THE BLACK MADONNA and the Heretics
A gold-wrapped condom is iconic on an urban billboard. To the left, two law-enforcement vehicles anxiously wait at a gas station and to the right, across the street at a bank, waits an APD SUV that immediately, vrooms down the derelict street. Meanwhile, a junkie, crowned with dreads, quivers while crossing a car-lined intersection.
These are ashes, char from the wildfires of capitalism and commercialism stripping the charm from the city’s transitioning red light district. Gentri-FUCK-ation. Consuming all. Including several of the city’s vibrant queer spaces. Two are left standing, side-by-side, under a waning gibbous.
2400
“I LOVE YOUR BEARD!” A guy shouts over “Gone” by Baaz.
It’s midnight. Detroit’s native daughter, Ash Lauryn plays more confident, is most focused when Chez Damier’s “Untitled A1” plays in full. Minutes earlier, when playing Behind the Groove featuring Carla Prather’s “What You Gonna Do About It?,” the Undergound and Black curator appeared apathetic and skipped out of the Harness and Spencer Remix at the two-minute and twenty second mark. “You’ve got it,” one dancer says, wearing silver frames with blonde cropped hair, her feet glide smoothly, then spin in circles, as she gaily throws her arms in the air beaming a most inviting smile. Across the wooden floor another woman’s midnight pixie bounces left to right, her torso and legs follow, grooving to DJ Deep & Jovonn’s “Back In The Dark .” Two bearded men who pass for twins, must be dopplebangers, gyrate against each other’s groins, up and down, left to right, on a platform positioned mid-floor to DJ Sneak & Demuir’s “Untouchable Funk .” Already, the room is sexually charged. Already, the space smells of sweaty balls.
Wait! Look up and into the DJ booth. There appear two tatted arms outstretched. They embrace a woman with androgynous styled hair that swoops left. The hearty hug lasts seemingly for minutes. Photo Op!!! But!!! No one dares take out a smartphone and taps record. Instead mouths open and erupt with cheer! “Our Lady” has arrived!
A lean and denim clad Vicki Powell charges her disciples, many adorned in Deep South merch. The party’s founder throws her hands in the air and mouths off at her congregants. Mops of hair shake, mouths agape, and pink Deep South wristbands storm the air. When DJ Tonic & Havana Funk’s “Bakiri Ban” drops, Powell pumps her fists in the air igniting additional electricity from her queendom queerdom. Beautifully, the music bounces into soulful territory with Kelly G’s “Feels Good (Yeah!).” Immediately the sound system kicks to high decibels allowing the Queen of Soul to croon in high definition. Who knew Jasper Street Company’s “ A Feelin’’” (The Paradox Vocal Mix) would play at, Deep South) A party envisioned and executed by Atlanta’s own Vicki Powell. The local sheroe started the party in hopes of connecting the city’s LGBTQIA com seeking adventurous music with global ambassadors playing adventurous music. Thus, Deep South was birthed in 2016. And the rest, as people say, is
Herstory.
Born in small town Kentucky. Marea Stamper was first baptized into the waters of rave at age 14. Later, having had enough of being bullied; she dropped out of high school. She hustled. Copious jobs selling mixtapes and anything else that could be packaged and sold to PLURs. At the university with a cardinal bird as mascot, the English major she-jayed as Lady Foursquare on college radio. Then came a phone call to digitally catalogue a renowned recording label’s traxx in Chicago. CHICAGO! But of course. Later, divorced and penniless she returned home to the blue grass state. Her big break came when she moved back to Chicago becoming the premier talent buyer at the legendary smartbar. She adopted a darker moniker, “My Lady” in Latin, secured a club residency and a prestigious title as creative director, produced a handful of tracks on various labels, became a celebrated globetrotting touring sensation and even punched a police officer in an online video game trailer. Yep, she has done it all. She proves that woman can have it all. Evermore the queen rules her empire; a recording label, global parties, and merchandising of her instant recognizable brand.
WE STILL BELIEVE reads white font on a black tee. On the platform, a guy wearing leather chaps holds into the air a sign, WE STILL BELIEVE. Below, on ground level, one of the bearded twins, the one wearing a white jacket mistaken for carpet shag raises his sign, WE ALL BELIEVE. Adjacent he, another sign reads ATLANTA STILL BELIEVES.
