The last poet
By Dennis Hartley
Gil Scott-Heron 1949-2011
Gil Scott-Heron passed away yesterday. He was a true artist in every sense of the word; musician, poet, social observer, provocateur. He was also a man with a troubled, troubled soul. And like a true artist, he bared that soul for all to see. He never tried to cover up the fact that he struggled with drug addiction (which I strongly suspect is what ultimately did him in); in fact as I write this I am listening to my favorite album of his, Pieces of a Man, specifically the song “Home is Where the Hatred Is”, where Scott-Heron confesses:
Home is where I live inside my white powder dreams
Home was once an empty vacuum
that’s filled now with my silent screams
Home is where the needle marks
try to heal my broken heart
And it might not be such a bad idea
if I never, if I never went home again
But the work wasn’t all about myopic self-pity and junkie laments-far from it. He made equally fearless and blunt observances concerning those things that seem perennially fucked up about America’s socio-political milieu (in this respect, he had his work cut out for him). While he could get you righteously riled up with pointed, insightful raps like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised”, “B-Movie”, and “Winter in America”, he could also offer beautiful, lyrical messages of hope and healing, like “I Think I’ll Call it Morning”, “Save the Children” and “Lady Day and John Coltrane”. For me personally, his most timeless song (and one that never fails to make me tear up) is the haunting title track from “Pieces of a Man”. Everything about it is so “right”; Scott-Heron’s heartbreaking vocal, Brian Jackson’s transcendent piano arrangement, the great Ron Carter’s sublime stand-up bass work, and of course, the pure poetry of the lyrics. R.I.P.
D.H.–
*technical problems required Dennis to post under my account. — digby