Watching Tracy Chapman, and listening to her 1988 self-titled debut album, helped me say what I hadn't yet said out loud.įor a brief while after the release of the album, Tracy Chapman occupied my dreams –and perhaps everyone else's. Tracy's hair sparks in a million different directions. Tracy is bold, but looks away from me as she sings. Her brown legs gleam-has she used up the last of my lotion? Tracy sings to me: revolution, problem fathers, fast cars, being jailed for who she loves. Tracy is getting me a glass of water from the bathroom, brings it to me, sitting down beside me, and her legs whisper secrets before they fold beneath her. Tracy is wearing a plain, worn, black T-shirt, no pockets, no sly sayings, and I imagine her waking up in it, in just that T-shirt, and walking around my small basement bedroom in the Oakland split-ranch that I am sharing with 5 other grad students for $200 dollars a month each, so cold we can see our breath. Photo Illustration by Renee Klahr/NPR Getty Images Courtesy of Elektra Records Tracy Chapman's debut album "was the music that I needed at a time when I felt pressure to know everything before it was taught," says writer and scholar Francesca T.
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