Today, I worked on songwriting with middle school girls at a public school in Philadelphia. We started talking about our favorite songs, and our favorite artists. I brought up Lauryn Hill. They’d never heard of her.
“The Fugees? Y’all ain’t never heard of The Fugees?”
silence. . “naw. . never.”
So I put on Manifest, from The Score. They listened, and when her impeccable verse, so poignant to the life of women their age, full of heartbreak they’ve (hopefully) yet to experience had ended they said. . “awww. . she’s good.”
I felt so sad for all of us at that moment. They don’t have a Lauryn. Or a Nina. . or a Joni. . They’re all out there I’m sure, adrift in the democratized ocean of music available on the internet, open mics, and poetry slams.
We were in the cafeteria. The sign on the wall said “make healthy choices” then it listed the menu items. . Chicken Nuggets, cheesesteak, and hoagie. Which healthy choice were they supposed to make? It struck me that it’s the same with music.
The idea of supporting good music is very altruistic, but . . Prepackaged music, full of filler and preservatives is cheaper, and with all that fat and sugar. . it tastes so good.
“The Fugees? Y’all ain’t never heard of The Fugees?”
silence. . “naw. . never.”
