The veracity of a unified and historically constructed African-derived aesthetic among African-Americans is contentious. On one side of the argument, cultural critics warn that any attempt to represent a homogenous group of people, based on geographic and cultural origin or physiological features perpetuates racial narratives from the colonialization of centuries past, and only through critical engagement with these narratives can people overcome the limitations inherent in essentialization. On the other side, proponents of what can be called anti-anti-essentialism argue that notions of culture that coincide with racial identity, although historically rooted in violent practices, still has some valid strategic and tactical value in contemporary society, in which racism and other forms of mass-prejudice are still prevalent, although more sophisticatedly cloaked in matters of economic and cultural practices. As Guthrie Ramsey has argued,

“to claim that one group or another possesses qualities or traits that are essential to that group’s ‘nature’ forwards dangerous stereotypes about its behaviors, worldviews, collective intellectual potential, and so on. Such ideologies have had staggering and adverse effects for all involved, and cultural critics have spilled much ink identifying them. But on the flip side, all communities have well-formed ideas about who they are in the world and what behaviors, worldviews, and cultural practices define them best” (Ramsey 2004: 287).

It is not my intention in this paper to enter into this debate over the authenticity of an African American collective identity and its associated stylistic characteristics. Rather, through close examination and theoretical analysis of a particular performance, I show how the notion of a black aesthetic, however essentialist or historically shortsighted it may be, is employed by artists and audience members seeking to establish their position within or near the imagined borders of an African American community. I argue that the actions of the performers, both on the stage and in the audience, constitute a performance of community and identity within that community. These actions resonate with theories of an African American aesthetic formulated by scholars and writers over the past century.

My work in general focuses on notions of amateurism and its presence within communities of varying cultural and economic organization. For this reason, and because I recently moved to New York City, I am drawn to the Apollo Theater, an institution of artistic performance within the African American community of Harlem for over seventy years. In the past year, I have begun attending tapings of Showtime at the Apollo, the nationally broadcast version of the Apollo’s weekly Amateur Night. Amateur Night is almost as old as the Apollo Theater itself and has long been seen as a right of passage in the careers of musicians. A considerable list of famous artists have begun their careers, or at least made a name for themselves, on the Apollo State during Amateur Night: Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Luther Vandross, Gladys Night, Lauryn Hill, D’Angelo, even the Jackson Five and James Brown (Cooper 1990: 3, ATF par. 1).

The primary reason for Amateur Night’s importance stems from the active engagement of the audience, renown for its brutal yet honest evaluation of the talent of the performer on stage. As Ralph Cooper, Sr., the founder of Amateur Night, has written, “Anyone who has read about hubris in old books can watch it work on the Apollo Stage, where the smug and cocky routinely crash and burn, and where the meek and trembling can surprise the world with voices full of more power and emotion than they ever guessed they had in them” (Cooper 1990: 2). Appreciation of an act is usually exhibited in applause, cheers, clapping to the beat, singing along, dancing in the aisles or sometimes even on stage. Disapproval comes in the form of laughing, mocking and booing, recently replaced with a unique (and therefore supposedly less harsh) collectively chanted “Woot woot!,” which calls to the stage a comical jester-figure, until recently represented by the Sandman, who coerces the embarrassed or indignant performer off stage with a combination of tap-dancing virtuosity, itself a Harlem tradition, and a satiric or mocking pantomime of the performer’s moment of infamy. The potential for success that draws so many performers to the Apollo is rooted in the relationship between performer and audience.

The interrelatedness between the performer and the audience, although prevalent globally, is not a universal. Christopher Small has argued that the primary distinction between what can be argued as European and African attitudes about musical performance. According to Small, Europeans see the work of music as the focus, an object to be successfully transmitted to an audience by the performer; for Africans, “in so far as musical entities exist at all, they are regarded not as sacrosanct, but rather as material for the musicians, whose primary responsibility is to the listeners and to the occasion for which they have come together” (Small 1999: 133). Caponi adds: “For Africans, identity is a geometric concept; it can be defined only in relation to others. The European believes, ‘I think, therefore I am.’ The African believes, ‘I participate, therefore I am,” or as Hord and Lee reiterate, ‘I am because we are.’” (Caponi 1999: 12).

For this paper I will focus on three distinct yet interrelated practices that reflect the importance of the location of the individual within the larger collective in African American musical performances: improvisation within traditional forms, call and response, and musical signifyin(g). Improvisation, when seen within the context of a larger, more diachronic tradition, usually involves the incorporation of virtuosity, embellishment, and technical innovation employed to showcase the talents of the performer. But this virtuosity only gains meaning when compared to the tradition in which it is situated. Caponi has pointed out that “the African aesthetic constantly pressures one to innovate within a traditional structure – a rhythmic pattern, for instance – so that each musical event blends history and the contemporary approach of the musicians performing at the time” (Caponi 1999: 11). Without a recognition of that history, innovation loses meaning, becomes self-promotion at the expense of others.

