After a fulsome embrace of jazz and roots music on her Blue Note debut The Omnichord Real BookĀ ā where she laid down her spear and traded sweet grooves with the likes of Joel Ross, Jeff Parker, Ambrose Akinmusire and Brandee Younger while the distinctive chimes of her harp-like instrument also stretched in the direction of seventies go-go and strung-out psychedelic soul ā then compering The Magic City which was released earlier this year as the fourth iteration of the Red Hot & Ra project, for her second Blue Note album Meshell Ndegeocello pays homage to James Baldwin, on a record which is neatly timed to coincide with the centennial of the authorās birth.
Billed as somewhere between a celebration, a church service and a call to action, No More Water: The Gospel of James Baldwin touches upon everything from our pleasure centres to collective catastrophes, honing in on Baldwinās own struggles as an artist and civil rights activist, and carrying the baton into the present as Ndegeocello and her cast of collaborators repeatedly call out the legacies of slavery, police brutality, the prison industrial complex and the complicities of the justice system, with an intersectional understanding drawn all the way from Sojourner Truth to Audre Lorde and bell hooks of the violence and inequity which has hitherto been the lot of black women.
Meshell Ndegeocello, who in retrospect describes her breakthrough studio album Plantation Lullabies as a necessary catharsis redolent of a righteous youth, turned to the works of James Baldwin almost a decade ago when she read the ālife-changingā essays of The Fire Next Time then composed what The New York Times described as an āalmost indefinable work of music theatreā based on the texts for a production which played in the fall of 2016 at the Harlem Stage. Can I Get a Witness? The Gospel of James Baldwin already centered the voices of Justin Hicks and Staceyann Chin, with a segment entitled āRaise the Roofā, fragments from Baldwinās notes on hatred and the phrase āNo more water, the fire next timeā as a refrain, which also serves as the epigraph to Baldwinās book.
Baldwin took the title and epigraph of The Fire Next Time from the popular spiritual āMary Donāt You Weepā, a song first recorded in 1915 by the Fisk Jubilee Singers which has since been interpreted by everyone from Lead Belly and Bessie Jones to The Caravans and Aretha Franklin as the introduction to her bestselling 1972 live album Amazing Grace, to James Brown and The Famous Flames and the posthumous release of a 1983 piano and microphone session by Prince. āGod gave Noah the rainbow sign / No more water, the fire next timeā read the lyrics, and from the outset Ndegeocello infuses No More Water: The Gospel of James Baldwin with a kaleidoscopic sound palette even as her own snarling and susurrating vocals hiss behind the gospel harmonies of the leads.
Pressure is a constant theme on the album, whether itās the vibration of bass and guitar strings or breath pushing through reeds, the weight of expectations self-imposed and societal, an atmospheric pressure or oneās gorge steadily rising from within. āTravelā takes us inside the mind of a man on the verge of suicide, while āOn the Mountainā expands on an image from the poet Amiri Baraka, who described Baldwin upon his death as āGodās black revolutionary mouthā.
Staceyann Chin offers a spoken word rendition of excerpts from Baldwinās famous speech on āThe Artistās Struggle for Integrityā, which segues into her own screed about police violence, āRaise the Roofā which along with the opener āTravelā was the first piece from No More Water to be released. In prose of gushing ferocity she states that white supremacy āmust be in the fucking water, being force fed to the police, the prosecutor and the politicians who care nothing for black bodies falling like leaves in late August in Ferguson, in Cleveland, in Staten Island only minutes away from where my own child sits watching the Muppets take over Manhattanā, suggesting that we seem to moving backwards through history as she bears witness even with a āhelpless bile rising angry in my chestā.
The first half of No More Water is defined by juxtapositions both signal and sonic, from private despair and fiery indignation to calls for a closer and more encompassing community. āRaise the Roofā is immediately followed by a country-hued spiritual in āThe Price of the Ticketā and the bronzed neo soul and bass harmonics of āWhat Did I Do?ā, which calls back to Plantation Lullabies and other genre-defining works of the nineties by the likes of DāAngelo and Erykah Badu, then climbs through rousing handclaps to become a sort of torch song in the manner of Irving Berlinās near namesake, candlelit and anthemic, carried by the elliptical yet spellbinding voice of Justin Hicks.
