Singer-songwriter Joy Oladokun, Plus Bryan Washington
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Listener supported. WNYC Studios. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. Hanif Abdur-Rakib writes about music for The New Yorker, and he's also a celebrated poet. Songwriting is his obsession.

And lately, one of the people that Hanif has been following most closely is someone named Joy Oladokun. Here's Hanif.

Joya Latakun is one of my favorite writers, not just songwriters, but writers of anything, of all language. I have been along for the ride with her career since what seems to me like near the beginning. I found her music around 2017, 2018. And what I love about it is that I believe that she's a writer's writer, which is a phrase I use when talking about musicians, where I think they are invested in not just the lyric as a vessel for writing,

one element of a song, but they're interested in the lyric as an opportunity to build narrative worlds, to build, to reshape what a song can do. And Joy is really committed to that. That comes to life most vibrantly on her newest record, Proof of Life, which is her fourth album and the album of hers that has gotten the most attention thus far in her career. I was thrilled to get to talk to her while she was visiting New York, getting ready to play Radio City Music Hall.

This is really exciting for me because I'm such a big fan of your writing and your songs. But as a writer, I'm just so drawn to your work. But this is not on the new record, but it's a song of yours that I talk about a lot that I've actually literally used in writing workshops, talk about anticipation and breath. You have a cover of My Girl. Yes.

Thank you.

And my favorite cover before I got to yours is Otis Redding's cover because Otis sings it like he's mourning the world already that his beloved is not in. Because I feel like My Girl is a song of anticipation and longing. And you do this great thing when you sing it where you kind of add a breath and a beat to the chorus before, you know, like, what can make me feel this way? And then there's a long beat before you get to the My Girl. I adore that move.

Yeah, I think a lot of my decisions artistically, musically, and otherwise are just like informed by my life in this body that I'm inhabiting my life in. And

It's sort of my version of my girl is very much colored by the fact that I'm a queer person and I'm a woman singing about a woman. And I think that a lot of the discussions I have, I grew up like very religious, like a lot of Christian friends and stuff like that. And

Um, the conversation that I would have around coming out of the closet was that around love. Like, it's like you have your husband that you married at 20 and you love this person, you know, and I feel this same way about, you know, this, this person, they just happen to be the same sex as me. Uh, what...

what makes it, what is, what is wrong with you? You can't just like sort of like connect those dots and realize that it's just sort of the way some people are and some people aren't. And so covering My Girl to me is special because I like, I love that song so much. I love Motown. I love like,

my dad would sing My Girl and like just like cheesy songs to my mom when he got home from work. But like covering it as a queer person, thinking about love and thinking about beauty, but also thinking about the fact that like they would hear a female person singing My Girl and go, what are they going to change the lyric to? I sort of wanted to give the listener time to be like,

I'm going to have to accept that what's coming next is my girl. And like that, that is just as valid to this person as it was to Otis Redding, as it was to, you know, all the millions of men and women who have covered it in different ways. Since you're holding a guitar, do you have the ability to play that? Just that small chorus part? Or was that the... I think I could do that. Maybe. I'm going to have to tune it. Just a second. Oh, better. Me guess.

Thank you for that. Yeah. Just a little breath. Yeah. And I think a world exists in that little breath, which I enjoy. I've been a fan of yours for a long time. Like, Proof of Life is not my entry point. But to a lot of people, it might be. Or to some people, it might be.

And Proof of Life is kind of hailed as like, you know, the kind of making it album. I think I've read people talk about it as like the breakthrough album, all these kind of things. And I think what I love about it is I love a so-called breakthrough album wherein the artist is not ambivalent about breaking through, but perhaps realistic about, you know, this shit ain't always, this shit ain't what it feels like. You know, like what it feels like to you is not entirely what it feels like to me. And I think so much of that impulse permeates the album in the

in a way that to me is like not also steeped in gratitude. I think what I like about Trying is that it is also steeped in a type of gratitude, like the whole album. It is imbued with this sense of understanding gratitude while still wrestling with some hard realities. Joy, would you mind playing Trying for us? Yeah. Got brought up for an award today Wearing clothes I bought out in L.A.

