Nevertheless, New Orleans Persists

October 2018. A friend of 5 years had been planning an evening at Brooklyn Steel to witness a double header featuring Big Freedia and the headliner, Tank and the Bangas. I was beside myself. It was an immediate, resounding yes.

In early 2017, I was introduced to the unconventional, magical sound of Tank and the Bangas via a bookstore coworker. It was merely days before the group was introduced to the world in their joyous NPR Tiny Desk performance. If it is possible to experience love at first sound, Tank became muse and master of my heart.

Blend funk, pop, tinges of gospel, R&B crooning, musical theatre hijinks, ridiculously entertaining costumes and a smile greater than the sun and you have a foundational understanding of the alchemical workings of Tank.

https://youtu.be/QKzobTCIRDw

Everything that comes out of her mouth, out of her spirit, is life-filled. She sings with immense range, equally playful and poignant. One of the key components of music is its ability to reach the hearts of the peolpe who hear it. Not only do you become enraptured in her Tank's tone but you fall steadily in love with her story.

Tarriona Tank Ball is from a family of pastors. Born and raised in New Orleans, she discovered poetry and went on to win slam competitions and eventually began blending her writings with music. In so many ways, she is a product of the brilliant Black women who have come before her--the righteous indignation of Nina Simone, the soulful laments of Mahalia Jackson and Aretha Franklin, the lyricism of Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu and even the vast uniqueness in voice akin to artists like Sarah Vaughn or Sade.

Though she leads a fierce group of instrumentalists and background vocalists, Tank is a show in herself. While at the concert on the front row, I wasn't sure if I was attending a rock concert, a jazz festival, a gospel show or an amusement park pavillion exposition. She thins out her voice to sound like that of a child, lets the bottom out when she frees herself in her spoken word, she is a soundtrack made flesh.

What's most brilliant about Tank and her Bangas is that she is just getting started in the eyes of the public. Though they've been active for nearly a decade, the group is committed to reinventing itself. Only last year were their efforts recognized by the Grammy Awards for best new year artist. I'd known about them for 3 years prior to that nomination yet here they were. New. I'm sure the people of New Orleans who've heard their work for years before me were equally as surprised and tickled by awards that don't mean a thing or accurately follow new artists when they are in fact new.

New Orleans underwent incalcuable damage in 2005 after Hurricane Katrina. I visited the area for an alternative spring break community service trip through Howard University in 2010. I don't remember how the destruction but I do remember the people. Lively and spirits warm and welcoming like gumbo on a cold day. I don't remember the laborious hours we spent in the Louisiana sun but I do remember the feeling of disappointment when we stood by the levees. I don't remember too well our accomodations but I remember the food in the French Quarter and the libations on Bourbon Street. The music in the streets and of the people. Much like the city that survived, Tank and the Bangas is the manifestation of the city Tank was reared by--resilient, colorful and magical beyond reason.

Ironically enough, the one song of Tank's that resonates so deeply with me is one that includes no singing at all but what I assume to be part of her spoken word. It is titled Instructions on Being. She sings through her pain, through her life still being lived, through the complicated creation that is her legacy, her blackness, her home of New Orleans. It makes sense that the 'prestigious' awards committee only just nominated her and why people have such a difficult time pinpointing the genre of the group. In Instructions on Being, I believe Tank articulates what Nina Simone stated as the artist's responsibility to 'reflect the times.' How better the reflect the times of what it means to be human with the following lyrics.

One, fuck him, I love you.

Two, you are everything your mama forgot to tell you.

Three, forgive your dad, he has Alzheimer's.

Four, shut up, your little brother looks up to you.

Five, you should try fingerpainting somtime.

Six, stop looking for your reflection to wave back at you.

You are the same person.

Seven, stop looking for the congratulations in your mom's eyes.

She is proud of you.

Eight, record your heartbeat, and play it in reverse.

It sounds the same. You are still here.

Nine, your niece is holding fire for you in her hand,

just for your attention, she will burn herself with everything that you forgot to saturate with love. Call your sister.

Shut up. Admit to your friends why you are always crying.

God, it is amazing what you tell yourself when you think no one is watching.

Treat your self and your senses and listen and be renewed. Be revealed.