White appropriation of Black music is a recurring theme in American cultural history. While Black music itself is profoundly influential, the commercial landscape is often dominated by white artists who emulate it. It’s easy to dismiss blatant imitations and exploitative knock-offs. But what about when a white artist expresses genuine admiration and approaches the music with sincere intent? This question arises when considering instances like Chris Thile, a celebrated mandolinist, covering “Alright” by Kendrick Lamar, a powerful anthem of Black resilience, during a 2016 broadcast of A Prairie Home Companion.
Chris Thile
Alt text: Chris Thile performing on mandolin, a white musician known for covering diverse genres, sparking debate on cultural appropriation.
For those unfamiliar, Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright” is a seminal work of this century, accompanied by a visually striking and emotionally charged video. The song’s complexity is undeniable, yet Chris Thile, a musician of exceptional talent, tackles it with considerable skill. Widely regarded as one of the greatest mandolin players, Thile has consistently pushed genre boundaries throughout his career. By all accounts, he appears to be a person of integrity. It’s understandable why he would be drawn to Kendrick’s powerful song, wanting to learn it, perform it privately, and eventually share it with a wider audience.
In some respects, Thile’s decision to perform “Alright” on Prairie Home Companion is commendable. He risked alienating a predominantly older, white audience for minimal personal gain. Reports indicate that some listeners unfamiliar with “Alright” were moved by Thile’s rendition and subsequently sought out Kendrick Lamar’s original, suggesting a positive outcome. Mission accomplished, perhaps?
However, reactions to Thile’s cover were mixed. One Twitter user described it as “skin-crawling,” a sentiment echoed by others. Thile himself acknowledged the problematic nature of his performance, admitting, “I would readily admit that my love of the song kind of blinded me… I think it was a bad call.” This situation highlights a crucial dilemma for white artists who admire and wish to engage with Black music. As Robby Burns astutely questioned:
I often ask how someone like Thile progress artistically without embracing musical influences that challenge him. And what avenue does he have to explore this without imitation? I think in this case he is trying to challenge his audience as much as he is himself.
It’s undeniable that artists should engage with diverse musical influences to foster artistic growth. However, the challenge lies in navigating this engagement respectfully and thoughtfully. Music transcends mere sound; it’s interwoven with cultural and political contexts. The Western classical notion of “absolute music,” suggesting music exists in a vacuum, is itself a politically charged ideology. While it might be tempting to disregard the socio-political dimensions of music from distant times and places, ignoring the context surrounding “Alright” in contemporary America is simply not an option. The song is deeply embedded in conversations about race, police brutality, and Black identity.
So, what is a more responsible approach for artists like Chris Thile, and indeed for anyone engaging with music outside their own cultural background? One alternative, more aligned with the spirit of hip-hop, might be for Thile to create an original song over the instrumental track of “Alright.” This new work could be autobiographical or fictional, but rooted in his own experiences. The core of Kendrick’s music lies in its autobiographical truth-telling. Could Thile have better served the song by simply playing Kendrick’s original recording, perhaps even the video, for the Prairie Home Companion audience, allowing it to speak for itself?
The internet is awash with videos of white artists performing rap songs on acoustic instruments. Artie Figgis, for example, offers guitar interpretations of Wu-Tang Clan and Biggie Smalls classics.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHJjmE_cDSQ
Figgis’s instrumental skills are undeniable, particularly his ability to capture the nuances of the original tracks, including Thelonious Monk samples in the Wu-Tang cover. However, his rapping is less compelling, and unlike Thile, Figgis previously used the n-word in his covers, raising further questions about intent and impact. His deadpan delivery leaves his artistic intentions ambiguous – is it irony, genuine appreciation, or something else?
It’s worth noting that Figgis has since released a video explaining his decision to stop using the n-word in his covers, demonstrating a degree of self-reflection and growth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8eAY76U5vSo
Both Chris Thile and Artie Figgis, despite their missteps, appear to engage with their source material thoughtfully. This is not always the case with white rap covers. Two examples highlighted in a Noisey article demonstrate a more overtly problematic approach, seemingly prioritizing shock value and self-congratulatory audacity over genuine engagement with the music’s substance. These examples stand in stark contrast to Thile’s attempt to grapple with the deeper meaning of “Alright,” even if the execution fell short.
Is the act of a white artist covering rap inherently flawed? Emily Wells’s rendition of Biggie Smalls’ “Juicy” suggests otherwise.
Why does Wells’s cover resonate differently, avoiding the “cringeworthy” label? Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t attempt to replicate the original’s vibe. Instead, she reimagines the song, creating something distinctly her own. She sounds like Emily Wells, not a pale imitation of Biggie. (Interestingly, Artie Figgis also covers “Juicy,” and while his rapping may not impress everyone, his instrumental interpretation is genuinely beautiful.)
On a different end of the spectrum, joyless white covers of R&B songs, like Pomplamoose’s condescending take on Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies,” illustrate another pitfall. Pomplamoose’s musical proficiency only amplifies the offensiveness of their cover. Their skill should, one might expect, be matched by better judgment. Their mockery of the song’s bridge is particularly grating.
https://youtu.be/oIr8-f2OWhs?t=123
Perhaps some of the discomfort evoked by Pomplamoose stems from a sense of self-reflection. Many musicians, including the author, have drawn inspiration from blues, funk, jazz, R&B, and hip-hop. While striving to treat source material with respect, the line between appreciation and appropriation can be blurry. The author recounts performing Ice Cube’s “Down For Whatever” and Eric B and Rakim’s “I Know You Got Soul,” questioning how different these acts are from Thile’s cover or Pomplamoose’s parody.