Back home my mother's crying 'Cause daddy's going blind And it looks like sister's popping pills again I don't think it ever ends This feeling that you'll never win Guess I don't mind it 'Cause I just keep trying I've been down the soul before Fighting in a thousand wars Not sure how far the line is Hoping to find it I just keep trying

I just keep trying All my friends are unhappy All my heroes are dead People tell me their problems Wonder why I don't rest I'm trying to find my breathing Trying to find the meaning This life will not come around again I don't think it ever ends This feeling that you'll never win Guess I don't mind it Cause I just keep trying I've been down this road before

Fighting in a thousand wars Not sure how far the line is Hoping to find it I just keep trying I just keep trying I keep trying To keep my head up Through the storm Trying to find some place of my own Where life ain't as mean as it's been

I keep trying to soothe the savage sounds in my mind Saying I've fallen too far behind from the places I wanna go And I don't think it ever ends, this feeling that you'll never win Guess I don't mind it, cause I just keep trying I've been down this road before, fighting in a thousand wars

Not sure how far the line is, hoping to find it. I just keep trying. I just keep trying. I just keep trying. One thing that's interesting to me that I've kind of tried to add more nuance to is this idea that, you know, as someone who loves Black music and has spent a lot of time immersed in Black music, I know so much of it is tied to the church. And so when we say things like,

well, these black folks came up in the church. I sometimes think that gets put under this umbrella that is kind of heteronormative, right? Or even, you know, kind of ignores the sometimes brutalities of

and sexual relationships, like, you know, heteronormative and gendered relationships within the church. And so when I talk about, when I read about your upbringing and talk about your upbringing and think about, okay, well, this is a person who came up in the church, but in a very different way. But I also read that you wanted to be a preacher at some point. Like, you had aspirations of being a preacher to the point where you, like, took it kind of seriously. And so, yeah, you know, I was curious about your relationship to gospel as a form.

Yeah. I really love gospel music and like, I think maybe just religious art and music in general. Like my, I just like, I was in the car with someone and they were playing like a synagogue music for after someone sits Shiva. And I was like, this is stunning. What is this? I think that there's something maybe in me that just sort of responds to, I think collective feelings.

purposeful singing and that's my relationship to gospel is like I think the part of me that wanted to be like a preacher or pastor or went to Bible college was like I'm of course you want to influence people to be the best versions of themselves and to be the best version of yourself and

In reality, I don't know that it's working as well as they think it's working. And so I like when I came out of the closet and like it became apparent that my quote unquote lifestyle was incompatible with the values of the whatever. I for me, it became OK. I'm not throwing the.

baby out. I'm just throwing out this stanky bathwater, you know? And like, I don't know that I would call myself religious still, but I do like, I'm just always going to have that lens of like growing up very religious. And I found that most of my satisfaction has come from

saying here's what is beautiful about what I learned in that system and here's how I'll carry it with me as I move forward into this next part of my life.

I read that there was a video of Tracy Chapman that you watched when you were young that drove you towards learning guitar. Can I guess what the... I don't know. I didn't read beyond to see what the video was because I was like, I would like to guess. Because I have my favorite Tracy Chapman videos. I love this game. And I did the thing where I was like, Joy was born in 92. So was it the Nelson Mandela concert? Yes.

Okay, that's like my favorite Tracy thing in the world. So I just assume that everyone discovered Tracy Chapman by falling in love with that video. Same. I watch it like once a week, probably. Get a fast car. I want to take her to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere. Any place is better. Starting from zero, got nothing to lose. Maybe we'll make something.

Like, I just... What a... What a force...

