I tell you, it hit me like a lead hammer. Knocked the wind right out of me. I sure wasn’t expecting that when I went to Facebook the day after Martin Luther King Day I’d find that several of my friends had posted laudatory bits in tribute to the serial plagiarizing, serial fornicating commie. I can’t get over it. I’m totally bummed out.
I’ve been in Facebook jail more times than I care to remember. You can only get away with so much on there. But still, I thought I was getting through to these people. I’m talking about close friends, people I thought I knew! It made me want to just throw in the towel. Drop everything. Find me some cheap land in the middle of nowhere, far away from everyone. Trade my TV and Internet for a shotgun and a shack to keep it in; just shut the world out completely. I’ve always had hermitic tendencies; it appears my destiny stands ready to overtake me.
I’m a Southern man of unmixed genetic extraction, unless you count my distant Neanderthal relations. The city I live in, on the other hand, is forty-plus percent black. The white people here, if they don’t get what the problem with that is, it’s not for lack of exposure to it. And it’s really starting to get to me that so many no longer do seem to get it. We had this race thing figured out long before the rest of the country. We figured it out so long ago that we seem to be forgetting the hard lessons our great-grandfathers’ great-grandfathers worked out a century or three ago.
I don’t think of myself as old at all, but the more time passes, the more I’m amazed at how much things have changed in my lifetime. I have cousins who grew up in nineteenth-century households: no electricity or running water, kerosene lamps, wood-burning cook stoves, outhouses, chickens and pigs, the whole nine. As for me, I had it made. I was from “the big city,” as they called it, though it was anything but.
I was born into a segregated America that was still ninety-plus percent white. I experienced three years of all-white public schooling. I remember how angry everyone was when integration was forced upon us. I remember how happy everyone was upon learning of MLK’s death. Well, not happy, really – it was more like the sort of feeling one has when something that should have never happened in the first place is made right. “He got what he had coming. Now what’s for supper?” If any celebrating did occur, it needs no defending. Martin Luther King did nearly single-handedly destroy Western civilization, after all.
I remember walking all over town, at seven or eight years old, in complete safety, without so much as seeing a black face. Blacks knew to stay in their own neighborhoods. I don’t doubt that they preferred it there. Did we hate blacks? No, actually. Not really. We had no reason to. We rarely even saw them, apart from the occasional housekeeper or babysitter.
But it’s important that we understand racial hatred. There’s a purpose behind it beyond just venting anger. We certainly did express racial hatred. No question about that. The worst possible insult was to call a fellow-white a nigger. (We didn’t even know what a homosexual was; there were none.) But it was an insult rarely attached to an actual black person. (Adults usually referred to them as niggras, a mispronunciation of the word negro, but not meant as an insult.)
The purpose of a racial insult is to serve as a mechanism for maintaining the bright line between the races. It is to remind our white selves that we are on one side of that line and they on the other, and you’d better not dare cross that line. And why? We have only to look around us in our modern dystopia-trending America to see why. Racial integration brings societal disintegration. Earth and water are two fine things that, when combined, make mud. Perhaps quicksand would be the better metaphor.
I rarely see white babies anymore. It seems like every third white female I see is dragging around some hideous bi-racial bastard child, the very embodiment of America’s retrograde future. It truly disgusts me.
I’m perpetually bemused to think about how protective of white female sexuality even my recent ancestors were, and how the very thing they worked so hard to defend has now been given over so freely and so nearly completely to the enemy. It is an incredible insult to my people. It offends me to my core. It is a true and justifiable rationale for war.
With more than one racial/cultural group in a given area, it is extremely important to maintain the barriers between them. Barriers maintain the peace. Without them, violent conflict is inevitable. The majority must maintain its power over the minority. Sure, it sucks if you are that minority. Sorry, that’s just how it is. If you don’t want to be the downtrodden minority, then remove yourself from the presence of the majority.
