Tribute To Gil

Tribute to Gil Scot Heron When I awoke to the news that OurGreat Gil had died (news brought to us in the early hours by my 19-year old brother - in itself a gargantuan testimony to the illimitable, amaranthine dynamism of Gils legacy that while ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’ was released when Gil was just 18-years old, some 40 years ago, intelligent teens Dig It today as though he is their own peer) we were desolate to have lost OurGreatest creative influence. Like the fulfilment of an ancient prophecy, Gil’s death was not announced on British terrestrial news, the death of a revolutionary Was Not Televised. A luminous summers afternoon was rendered decalescent. Our creative juices washed out. Our souls sent into A Blue Funk. Gil sheepishly described himself as a "bluesologist",which he defined as ‘a scientist who is concerned with the origin of the blues’. Yet he was very much more. The God-father of rap, he was A One Man Last Poet. He was maestro, apostle, revolutionary, versifier, activist, raptivist, maker, mover and shaker. Gil’s skill was that despite his indisputable effulgence he was never preacher, sermonizer, or cavalier. He never claimed to be our prophet or visionary. He was all the while otherworldly but never seraphic. He was The People’s Poet. He was a flawed being, he was OneOfUs. A drug addict, an HIV sufferer, Gil inhabited a small apartment in Harlem, and had spent many recidivous years in the malevolent grip of diamorphine. Gil could never be confused with the polished hero defined by the predictably impeccable terms we have come to so mundanely demand of our idols. He was Our AntiHero, our leading poetic protagonist so conspicuously contrary to that of the archetypal hero but whom remained an inimitable champion. I am an appreciator of brutal candour and raw realism in artists and their artistry. When borne from a genuine intention for righteousness and revolution it speaks to us like nothing else. Gil, whom channelled so uniquely the spirits of Richie Havens, John Coltrane, Otis Redding, Jose Feliciano, Billie Holiday, Langston Hughes, Malcolm X, Huey Newton, Nina Simone and has birthed numerous protégés and genres in his wake, reminded us that incorrigible agenda’s have not yet eliminated elevated expression from our collective vantage point. There existed in him the audacity, backbone, bravery, bravura, daring, and dauntlessness that speaks across generations, pulling no punches. There existed in him the challenger whom dared to stand, fist clenched, unapologetically pitching the truths in the spirit of the Panthers, Garveyites, Stono Rebels and Pan Africanists. He reminded us that with intention firmly in place, rectitude needn't always be whispered in airy tones, it can, and must, be screamed lewdly, proudly, ouchly. Gil was the modern pathfinder for speaking in tumultuously colourful tones in places that are dully grey with agenda, hypocrisy and colonial minds. Yet, his wizardry came with an elephantine cost. The heroin dependence that had ravaged his beanstalk body for so long had become his master, his mistress, his nemesis and his swami and he had frequently mused, explicitly and opaquely, of the devilish self-willed monkey on his back "Early this mornin', when you knocked upon my door, And I said, "Hello, Satan, I believe it's time to go." It was as though, on May 27th, his job here done, he had simply stood up, alpine in both height and spirit, and strolled with a steady slow gait, out of the world and from our peripheral vision. ‘A junkie walking through the twilight I'm on my way home I left three days ago, but no one seems to know I’m gone Home is where the hatred is Home is filled with pain and it, might not be such a bad idea if I never, never went home again home is where i live inside my white powder dreams home was once an empty vacuum that's filled now with my silent screams home is where the needle marks try to heal my broken heart and it might not be such a bad idea if I never, if I never went home again’ There exists Medieval tales which describe a person who, who when faced with an enigma blocking his road, goes into the forest, to wrestle dark demons, to do battle with darkness. He pursues a new journey. Sometimes he returns and brings with him fragments of an old, forgotten religion. Sometimes he brings with him a vision. Sometimes he simply vanishes, changed irreconcilably in the woodland. I imagine he has dwelled perhaps a moment, resting beneath a Cedar tree. Glassy skies, resplendent lakes revealing his souls reflection. Then, across broad moors he follows a resonating silence, embracing its buoyant vastness. Beyond the sun he sees he's home as he approaches the road not taken. He descends from the hills in dewy mystery. The world he left is not the same, and so he travels to new worlds. Nomadic in his stride. There Exists Tales... Extinguished now… Unconquered still… Gil Scott Heron