Martin Luther King, Jr. On Turning “I” Into “Thou”
Forty years ago tonight, on the balcony of The Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated.
The following speech, since referred to as “I’ve Been To The Mountaintop,” was delivered April 3, 1968, at the Church of God in Christ Headquarters in Memphis, Tennessee. Though King was addressing the Memphis Sanitation Workers Strike, that night his remarks that evening are more often remembered for their eerie prescience.
Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land
I often wonder if Rev. King was afraid. He must have been. And I often wonder if I’d have the courage to die for my convictions. I doubt it. I do know that I wish he didn’t have to.
Today, though, I choose not to remember his violent, senseless, and suspect slaying. Instead I choose to remember the primary tenant of every speech he gave during his brief 39 years: empathy.
One day a man came to Jesus, and he wanted to raise some questions about some vital matters of life. At points he wanted to trick Jesus, and show him that he knew a little more than Jesus knew and throw him off base…
Now that question could have easily ended up in a philosophical and theological debate. But Jesus immediately pulled that question from mid-air, and placed it on a dangerous curve between Jerusalem and Jericho. And he talked about a certain man, who fell among thieves. You remember that a Levite and a priest passed by on the other side. They didn’t stop to help him. And finally a man of another race came by. He got down from his beast, decided not to be compassionate by proxy. But he got down with him, administered first aid, and helped the man in need. Jesus ended up saying, this was the good man, this was the great man, because he had the capacity to project the “I” into the “thou,” and to be concerned about his brother.
Now you know, we use our imagination a great deal to try to determine why the priest and the Levite didn’t stop. At times we say they were busy going to a church meeting, an ecclesiastical gathering, and they had to get on down to Jerusalem so they wouldn’t be late for their meeting. At other times we would speculate that there was a religious law that “One who was engaged in religious ceremonials was not to touch a human body twenty-four hours before the ceremony.” And every now and then we begin to wonder whether maybe they were not going down to Jerusalem — or down to Jericho, rather to organize a “Jericho Road Improvement Association.” That’s a possibility. Maybe they felt that it was better to deal with the problem from the causal root, rather than to get bogged down with an individual effect.
But I’m going to tell you what my imagination tells me. It’s possible that those men were afraid. You see, the Jericho road is a dangerous road. I remember when Mrs. King and I were first in Jerusalem. We rented a car and drove from Jerusalem down to Jericho. And as soon as we got on that road, I said to my wife, “I can see why Jesus used this as the setting for his parable.” It’s a winding, meandering road. It’s really conducive for ambushing. You start out in Jerusalem, which is about 1200 feet above sea level. And by the time you get down to Jericho, fifteen or twenty minutes later, you’re about 2200 feet below sea level. That’s a dangerous road. In the days of Jesus it came to be known as the “Bloody Pass.” And you know, it’s possible that the priest and the Levite looked over that man on the ground and wondered if the robbers were still around. Or it’s possible that they felt that the man on the ground was merely faking. And he was acting like he had been robbed and hurt, in order to seize them over there, lure them there for quick and easy seizure. And so the first question that the priest asked — the first question that the Levite asked was, “If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?” But then the Good Samaritan came by. And he reversed the question: “If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?”
Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you.
Amen.
Give Me The Song
I woke up at five after just three hours of restless sleep.
“Golden Days” director Chris Suchorsky and I’d had at least one beer too many the night prior. All that talk about film festival dos and don’ts had my head spinning all night.
A five o’clock wake normally inspires a quick visit to the john, a glass of water from the kitchen, and a second stab at another few hours. Not today, though.
Even in the early seconds of waking life, I remembered vividly that REM’s new record, “Accelerate,” was just waiting to be downloaded; I’d pre-ordered it on iTunes weeks ago. Moreover, Chris Abad was playing in a mere fifteen hours. It was going to be along, rockin’ day. The system needed some light defibrillation.
I’ll concede to a fair dose of OCD. Tuesday morning, it manifested thusly: I withheld from pushing play on the record until the stationary bike’s profile was set (hills, level seven, 185 lbs, 15 minutes), and begun. My first listen to the new record from the band that defined my adolescents, edged musical exploration from Phil Collins, Don Henley and Bryan Adams to Velvet Underground, Pylon, and Husker Du would — age appropriately, perhaps — take place in my somewhat yuppyish building’s private gym.
REM’s “Accelerate” is made for these times. It is short, sharp, and loud. It’s an urgent wake up call to arms, a rapid fire, rapid eye movement. And it’s compressed to the hilt. Each of the eleven songs is a wall of sound, really, lacking almost completely in subtlety or dynamics. The lead single, “Supernatural Superserious,” is punctuated by signature chord progression (DAG, as it ends up) that is so clipped and modulated that — when cranked (as I am want to do) — I can practically feel my eardrums retreat into my head.
