My father has been obsessed with Billy Eckstine for as long as I can remember. As a black boy coming of age in colonial Jamaica in the 1950s, my father had before him many images of dignified, educated, black and brown West Indian professional men: teachers and civil servants, trade union leaders and lawyers. But Billy Eckstine was different. The devastatingly handsome African American crooner led big bands composed of jazz luminaries like Dizzy Gillespie. Eckstine refused to walk through the back door of any Jim Crow American establishment because, as Miles Davis later recounted, “B didn’t take no shit off nobody.”1 Yet this race rebel came packaged in the accoutrements of High Style: the tailored suits, the cigar holder, the throngs of screaming black—and white—women. Eckstine played music that was inescapably associated with blackness; yet he was thoroughly modern. In the colonial Caribbean, blackness and cosmopolitanism were mutually exclusive traits. Yet here was Billy Eckstine, a black man, an American: he was Modern Blackness, personified. Reading Michelle Stephens’s Black Empire, I was reminded of the admiration my father’s generation had for African American men like Paul Robeson and Billy Eckstine.2 And I was
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