Chapman, armed with only her voice, an acoustic guitar and a microphone, was the woman for the job. Legend has it that Chapman had been called on stage to perform her songs after Stevie Wonder ran into a glitch with his technology. Like many of us around the world, that was the first time that I had seen her perform.
I remember watching Tracy Chapman perform “Fast Car” on a live broadcast from London’s Wembley Stadium for Nelson Mandela’s 70th birthday in June of 1988. Tracy Chapman captured the attention of the world with these 11 songs of struggle, resilience and survival, without cleavage, without choreography, without bling. At age 24, plucked from a coffee house near her college campus for her sincerity and stage presence and chops and offered a contract by Elektra Records, Chapman became a star, albeit a reluctant, or at least a quiet, one.
She was everywhere in pop: on Saturday Night Live (twice) touring with Sting for Amnesty International, celebrating the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in concert at The Oakland Coliseum. 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.
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