Of course, this is just the things for my new morning workout: 15 minutes on the bike, 15 minutes on the treadmill, weights and stretching in-between (I call it my Mini-Duathlon). And it’s just the thing for these days. There’s a lot of noise out there. It takes a clear, concerted and compelling message to cut through.
Or does it?
With regard to music production, Chris, Ryan and I debated the point endlessly on Sunday. With regard to the new media landscape, and the deluge of competing brands, my company debate the point endlessly every day.
What does it take?
Later that night at a nearly-dark Bar 9, I slipped between clusters of Chris Abads’ friends snapping photos of he and Ryan performing. With just an acoustic guitar and cajone, they had rescued the room from its previous radio-ready, big-beat jukebox soundtrack. I joined them later to perform what felt like a ten-minute version of my “Dear Elizabeth,” Chris’ cover of Michael Penn’s “No Myth,” followed by Chris’ “Come Back.”
For that finale, it was just the three of us: Chris on acoustic, Ryan on cajone, and me singing backup and shaker. On stage, we were struggling to hear ourselves through the ancient, tiny PA system. Still, there was no pressure. It was Chris’ night, these were Chris’ friends, and we were at a local joint. Tired and tipsy, I smiled at Chris as we hit the chorus in harmony and unison:
Come back! Come back! Come back!
Don’t you walk away
Come back! Come back!
Don’t you really wanna’ hear me say life is beautiful?
Afterwards, Abbi gushed about Ryan’s playing; she’d never seen him on the cajone. It is a sight to behold. He straddles the thing, limbs akimbo, tapping a tamborine with one foot, and hi-hat with another. The sound doesn’t demand attention, though. It’s warm and round, integrated and almost subtle.
Later, Chris’ pal Mike Lee paid me what I consider to be a high compliment.
“Man,” he said. “It’s fun to watch you up there. You look like you’re having such a good time.”
I like REM’s new record, but not because it’s short, sharp and loud. I like REM’s record because, when I turn it off, I can still hear the melody in my head. What breaks through the noise, then, isn’t the single, over-modulated signal. It’s Michael Stipe’s lyrics; he means ‘em, he feels ‘em, and so do we. It’s Mike Mills’ backing vocals, slipping and soaring over and around the song like powdered sugar. Moreover, it’s the interplay between both men: twenty-eight years of friendship and creativity between them.
In these days of cynicism, pessimism, integrated marketing and focus-grouped radio playlists, the only breakthrough strategy is the original breakthrough strategy: human connection.
Spectacle
Stepping into The Distinguished Wakamba Lounge is like stepping off the continent.
The air-conditioned 30° afternoon notwithstanding, the place feels more Puerto Rico than Eighth Avenue. Despite its proximity to Port Authority, there in the center of Manhattan’s last remaining sketchy neighborhoods, this railroad flat turned themed dive bar is well considered. Faux sea creatures, fishing nets, and beach-themed ephemera is strewn amongst thatch hut roofs and gauzy red lights.
But “the most distinguishing thing about the Distinguished Wakamba Lounge,” according to New York Magazine, “is probably the murder that took place on its doorsteps: In 2000, undercover cops fatally shot an unarmed security guard after unsuccessfully trying to buy crack from him here.”
Which probably explains why a huge, straight-faced dude was watching the door at four o’clock in the afternoon.
It’s just the kind of hang Chris, Ryan, Tony and I like to frequent after rehearsal, the kind of place where you might take a shiv to the rib cage, or receive a pet name from the bartender (in Ryan’s case, for some reason, it was “Debbie”).
The three of us (Tony being otherwise engaged) grabbed a few beers there Sunday afternoon following a brief but resolute rehearsal. We’d been cut short by an interview with MetroboxTV on the affect of digital compression on the music industry. Another nail in the coffin of major labels, I say. But no worries; what with ProTools and all, bruthas are doin’ it for themselves.
In our post-mortem, I told the guys that our run through “Dear Elizabeth” and “Giving Up The Ghost” (it was Chris’ rehearsal; I’m making a cameo) with just dual acoustic guitars and Ryan’s percussion sounded almost exactly as I’d intended to when I started making what I used to call “acoustic pop.”
“Like REM’s ‘Out Of Time,’” I said.
Which is when I hatched my latest, TBA plan.
Meanwhile, you can hear what I’m talking about TONIGHT — though not at The Distinguished Wakamba Lounge. We wouldn’t wanna’ overwhelm that big dude at the door.
Chris Abad
Featuring Ryan Vaughn
With Special Guest Benjamin Wagner
Tuesday April 1 @ 10pm
Bar Nine
807 Ninth Avenue (between 53/54)
FREE
