Every revolution needs a poet.
The civil-rights movement was won not by people marching in the streets or setting fire to their neighborhoods, but by the eloquence of their leaders, who opened the ears and minds of the establishment. Martin Luther King talked about the problems in his neighborhood, but his dream was a dream for everyone. He made civil rights a matter of human rights.
King, Malcolm X and other leaders did not live to see their work carried on by Gil Scott-Heron, a spoken-word poet who could be considered the inventor of rap.
In 1970, while most of the nation was still celebrating the first moon landings, Scott-Heron said these were an escapist distraction from real problems here on the ground.
“A rat done bit my sister, Nell, with Whitey on the moon,” he complained over the sound of bongo drums. “Her legs and arms began to swell, and Whitey’s on the moon. …
The Man just upped my rent last night, ’cause Whitey’s on the moon. No hot water, no toilets, no lights, but Whitey’s on the moon. …”
The influence of dialect (“done bit” as the present perfect, and various double negatives), along with the perfect delivery, made the message strong and believable. A chastised nation canceled the last three Apollo missions and spent the money on social programs instead.
“Whitey” wasn’t Scott-Heron’s only target, though. On the same album, he railed against the laziness of many African-Americans who themselves sought escapism in drugs and television. He implored them to get up and do something about their situation.
“You will not be able to stay home, brother! You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out! You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip out for beer during commercials, because the revolution will not be televised. …
The revolution will not be right back after a message about a white tornado, white lightning or white people! You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, the tiger in your tank or the giant in your toilet bowl! …
The revolution won’t be no rerun, brothers. The revolution will be live.”
Language is a weapon. Scott-Heron carved up his targets with a polished sword of righteousness, his clever puns lingering like the mark of Zorro. He got so worked up about Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980 that he needed a 12-minute song to explain it. America was confused, he said.
“They don’t know if they want to be Bob Dylan or Matt Dillon. They don’t know if they want to be diplomats or continue to threaten everyone with a nuclear nightmare. John Foster Dulles ain’t nothing but the name of an airport now.”
Like all revolutionaries, however, Scott-Heron had a limited shelf life. Although some of his songs, like “The Bottle”, warned against the prevalence and danger of alcohol and drug abuse, he himself wasn’t able to keep away from that dark path. A diagnosis of HIV added to his many problems.
Scott-Heron died last week at the age of 62, but his words — and the people they’ve inspired — live on.
