warning you now, notifying you, that the intercommunal section, you there? Your section is expelled.
CLEAVER: That’s not the best way to deal with that.
NEWTON: Well that’s the way I wanna deal with it!
CLEAVER: Then I think you a mad man too, brother.
NEWTON: I’m not a coward like you, brother, cause you run off when little Bobby Hutton got killed. But I stay here and face the gas. You a coward and a punk! You understand?
CLEAVER: I think you lost your ability to reason, brother.
NEWTON: Eh brother, you hear what I called you, that’s the way I feel about you now. [unintelligible, then phone click]
So, what you just heard was two of the leaders of the Black Panthers firing each other from the party. On live TV.
This bizarre public fight factionalizes the party, which falls into disarray.MICHAEL TORRENCE: Huey’s come back out with some different ideas about how things should go, plus you got the split. To the point that unfortunately in some cases you got Panther against Panther whether you with Eldridge division or National Headquarters.
PETER GILSTRAP: ‘Cause Eldridge was still promoting violence, right?
MICHAEL TORRENCE: Right. Huey and Bobby were moving toward a survival program. Even we had to change because all of our original songs was about picking up the gun. There was some other things going on internally, in terms of some of the things being done by Huey that I didn’t agree with, I didn’t join for. And it wasn’t about the police. That was the thing that was bad about it. I was never scared about the police. It’s a bad thing when you get more concerned about the people that you work with than you do with the cops.
As the atmosphere within the Party becomes more desperate, interest in the group from those in power dwindles to nothing. The Lumpen members are re-assigned. They’re taken off R&B duty and put on security detail. Their days as a group are numbered.
EMORY DOUGLAS: No, it wasn’t justified, it could have been worked out, but you know we had people who wanted to exercise their position as far as being in charge. All those things played into it, petty spitefulness. All that.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: We never thought of ourselves as anything other than Panthers. And the Lumpen was a cadre, a unit for a cultural purpose. We loved it, we enjoyed it, but in the big picture, it’s just another assignment. And so when the situation and circumstances change, then you move on to the next assignment. And we didn’t really have time to mourn about it. Because that’s exactly what happened.
On May 23, 1971, in Sacramento, the Lumpen play their last gig. A few days later, Bill Calhoun decides to leave the party. He was the group’s songwriter.
So only 11 months after it began, the band is done.
But the Panther Party is still Michael Torrence’s life. It’s all he’s known since he was a teenager.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: I was loyal to it. I had committed my life to it, I had every intention, as far as I was concerned at that point, that that was going to be my life.
Which brings us back to that night in 1973 at a bar in West Oakland. The night Torrence talked to Bobby Seale and asked for some time off from the Panthers.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: So anyway, I go to Bobby at his birthday party at the Lamp Post and I said, well Chairman, I have a daughter. She needs some support. Plus, I’m having these little anxiety attacks that’s affecting my work, it’s affecting my effectiveness. I don’t wanna quit, I don’t wanna leave, but I need some time. Get myself back together, and then I’m coming back. I’m coming back. And Bobby was real cool with me on it, you know. And I’m crying. I’m shedding tears.
Torrence is leaving the bar when Huey Newton calls him back upstairs. He says the Party will contribute $50 a month for Torrence’s daughter’s support. Then Newton puts a gun to Torrence’s head and says this...
MICHAEL TORRENCE: Okay then. We send fifty dollars, but you say, “all power to the people.” All power to the people. So I stuck around. And about six months later, one of the guys from Chicago comes by. Says, “You still wanna go? Cause we can’t afford to pay for your kid no more. So you can go, you can leave now.” Ok. Well, all right then. Power to the people now.
And that’s it. Michael Torrence is out of the Black Panthers.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: And it was traumatic. What was traumatic for me was leaving. What was traumatic was what it had become.
PETER GILSTRAP: Did you feel betrayed?
MICHAEL TORRENCE: YES! Absolutely. Betrayed, angry, bitter, frustrated. Yes. It took me a while to get back to what they call livin’ in the world. Cause the Party was my world. You ask me what I was, I was a Panther. That’s what I was and who I was. And then to lose that...and try and adjust to out being here, and get a job. What am I gonna put on my resume? Where you been the last five years?!
