The New Yorker Radio Hour - Singer-songwriter Joy Oladokun, Plus Bryan Washington

Episode Date: June 20, 2023

The singer-songwriter Joy Oladokun recently released her fourth album, called “Proof of Life.” Raised near Phoenix, Oladokun had aspirations of becoming a preacher before turning to music in earnest. Like many of the great songwriters, she has a way of staring down the hardest parts of life with an offbeat sort of wit. The New Yorker’s Hanif Abdurraqib calls her a “writer’s writer,” someone “interested in the lyric as an opportunity to build narrative worlds.” Oladokun talked with him about seeing a video of Tracy Chapman performing in a Nelson Mandela tribute concert: “I was ten years old, watching someone who looked like me play the guitar,” she recalls. “I asked my parents for a guitar that Christmas.” Chapman remained a lasting influence on her as an artist. “You could just tell that what drove her to open her mouth in the first place was conviction. Belief in her values and belief that if people would only think about this, it would change the world.” While in New York on tour, Oladokun performed “Trying” and “Keeping the Light On”—both from her new record—live at WNYC. Plus, the fiction writer Bryan Washington on the joys of a Houston ice house. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. This is The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. Hanif Abdu Rakib writes about music for the New Yorker, and he's also a celebrated poet. Songwriting is his obsession. And lately, one of the people that Hanif has been following most closely is someone named Joy Olatakun. Here is Hanif. Joy Al-A-Latakun is one of my favorite. writers, not just songwriters, but writers of anything, of all language. I have been along for the ride with her career since what seems to me like near the beginning. I found her music around 2017, 2018. And what I love about it is that I believe that she's a writer's writer, which is a phrase I use with talking about musicians where I think they are invested in not just the lyric

as a vessel for one element of a song, but they're interested in the lyric as an opportunity. to build narrative worlds, to build, to reshape what a song can do. And Joy is really committed to that. That comes to life most vibrantly on her newest record, Proof of Life, which is her fourth album and the album of hers that has gotten the most attention thus far in her career. I was thrilled to get to talk to her while she was visiting New York getting ready to play Radio City Music Hall. This is really exciting for me because I'm such a big fan of your writing. and your songs, but as a writer, like, I'm just so drawn to your work.

But this is not on the new record, but it's a song of yours that I talk about a lot that I've actually literally used in writing workshops, talk about anticipation and breath. You have a cover of My Girl that I adore because of how it is sung, right? Like, My Girl is one of those songs that has been covered so much and can be sung in a hundred different ways. And my favorite cover before I got to yours is Otis Redding's cover because Otis sings it like he's like mourning, you know, mourning the world already that his beloved is not in. Yeah. Because I feel like My Girl is a song of anticipation and longing and you do this great thing when you sing it where, you know, you kind of add a breath and a beat to the chorus before, you know, like what can make me feel this way. And then there's a long beat before you get to the My Girl.

I adore that move. Yeah. Yeah, I think a lot of my decisions artistically, musically, and otherwise are just like informed by my life in this body that I'm inhabiting my life in. And it's sort of, my version of my girl is very much colored by the fact that I'm a queer person and I'm a woman singing about a woman. And I think that a lot of the discussions I have, I grew up like very much. religious like a lot of Christian friends and stuff like that and the conversation that I would have around coming out of the closet was that around love like it's like you have your husband that you married at 20 and you love this person you know and I feel this same way about you know this this person they just happen to be the same sex as me what what makes it what is what is wrong with you that you can't just like sort of like connect those dots and realize that it's just sort of the way some people are

and some people aren't. And so covering my girl to me is special because I like I love that song so much. I love Motown. I love like my dad would sing my girl and like just like cheesy songs to my mom when he got home from work. But like covering it as a queer person

thinking about love and thinking about beauty but also thinking about the fact that like, they would hear a female person singing my girl and go, what are they going to change the lyric to? I sort of wanted to give the listener time to be like, I'm going to have to accept that what's coming next is my girl. And like that is just as valid to this person as it was to Otis Redding as it was to, you know, all the millions of men and women

who have covered it in different ways. Since you're holding a guitar, do you have the ability to play that? Just that small chorus part? Or was that the... I think I could do that. Maybe. I'm going to have to tune it. Just a second.

