Week 2 / Spring 2024: The Radiance of Tracy Chapman
There was a moment after the performance ended, the room swelling to its feet in applause for Tracy Chapman and her legend, when the camera pans to Oprah, and she throws her hands in the air and yells, “TRACY CHAPMAN! WOOOO!” Seemingly in all caps. She was raptured and delighted, like the rest of us: in that room, or watching from home, or trying like hell to find the full recording on the internet because we missed it. It’s only been something like twelve hours since Tracy Chapman made a surprise appearance on the Grammy stage to join country artist, Luke Combs, for a performance of her timeless record, “Fast Car.”
Not being an avid watcher of the Grammy’s, I only stumbled upon knowledge of her performance because I was texting my parents about a Pickleball Slam that was simultaneously on TV. Because, well, sports! I checked to see what time the Grammy’s would start and end, and instead, I saw her name. The next hour is a blur: mostly me desperately trying to find the performance on the interweb, yelling through the covid isolation door in my home back and forth to my partner about what had just happened, texting my Gen-Z friend to see if, indeed, they might work their special TikTok powers to find me the full recording (they did, in mere minutes—gratitude for the youngins).
And the only word that I could think of to describe it all—to describe what had come over me, why there was a lump in my throat, tears welling up in my eyes (I am not a crier), why I immediately texted one of my best friends about it even though I had no idea if they, too, loved Tracy Chapman (they do), why I had to keep watching and rewatching the 1:24-minute video on “X” (just, why) until I could get the longer version of the performance—was transcendent. Tracy Chapman singing “Fast Car,” is like that: purely and deeply enchanting.
I don’t remember the first time I heard “Fast Car,” but I am aware of the ways that it has elevated particular moments in my life above the rest. It is a soundtrack to life and living in a way that I have never experienced with a song. And whatever work it has done in my brain, and my body, it’s as if its mere presence in the background of life can singlehandedly raise an otherwise mundane moment into consciousness, into memory.
There is a moment like that at Rise Coffee House. Probably five years ago now. I was doing what baristas do. Cleaning tables, taking orders, steaming milk, tasting espresso, when Tracy Chapman came on. Of course, I started singing behind the bar, joined by the person I was dating and probably anyone else who was working with us. I couldn’t help myself. But then, the chorus came on, and the whole cafe filled with the sound of her words. I suppose we couldn’t help ourselves. Three or four years into my time as a barista, I had listened to a lot of music behind that bar, and even found myself singing along more often than not. But I had never experienced a moment like that: where the whole room seemed to be overcome by a visceral need to be in it, to be enchanted, to be held.
So, there is so much that I could “read” about this cultural moment. So much to say about the energy that seemed to fill the room when people realized she was on stage. About the sweet, soft, smile that crossed her face—as, perhaps, she realized how much her work has meant to so many. About the way Luke Combs just had to mouth the words along to the parts that she was singing, because he couldn’t help himself. About the applause. The elation. The rapture that Tracy Chapman holds us in.
There is something here about the ways that music transcends, of course. The way it does something to how we enact and feel and trust in a sense of belonging. And one day, maybe even in my dissertation, I might write about that. But, also, there is simply her. And, for now, I want to celebrate that—to celebrate the gift of Tracy Chapman being on stage. So that we might hear that voice, those words, that music, again. It was (and is, as I watch on repeat this morning) simply and truly and deeply sublime.
