ONCE YOU GET STARTED

Vivian Phillips
Jun 25
3 min read

Updated: Jun 25

June is Black Music Month! A fact made especially clear by the central role music played in nearly every Juneteenth celebration earlier this month. At every event I attended, one moment in particular stood out: the instant the beat dropped for "Boots on the Ground" by 803Fresh. Without fail, fans snapped open in unison, line dance steps were taught and shared, and the crowd called out together—“Where them fans at?!”

But line dancing isn’t just for Juneteenth. Earlier this year, in February, the Library of Congress hosted a celebration of line dance history in its majestic Great Hall, as part of its Community on the Line project. I’m still moved by the image of a sea of beautiful Black folks—mostly women—whipping fans to the rhythm of the music beneath the grandeur of one of the most iconic buildings in the nation.

As a child, music was constant. It filled our home and the homes of all our relatives. The radio played endlessly, and our turntables spun the voices that became the soundtrack of my upbringing in Seattle’s Central District. The soulful tones of Brook Benton, Shirley Bassey, Joe Williams, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Martha and the Vandellas were as familiar to me as the scent of Sunday dinner.

I’ll never forget the first vinyl album I ever owned—a gift from one of my brothers: "Going to a Go-Go" by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. I must’ve played “Ooo Baby Baby,” “The Tracks of My Tears,” and “Choosy Beggar” a hundred times the day I received the album, imagining every choreographed step perfectly executed by the Motown greats.

Back then, radio and physical record stores were what streaming platforms are today. But there’s something missing now—the warmth of a DJ's voice weaving narrative into the music, and the thrill of discovering new sounds while chatting with people in the aisles of a neighborhood record store. I was lucky to spend my late teenage and early adult years working in radio—surrounded by music, music artists, and joy every single day. I also worked in a local music distribution center and a record store, places where music wasn’t just played—it was lived.

Ask any of my three children what Chaka Khan, Miles Davis, or Barry White mean to them, and they’ll probably start by recalling how Chaka’s music was the Saturday morning anthem. When the drums hit, the horns chime in, and Chaka Khan enters the song with her signature roar on “Once You Get Started,” you knew it was time to get up and start cleaning. No alarm clocks needed!

In Black culture, Black music is more than sound. It’s spiritual. From field songs to Negro spirituals, from jazz to R&B, rap to country, Black music is both message and method. As LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka) wrote in Black Music (1967), “Black people’s songs have carried the fire and struggle of their lives since they first opened their mouths in this part of the world.”

To me, that fire is our passionate style of living—our bold self-expression and refusal to be silenced. It's the heat that rises from our struggle and our joy, our resilience and our celebration. Our music speaks when words alone fail. Protest songs become rhythms of resistance. Love songs become healing balm. We sing, we chant, we dance—because we must.

Since the COVID times, I’ve made it a point to experience live Black music every chance I get. Yes, I stream music and spin vinyl, like most folks do. But nothing compares to the call-and-response of a live Black music performance—the shared energy, the raised voices, the communal heartbeat.

As we celebrate the 46th Annual Black Music Month, may we not only listen to Black music, may we live it. May we show up, dance, support, sing along, and let live Black music lead the way.

Vivian Phillips, Founder + Board President