Oh, better. Because you say, what can make me feel this way? My girl. Thank you for that. Yeah. Just a little breath. Yeah.

And I think a world, a world exists in that little. breath, which I enjoy. I've been a fan of yours for a long time. Like, proof of life is not my entry point, but to a lot of people it might be, or to some people it might be. And it, and proof of life is kind of hailed as like, you know, the kind of making it album. I think I've read people talk about it as like the breakthrough album, all these kind of things. And I think what I love about it is I love a so-called breakthrough album, wherein the artist is not ambivalent about breaking through, but perhaps realistic about, you know, this shit ain't always, this shit ain't what it feels like. You know, like what it feels like to you is not entirely what it feels like to me.

And I think so much of that impulse permeates the album in a way that to me is like not also steeped in gratitude. I think what I like about trying is that it is also steeped in a type of gratitude like the whole album. It is imbued with this sense of understanding gratitude while still wrestling with some hard realities. Joy, would you mind playing trying for us? Yeah. Got brought up for an award today. We're in clothes I barred out in L.A. Back home, my mother's crying,

because daddy's going blinding. It looks like sisters popping pills again. I don't think it ever ends. This feeling that you'll never win. Guess I don't mind it, because I just keep trying. I've been down the soul before Fighting in a thousand wars

Not sure how far the line is Hoping to find it I just keep trying I just keep trying All my friends are unhappy All my heroes are dead People tell me their problems Wonder why I don't rest

I'm trying to find my breathing Trying to find the meaning this life will not come around again. I don't think it ever ends. This feeling that you'll never win. Guess I don't mind it, because I just keep trying. I've been down this all before,

fighting in a thousand wars, not sure how far the line is, hoping to find it. I just keep trying. I just keep trying. I keep trying. To keep my head up high through the store Trying to find some place of my home

Life ain't as mean as it's been Keep trying To suit the savage sounds in my mind Saying I don't think it ever ends This feeling that you'll never win Guess I don't mind it Because I just keep trying

I've been down this all before, flattened in a thousand wars. Not sure how far the line is, hoping to find it. I just keep trying. I just keep trying. I just keep trying. One thing that's interesting to me that I've kind of tried to add more nuance to is this idea that, you know, as someone who loves black music and has spent a lot of time immersed in black music,

I know so much of it is tied to the church. And so when we say things like, well, these black folks came up in the church, I sometimes think that gets put under this umbrella that is kind of heteronormative, right? Or even, you know, kind of ignores the sometimes brutalities of gendered and sexual relationship, like, you know, heteronormative and gendered relationships within the church. And so when we talk, when I talk about. about when I read about your upbringing and talk about your upbringing and think about, okay, well, this is a person who came up in the church, but in a very different way. But I also read that you

wanted to be a preacher at some point. Like, you had aspirations of being a preacher to the point where you, like, took it kind of seriously. And so, yeah, you know, I was, I was curious about, about your relationship to gospel as a form. Yeah. I really love gospel music and, like, I think maybe just religious art and music in general. Like my, I just like I was in the car with someone and they were playing like a synagogue music for after someone sits Shiva. And I was like, this is stunning. What is this?

I think that there's something maybe in me that just sort of responds to, I think collective purposeful singing and that's my relationship to gospel is like I think the part of me that wanted to be like a preacher or pastor or went to Bible college was like I'm of course you want to influence people to be the best versions of themselves and to be the best version of yourself in reality I don't know that it's working as well as they think it's working and so I like when I came out of the closet and like it became apparent that my um quote unquote lifestyle was incompatible with the values of the whatever uh for me it became okay I'm not throwing the baby out I'm just throwing out this stanky bathwater you know and like I uh I don't know that I

would call myself religious still but I do like I'm just always going to have that lens of like growing up very religious. And I found that most of my satisfaction has come from saying, here's what is beautiful about what I learned in that system. And here's how I'll carry it with me as I move forward into this next part of my life. I read that there was a video of Tracy Chapman that you watched when you were young that drove you towards when a guitar. Can I guess what the, I don't know. I didn't read beyond to see what the video was, which is I was like, I would like to guess.