But we know all too well that sheer numbers do not guarantee that one’s group will rule. Blacks are rapidly coming to dominate whites. And they, who have never assimilated themselves, now assimilate us. The negrification of America is upon us. But, of course, this would not be possible without Jewish help. The negro may wear the crown, but Jews – the true rulers of Western civilization today – pull the strings that make the negro dance.
But I don’t want to excuse the role of whites here. As I think about what I want to say next, it occurs to me that whereas some of the people I know are fairly well-exposed to minorities, and others barely at all, I have to deal with minorities far more than just about anybody I can imagine. And that’s why this is such an important issue to me. In fact, it is the thing that turned me from being a liberal, something that happened over a half-decade ago. Familiarity breeds contempt.
I’ll spare you the details of my dealings with minorities except to mention one particular area: music. I am a musician, as are most of my friends. Maybe it was the early influence of Ritchie Blackmore (Deep Purple’s guitarist) and his love of Renaissance music, castles, and seances – white people stuff. Maybe it was the unavoidably offbeat perspectives dictated by my left-handedness. Whatever it was, I’ve always stood apart from most of the musicians around me.
I noticed very early on that I had a strong attraction to the European approach to music. American music holds little interest for me. On one side, you have the minor-keyed sophistication of the European tradition (you’d be surprised at how many so-called American musicians can’t solo in a minor key), and on the other side the deadly dull major-key, blues-based American tradition. The former is rich in deep emotion, the latter shallow and frivolous by comparison. One uplifts the heart and stimulates the brain, the other is more about the nether regions. All my musical heroes were European.
These are gross generalizations, of course, but I think it points to the presence or absence of an African influence and its effect on the musical culture of those societies. Africans in America influenced European popular music as well, but could not completely destroy it. That came later.
I remember once coming across a question somewhere that went something like, “What was the worst mistake in history?” I jokingly answered, “the 1960s.” We all love rock and roll. (Or do we? It seems to have disappeared.) But it signaled the arrival of the negro as a cultural force to be reckoned with. It likewise signaled the beginning of the end for white America. One has to wonder what music would have resulted instead, had there been no negro to pollute our white musical culture.
Another characteristic I noticed that distinguishes the European from the American approaches is what I call “try hardism.” American (((music critics))) hate musicians who push back the edges of their limitations, or who work hard to create something spectacular. The opposite of “try hardism” is, of course, the negro, who seems to rarely try at anything. (Nevertheless, all respect to those who do; they do exist.)
Black musicians are celebrated for their spontaneity and their improvisational-oriented approach not just to music but to humor, food, and other areas, I’m sure – occasionally to disastrous result. He who does not prepare, flounders. Sometimes it works, often it doesn’t. What if an anesthesiologist or a medical diagnostician were to take such a lackadaisical approach? As pertains to music, one has to wonder how much of black success is due to the million monkeys at a million typewriters effect. Put enough of them to the task and one of them is bound to write – well, at least at the level of a Ta-Nehisi Coates. (What kind of moron would name a kid that?)
I’ve played with black musicians who are a living, breathing testament to this approach. For the sake of brevity, I actually removed a long paragraph from this essay which described a particular individual who epitomized this characteristic. And not in a good way. This sort of half-assery makes me anxious. I can’t live like that. I believe in working hard, and being the best I can be. So much of the black music that forms the basis of popular American music is just made up on the spot  (and it shows), with no real thought put into it. But, as in so many other areas of life, the negro gets a pass. He does little, but is nevertheless richly rewarded.
I wonder sometimes where the line is drawn between critic-perceived genius and mere total crap. So much of what gets rewarded in the music business is just awful. But because somebody with no taste and a lot of money to back it likes it, it becomes a standard for all to follow.
