“So Marcus,” the question usually begins, “what are you listening to?”
It’s a fair query; music journalists are often asked this. But there’s pressure in suggesting new artists on the spot: What if you don’t like what’s recommended? What if it’s too weird or simply not your vibe? Maybe you’re curious about The Next Great Pop Star when I’m stuck on some underground spiritual jazz album from 1974? These things run through my head when some well-meaning person asks the vaunted question: “What are you listening to?”
I also understand the blank stares that tend to follow my answer. One week, it could be Solange, Kendrick Lamar or Elton John; the next it’s L’Rain, Melanie Charles or BLK ODYSSY. I learned as a child that good music is good music, no matter who it comes from. I grew up in a household with lots of records: My aunt played everything from Anita Baker to Parliament-Funkadelic, and my cousins and I bought all the latest rap releases — Public Enemy, N.W.A, Boogie Down Productions, and so on. My oldest cousin, Eric, was a DJ with a golden ear. In the late ‘80s, maybe 1988, he came home to Prince George's County, Maryland after having spent time in California. He told us about some guy with a bushy fade and big aviator sunglasses, whose funk-sampling rap was generating a buzz on the West Coast. That guy was MC Hammer. Another time, my other cousins and I were playing Mortal Kombat II when Eric walked in with a cassette of some Chicago rapper equating hip-hop to a woman he loved. That rapper was Common Sense, who now goes by Common. I come from a family of cratediggers that appreciate mainstream talent, but would rather tell you about artists of whom you might not be aware. I know that’s an ironic statement. My first book was about the world’s greatest rapper.
Over the years, my love of hip-hop has evolved into something else. About five years ago, I was called up to Brooklyn to help establish Bandcamp Daily, the editorial arm of the noted music discovery service. I'm guessing we did alright; we were profiled by The New York Times shortly after the launch. There, alongside a team of brilliant editors, I fell into a jazz wormhole. Sure I had the cornerstone albums—Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew and John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme—but I knew nothing about all the wonderful jazz coming from France, the United Kingdom and Japan. I hadn’t heard Moroccan funk or West African disco, and I hadn’t tapped into the deepest levels of underground soul and rap. I've always thought those are the artists we should be writing about; the usual suspects don't need any more ink. Nowadays, I’m just as likely to suggest a Bollywood horror movie soundtrack as I would an obscure Italian avant-garde album, or this one that quickly became one of my favorites.
I can say thankfully that my suggestions tend to land. Even if the music isn’t what you’d typically play, it’s still intriguing nonetheless. With The Liner Notes, I plan to tell you what I dig in hopes that you can appreciate the art. I’ll shout out a “big” name occasionally, but for the most part, this will be a haven for notable musicians you ought to know. And time isn’t an issue; all eras are fair game. This newsletter celebrates great work. Full stop.
If you’ve kept up with me at any point, you know I’m always going to show gratitude. So thanks in advance for your time and interest. It means a lot. Thanks to everyone who’s put me under pressure—in the gym or in the bookstore or wherever—with that tough question. Here's what I'm listening to...