Because I have my favorite Tracy Chapman videos. I love this game. And I did the thing where I was like, you know, Joy was born in 92. So was it the Nelson Mandela concert? Yes. Okay. That's like my favorite Tracy thing in the world. So I just assume that everyone discovered Tracy Chapman by falling in love with that video.

Same. I watch it like once a week, probably. You get a fast car. I want to take her to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere. Any places better. Starting from zero got nothing to lose.

Maybe we'll make something. Me, myself, I got nothing to prove. Like, I just, what a force. My favorite thing about Tricky Chapman is that she is still alive and that she seems to be just happy ignoring us. Like, I love. But that video, a black queer person, and I didn't know they were queer at that time because I was like 10 watching this video. But I could guess.

Like, I, like, standing in front of thousands of people with a guitar and that's it. And their voice and their words. Because I remember when we were driving, driving in your car. Speed so fast, I felt like I was strong. City lights. I'm like a feeling nice, wrapped around my shoulder. And I, I, I got a feeling that I belong. I, I got a feeling I could be someone.

And like, I don't even know if that takes confidence. I think it takes this, like, I don't know, maybe it's like faith. Maybe it's, I think it's conviction. Like, I think what blows me away. about Tracy Chapman still is like everything she said about her career and her relationship to it, you could just sort of tell that what drove her to open her mouth in the first place was conviction, like belief in her values and belief that like if people would only think about this, it might change the world. And I was 10 years old watching someone who looked like me play the

guitar. I didn't know the extent to which she would become my hero then, but alone on the fact that she was herself doing what she did in the way that she did it, it changed the trajectory in my life. Like, I asked my parents for a guitar that Christmas. Like, it was all I could talk about. And I just, like, I never want to, I never want to understate the value that that representation had for me. because I just like, I truly, I don't see that video. Maybe eventually I become a musician, but I like, it really was just like the absolute match that lit, you know, the fuse of which,

like, that video is why we're talking today 100%. Joy, thank you for talking to me. Would you, if you don't mind as we part ways, will you play us another song? Yeah. Thank you, Joy. I grew up out in the desert Where I learned to thrive alone

Lived in an alley till it broke me Oh I rolled on like a stone Found a girl and found a job Just like they say good people do Oh but every now And then I turned to salt inside her wounds Oh and all I know Is you can't we won't

Let go Keeping the light on light on ain't easy Keeping the fight on so long it's hard to do For all the times you feel the weight There might just be a better way Won't deny that it feels so hard When the night gets so dark Keep keeping the light on

And I'm trying to get better Every day I chase the sun And I pray it's worth the heartache when I'm done Oh and all Easy can't we won't let go Keeping the light on, light on an easy no Keeping the fight on so long it's hard to do hard to do for all the times you feel the weight there might just be a better way

won't deny that it feels so hard get so dark keep keeping the line oh trying to be a little try to see a light in the dark trying to give a little try to be a little try to see a light in the dark try to give a little try to give a little try to see a light in the dark, trying to give a little, try to be a little, try to see a light in the dark, but we can't, we won't let go. Keeping the light on, light on ain't easy. Keeping the fight on, so long is hard to do. For all the times you feel the weight, there might just be a better way, won't deny.

that it feels so hard when the night get so dark keep keeping the light on we did it Joy Olaudecun and she sang keeping the light on in the studio

at WNYC her latest album is called Proof of Life and she spoke with Hanif Abdu Rakib of the New Yorker this is the New Yorker Radio Hour with more to come This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. Next week marks the official start of summer, the solstice.