My favorite thing about Tracy Chapman is that she is still alive and that she seems to be just happy ignoring us. Like, I love. But that video, a black queer person, and I didn't know they were queer at that time because I was like 10 watching this video, but I could guess. Like, standing in front of thousands of people with a guitar and that's it. And their voice and their words are...

I'm like, I don't even know if that takes confidence. I think it takes this like,

I don't know, maybe it's like faith. Maybe it's, I think it's conviction. Like I think what blows me away about Tracy Chapman still is like everything she said about her career and her relationship to it, you could just sort of tell that what drove her to open her mouth in the first place was conviction, like belief in her values and belief that like if people would only think about this, it might change the world.

And I was 10 years old watching someone who looked like me play the guitar. I didn't know the extent to which she would become my hero then.

But alone on the fact that she was herself doing what she did in the way that she did it, it changed the trajectory of my life. Like I asked my parents for a guitar that Christmas. Like it was all I could talk about. And I just like I never want to understate that.

the value that that representation had for me because I just like I truly I don't see that video maybe eventually I become a musician but I like it really was just like the absolute match that lit you know the fuse of which would it like it trace that video is why we're talking today a hundred percent and

Joy, thank you for talking to me. Would you, if you don't mind, as we part ways, will you play us another song? Yeah. Thank you, Joy. I grew up out in the desert where I learned to drive alone.

Lived in LA till it broke me, oh I rolled on like a stone Found a girl and found a job just like they say good people do Oh but every now and then I turned to salt inside her wounds Oh and all is you can't, we won't let go

Keeping the light on, light on ain't easy Keeping the fight on so long is hard to do For all the times you feel the weight There might just be a better way Won't deny that it feels so hard When the night gets so dark Keep keeping the light on

And I'm trying to get better. Every day I chase the sun. And I pray it's worth the heartache when I'm done. Oh, and all is you can't. We won't let go.

Keeping the light on, light on ain't easy, no Keeping the fight on so long is hard to do For all the times you feel the weight There might just be a better way Won't deny that it feels so hard When the night gets so dark Keep keeping the light on

Try to give a little, try to be a little, try to see a light in the dark. Try to give a little, try to be a little, try to see a light in the dark. Try to give a little, try to give a little, try to see a light in the dark. Try to give a little, try to be a little, try to see a light in the dark. But we can't, we won't let go. Keeping the light on, light on ain't easy.

Keeping the fight on so long is hard to do. For all the times you feel the weight, there might just be a better way. Won't deny that it feels so hard when the night gets so dark. Keep keeping the light on. We did it. Joy Oladokun. And she sang Keeping the Light On in the studio at WNYC.

Her latest album is called Proof of Life, and she spoke with Hanif Abdur-Rakib of The New Yorker. This is The New Yorker Radio Hour with more to come.

I'm Maria Konnikova. And I'm Nate Silver. And our new podcast, Risky Business, is a show about making better decisions. We're both journalists whom we light as poker players, and that's the lens we're going to use to approach this entire show. We're going to be discussing everything from high-stakes poker to personal questions. Like whether I should call a plumber or fix my shower myself. And of course, we'll be talking about the election, too. Listen to Risky Business wherever you get your podcasts.

This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. Next week marks the official start of summer, the solstice. But in places like Houston, Texas, it's already well into the 90s. Right now it's a little bit past six and it is sufficiently swampy. Yeah, and it's kind of, it's pretty disgusting outside actually. But I think that's just what we've got to work with until July-ish and then it'll only get swampier and then it'll disappear around November.

Brian Washington is a Houston native who's published essays and short fiction in The New Yorker. And a couple of years back, Brian took us to one of his favorite places in the city, a local institution known as the West Alabama Ice House. Now, what exactly is an ice house?

I think the idea of an ice house is really debatable, and I think the only consistency with everyone's definitions is that there really is no one true definition of what an ice house is. Some folks would argue that it has to have been a place that literally sold ice at some point in time. Some people could argue that an ice house's signifier is shitty parking to sort of accentuate the fact that it's a community hub and people from the community would walk over and just hang out.

