Listening with Purpose from a City in Crisis
- DC Jazz Festival
- Jul 17
- 3 min read
By Jason Toney
“I feel like, as an artist, the whole point of the platform, other than making music, is to inform. However we do that, right? The music that I create, the art that I create, is mirroring what’s happening in my head and then in my bedroom, in my house, on my kitchen counter, on my street, in my city, in my country. So, it’s really important to me that I’m going to be up there talking about ‘I got a new haircut’; I also have to talk about what I’m seeing. And right now, there are a lot of little people suffering.”
—Lalah Hathaway
What I see on my street is beautiful, as Los Angeles often is. Birds chirp. The sun shines. The jacarandas are in bloom, littering the sidewalks with purple petals. Neighbors walk their dogs and babies. I could be deceived into believing that life is normal.
But my city is in crisis.
A senator was handcuffed for asking a question yesterday. The National Guard has been deployed—despite objections from our elected officials. At a basketball game earlier this week, a child in the stands proudly held a sign that read, “Melt ICE!” Friends are in at-risk neighborhoods trying to protect their communities. Others are marching downtown, expressing outrage at the latest policy decisions and public actions.
And I’m sitting here, unsure whether I want to scream, cry, or fight.
At least for now, I’ll take inspiration from Ms. Hathaway—and write.
VANTABLACK, Hathaway’s 2024 full-length, has been on repeat in our home. Since watching Nubya Garcia’s NPR Tiny Desk Concert in early April, I’ve been falling down YouTube rabbit holes—first jazz, then soul, then Lalah. Go deep enough, and you land on Hathaway’s own Tiny Desk performance from six years ago. Twelve minutes long. Not nearly enough.
I’d enjoyed VANTABLACK when it first came out, but hadn’t gone deep. Now, with my ears primed for purpose, the album has a firm grip on my attention and I’m desperate for a deeper connection with the work.
In a different era, these connections—the musicians, collaborators, producers—would have emerged through liner notes. You’d read them front to back while listening to the album, then again after the fiftieth spin when a note or riff hit different. Now, those same discoveries happen across platforms: a podcast like One Song, a Wikipedia dive, an Instagram caption, a Discogs thread.
For this album, I’m scrolling Instagram, listening to podcasts, returning to YouTube. Hathaway’s posts—especially her conversations with collaborator Phil Beaudreau—offer insight into how the music came together. But it was her appearance on Robert Glasper’s Black Radio Backstage podcast that truly struck me. That’s where I first heard the quote that opens this piece, and where she reminded me that creating art and bearing witness should be inseparable.
If an artist of Hathaway’s caliber is willing to bare her soul to make music that stirs mine, the least I can do is return the favor in my own way.
I can learn the names of the musicians, producers, and engineers who helped bring her vision to life. I can listen with intention. I can show up for the art and the people behind it. I can write what’s going on in my head and heart. I can give voice to the very real human, communal, and societal battles happening all around me.
And in whatever way is yours, you can, too.
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