Many of my friends are blues fans. I did the blues thing decades ago. I’ve moved on. I consider it beginner’s music. (In the hands of a Robben Ford, it’s wonderful – otherwise, forget it.) It bores me. I felt this way even when I was a liberal and was not questioning the racial aspects of this music. I guess I understand the attraction white musicians have for black music. It’s a novelty. It’s something that we wouldn’t have come up with on our own. We embrace it, put an inevitably white spin on it, and call it ours. But it’s not truly ours. It’s an example of blacks assimilating us. We have been robbed of our own music. Who even knows anything about the white music that existed before the cultural pollution brought by the negro, and sold to us by the Jew?
We white musicians – and similarly in the athletic domain – have risen in our fields respecting talented black musicians. Some of us have played in bands with them. Many white musicians even come to emulate the black character (or lack thereof; the stories I could tell . . .). How many white guitar players have wanted to be Jimi Hendrix, emulating not only his musical, but even his personal style? I’ve always rejected that musicians are supposed to be sex-crazed, drug-crazed, wild, and irresponsible. All of that – the sex, drugs, and rock and roll cliché – originates with the negro. It hardly needs saying. And Hendrix was certainly no exception in that regard.
Many white musicians currently have, or in the past have had, black friends. Some of them we’d consider fine human beings. I once thought that about a black drummer friend. It turned out that he was cheating on his wife. But hey, let’s not dig too deep into the lives of these fine friends. Bad character is no reason to end a friendship. Or is it? But many of us, liberally bent as we tend to be and eager for black friendship (why?), are willing to overlook more, perhaps, than we should.
Setting that aside, it is clear to me that most white people who are not White Nationalists, and who are not inclined to put as much distance as possible between themselves and negritude, base their liberal stance on the fact that they know (or think they know) some black they consider to be a great person. This single idea, perhaps more than any other, is the major cause of our society’s racial conundrum. Knowing one decent black person somehow excuses all the others who aren’t. It’s like saying, “I loved bacon until I got a pet pig. Now, because I love my little Porkie, I can never eat bacon again.” One little piggy saves all other piggies. No, sorry, it doesn’t work that way. We need to put that idea out of its misery once and for all.
The individual black, no matter his talent, intelligence, or character, does not absolve the group. That one of them is awesome does not mean that all – or most, or even many – are likewise awesome. Thomas Sowell is no doubt a great black man, but that’s no excuse to allow the madness of our multiracial hell to continue. Exceptions are for the exceptional, and only the exceptional.
We must separate, or one group or the other will cease to exist – and I don’t think we need to think too hard to know which that will be, given our current trajectory. We will either be genetically absorbed into the black race, or we will suffer an even more violent end. A third, and perhaps even worse fate, would be to continue to follow this undignified track down the path to subjugation, persecution, or even slavery.
I interact with many blacks. I don’t hate most of them. And I’m respectful of everyone, unless they give me a reason not to be (and many do). I imagine most people reading this approach these situations similarly. We can be respectful and even friendly with minorities. But we must never forget that friendly multiracial interaction is not the norm. Nature dictates conflict in such situations. We are made that way; our behavior is hardwired. And the veneer of civilization is particularly thin for many non-whites.
Multi-racialism is unnatural and dangerous. And even your minority friend can turn on you. In a heartbeat. It’s happened to me. Before that occasion arrives, do the smart thing: wish that person a fond farewell. Part on good terms, but part. Above all, do not allow your fondness for the one you like to color your opinion of the others, who are much less deserving of your good graces.
Remove the troublesome negro – and the others – from the picture and mentally gaze upon the wonderful world our ancestors created for us. Without the minorities, just imagine how many of our problems would immediately disappear. If we are ever to live out our birthright, we must separate ourselves from non-whites – both foe and friend.
  To be fair, the process by which most compositions begin is like some sort of serendipitous accident, when it occurs in an improvisational context. The difference is in the amount of skill and judgement applied after that initial spark of an idea. With enough work that generates options, and then choosing the ones most suitable to the piece in question, a composition of one sort or another will eventually emerge.