I don’t usually comment on social matters on my blog. But this needs to be said:
I didn’t grow up with my Dad. I saw him three times in my life that I can remember. The last time I was sent to the morgue to identify his body at the age of 24. I got his crate of albums. This was one of them. I listen to it often.
Because it doesn’t matter that my dad was addicted to heroin trying to reconcile what he saw in service to this country in the early 60’s. It doesn’t matter that he eventually died from HIV contracted from a dirty needle. It doesn’t matter that this album was released in 1971 and it doesn’t matter that when Marvin Gaye died, I felt like a piece of me died, because he gave me the only connection I had to my dad.
Even years before my dad’s passing, I FELT him in what Marvin was singing. What matters is that when I listen to this album as a woman, now in my 50’s in 2015, I realize, things haven’t changed.
From the demons of then and now of “Makes Me Wanna Holler?” to the plea to “Save The Babies” and the gut wrenching unanswered question “Who Really Cares?” “What’s Going On” isn’t history.
Every single day for Black America.
Even in 2015.
And it hurts like hell.