I remember the first time I shared the “Birmingham Sunday” song with the students I taught in a media class. We were analyzing music as a form of history in order to understand the political climate of that time.
Joan Baez’s voice was unlike anything we (the students and I) had ever heard. It was a sound representing the silenced. Understanding that nuance requires a willingness to let your soul feeeeel it. My soul was screaming:
“Come 'round by my side and I'll sing you a song
I'll sing it so softly it'll do no one wrong
On Birmingham Sunday, the blood ran like wine and the choir kept singing of freedom
That cold autumn morning, no eyes saw the sun and Addie Mae Collins, her number was one
In an old Baptist church, there was no need to run And the choir kept singing of freedom…”
This is the artist’s work. To create art that represents the time. Sometimes, when I feel weary and drained and unheard and unappreciated, I remember the artists of this time—the constant smell of danger mixed with the fantasy of American safety.
Bombed churches, ribbons and legs among the rubble. A bolder lodged in a little girl’s head. The parents forced to identify her.
Richard Fariña wrote the words that Baez performed in sound so provocative, you cannot bear to hear it though you must.
Fariña died 3 years later in a motorcycle cycle accident.
Decades later, I would be sharing his work to a group of students who may or may not get it.
Is it the job of the artist to care about that?
I still wonder.