There are a lot of things that I will and will not do for love. If the list of absolutes should include being a father, in the myriad definitions of that designation, or treating my fellow humans as sisters and brothers—well...that’s great and all that. Sure. But way above that bullshit is a dealbreaker nonpareil: I will not—may be ontologically, even physically, unable to—talk shit about Gil Scott-Heron. The series of records he made with Brian Jackson (and the Midnight Band), starting with Winter In America, mark one of the great runs in music. The Scott-Heron/Jackson partnership is one of the great musical duos, end of story. The point here is that I cannot and won’t even try to divorce the huge piece of coronary tissue devoted to The First Minute of a New Day or, fuck me, From South Africa to South Carolina from this book, its creator, and where it fits within that HUGE contribution to American Arts, Black White and Blue.
This review is really only for people that give a shit about this kind of shit. But consider this: the same year The Nigger Factory came out, Scott-Heron released Free Will. This is an album that has Hubert Laws on it…with Bernard MOTHERF*CKING Purdie killing his kit. “Wiggy” drops the same year as The Nigger Factory? How? One must suppose that Gil finished the book by 1971, somewhere between cementing his Jacksonian alliance and releasing goddamn Pieces of A Man (bottom end: Ron Carter and Pretty Purdie)! Taken as a whole, then, between 1970 and 1974, you have: 125th and Lenox (you know “Whitey on the Moon,” even if you don’t think you do); The Vulture (his first novel); Pieces of a Man, Free Will: The Nigger Factory; Winter in America (“The Bottle;” same as “Whitey” in ubiquity and brilliance, but dirty…); and “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” (forming the triangle of Gil songs that would change the future of music and entitle a titular comp of singles). That is, at maximum, a five-year period of a person’s life. I’ve spent five-year periods mulling over the lit end of my cigarette, pained to decide whether I was going to switch brand after decades.
The point? Well, I love Gil Scott-Heron (and Brian Jackson, but here/there). I can’t remove that affection from my reading this (very) surprisingly linear and—who’d a thunk it?—nuanced tour through campus revolt at a fictional Virginian all-Black college. The worst I can liable it with is underwhelming, but this with a caveat: to me, it is slightly underwhelming (at worst) in the context of all of the above, aka that it is the issue of the same mind that spearheaded or co-led the above pieces of MY soul. So, is my take even remotely book qua book? Hell, no. But if you dig Black Arts Movement novels that reference whole lyrical passages by The Last Poets; WAY-too-graphic-but-hilariously-anatomically-precise sex passages lucid enough to be educational; holistically informed and steel solid theorizing upon whether campus revolt is a vehicle with any true capaciousness for intra-stolidity, much less institutional change; and enough beautiful, delicious cigarettes smoked by a a young stud protag to give this reader nic fits of a scope not felt since 7th grade? I have got the book for you. Few records, too.