But Torrence did have something on his resume that worked outside of the revolution: The Lumpen. It got him a job.
Torrence wound up singing behind Marvin Gaye, and he appeared on the singer’s 1974 album, “Marvin Gaye Live!” It was recorded just a few miles away from where the Lumpen recorded their own live album just four years earlier, in Oakland.
Torrence went on to write, produce, and sing for other artists for the rest of the 1970s.
Though he parted ways with the Panthers almost 50 years ago, it’s still part of him.
MICHAEL TORRENCE: As far as the Black Panther Party’s concerned, I don’t regret anything. I was with people; these things last a lifetime, like me and Calhoun and James and some of the other ones…and I wouldn’t take that back for anything. Did we make some mistakes? Yeah. But at the time, for what it was, it was right on time. I was just glad to be a part of it. Like I said, we never did it to get famous, we never did it to get rich. We did it because we really wanted to do something for our people, and make a change.
The role guns play in songs is almost universal: from the heroic outlaws in country songs and narcocorridos, to early blues, rap, classic rock, and dancehall. Guns are tools of power.
Songs that suggest that guns are a problem are fewer and far between.In recent years, concerts have become sites of mass gun violence. Rapper Nipsey Hussle was shot dead in the streets of LA. These events have reignited conversations about what music's response should be to the prevalence of guns.
Throughout music’s long-standing relationship with guns, there have been points at which artists or the music industry itself did become advocates for gun control. Jann Wenner of Rolling Stone tried to tackle the gun lobby after John Lennon’s assassination, for example.
But his call to action - like that of others - fell on deaf ears. And activism around gun control continues to be rare in the music world.
In the early 1980’s, teenage Nermin Niazi and her older brother Feisal dreamt of making a record. They came from music royalty, after all. Many members of their family, including their parents, composed and performed traditional Pakistani music.
But when they finally got their chance to make music, the siblings did something entirely new.
They made an album that fused the Pakistani diaspora they belonged to with the British New Wave they loved so much. It was the perfect harmony of both their worlds.
Disco Se Aagay was released both in the U.K. and in Pakistan. And almost immediately, Nermin had to contend with the opinions of both her peers and the press, her white English audience and her Asian listeners. It was a conflict many people face in diaspora - too western for the east and too eastern for the west.
Nermin and Feisal’s disco dream didn’t get the recognition they had hoped for in its time. But it remains a masterpiece: a testament to something lost, something found, and something beyond.
Billy Tipton wasn’t a star or a jazz virtuoso; he was a working musician from the 1930s until the late ‘50s. He toured small clubs, performed variety shows, and recorded a few records for a no-name label.
Then, in 1958, he walked away from his life as a musician. He became a family man, settling in Spokane, Washington, for the next three decades. Then, in 1989, Billy Tipton’s death made national headlines.
He had several health problems, and when he collapsed, his son called an ambulance. As the paramedics tried to resuscitate Tipton, they discovered that he was anatomically female. His bandmates, his sons, and ex-wives said they didn’t know.
His personal life became tabloid fodder and TV talk show gossip. And for some in the transgender community, Billy Tipton became a trans pioneer. But how do we apply our categorizations of identity today to someone’s story from the early 20th century? It’s difficult to say whether Tipton was confined, or actually felt free, without being able to ask him. His story isn’t so easy to tell - especially not decades later - and that’s why it’s important to try.tipton-plays-hi-fi-on-piano.jpg/@@images/9cc018ed-9484-492d-8740-979749ee2111.jpeg" title="Billy Tipton Plays Hi-Fi on Piano.jpg" alt="" class="image-inline">
As a supplement to our episode on John Fahey, we share a conversation between Jessica Hopper and Carla Green about artist legacies in the era of cancel culture and #MeToo.
John Fahey has long been heralded as a genius. He’s a master of the steel-string guitar and a pioneer of what’s called American Primitive. He started putting out his own records in 1959 - just him playing acoustic guitar - and by the 1970s he had a cult following. By the early 1990s, Fahey’s work was being rediscovered and championed by the likes of Sonic Youth, Beck, and Pete Townshend.
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Fans spend years trying to perfect his technique and learn his music. There are articles, interviews, and documentaries celebrating his musical prowess and creativity.
