We spend so much time celebrating the lives of the rich and famous, I guess it’s only natural to exploit their final chapter with extensive coverage. The passing of some stars receives weeks of analysis and media mourning—so talented, yet so tragic. Sometimes they’re not even talented.
Maybe it’s because I’m sick of the American obsession with celebrity, or perhaps it’s just that I have no emotional connection to the work of the stars that pass. In any case, I think it’s strange to see people get so worked up about someone they didn’t really know.
Nevertheless, I felt compelled to write on the recent passing of Gil Scott-Heron. True. I didn’t really know him, but his music and words touched my heart like too few have. Besides, I would hardly qualify him as a celebrity. Despite his immense talent and impressive body of work, mainstream culture afforded him comparatively little attention.
You may not be familiar with Scott-Heron’s name but chances are you’ve heard the phrase “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” the title of Gil’s best-known work. The first time I heard these words I immediately resonated with the statement—a bold call to action for a society that has long looked to the tube to guide its behavior.
Outside the famous phrase I never heard Gil Scott-Heron on the radio, so I never thought to check out his music until a few years ago. I can’t believe what I missed.
Gil Scott-Heron had albums spanning from 1970 to 2010, and so much of the music is great. The work he did in particular with songwriting partner Brian Jackson could stand strong next to anything on the radio. But it’s not just the well-crafted tunes and outstanding musicianship—Gil’s words really make this work something special. The man had a way with them. His lyrics are honest, socially conscious, observant, and sharp.
While much of his music was made before my time, Gil’s songs helped fill some cracks in my understanding of the history of the 1960s and ’70s. Gil came to prominence following the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, and his words often convey the despair and anger felt during that period of the civil rights movement. His songs lend context to events that I had grown up hearing about but never completely understood.
Gil sang songs about the oppressed, he sang about injustice, and he sang about people facing desperate circumstances. He sang about apartheid in South Africa (“Johannesburg”) in 1975—nearly a decade before the subject was part of the general American consciousness. He sang about the horrifying medical experiments done on black inmates in 1930s Alabama (“Tuskeegee 626”), and he sang about the close call nuclear power plant catastrophe that nearly decimated my hometown (“We Almost Lost Detroit.”) Although many of his songs are about events we’ve long since forgotten, his words and insights remain remarkably relevant.
He’s been called the black Bob Dylan, and although that’s not fair to either artist, like Dylan, Gil sang of matters deeper than your usual pop song fare. Like Dylan, Gil’s voice is distinctive, but it’s miles away from Bob’s pinched nasal twang. Gil’s voice was deep—unmistakably masculine. You can feel it in your bones. Every time I hear it, I realize the world needs more deep voices that aren’t afraid to speak the truth.
He’s been called the godfather of rap, but to my ears Gil’s music bears little resemblance to this genre. While rap often glorifies celebrity and fame, Gil questioned it. “Play the blues and pay your dues and not know who you are; makes me wonder why so many people want to be a star.”
Consistently entertaining yet never dumbed down, Gil’s songs are in a class of their own. While it’s tempting to draw parallels, I know of no other artist who can match his sincere and accessible eloquence.
Gil Scott-Heron may not have been a household name, but he should be. His death marks the passing of an important American songwriter. He may not have been much of a celebrity, but it would be a mistake to overlook his music.
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