Navigating Music By Race: How Sounds Have Separated Us

Music is a universal phenomenon, but it’s also become a way to separate and label various groups of people.

Written by Myah Taylor
Illustration by Ayesha Din

When I walk through campus listening to music, I often wonder what other black people would think if they knew what was coming out of my earbuds.

If they heard the pop punk riffs of Paramore blasting through my speakers as I study, would they call me an “oreo?” Would they call me a sellout for liking Coldplay’s deep cuts, John Mayer’s guitar playing, Kacey Musgraves’ narrative storytelling, or indie songs that put me in my feels?

And then there’s the big question: Am I any less black for enjoying music created by artists who don't always look like me?

These are scenarios I’ve considered, because I’m aware of how people think and how closely music and race are tied together.

In the early 20th century, the music industry became another avenue for systemic racism that bred segregation. By the 1920s, the term “race record” signified music created by African Americans, while “hillbilly records” described music consumed by rural white people. These terms evolved into “rhythm & blues” and “country western,” respectively. However, despite the name changes, these genres of music remained relegated to their own racial spheres.

As with most things in society, we still see the effects of this racial divide today. People dub R&B as “black music,” and country music still resonates most with white audiences.

At concerts, I’m usually a token. When I wave my hands in the air, I notice the stark contrast — the brown spots in a sea of white. No one has ever singled me out at these performances — not at all — but feelings of isolation always pour over me. I can never enjoy the music without feeling self-conscious.

Similar feelings occur when other black people ask me what kind of music I listen to. Most of the time, I dance around the question to avoid judgment. Even if I told them I like Kendrick Lamar and Alicia Keys, too, the damage would already be done. In my mind (and maybe in theirs too) they’ve already decided my level of blackness and commitment to the culture.

I saw a situation like this play out a couple of summers ago on FOX’s “Beat Shazam.” The show, hosted by actor, comedian, and singer Jamie Foxx, is a musical guessing game. Contestants are played snippets of a song, and then they compete with each other to see who can select the correct name of the track the fastest. In the episode I watched, two black women named Jazz and Chicky were among the contestants. Foxx, a black man, patronized them throughout the show for failing to identify songs by black artists.

“I’m not making this racial, but every song that’s black, Jazz and Chicky haven’t gotten,” Foxx said in the episode.

When a Mary J. Blige song played, Foxx continued to criticize them.

“Jazz and Chicky, I’m not saying you should know this, but you should damn well know this,” Foxx said.

Other contestants did not receive the same kind of ridicule. It’s as if non-black people who appreciate black artists are “cultured,” while black people who appreciate white artists are frauds.

What confuses me most is the double standard. No one thinks twice about white teens at a Travis Scott or Lizzo concert. But these same standards don’t always apply to people like me.

It’s always been okay for white people to like black music and then appropriate it — take rock ‘n roll, for example. Throughout the 20th century, numerous white artists found success on the charts by covering songs originally performed by black musicians. Acts like Elvis (with Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,”) capitalized off of black creativity. Meanwhile, artists such as The Rolling Stones drew inspiration from Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley, black musicians who were rejected by mainstream white audiences.

Black artists need support because white artists already get — and have gotten — plenty of it. Plus, black people are always fighting to maintain ownership over what’s rightfully theirs. Because of this, few black people stray away from “black” music. Furthermore, they can’t always relate to “white music” that doesn’t articulate their experiences or struggles.

I understand this cultural complexity. I live in it everyday. Yet, I don't think music should remain a tool of separation or stereotyping. Rather, it should unite people despite their racial or cultural differences.

As for me, I tend to view music from a smaller, more personal scope and not a cultural one. Music is a collection of soundwaves, messages, and emotions. If it resonates with me, then I’ll listen. Some might say I like “white music,” but I’d say I’m just being myself — a black woman who simply appreciates great art and all its infectious melodies, deep lyrics, and killer beats.