But in places like Houston, Texas, it's already well into the 90s. Right now it's a little bit past six, and it is sufficiently swampy, yeah, and it's kind of, it's pretty disgusting outside, actually. But I think that's just what we've got to work with until July-ish, and then it'll get swampier, and then it'll disappear around November. Brian Washington is a Houston native who's published essays and short fiction in The New Yorker. And a couple of years back, Brian took us to one of his favorite places in the city, a local institution known as the West Alabama Ice House. Now, what exactly is an Ice House? I think the idea of an Ice House is really debatable,

and I think the only consistency with everyone's definitions is that there really is no one true definition of what an Ice House is. Some folks would argue that it has to have been a place that literally sold ice at some point in time. Some people could argue that an ice house is signifier is shitty parking to sort of accentuate the fact that it's a community hub and people from the community would walk over and just hang out. Some people would argue that a nice house had to have originally served as a sort of convenience store because that's how many ice houses started out and that they sold ice, you know, they sold milk, they sold bread because it was a place that could keep those things cool. I think it's literally different from a regular bar in that swathes of it are outside and swathes of it are populated by benches. And the ice house doesn't sell liquor either. They sell beer, they sell cider, they sell water, they sell sodas, but they don't sell hard

liquors. This is not something that they do. So if you were walking from off the road, like you're just walking to the ice house from off the street, you're going to run right into some benches. you might stub your toe on one of them as you head your way to the bar, and if you turn in the corner, there's a bit of an awning with a series of TVs or most folks are watching whatever basketball game. Right now it's the playoffs.

They're just so inconsistent, getting them to show up. I know that one chicken truck was very inconsistent, but in summertime now, we need to get a go. You know I want to eat. Well, I think the concept of the ice house started in the late 1800s, because you had these ships that were coming down from Maine to the Gulf of Mexico, and they would stop over in Galveston, and that's where they would unload and sell the ice that they had left over.

I first started coming to the ice house because it was a meeting place, or a sort of nexus point, because the first time I was hanging out in Montrose, I had never been in this neighborhood before, so I was just still exploring it, mostly just like gay clubs and gay bars around the area, and it was a great place to meet people, because everyone knew where it was. So it served as a sort of landmark. So you could pregame and get a beer or whatever

for significantly cheaper than you would at whatever bar or club that you were going to and then just go off and enjoy your evening. So it served as a sort of introduction to the neighborhood in this part of town for me and it's sort of remained in my life since then. Hey, how are you doing? How are you?

Pretty good. Yeah, can I get a Bohemia and then can we also get a Topo Chico? But I have had like not great experience. experiences and ice houses as well. You know, I've gotten kicked out of this particular ice house, like, twice. The first time that I got kicked out, I was just hanging out with some friends, and we were sitting next to a table, and there was, like, this group of, like, burly or white guys, and they were talking very loud, and one of them was pretty virulently homophobic, which now I've sort of, now I would not have the reaction that I did then, but as someone who had just, like, come out a few years ago, I hadn't been, I hadn't had too many contacts with, like, blatant open homophobia.

So I picked a fight and it was like, I say kicked out, but that's a bit of a euphemism. It's not like it's a movie where we were literally thrown out. But the bartender came over and they like shoot us out and like that was my end of, you know, the end of my relationship with the ice house for a few months or, you know, a little while. The other time I broke up with someone. But yeah, we had a pretty significant argument being, you know, right before we were asked

politely to leave. Yeah. Not a DJ though. Yasha, what do you want to hear? I'd say these days I'm here about once or twice a week. And if I'm here on a weekend, let's say, then I'm probably

working on something. So I'll have my laptop and I'll just edit whatever I need to edit or just work on emails or whatever for a few hours and then inevitably I'll end up people watching and just sort of jelling and with the ice house itself, whatever the vibe is.

that particular day. There have been times where I've been here, and there have been, like, wedding parties, let's say, and they've asked me to, like, sit with them. Like, they might have, like, too much beer, they might have too much food, and you end up talking to people and you get swept up in whatever the excitement is.

It's a space where I've just, like, lived here, you know, sort of run through the spectrum of emotions, and I can't think of too many places outside of, like, an actual home or an actual workplace where that would be the case. Brian Washington at the West Alabama Ice House in the Montrose neighborhood of Houston. We spoke with Washington in 2019

and his novel, Family Meal, is set to come out in the fall. I'm David Remnick. That's our program for today. Thanks for listening, and we'll see you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbes of Tune Arts

with additional music by Louis Mitchell. This episode was produced by Max Walton, Breda Green, Adam Howard, Kalalia, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, and Gophane and Putabwele, with guidance from Emily Boutin and assistants from Harrison Keyfine, Michael May, David Gable, and Alejandra Decker. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.