0050
The Black Madonna wields her saintly scepter in hand upright in the air. Posed. Ready to slay at every turn. Racism. Genderism. Sexism. Heterosexism. Fascism. Nationalism. Classism. Ableism. Ageism. Her bleached blonde undercut with side swept bangs frames her white cat specs covering two dots as eyes. That stare, determined to conquer. The dance floor and possess all flesh to sway to her symphonic pathos. She slams her T shaped rod, BM monographed, made from the purest gold to the wooden floor. The mighty rod stands erect. The scepter’s disc of rays illuminated bright for all to see. Or for those who care to hear. The music she plays. Is her outspoken verse. Hers is divinity. Hers is power. She is a goddess at work.
A thunderous applause occurs albeit the first deep house number is less bang, more “I’m bored,” one of the bearded twins tells his bearded partner who replies, “Let’s move to the back.”
“I Get So Lonely,” the crowd sings along with Janet and Big Jim Wright when the music drops. The Jengi x More Edit shocks! Sending dancers to duckwalk and cheers that crescendo with the laser LED show reflecting off a shimmering disco ball before the lights go bright white, blinding retinas. The music picks pace and packs a punch. At times, the message within the music resounds the loudest. Lean in and listen closely. A voice so subtle speaks volumes. “I pray that every yoke and bondage is broken in your life.” A looped sermon from a woman evangelist preaches. “I pray deliverance.” TBM a progressive Catholic no doubt, plays Jesus music. And she doesn’t stop. She has the room soul clapping.
Absent is the intimate space connecting the fan and the music selector due to the elevated DJ station. Although, front and center the DJ quarters, the gathered mass of bodies bulks. Dancing becomes too burdensome to maneuver as the inebriated slam into bystanders. “Excuse me.” The opportunity is seized to move to the back of the room for fresher air. Perhaps more open dance space. Rear room, two college-faced boys take sprays up their noses from the same amber glass bottle, shirtless boys wearing leather straps up the ass prance about, the burly and buff, covered in head to toe body hair, squeezes the nipples of his shirtless dance partner and man purses cross broad shoulders, so are skirts worn with athletic socks and sneakers. This party is more sausage fest than U-Hauls. So where are the ladies?
Paul Johnson asks.
“You Freaky MF.”
Moodymann raps over low minimal tech.
BeBe Winans yells over Louie Vega disco.
Holy ish! Our Lady led her parishioners on a holy trinity tour of house music capitals: Chicago, Detroit, and New York City. Chicago is where the music feels most at home. Totally identifiable; juke, ghetto to marching drums permeates The Black Madonna’s soundsphere. Transitions from song to song is impeccable, a telling of fables through journey. Indeed the “He Is The Voice I Hear ” producer surely knows her music. She plays with heart. Music that speaks to the heart. Music that is authentic. And music that holds…huh. There’s a rapper spitting bars over Pal Joey featuring SoHo’s “Hot Music (Jazz)!
0230
Below television monitors flashing vintage soft porn, sweating bodies combust. Queen Madge playing Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” excites. Yet signals the time to bust. Outdoors, on the patio, where smokers inhale and exhale.
Underneath the waning gibbous, standing side-by-side, two of the city’s last gay heavens. To the right, a time-honored establishment, its reputation preceded by name. The Heretic ) derived from the Greeks and defined by the Roman Catholic Church as a professing believer not adhering to all religious dogma. Having The Black Madonna play the Heretic is apparent. Brilliantly, her music merges the sacred with the secular, at the intersection where heretics dance. For whom she plays music. Rejects. Outcasts. Misfits. Queers. Women. She would have it no other way. Surely, we are all heretics in the congregation of The Black Madonna.
words: aj dance
illustration: aj art
Herstory contains additional selected research from:
https://mixmag.net/feature/the-black-madonna-is-the-dj-of-the-year/4
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Tags: Ash Lauryn, Atlanta Georgia, Chicago house music, dance, deep house music, Deep South, ghetto house, house music, juke music, LGBTQ, queer, The Black Madonna, The Heretic, Vicki Powell