At the beginning of the 1980s, Marvin Gaye’s life and career were on the skids. Two poorly received albums, two failed marriages, a strained relationship with his label and serious troubles with the IRS had fueled a spiraling cocaine addiction and left the Prince of Soul a shadow of himself. Following a chaotic European tour, Gaye, increasingly despondent and paranoid, had relocated to London where he let his self-destructive tendencies run wild. Upon learning that Gaye was living across the Channel, Freddy Cousaert, a Belgian local promoter/boxing gym owner and soul music aficionado from Ostend took upon himself to convince the singer to trade London and its poisonous influence for the Belgian seaside and to help him get his life back on track. Against all odds, Gaye accepted the invitation, he would later comment that he “didn’t even know where Belgium was” but that he “left it to the hand of God”. And so, in February 1981, Gaye boarded a ferry and found himself headed to the city of Ostend, a modest port town and faded seaside resort once prized by the European upper class.
The change of scenery proved providential if incongruous. Gaye readily embraced the laidback rhythm of the city. Speaking neither Flemish nor French, he saw himself a monk in retreat and found in his self-imposed exile a soothing detachment and a welcome anonymity. With the help of Cousaert, Gaye kicked his drug habit, started exercising again and soon he was working on what would become Midnight Love. Gaye ended up spending nearly two years in Ostend, living first with the Cousaert family and eventually moving into a small flat on the seafront, there he penned the centerpiece of his new album: Sexual Healing (with a music video partly filmed at the Ostend casino). The release of Midnight Love to great acclaim in fall 1982 prompted Gaye’s return to Los Angeles to the disappointment of Cousaert who had nourished hopes of promoting a local tour and whose fears of a relapse for the singer would soon find tragic confirmation…
Filmed on 16mm film with little to no budget by a young Belgian filmmaker who barely knew who Marvin Gaye was at the time, Richard Olivier’s Transit Ostend (recut in a longer 56 minutes version in 2001 as Remember Marvin Gaye) remains today a unique and sober record of Gaye’s strange Ostend interlude. Part reenactment for the camera, part Gaye’s musings, part fly on the wall footage, the documentary filmed in just a couple of days captures the incongruous ordinariness of Gaye’s everyday activities and delivers a couple of musical gems (a piano solo version of Come Get to This and Distant Lover, a rehearsal of I Want You and an a capella rendition of The Lord’s Prayer in front of a couple of amused churchgoers).
Since the tragic death of David Foster Wallace on September 15, 2008, we’ve seen a small but significant number of works by the author unearthed for the first time, or cannily repackaged. These include his incomplete novel The Pale King, his 2005 commencement speech for Kenyon College, and even his undergraduate senior thesis. Still out of print, however, and selling for hundreds of dollars used, is Wallace and Mark Costello’s 1990 book Signifying Rappers: Rap and Race in the Urban Present. This book is often diminished by those studying Wallace, even though it is an early example of the author’s published non-fiction. According to 2003’s Understanding David Foster Wallace by Marshall Boswell, Wallace’s non-fiction career was based “on the strength of Signifying Rappers.” And so, it seems strange to treat a book about hip-hop co-authored by David Foster Wallace as barely even a footnote, especially when his college papers have been made available.
One problem, it seems, is that Wallace was candid in his dislike of his early work, and didn’t comment on the book very much. As a result, Signifying Rappers has garnered a reputation as insubstantial, or even a little bit of an embarrassment. In D.T. Max’s new biography of Wallace, Every Love Story is a Ghost Story, Max dismisses the author’s interest in rap: “Wallace’s passion for rap was theoretical, verbal, abstract. The music never touched him as did the stoner songs of high school or the moody tripping songs of Amherst. His interest had the quality of a very smart kid slumming it.” Most slumming-it smart kids didn’t take the time to co-author a book about the then-burgeoning genre, though.
In the Village Voice , with the snarky glee of an Internet rap-blog commenter in the 2000s, Robert Christgau mocked Costello and Wallace’s inability to get their facts straight. Indeed, they did forget about Run-DMC’s King Of Rock when they moved through the group’s discography, and they hinged the book’s conclusion on misheard lyrics from Ice-T’s “The Hunted Child.” As the 140-page theory-soaked rant comes to a close, Costello and Wallace celebrate “a five-minute untraceable cut” with the “inscrutable chorus ‘Honeychild / I’m the honeychild.’”
Wallace didn’t like the book and “the dean of American rock critics” panned it, so most people decided that it wasn’t worth reading. Christgau’s criticisms are certainly valid, but they also seem beside the point. This is a book that works because its authors have more enthusiasm than knowledge, and don’t know any of the rules for how they’re “supposed” to approach rap music. That can be thrilling.
Signifying Rappers is also incredibly mindful of its whiteness, and even seems to predict the self-aware, open-source-inspired explosion of excited, amateur-ish blogging of the 2000s. The first part of the book is called “Entitlement,” and the book’s premise is pretty simple: Here are two dorks with “an uncomfortable, somewhat furtive, and distinctly white enthusiasm for a certain music called rap/hip-hop.” While their outsider-ness allows for goofy gaffes like not knowing an Ice-T song they probably should know if they’re going to write a book about rap, it also provides them with a nutty, ballsy freedom to riff and explore. A favorite is Costello’s dissection of Jesse Jackson’s lie about witnessing Martin Luther King Jr. die while sporting a shirt that Jackson claimed was splattered with the blood of MLK. Jackson wasn’t there, and this epic fib becomes (if you buy into Costello’s theorizing) one of the sources for hip-hop’s signifying and \complex wrestling between reality and “reality.”
Even if Signifying Rappers' obsequious style puts you off, it remains a fascinating artifact. It's quasi-juvenilia from one of American literature's best postmodern writers. And it's hip-hop commentary from a time when the genre was still forming, and the rules for how to approach this stuff critically, weren't established quite yet. It gives the book an unfettered freedom that couldn't exist at any other moment in hip-hop history.
The piece— originally called 8’37” (at times also 8’26”), perhaps as a nod to John Cage —applies the sonoristic technique and rigors of specific counterpoint to an ensemble of strings treated to unconventional scoring. Penderecki later said “It existed only in my imagination, in a somewhat abstract way.” When he heard an actual performance, “I was struck by the emotional charge of the work…I searched for associations and, in the end, I decided to dedicate it to the Hiroshima victims”. The piece tends to leave an impression both solemn and catastrophic, earning its classification as a threnody.