The act of white individuals covering music originally created by Black artists has a long and fraught history in American culture. While Black music is a powerful force in its own right, the commercial landscape is often dominated by white artists who imitate and, at times, overshadow it. It’s easy to dismiss blatant and disrespectful appropriations, but the issue becomes more nuanced when considering white artists who express genuine admiration and pure intentions. This complexity is highlighted when examining instances like Chris Thile, a celebrated mandolinist, performing “Alright” by Kendrick Lamar, a song deeply embedded in the Black experience and social commentary.
Chris Thile
For those unfamiliar, Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright” is not just a song; it’s a profound anthem of resilience and protest, accompanied by a visually striking and equally powerful video. It’s a challenging piece to perform, yet Chris Thile, known for his genre-bending approach and exceptional musical talent, delivers a technically proficient rendition. Thile’s career is marked by his willingness to explore diverse musical territories, and by all accounts, he appears to be a sincere and thoughtful artist. It’s understandable that he would be drawn to the significance of Lamar’s work, wanting to engage with it personally and share it with his audience.
There’s a certain level of admiration due to Thile for taking on “Alright” in front of a predominantly white, older audience of “A Prairie Home Companion.” This audience, while potentially politically liberal, was not necessarily familiar with Kendrick Lamar’s music or its cultural context. Thile risked alienating his listeners, but to some extent, it paid off. Reports online suggest that some audience members, previously unaware of “Alright,” were moved to seek out Kendrick Lamar’s original after hearing Thile’s version. In this sense, Thile’s performance could be seen as having broadened horizons and introduced new listeners to an important piece of contemporary music.
However, despite these potential positives, many, including the author’s Twitter followers, found Thile’s cover “skin-crawling.” Thile himself acknowledged the problematic nature of his rendition, admitting his “love of the song kind of blinded” him and calling it “a bad call.” This situation brings to the forefront the discomfort many white individuals feel when engaging with Black music, especially genres like Rap Songs, and attempting to interpret them. Robby Burns, in a Twitter exchange with the author, aptly questions how artists like Thile can evolve artistically by embracing challenging musical influences and how they can explore these influences without simply resorting to imitation.
Burns’s question underscores a critical point: artists should engage with diverse musical forms to foster innovation. However, the challenge lies in recognizing that music is more than just sound; it’s deeply intertwined with cultural and political contexts. The concept of “absolute music,” suggesting music exists in a vacuum of pure abstraction, is a politically motivated ideology, particularly in the American context. Ignoring the socio-political weight of “Alright” is impossible, especially for a white artist in contemporary America.
So, what is the responsible path forward for artists like Chris Thile and others who admire and wish to engage with rap songs and Black music? One alternative, more aligned with the spirit of hip-hop, could be for Thile to create his own song using the instrumental track of “Alright.” This new song could explore his own experiences and perspectives authentically. The core of Kendrick Lamar’s music is often its autobiographical truth-telling. Questions arise about the sincerity and appropriateness of a white artist, who does not share the lived experiences of racial injustice, singing lyrics like “we hate the po-po.” While Thile has performed murder ballads in bluegrass, the context and intent are fundamentally different. Perhaps the most impactful action Thile could have taken would have been to simply play Kendrick Lamar’s original track, or even the music video, for his audience, allowing the work to speak for itself.
The internet is replete with examples of white artists covering rap songs, often on acoustic instruments. Artie Figgis, for instance, has gained attention for his guitar interpretations of Wu-Tang Clan classics.
Figgis’s technical skill is undeniable, particularly his ability to translate the complex samples of tracks like Wu-Tang Clan’s “Shame on a Nigga,” which samples Thelonious Monk. His rendition of Biggie Smalls’ “Big Poppa” is also musically impressive. However, his rapping and past use of racial slurs in covers raise concerns, leaving his intentions ambiguous. Figgis has since addressed this issue, explaining his decision to stop using the n-word in his covers, a move that reflects a growing awareness of the sensitivities surrounding race and language in music.
Both Chris Thile and Artie Figgis, despite their varying approaches and controversies, demonstrate a level of engagement with the source material, showing an effort to understand its nuances. This is not always the case with white artists covering rap songs. Some examples, highlighted in a Noisey article, reveal a more problematic trend of white artists seemingly aiming for shock value or comedic effect, trivializing the source material rather than engaging with its substance. These performances often come across as patronizing, lacking the genuine engagement that Thile, despite his missteps, attempted to bring to his cover of “Alright.”
Is every instance of a white artist covering rap songs inherently problematic? The answer isn’t a simple yes or no. Emily Wells’s interpretation of Biggie’s “Juicy” offers a contrasting example.
