Santogold's Defense of Sean Bell

Posted Tuesday, April 29, 2008 @ 12:09 in Beat Reporter by Brandon Perkins

There’s no question that what drives people to three days in the desert is a measure of escape. From the copious amounts of freed skin to the unfulfilled search for free booze (and the freedom that results from paying to consume too much), Coachella is an escape from the average day’s monotony. Friday’s verdict in the Sean Bell case is not part of those flights of fancy, but even if it was left unsaid, it had to be a part of Santogold’s mostly misunderstood performance.

Her own version of Public Enemy’s S1W security force/back-up dancers opened Santogold’s set in silent protest. Well, silent other than the five-plus minutes of siren soaring and violent Public Enemy instrumentals and a Galactic Force Band sample. Standing at military attention with fierce shades and mean mugs pointed towards the puzzled crowd, the tension could’ve been terrifying if anyone really got it. Maybe they did, maybe it had nothing to do with the acquittal of a police squad that painfully crossed the line of justice, maybe this is the same set that’s been performed for months now, maybe not. Then Santogold exploded onto the stage in a bubbly bounce.

She hopped around in stark contrast to her S1Ws, her flowing powdery blue one-piece vibrant versus their black and white uniforms of precision. With a hand on her hip and an oddly elderly hunch, her posture bore a striking resemblance to my high school art teacher—even before she began scolding the audience with her choruses and danceable chants. On a day like Friday, when the Bell debauchery signaled another sad day in the history of this country, at least in my mind, a moment of dire pessimism, the Obama mantras and pins and t-shirts and self-made signs felt absolutely empty. Hollow. In the full-on party mode of middle class white kids who are staking dollars and hopes into Obama’s hope, the very same kids who overwhelmingly comprised Santogold’s audience, one line stood out paralyzingly so, even as a few people danced along:

“We think you’re a joke/Stick your hope where it don’t shine
We think you’re a joke/Stick your hope where it don’t shine
We think you’re a joke/Stick your hope where it don’t shine”

Whether the poignance of this moment, as those amazingly synchronized S1Ws ripped through militant movements, was planned or not is irrelevant. Whether anyone understood it, however, certainly says something. Granted, Santogold's debut album hasn't been released to the public yet, so the hooks that rang so familiar in my head fell on virgin ears for most of the audience. And yes, her slow movements and overdubbed voice left a little to be desired from her performance. But it still seemed like there was something else there.

Later that night, Sharon Jones brought an adjacent tent to a frenzy as she ran through a review routine that would’ve exhausted James Brown’s tireless soul. For her finale, she passionately told the story of slavery, as the still mostly-white audience clapped in unison. Of course, the Daptone Kings were ripping out furiously fun riffs and Sharon’s jaw dropping dancing and singing ability wouldn’t allow for anything but excited crowd participation, but it just felt wrong. White kids clapping along to the story of slavery. Maybe I’m acting as judge here, maybe the jury would’ve gotten it wrong anyway, or maybe people’s ability to escape is just stronger than I imagined.

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