Drum batteries and Afro-Cuban rhythms accompany the crunching guitars and synths of āPride Iā, with a spoken word passage from a French translation of The Fire Next Time serving as a bridge to the bass and organ and the bounding claves of āPride IIā, one of the funkiest tracks on the album which highlights Jake Sherman on the Hammond and Jebin Bruni behind the keyboards, with Ndegeocelloās roiling dub textures rubbing against the bold and militaristic hand of Abe Rounds as Justin Hicks provides another standout vocal and the versatile Chris Bruce, who co-produced the record, shreds away on the guitar.
āEyesā an emotive soul ballad opens with a fragmented reading from āHere be Dragonsā, which is a critique of masculinity and a reckoning with our essential androgyny, as the Black Lives Matter co-founder Alicia Garza echoes Baldwinās line āWe all react to and, to whatever extent, become what the eye seesā. With the same sort of tone but more dolorous, āTroubleā is a paean for change that reckons with the onerous and even stultifying difficulty of the task ahead.
Another voice enters the mix as āThus Sayeth The Lordeā interpolates the poem āA Litany for Survivalā and the essay āThe Masterās Tools Will Never Dismantle The Masterās Houseā by Audre Lorde, before āLove takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live withoutā as another quotation from The Fire Next Time is bedecked in propulsive drums and doo-doo vocals, with a squelching bass and soaring lines from Hicks supported by Kenita Miller, then a few melodious guitar strums in the final moments of the track which prove redolent of so many late sixties and early seventies Motown classics.
The opposite of love, on the next track the duo of Hicks and Ndegeocello recite in unison Baldwinās words on hatred, with an ache and an air of the prevailing fear or apprehensiveness saying āI imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with painā. Drum rolls and the vibrato of the Hammond organ imbue the track with a spectral quiver, conjuring a vast interstellar space as Hicks surfs those waves through a limpid vocal performance. The longest piece on the album, āTsunami Risingā features another poem from Chin who evokes the transatlantic slave trade through the eyes and experiences of black women, aided only by a few blurts from Josh Johnson on the tenor sax.
An intersectional reading which summons the horrors of a people captured and traded like loot and children tossed overboard, sometimes in acts of desperation, while with a smidgeon of irony casting the generations who have been cut off from their ancestral homes, āTsunami Risingā is also a cascading diatribe against the white patriarchy, honing in with specificity on their groping hands and protruding penises while both celebrating and critiquing the #MeToo movement, which was devised by a black women but continues to strike them from the contemporary discourse. Bearing disproportionately the weight of all this sexual violence, Chin summons a lineage of truth seekers and freedom fighters from Harriet Tubman to Winnie Mandela, Angela Davis and Assata Shakur, as she adopts Baldwinās epigraph to make a vow on behalf of black women everywhere, repeating āNo more water, the fire next timeā as saxophone flares and drones sustain a steady glow.
Red brown and gold brown in lyric and tenor, the plangent āAnother Countryā with a grittier vocal from Hicks is a lush call for a do-over, with its verdant swirl of strings and keys making the song the closest thing to a contemporary smash on the record.
āBaldwin Manifesto IIā returns to the artistās struggle, and on the album closer āDown at the Crossā it is Ndegeocello who shares vocal duties with Hicks over throbbing strings and keys which almost sound like plucks on the doson ngoni, a final phantasm which bends at the knee in the face of the byzantine and never-ending battle to live free of anger and doubt, our lives mere droplets in a fathomless pool of water, before the voice of the trumpeter and educator Paul Thompson offers a final course correction, as he repeats the words āPage by page, break the spine, slowly, until it is wornā as a cut-up, suggesting that self-torment and other cycles of abuse can only be beat and our duties as artists and activists only be met through daily and painstaking acts of a conscious resistance.