Jesus is all the world to me, my life, my joy, my all;
He is my strength from day to day, without Him I would fall.
When I am sad, to Him I go, no other one can cheer me so;
When I am sad, He makes me glad, He's my Friend.
28
Reading those words, one can understand the sincerity that made Mr. Thompson spurn commercial publishers for his devotional music, instead founding his own publishing house (also in East Liverpool) to make sure that his hymns reached the people. I can quote as much of the song as I want without worrying about legal consequences because the copyright on Mr. Thompson's lyrics has expired. So has the copyright over the music. The song was published in 1904. Copyright had only been extended to musical compositions in 1881. Like all copyrights back then, copyright over music lasted for only twenty-eight years, with a possible extension for another fourteen. If Ray Charles did indeed reword it fifty years later, he was doing nothing illegal. It had been in the public domain for at least eight years, and probably for twenty. Now maybe Charles's genius was to hear in this hymn, or in a syncopated gospel version of this hymn, the possibility of a fusion of traditions which would itself become a new tradition—soul. Or perhaps his genius was in knowing a good idea—Richard's—when he heard it, and turning that idea into the beginnings of its own musical genre. 29
Soul is a fusion of gospel on the one hand and rhythm and blues on the other. From gospel, soul takes the call-and-response pattern of preacher and congregation and the wailing vocals of someone "testifying" to their faith. From rhythm and blues it takes the choice of instruments, some of the upbeat tempo, and the distinctly worldly and secular attitude to the (inevitable) troubles of life. Musicologists delight in parsing the patterns of influence further; R&B itself had roots in "jump music" and the vocal style of the "blues shouters" who performed with the big bands. It also has links to jazz. Gospel reaches back to spirituals and so on. 30
As with all music, those musical traditions can be traced back or forward in time, the net of influence and borrowing widening as one goes in either direction. In each, one can point to distinctive musical motifs—the chords of the twelve-bar blues, or the flattened fifth in bebop. But musical traditions are also defined by performance styles and characteristic sounds: the warm guitar that came out of the valve amplifiers of early funk, the thrashing (and poorly miked) drums of '80s punk, or the tinny piano of honky-tonk. Finally, styles are often built around "standards"—classic songs of the genre to which an almost obligatory reference is made. My colleague, the talented composer Anthony Kelley, uses Henry Louis Gates's term "signifyin' " to describe the process of showing you are embedded in your musical tradition by referring back to its classics in your playing. In jazz, for example, one demonstrates one's rootedness in the tradition by quoting a standard, but also one's virtuosity in being able to trim it into a particular eight-bar solo, beginning and ending on the right note for the current moment in the chord progression. "I Got Rhythm" and "Round Midnight" are such songs for jazz. (The chord changes of "I Got Rhythm" are so standard, they are referred to as "the rhythm changes"—a standard basis for improvisation.) And to stretch the connections further, as Kelley points out, the haunting introduction to "Round Midnight" is itself remarkably similar to Sibelius's Fifth Symphony. 31
Through all these layers of musical borrowing and reference, at least in the twentieth century in the United States, runs the seam of race. When white musicians "borrowed" from soul to make "blue-eyed soul," when Elvis took songs and styles from rhythm and blues and turned them into rockabilly, a process of racial cleansing went on. Styles were adapted but were cleansed of those elements thought inappropriate for a larger white audience. Generally, this involved cutting some of the rawer sensuality, removing racially specific verbal and musical references, and, for much of the century, cutting the African- American artists out of the profits in the process. 32
There is another irony here. Styles formed by patterns of gleeful borrowing, formed as part of a musical commons—the blues of the Mississippi Delta, for example—were eventually commercialized and "frozen" into a particular form by white artists. Sometimes those styles were covered with intellectual property rights which denied the ability of the original community to "borrow back." In the last thirty or forty years of the century, African-American artists got into the picture too, understandably embracing with considerable zeal the commercial opportunities and property rights that had previously been denied to them. But aside from the issue of racial injustice, one has to consider the question of sustainability. 33
In other work, I have tried to show how a vision of intellectual property rights built around a notion of the romantic author can sometimes operate as a one-way valve vis-à-vis traditional and collective creative work.9 There is a danger that copyright will treat collectively created musical traditions as unowned raw material, but will then prevent the commercialized versions of those traditions—now associated with an individual artist—from continuing to act as the basis for the next cycle of musical adaptation and development. One wonders whether jazz, blues, R&B, gospel, and soul would even have been possible as musical styles if, from their inception, they had been covered by the strong property rights we apply today. That is a question I want to return to at the end of this chapter. 34
Musical styles change over time and so do their techniques of appropriation. Sometimes musical generations find their successors are engaging in different types of borrowing than they themselves engaged in. They do not always find it congenial. It is striking how often musicians condemn a younger generation's practice of musical appropriation as theft, while viewing their own musical development and indebtedness as benign and organic. James Brown attacked the use of his guitar licks or the drum patterns from his songs by hip-hop samplers, for example, but celebrated the process of borrowing from gospel standards and from rhythm and blues that created the "Hardest Working Man in Show Business"—both the song and the musical persona. To be sure, there are differences between the two practices. Samplers take a three-second segment off the actual recording of "Funky Drummer," manipulate it, and turn it into a repeating rhythm loop for a hip-hop song. This is a different kind of borrowing than the adaptation of a chord pattern from a gospel standard to make an R&B hit. But which way does the difference cut as a matter of ethics, aesthetics, or law? 35
Charles himself came in for considerable criticism for his fusion of gospel intonations and melodic structures with the nightclub sound of rhythm and blues, but not because it was viewed as piracy. It was viewed as sacrilegious. 36
Charles totally removed himself from the polite music he had made in the past. There was an unrestrained exuberance to the new Ray Charles, a fierce earthiness that, while it would not have been unfamiliar to any follower of gospel music, was almost revolutionary in the world of pop. Big Bill Broonzy was outraged: "He's crying, sanctified. He's mixing the blues with the spirituals. He should be singing in a church."10 37