PHOTOGRAPH BY NAKEYA BROWN FOR TIME
island- themed tracks. On this, her
eighth album, she seemed less inclined
to release another record of danceable
cuts made for Top 40 radio. For Beyon-
cé’s sixth studio album, Lemonade, she
got more personal than usual, express-
ing candidly the then rumored (and
since confirmed) infidelity of her hus-
band Jay-Z over an assortment of rock,
R&B and electronic soul. It was a brazen
tour de force and a stark thematic shift
from stellar pop anthems that skewed
somewhat safe. Lemonade thrived as
a heartbreak album with political in-
flections. “Freedom,” featuring Lamar,
wasn’t so much an activist’s hymn as
an inward- looking reflection that con-
nected with the public at large.
Perhaps no album did that more than
Frank Ocean’s Blonde, the down-tempo
follow-up to 2012’s channel ORANGE,THE YEAR BLACK MUSIC
TURNED INWARD
AmericA wAs in peril in 2016:
unarmed Black people were being killed
by police at an alarming clip, and Don-
ald J. Trump’s presidential campaign
revealed stark ideological divides. None
of this was new; law- enforcement of-
ficers have always harassed minorities,
and U.S. citizens have long been split
along racial and political lines. But not
since the late 1960s had the tension
been so palpable. Between social media
and the 24-hour TV news cycle, viewers
could see bullets penetrate Black skin
on a continuous loop, or watch anti-
police protests unfold in cities like At-
lanta, Los Angeles and New York. The
music responded in kind; from Solange
and Beyoncé to Frank Ocean, Black art-
ists were using their work to address
the cultural landscape. And as the world
grew louder, the music took on a more
meditative tone.
But these weren’t protest songs in
the traditional sense. While tentpole
songs like Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going
On” and James Brown’s “Say It Loud—
I’m Black and I’m Proud” set the tem-
plate for Black protest music, this new
generation sought to redefine what pro-
test could entail. In 2016, dissent could
be outward- looking and personal; to
sing about marital strife, the journey of
motherhood and one’s upbringing was
also revolutionary. This music was fear-
less: in a society that constantly denies
Black humanity, these artists were re-
claiming their stories—for themselves
and the community as a whole.
The beginnings of this renaissance
go back to December 2014 and a trio of
politically charged albums that shifted
the tenor of Black music. First was Black
Messiah, the third and most political
studio album from R&B singer D’Angelo,
on which he discussed war, climate
change and the emotional toll of racism.
Three months later, lyricist Kendrick
Lamar released To Pimp a Butterfly, an
avant-rap opus with traces of jazz, funk
and spoken-word poetry, that unpacked
the trappings of fame along with his
own depression and survivor’s guilt.
On “The Blacker the Berry,” Lamar
delved into the rage he felt when he saw
the news of Trayvon Martin’s death.
“ Alright,” with its uplifting chorus and
optimistic rhymes, became the unof-
ficial anthem of the Black Lives Matter
movement. In May, Lamar collabora-
tor Kamasi Washington put out The
Epic, a whopping, nearly three-hour
jazz album, at a time when the main-
stream marketplace wasn’t interested
in the genre. It spoke to the healing that
needed to happen, evoking the calm and
fire of civil-rights-era protest anthems.
These artists tapped into the prevalent
hurt, joy, anger and sorrow coursing
through the Black community—and
forged a path for their peers to follow.
The year 2016 wasn’t just about big
names making their most resonant
work; it saw the rise of a new voice
coming to the fore. Anderson .Paak,
an Oxnard, Calif.–born singer, rapper
and drummer, released two contrasting
albums— Malibu, a solo LP, in January
and Yes Lawd!, a ’70s-soul- leaning
record as one-half of NxWorries with
producer Knxwledge, in October. .Paak
was 2016’s breakout star, a charismatic
performer who looked like a Venice
Beach skater and had the old spirit and
voice of a Memphis soul crooner. These
weren’t, by definition, political albums,
but committing to tell his own story—
as the child of a farmer and mechanic
with a strong will to succeed, and a
budding celebrity with a penchant for
slick talk—was its own form of protest.
He was betting on himself, and the bliss
exuded through his work.
The same went for Rihanna and
Beyoncé, two of the world’s biggest pop
stars, whose respective albums were
equally rooted in dissent and introspec-
tion. Rihanna’s ANTI was a pensive
and methodical work that confused
longtime listeners used to her up-tempoBY MARCUS J. MOORE
The Black Renaissance MUSIC