Wells’s cover is notably less “cringeworthy” than some other examples. This may be because she doesn’t attempt to replicate the original’s vibe. Instead, she reimagines “Juicy,” creating something uniquely her own. She sounds like Emily Wells, not a forced imitation of Biggie Smalls. (Interestingly, Artie Figgis also covered “Juicy,” and while his rapping might not be for everyone, his instrumental interpretation is again noteworthy.)
On the other end of the spectrum, the world of white artists covering R&B songs also presents problematic examples. Pomplamoose’s rendition of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” is a case in point. Their musical proficiency amplifies the offensiveness of the cover, particularly their mocking of the song’s bridge. Their sophisticated musical skills should arguably be matched by a more developed sense of cultural sensitivity.
The discomfort some feel towards covers like Pomplamoose’s might stem from a self-reflective unease. Many musicians, including the author, have drawn from genres like blues, funk, jazz, and R&B, and even produced hip-hop and techno. While striving to be respectful, it’s important to acknowledge the potential for unintentional appropriation. The author’s own experiences, such as performing Ice Cube’s “Down For Whatever” and Eric B and Rakim’s “I Know You Got Soul,” raise questions about the line between appreciation and appropriation, and how much distance truly separates well-intentioned artists from more blatant examples of cultural insensitivity.
Moving forward requires a commitment to doing better, to actively challenging white supremacy in musical spaces. Drawing on bell hooks’s perspective, the “commodification of Black culture by Whites in no way challenges White supremacy when it takes the form of making Blackness the ‘spice that can liven up the dull dish that is mainstream white culture.'” While the influence of Black music is undeniable and pervasive, it’s crucial to engage with it gratefully and responsibly, giving back in meaningful ways. This is particularly relevant in music education. While advocating for more hip-hop in the classroom is important, the predominantly white teaching demographic presents a risk of inadvertently fostering a generation of “Chris Thiles.” The hypothetical scenario of a well-meaning choral arranger creating a middle school arrangement of Kanye West’s “Jesus Walks” highlights this concern. Preventing such missteps requires thoughtful consideration of constructive alternatives and a deeper engagement with the cultural context of rap songs and Black music.
The discussion around white artists covering rap songs is complex and ongoing. Reactions to performances like Chris Thile’s and Mary Halsey’s karaoke version of Missy Elliott’s “Work It” – which was positively received, even by Missy Elliott herself – highlight the nuances at play.
Mary Halsey’s performance, unlike Thile’s, is widely considered delightful and not uncomfortable. This difference may be attributed to several factors. Halsey performs karaoke over the original rap instrumental, rather than a reinterpretation on a different instrument. The subject matter of “Work It” also feels more aligned with a karaoke performance, and Halsey’s evident humor and lack of pretense contribute to its positive reception. However, a definitive answer to why some covers succeed while others fail remains elusive, suggesting the need for continued dialogue and critical reflection.
In examining Thile’s cover of “Alright” more deeply, the lyrical alterations he made are revealing. Understandably, he omitted racial slurs, replacing them with less charged words. He also softened some stronger language. However, he retained the line “we hate the po-po.” While “po-po” isn’t explicitly a curse word, in the context of the song’s powerful message about police brutality and racial injustice, its inclusion by a white artist raises questions. Even with lyrical changes, the choice to keep this particular line suggests a level of engagement – or perhaps a lack of deeper consideration – with the song’s socio-political core.
Further complicating the issue is a video featuring Chris Thile discussing audience reserve in classical music concerts. This reserve, characterized by quiet attentiveness and formal bodily comportment, is often associated with whiteness and is a behavior frequently taught in music education settings. Thile contrasts this “Baroque” style of performance with a “bluegrass” style, demonstrating the musical and cultural shifts between the two. Bluegrass, while rooted in British Isles traditions, incorporates elements of the blues and African diaspora music, highlighting the complex interplay of cultural influences in American music.
The initial point about Thile’s performance of “Alright” being akin to his murder ballad performances in bluegrass needs further examination. While both may be removed from his direct personal experience, the cultural and racial contexts differ vastly. The fact that online comments readily differentiate between bluegrass murder ballads and “rap or other tripe” underscores the racial biases inherent in musical taste and genre perception.
Ultimately, the conversation surrounding white artists covering rap songs, and more broadly, cultural appropriation in music, is vital. It necessitates ongoing critical self-reflection, a deep understanding of cultural context, and a commitment to responsible and respectful engagement with diverse musical traditions. The goal should be to move beyond mere imitation or “spice rack” appropriation towards genuine cross-cultural dialogue and artistic innovation that acknowledges and respects the origins and meanings embedded within different musical forms.
