Like a flooded river that finds an outlet and overflows everywhere, Afrofuturism is spreading through the streets of what we could call its adopted city: New York. That the American metropolis has always been “Afrofuturistic” is almost a matter of course: The mixing of different ethnicities, the cultural centrality of the African-American matrix (which perhaps only Chicago can claim), the attention paid to every “deviant” art form, the inclination towards the “whatever it takes” future, the at least decent level of respect for the black community and its most diverse expressions (certainly higher than in any other city in the United States), are inalienable components of an absolutely fertile territory for the rooting of what is the most powerful multidimensional art form of our time. From Africa, then, one leaves and always returns to Africa, even through crossroads, shortcuts, altered states, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree visionarities. The “shamans” who have made this movement unstoppable have names that are now well-established but were once at least talked about, if not abused: Sun Ra, Samuel R. Delany, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Melvin Van Peebles, George Clinton. Jazz, funk, science fiction literature, visual art, film, dance, then: any creative form that can be shaped by hallucinatory depredations. Above all rhythm. Here, these names now have their natural heirs in Damon Locks, Octavia Butler, Janiva Ellis, Kendrick Lamar, Black Panther. We are then witnessing the birth of a new mythology, with its own gods and heroes, that is likely to have long and unforeseen ramifications over time. If an institution as important as Carnegie Hall has finally promoted a two-month festival in a time of an ever-diluting pandemic, in conjunction with other culturally active venues such as galleries, theaters, cinemas, and art centers of all kinds, it means that Afrofuturism has finally become part of the connective tissue of American society, in a perspective that can no longer be denied on a planetary level. The months of February and March of this year were invested by this flood: if it was difficult to follow all the events, both live and streaming, the immersion was certainly total and rewarding in many ways. The opening concert at Carnegie’s Great Hall, a sold-out performance by Flying Lotus, was an indication of the high level of general attention. We have been following Steven Ellison (that’s his real name) for several years now, with the curiosity that comes with what is now a mass phenomenon. Filling the 3,000 seats of the legendary Stern Auditorium, which since Tchaikovsky has hosted the biggest names in music, is certainly not for everyone. Add to that the fact that our Flying Lotus is nothing more than a clever manipulator of electronic sounds, always with a wink and a nod to staging and lighting, and you have a bit of a problem, because his records are certainly more complex and captivating. Dressed all in white, looking like an Indian holy man in front of a large, flower-filled console, he looked more like a remnant of 1960s California flower power than an innovator of contemporary African-American musical language. Aided by violinist Miguel Atwood-Ferguson and harpist Brandee Younger, who is also in the midst of an ascent to stardom, Ellison (who is also Ravi Coltrane’s cousin) created a gorgeous, iridescent, empty box in which anyone could curl up and forget the rest of the world for about an hour. A palpable success, but more as an opiate substitute than an injection of creative adrenaline.
Things got much better in the following weeks, with the Sun Ra Orchestra, conducted by the unflappable Marshall Allen, but with the transplantation of the poetess Moor Mother, then with the Black Earth Ensemble of the extraordinary flutist Nicole Mitchell and the stunning clarinetist-singer Angel Bat Dawid, then with Mwenso and the Shakes, Carl Craig, Theo Croker. All this to remain within the scope of Carnegie Hall alone, but as mentioned, many other events, not musical in nature, dotted the program of this great festival. The vast kaleidoscope of Afrofuturism, in its dazzling and contrasting aspects, thus poses several questions: let us think of it as an intersection of different languages with traffic lights gone wild. Can African-American culture once again find itself in a psychedelic dimension, approaching sonic experiences even further from their original nature? And will this new flow, coming from and touching so many cultural sources, have its own effective consolidation, so that it will at least indelibly mark these 1920s of the 21st century? It is difficult, perhaps impossible, to give a complete answer now: we are in the middle of the current and swimming. Other fascinating musical hyperboles are coming our way, with roots of a different kind, but which are just as alive and can point to alternative paths, even – why not? – not unrelated to the directives of Afrofuturism itself. At the same time, and immediately afterwards, there are two contemporary music festivals: Ecstatic Music at Merkin Hall, now a classic, always interesting, which we have covered several times, and the Bang On A Can festival “Long Play” in Brooklyn at the end of April.
So many are the confluences and musical currents interacting in the New York area at this time, which perhaps in itself represents a desire to resurface after years of involuntary submersion. Afrofuturism is the strongest movement with the largest following, even among younger audiences. There is an obvious need to “get out of the way” and perhaps even to escape from an all too oppressive reality: after all, history teaches us that some of the most important artistic movements of the past were born in similar times and ways. All that remains is to follow events closely, perhaps to be amazed, intrigued, and perhaps to find something truly accomplished, without much frill and veil, that can fully satisfy our constant need for regenerating cultural novelty. After we take a bath at Baxter’s, as the old Jefferson Airplane paradigmatically used to say. Could they make a comeback one day? Unlikely, but you never know.