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This story is different. It’s a portrait of John Fahey through the eyes of three of the women who knew him best.
Throughout his life, Fahey undeniably suffered. And sometimes, that suffering would radiate out to the people around him. This documentary explores what it was really like to live with John Fahey.
Host Jessica Hopper and reporter Carla Green had a longer conversation about John Fahey’s life and legacy in a bonus episode, coming out soon. Subscribe to Lost Notes to listen.
In 1999, a fan wrote a letter to Rolling Stone. He was advocating for one of his favorite bands. He wrote: “One of the most important female bands in American rock has been buried without a trace. And that is Fanny. They were one of the finest fucking rock bands of their time, in about 1973. They were extraordinary: They wrote everything, they played like motherfuckers, they were just colossal and wonderful, and nobody’s ever mentioned them. They’re as important as anybody else who’s ever been, ever; it just wasn’t their time. Revivify Fanny. And I will feel that my work is done.”
That fan was David Bowie. And he’s talking about a band formed by June and Jean Millington.
In the mid-1960s June and Jean were teenage Filipina sisters who felt out-of-place in their Sacramento high school. Then they discovered rock and roll. They started performing at local teen centers and school dances - and eventually formed a band that would tour all around California.
A few years later, they landed in L.A. and took the Sunset Strip by storm. From open mics to an unprecedented deal with Reprise to a lifestyle rubbing elbows with Mick Jagger, Bowie, and Bonnie Raitt. Everyone said Fanny was supposed to be the next big thing. But by 1975 they'd disbanded and faded into obscurity.
Music journalist Dylan Tupper Rupert interviews the Millington sisters for Lost Notes. They explain the price women pay for being truly ahead of their time.
In 1968, Suzanne Ciani was a music student at UC Berkeley when she met Don Buchla. Buchla had just created one of the first electronic musical instruments, a modular synthesizer. It looked like an old telephone switchboard with knobs and wires, dials and faders. Ciani fell in love with it. And it became the catalyst to her career - one of the most consequential and influential music careers of the 20th century. Ciani has been nominated for five Grammy Awards for Best New Age Album. Her warm, inviting electronic compositions have inspired numerous modern, avant-garde synth composers.
But, without even knowing, it's far more likely you've heard Ciani's work in the commercial space.
Ciani tells Lost Notes about balancing her commercial work with her artistic career - and how the two worlds became symbiotic. "I learned so much doing commercial work,” Ciani says. "I learned studio techniques, production techniques. I think they really were synergistic; my commercial work really did support my artwork, [though] not in obvious ways.”
With both her commercial and her artistic work, Ciani inspired a whole generation of synth musicians, including featured sound artists
Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith andtrandafir.com/"> Leticia Trandafir who reveal the path Ciani forged for them.in-studio-timelapse.jpg/@@images/733d9b42-1374-4b8b-9d41-279dde0fbbba.jpeg" title="suzanne.in.studio.timelapse.jpg" alt="" class="image-inline">
When The Greatest came out in 2006, Cat Power was already an indie icon and a decade into her career. This album was her crowning artistic triumph: a crossover out of indie rock, backed by the legendary Memphis Rhythm Band. But by this time, too, her personal struggles had become public, even a defining part of her image. She’d break down at live shows, and cancel parts of her album tour. For poet Hanif Abdurraqib, her visible - and audible - pain are what spoke to him most. The moment he heard the opening notes of The Greatest, he knew this album might save his life.
Rob and his buddy Clif were teenagers when they founded The Freeze, a Boston punk band, in 1978. One of the definitive compilations of music from the Boston’s '80s hardcore punk scene was named after a Freeze song: "This is Boston, Not L.A." They opened for Black Flag, Fear, the U.K. Subs, and toured across the U.S. and Europe. The Freeze remains Cape Cod’s longest running punk band. Like most punk bands from this era, they sang about what they were against: religion, jocks, and conformity. But they were bratty, too, and aimed to offend. Now, 40 years later, Rob and Clif reckon with the lyrics they wrote as teenagers. croce-performing-now-in-piece.jpg/@@images/55ac96a5-2c71-4e1e-9fdc-04a6773c19d4.jpeg" title="Clif _Hanger_ Croce - Performing Now (IN PIECE).jpg" alt="" class="image-inline">
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