Some people would argue that an ice house had to have originally served as a sort of convenience store because that's how many ice houses started out and that they sold ice, you know, they sold milk, they sold bread because it was a place that could keep those things cool. I think it's literally different from a regular bar in that swaths of it are outside and swaths of it are populated by benches and...

The Ice House doesn't sell liquor either. They sell beer, they sell cider, they sell water, they sell sodas, but they don't sell hard liquors. This is not something that they do. So if you were walking from off the road, like you're just walking to the Ice House from off the street, you're going to run right into some benches. You might stub your toe on one of them as you head your way to the bar, and if you turn the corner, there's a bit of an awning with a series of TVs, or most folks are watching whatever basketball game. Right now it's the playoffs.

They're just so inconsistent, getting them to show up. I know that one chicken truck was very inconsistent, but it's summertime now. We need to get a go at it. You know I want to eat. Well, I think the concept of the ice house started in the late 1800s because you had these ships that were coming down from Maine to the Gulf of Mexico, and they would stop over in Galveston, and that's where they would unload and sell the ice that they had left over.

I first started coming to the Ice House because it was a meeting place or a sort of nexus point because the first time I was hanging out in Montrose,

I had never been in this neighborhood before, so I was just still exploring it, mostly just like gay clubs and gay bars around the area. And it was a great place to meet people because everyone knew where it was. So it served as a sort of landmark. So you could pregame and get a beer or whatever for significantly cheaper than you would at whatever bar or club that you were going to and then just go off and enjoy your evening. So it served as a sort of introduction to the neighborhood and this part of town for me, and it's sort of remained in my life since then.

Hey, what's up? How are you doing? How are you? Pretty good. Yeah, can I get a bohemian and can we also get a topo chico? I've had not great experiences in ice houses as well. I've gotten kicked out of this particular ice house twice.

the first time that I got kicked out, I was just hanging out with some friends and we were sitting next to a table and there was like this group of like burlier white guys and they were talking very loud. And one of them was pretty virulently homophobic, which now I've sort of, now I would not have the reaction that I did then. But as someone who had just like come out a few years ago, I hadn't been, I hadn't had too many contacts with like blatant open homophobia. So I,

I picked a fight and it was like, I say kicked out, but that's a bit of a euphemism. It's not like it's a movie where we were literally thrown out. But, you know, the bartender came over and they like shoot us out. And like that was my end of, you know, the end of my relationship with the Ice House for a few months or, you know, a little while. The other time I broke up with someone. But yeah, we had a pretty significant argument being, you know, right before we were asked politely to leave. Yeah.

I'm not a DJ, though. Yasha, what do you want to hear? I'd say these days I'm here about once or twice a week. And if I'm here on a weekend, let's say, then I'm probably working on something. So I'll have my laptop and I'll just edit whatever I need to edit or just work on emails or whatever for a few hours. And then inevitably I'll end up people watching and just sort of gelling in with the ice house itself, whatever the vibe is that particular day.

There have been times where I've been here and there have been like wedding parties, let's say, and they've asked me to like sit with them. Like they might have like too much beer or they might have too much food and you end up talking to people and you get swept up in whatever the excitement is. It's a space where I've just like lived here, you know, sort of run through the spectrum of emotions. And I can't think of too many places outside of like an actual home or an actual workplace where that would be the case.

Brian Washington at the West Alabama Ice House in the Montrose neighborhood of Houston. We spoke with Washington in 2019 and his novel Family Meal is set to come out in the fall. I'm David Remnick. That's our program for today. Thanks for listening and we'll see you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.

Our theme music was composed and performed by Meryl Garbess of Tune Arts with additional music by Louis Mitchell. This episode was produced by Max Balton, Brita Green, Adam Howard, Kalalia, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, and Ngofen Mputubwele, with guidance from Emily Botin and assistance from Harrison Kieflein, Michael May, David Gable, and Alejandra Decke. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherena Endowment Fund.