The goal should be to do better, to actively challenge white supremacy. Drawing on bell hooks, the commodification of Black culture by white individuals, when it merely serves to “spice up” mainstream white culture, does not dismantle white supremacy. While this “spice” is undeniably alluring and pervasive, the challenge lies in engaging with it respectfully and reciprocally. This is particularly critical in music education. While advocating for greater inclusion of hip-hop in music curricula, the predominantly white teaching force raises concerns about unintentionally creating “armies of Chris Thiles.” The hypothetical scenario of a well-meaning choral arranger crafting a middle school arrangement of Kanye West’s “Jesus Walks” highlights this very real risk. Preventing such missteps requires proactive and constructive alternatives.
Updates and online discussions surrounding this topic are ongoing. Conversations on Facebook groups like “Music Educators” and “Hip-Hop Music Education” reveal diverse perspectives. The author’s mashup of Kendrick Lamar and Chris Thile, though removed from SoundCloud, further illustrates the complexities of this musical intersection.
Further analysis reveals nuances in Thile’s lyrical choices. Understandably, he omitted the n-word, replacing it with “brother” or “Calvin” (his son’s name). “Motherfucker” became “little buddy,” and “fucked up” became “messed up.” However, he retained “we hate the po-po.” While “po-po” isn’t profane, its inclusion, alongside other lyric alterations, raises questions. Why keep this particular line when others were modified for perceived sensitivities? Was it an oversight, or a conscious decision? Given the meticulousness required to learn and perform the song, the changes likely involved some level of deliberation.
Further Google searches for Chris Thile reveal a video discussing concert hall etiquette and audience expectations.
This video, while ostensibly about musical performance, subtly addresses race. Thile contrasts the reserved demeanor of classical concert audiences, a marker of whiteness often ingrained in music education, with more expressive performance styles. He illustrates this by performing Herschel Sizemore’s “Rebecca” in both “Baroque” and “bluegrass” styles. The “Baroque” rendition is linear and restrained, while the “bluegrass” version incorporates swing, a backbeat, and blues inflections—elements rooted in the African diaspora. This fusion is no coincidence; bluegrass itself is a synthesis of British Isles fiddle tunes and blues, with Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, learning from Black fiddle player Arnold Shultz.
The earlier point about murder ballads in bluegrass becomes relevant again. The comment section on a bluegrass murder ballad performance highlights a racial double standard: bluegrass murder ballads are accepted, while rap is dismissed as “tripe.”
Finally, the viral video of Mary Halsey performing Missy Elliott’s “Work It” in karaoke offers a contrasting example.
This performance is widely celebrated, even endorsed by Missy Elliott herself. Why is Halsey embraced while Thile faced criticism? Several factors contribute: Halsey performs karaoke over the original rap instrumental, aligning with the song’s context. The song’s subject matter is arguably more fitting for a karaoke setting, and Halsey’s evident humor diffuses potential awkwardness. However, a definitive answer remains elusive. One Twitter suggestion proposes:
https://twitter.com/rbxbex/status/1054795098809077760
Further reflections are encouraged and welcomed.
In response to Kira Grunenberg’s insightful rebuttal, the author acknowledges the complexities of the issue. Grunenberg respectfully disagrees with the initial post, prompting further introspection.
The author clarifies his admiration for Chris Thile’s musical abilities, recognizing the technical brilliance of his “Alright” cover. However, this admiration is intertwined with discomfort, stemming from a recognition of his own past (and perhaps present) tendencies towards cultural appropriation.
The distinction between rap and other genres is emphasized. Rap is deeply personal, with authenticity and self-authorship being paramount. Cover songs are rare in rap; playing an original recording is more common than a cover performance. This norm should prompt caution when considering rap covers, regardless of the artist’s race.
The Missy Elliott karaoke example is re-examined. The key difference may lie in the performative context: Halsey is engaging in karaoke, embodying the character of Missy Elliott, whereas Thile performs as himself, directly addressing his son, making the lyrical content, particularly “we hate the po-po,” more jarring.
The nuanced nature of cultural appropriation is reiterated. “Appropriating upwards,” like Chicanos appropriating Morrissey, can be subversive and empowering. “Appropriating downwards,” like white celebrations of Cinco de Mayo, can perpetuate colonial dynamics. These are not equivalent acts.
Amy Winehouse’s career adds another layer of complexity. While talented, her success occurred within a context where Black artists like Sharon Jones, who pioneered the same musical style, received far less recognition and financial reward. This disparity highlights systemic issues within the music industry.
The discussion returns to the socio-political context of “Alright.” While addiction affects all communities, police brutality disproportionately impacts Black communities. This lived reality is central to Kendrick Lamar’s work and cannot be easily separated from the song.
The seemingly race-neutral concert hall etiquette is revealed to have racial undertones. The formal concert hall atmosphere emerged alongside evolving racial dynamics and the solidification of whiteness as an identity. Historical context reveals that concert halls were once more social and less formal spaces. The shift towards hushed reverence is linked to broader socio-political shifts and racialized expectations of bodily comportment, as explored in academic research.
The term “pop” itself is argued to be a euphemism for Black music in America, echoing Amiri Baraka’s perspective. Discussions of genre and musical hierarchy are inherently intertwined with race.
The evolving culture of jazz clubs provides another example. Historically, jazz clubs were social spaces with talking and interaction. The “no talking” rule in contemporary jazz clubs reflects the “sacralization” and “classicalization” of jazz, coinciding with its shift towards becoming an academic music. While enabling focused listening, this shift may have also diminished jazz’s vibrancy as a popular and dynamic art form.
Ultimately, the strong and contrasting reactions to Thile’s and Halsey’s covers, from diverse listeners, underscore the significance of these nuances. It’s not merely about personal feelings, but about broader cultural and societal dynamics at play when white artists engage with Black music.
