Schroedinger's Thief

One thing about this endless quarantine is that it sure gives one a lot of time to think and to consume. In order to overcome the anxiety I felt about leaving the house to walk the sweltering streets, I joined forces with my roommate to get a dog. His name is Karate Valentino and he is the best boy. Like everyone else, I’ve spent time baking bread, reading, playing video games and listening to countless hours of podcasts and music.

Lately much has been made about “political correctness” and “cancel culture.” I’m not about to litigate that here—at least not directly. I’m not about to suggest that there’s one single attitude adjustment that can solve the fix we’re in. That’s not the way the world works, but I will say that I live my life by a prime directive, which is “First, do no harm.” It’s not always possible to keep from affecting others negatively, but that’s what makes an ideal. Part of what has me thinking about all this is that I’ve been consuming a couple new things lately, and it’s always interesting to me to view such things through the lens of my highest ideal.

The first thing I’ll mention is the music of C. W. Stoneking. I first encountered his work in one of my favorite animated series: Over The Garden Wall, and its predecessor short, Tome of the Unknown. Both soundtracks involve a lot of Americana and roots music. In the shadow of Jack Jones’s contributions, I barely noticed Stoneking’s. I paid him no mind, really until his song, “Get on the Floor” popped up in my Discover Weekly. When I was younger, I voraciously consumed Delta Blues and other roots music—my obsessions tend to reflect what’s going on in my life or whatever writing work I’m doing at the time. I thought I had somehow missed Stoneking with my fine-tooth comb. Although I’m an obsessive listener—the type who feels it necessary to research and know as much as possible about the music that catches my attention—I allowed it might have been possible that I chanced across it before the internet had exploded into what seems like a galaxy of information, packed with stars and stars and stars. Not so, actually. Stoneking isn’t some Delta bluesman who ran up north and went electric in the forties or fifties: he’s actually a white man from Australia barely older than myself.

I’m fascinated with his music, although I don’t know how long that will last. I’d say the thing that fascinates me most—although it does sound good, in its self-consciously old-timey way—is that feelings for it change depending on the angle from which I listen. On the one hand, this is Blues and blues-infected music played by a foreigner from outside the culture that birthed it. One could call it culturally appropriative—and it is. The thing is, for the most part, for me, the borrowing seems to come form a place of respect and profound love for the music and the people who created its vocabulary. Just looking at the cover of 2016’s Gon’ Boogaloo reminds me of album art and promo photos from Skip James, The Masked Marvel, and Son House. There are times, though—not so much on this record, but on the earlier Jungle Blues and King Hokum, when Stoneking will veer into spoken-word segments where he goes out of his way to sound both American and Black. In my fascination, I looked up interviews and performances online to get a sense of his actual speaking voice. I’m not sure that helped me make up my mind about how I feel: his natural accent is at least somewhat Australian, but in those interviews, it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was “doing a voice” the way he does on his records. Honestly, I feel like the only way to know would be to interact with him in person in an unguarded moment. Is Stoneking’s music worthwhile? Does it add anything important to the world, or should I lump him in with Action Bronson who, in my view, is just a hipster imitation of Ghostface Killa minus the charm?

Honestly, I still don’t know. I haven’t stopped listening to him for days—his form of pastiche is compelling on its face. The man knows how to compose a song and perform the hell out of it. I believe in Own Voices art, and in my own work, for good or ill, my voice is always my own. But what about when I write a Balinese Hindu protagonist like in my story, “A Dog, A Rat, A Mouse, A Cat,” or characters born and raised in New Orleans as in, “Mr. Dog,” or other stories? I’m a big believer in Writing the other and in doing so responsibly and well. (And I’ll pause her to plug Nisi Shawl and K. Tempest Bradford’s excellent course.) I try to be responsible in my own depictions, steering clear of the pitfalls—but I don’t always know how good a job I’m doing. More than that, I sometimes can’t tell how good a job others do. So, is C. W. Stoneking fish or fowl? I’m going to have to do some more digging and some more listening before I decide—and then that decision might be called into question for this reason or that, going forward.

For me, though, that is the most exciting thing about consuming: testing a morsel with my palate, learning its flavor and character and making up my own mind, again and again.

Anyway, that’s what’s new with me. What about you?