The Evolution of Gil Scott Heron

"I'm the latest survivor of the constantly strong."
--Gil Scott Heron
I-95 South (All of the Places I Have Been)

I knew Gil briefly, in the 1980s, when he lived in Washington and performed regularly at Blues Alley. We met when I saw him standing at a bus stop and offered him a ride. Gil was authentic. He felt layers of the world that most people toss aside or are smothered by. He took these forces and dived undaunted into their rhythms and found their music and poetry and give it as a gift to the people.

His album, “From South Carolina to South Africa” had a global reach and knowledge. “We Almost Lost Detroit” was a ballad of how life had many names and places, and how close the tragedy of nameless destruction lay underneath our breathing and distractions. “Pieces of a Man” was the art of the griot; the celebration of life, history, and personal hellhounds. Gil made music and poetry about what mattered: Joy, love, economic forces, hidden secrets, creation and creative people, struggle at every level, personal to neo-colonial, inner demons and happiness. His unfinching, flawless logic had a funny side. His description of “oatmeal man” was a hip commentary that had you laughing while it opened up an understanding you didn’t know you had and put everybody on the same page.

My deepest memory of the brother was sitting in my small NE house talking and listening to a private studio tape he made of Bill Withers “Grandma’s Hands.” (His grandma raised him in Jackson, TN, and he found her dead at 12. He never covered anybody’s work for release, he thought it could bring conflict.) I remember chord progressions sounding like Langston Hughes’ crystal stairs (from the poem, “Mother to Son”) or the landings of the ancient Egptian pyramids. He made my mind dance.

Rest in peace, my Beloved. No matter what life brought, you never turned back. Today you reached another landing and moved on up a little higher.