The term “call and response,” according to Samuel A. Floyd, “is used… to convey the dialogical, conversational character of black music” (Floyd 1999: 146) is perhaps the most direct demonstration of the relationship between performer and audience. In its most obvious form, call and response involves a call from the performer, addressing the audience, which then replies collectively with some response, which both reinforces the performer’s call and comments upon it, adding another layer of meaning. It is a direct acknowledgement of the audience and the audience’s responsibility; when the performer calls, the audience is expected to respond. But call and response can occur on a much more subtle level, either through the extension of time, as would be the case if a performance acted as a response to an earlier “call” performance, or through the exchange of meaning at a deeply nested level, only perceptible to a thoroughly educated or informed audience.

This process of exchange of meaning has been examined in African and African American literature by Henry Louis Gates, Jr., who popularized the phrase “signifyin(g)” to connote this secondary and hidden exchange of meaning by performers and audiences in spoken stories and conversation (Gates 1988). Floyd, bringing Gates’ work into the realm of musicology, has argued that certain musical practices, imbued with multiple and often conflicting meanings, operate in much the same way as Gates’ concept of signifyin(g), acting as a medium of communication among members of a community for whom the signs of communication are familiar. Like literary signifyin(g), musical signifyin(g) is “a way of demonstrating respect for, goading, or poking fun at a musical style, process, or practive through parody, pastische, implication, indirection, humor, tone- or word-play, the illusions of speech or narration, and other troping mechanism” (Floyd 1999: 141). Signifying and call and response are similar, in that both involve the communication of meaning between the audience and performer, through the incorporation of material that builds upon or responds to previously experienced material. Echoing Small’s distinction between European and African notions of musical performance, for Floyd, the music exists to support the interaction of performer and audience, as a medium for the communication of meaning.

These three examples of the practice of performing community can all be found within a single performance. For this paper, I present the winning performance at Showtime at the Apollo of the 2002 Super-Top-Dog Amateur Competition champion, MC Squared on January 17, 2003. Squared, or David Gadis, a 21-year-old white man who at the time was a senior at Columbia University, had already been gaining a reputation around New York City for his skills at beat boxing, the vocal emulation of drum beats and recognizable sampled records. He also contributed regularly to online chatrooms devoted to beat boxing, although he didn’t gain any noticeable reputation there or in the New York scene until after his string of Apollo victories that led to the championship. Almost immediately MC Squared’s recognition increased, as videos of the Apollo performance spread across the internet and other artists asked him to collaborate in the months following the Apollo broadcast in February, 2003. By the end of that spring, Gadis had performed across the country, including one show in Las Vegas with TV personality Wayne Brady. That summer, Gadis moved to Japan to teach English, and since then he has been collaborating with artists, DJs, and bands in that country.

On his fifth and final night at the Apollo, MC Squared, wearing jeans, black sneakers, and a black zip-up, walked rather nonchalantly out onto the stage while being announced by the night’s host, comedienne Mo’Nique. After rubbing the Tree of Hope for good luck, as every Apollo Amateur Night performer has done for the past seventy years, Squared lifted the microphone close to his mouth, entirely cupped in his right hand, tentatively shuffled up to the front of the stage, and blurted out a few bass drum sounds, pointing at the audience to get their attention and bring the focus of the crowd’s attention to his voice. As the individual sounds meld into the first beat of his act, these arm movements also transform, from an interpellation of the audience to the motions of a DJ, switching between two turntables while constructing a new beat.

MC Squared exhibits examples of flow, layering and rupture that Tricia Rose has argued are essential in hip hop performance (Rose 1999). He is constantly introducing new sounds, adding layer upon layer to already complex beats. The grooves he creates last only long enough for the audience to respond, and then MC Squared is off in another direction, tugging the audience along on his journey through a sonic history of hip hop. The audience alternates between appreciative applause, which transforms into a participatory feeling of the groove, and silence as they listen to Squared’s technical mastery and wait for what he will do next. At times, this silence is ambiguous, and it seems as though the audience is disappointed that a beat is dropped, but for the most part, they react affirmatively, liking what Squared is doing.

As I mentioned earlier, virtuosity, complexity, and the development of an individualized style are aspects of the concept of improvisation within more a traditional framework. Squared clearly exhibits technical mastery and virtuosic skills during his act, and the audience celebrates this, for the most part. The moments when the crowd is most responsive – cheering, dancing, singing along – are exactly when MC Squared has tapped a collective desire of the audience, providing a groove, imitating a favorable beat, and building on it to make his own unique version. The moments when the audience gets quiet, on the other hand, often coincide with disruptions of an underlying groove, one that the entire crowd feels. Sometimes MC Squared introduces a new beat suddenly, while other times he deconstructs the existing beat, either by changing its tempo drastically or making it so complex as to obscure the underlying groove that the audience perceives. In these moments, one could argue that MC Squared’s virtuosity is at odds with an African American aesthetic, because it loses sight of its collective setting. Squared technically negotiates membership of a racially constructed community of which he is essentially excluded, and neither he nor the audience are confident that he can pull it off. We can read the silence as suspense, be it positively or negatively charged. In this performance, it is easier to see the audience’s reactions as spontaneous and improvisatory, a reaction to Squared’s actions, while we can not tell how much of his act is predetermined and how much is created in response to the feedback of the audience.

The moments when MC Squared is clearly interacting with the audience, he is either getting their attention with hand gestures, marking the introduction of a new beat or some technical detail that they should pay attention to, or he points at them in order to illicit a response during the groovier moments in the act. Unlike many other performers at Amateur Hour, who simply perform without acknowledging the audience, MC Squared is actively engaging the crowd, incorporating their reactions into his act, and continuing or modifying grooves according to the response to what he his doing. The vocal interpellation, another form of call and response, which comes just before the halfway point of the act, is common in hip-hop performances. MC Squared asks, the audience, “Apollo,” how it is doing, then asks if they are ready for what he is about to do, which is assumedly going to be impressive enough to point out before hand.

This happens to be the case, as the next part of MC Squared’s act incorporates the Tree of Hope as a turntable. I believe that it is this act, along with others that equally fall into the category of musical signifyin(g), that are responsible for the Apollo audience’s consistently exceptional evaluation of MC Squared. As Gates and Floyd mention, signifyin(g) is the act of taking some previous cultural material or practice and either incorporating it or commenting on it in a new act, in order to change the meaning of the original source. The moment when MC Squared begins scratching the Tree of Hope, then moves away, slowing the beat while moving his had as if on a giant pitch slider manually slowing the record of the Tree of Hope, not only immediately invokes the image of a hip hop DJ, which he has been emulating with his voice throughout the performance, but also connects to the rich, revered history of the Apollo theater, both as a place where stars are born and as a sight of resistance against the oppression of a racially segregated society. The Apollo Theater, after all, has always been more than just a stage where performances take place; it has always participated in a utopian discourse of freedom and opportunity.

The combination of reflection on the past, celebration of the present, and promise for the future, which is echoed in the Apollo Theater’s online motto, “Yesterday… Today… Tomorrow… Forever the Apollo” (ATF par. 8), are also present in the act of stopping the beat, both sonically and physically; at the moment when MC Squared has reached the maximum distance from the Tree and the beat is practically stopped, it is as if time is also stopped, and the audience is silent with rapt attention. The gradual acceleration of tempo and movement back toward the tree represent a continuation of the passage of time, a symbol of time going forward, and the jump back into the groove, when MC Squared cuts back into a heavier beat, the audience breaks into joyous applause and cheers, participating in a poetic celebration of the future of the Apollo. At this point MC Squared has won the audience over, but he seals his victory at the end of the act, cutting into a spot-on rendition of Rob Base’s “It Takes Two (To Make a Thing Alright),” which, again as a brilliant example of signifyin(g), draws from the rich history of Hip Hop and brings new meaning to the song, transforming it from a dance track about romance to a commentary on the collective transgression of racial division in modern American society. The name MC Squared signifies on Gadis’ outsider status as a young white performer, not-funky not with-it and desiring but failing to belong to the African American community. Gadis’ technical proficiency, ability to work the audience, to use the terminology of DJs, and his knowledge of hip hop and Apollo history also signify on race relations in the early twenty-first century.

I have been presenting MC Squared’s activities as entirely intentional undertaken with conscious awareness of their ramifications. I believe this is true, that Gadis knows what he is doing when he performs. He is actively participating in a tradition that embodies the same African derived aesthetic that the scholars mentioned above have theorized. But I wish to point out that the audience is just as aware of their own actions and the significance of their own actions in the history of the Apollo and the African American community. Since I moved to New York I have regularly attended television tapings at the Apollo Theater, including a few Showtimes. While waiting in line, which usually stretches around an entire Manhattan block for several hours before the show, even in the dead of winter, I have struck up conversations with those around me, sometimes in the role of ethnographer with field recording technology, but sometimes just as another participant in the night’s activities.

What I have found to be generally true is the audience’s awareness of the importance of their performance at the Apollo. They know that the Apollo is famous for its audience, and that the Apollo is important because of its landmark status and history in the African American community. While a large number of people in line simply attend the show because it is free and a whole lot of fun, many audience members have expressed to me the notion that, in attending concerts at the Apollo, they are performing the African American community, to be broadcast nationally. To some, the absence of the Apollo audience denotes the absence of the community itself, and that they personally feel responsible for participating in the performance and construction of a communal identity. I personally was not expecting such a clear connection between the intentions of the audience and the argument forwarded by theorists, including Ramsey, that embodying an essentialized communal identity, such as “African American,” even when it is not seen as naturalized, is still a strategic tactic for black people in the United States.

These connections between the audience and performer and between the audience and performer and theorists lead me to question the disjuncture between the work of theorists and the actions of more common communities. While essentialist arguments, such as Ramsey’s, can and have been criticized for perpetuating racial categories rooted in the violence and racism of times past, I see these arguments as strategic, as recognition of the persistence of the same violence and racism, although it is much less overt and blatant in contemporary society. Like the Apollo audience and MC Squared, theorists who promote a collective identity based on notions of racial or ethnic identity are actively performing a certain presence. It is this performance as dissent that disrupts the normalization of racialized assumptions in our society, and it is this dissent, simultaneously a political and aesthetic act, that is strategic.