Jahmal Mayfield’s novel Smoke Kings is a haunting debut, a dark and affecting literary thriller.
“Can there ever be restitution for the harm done to generations of Black people in America? Jahmal Mayfield, in his debut novel, takes this question to a provocative extreme.”
Bob Marley recognized the soothing power of music better than most. He said when it hits you, you feel no pain. There’s a great deal of truth in that notion. Music can be an analgesic. It can calm our raging souls and quiet the ghosts that flit around the dark corners of our minds. It can heal our wounds and interfere with the voices that would have us left feeling raggedy and blue. Music can also make us think. It can alter our ideas and inspire new modes of understanding.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, music is dynamic.
During the early days of drafting my debut crime novel Smoke Kings I would crank up a few certain songs and keep them on repeat. These tunes evoked a mood I wanted to get down on the page. Grief. Anger. Hopelessness. Those were the early markers, but the more I wrote and the more I expanded my playlist and the more I listened, other emotions emerged. Vulnerability. Peacefulness. And, if not quite a sense of optimism, something close.
Told you, music is dynamic.
Smoke Kings was in part inspired by Kimberly Jones’ passionate viral video, “How can we win?”, where, stewing in her rage during the George Floyd protests, she spit what could’ve easily been the lyrics to an old Public Enemy song, saying, “And they are lucky that what Black people are looking for is equality and not revenge.”
Whew! Easy to imagine those words flying out of Chuck D’s mouth. Also, easy enough for this writer to play the what-if game and concoct a provocative thriller where Black people were looking for revenge.
That may have been the birth of Smoke Kings, but boy did that baby grow and change in so many unexpected ways over the course of its writing.
And it was the music I was listening to that ushered in those changes. Music that made me cast aside my own anger over Trayvon and Philando Castile and Eric Garner and George Floyd—and my own little cousin, Drew—to create a novel with more to say than just grrrr, grrrr, grrrr.
Oh yeah, music is pretty dynamic.
Enough talk, though. Here’s the playlist:
“Mississippi Goddam” by Nina Simone A biting and iconic protest song released in September of 1963, after the church bombing murder of four young Black girls in Birmingham, Alabama. What struck me most is how unapologetic the song is from the title to the lyrics. I learned that boxes of the promo single were shipped to radio stations around the country—and many of them were returned to the record company, broken in half. That didn’t deter sister Nina, though. And I gathered a spark from her courage as I attempted to write a book that I knew might garner similar reactions.
“U Don’t Know” by Jay-Z This is the hip hop equivalent of the W.E.B. Du Bois poem that roused a title for my novel (Song of the Smoke, in case you’re interested). The poem is staggering in its audacious, rebellious image of Black men at a time, 1907, when affirmations of pride were seldom expressed. Du Bois gave us I am the Smoke King/I am black/I am swinging in the sky/I am wringing worlds awry while over a rambunctious reworking of Bobby Byrd’s “I’m Not to Blame” Jay-Z talks his shit from the first line to the last. This will have you bobbing your head and peacocking in front of a full-length mirror with your mouth curled up in a Kobe Bryant scowl. My favorite line: You are now looking at one smart Black boy.
“Moon River” by Frank Ocean My first introduction to this version was in the end credits of Ava Duvernay’s fantastic Netflix series, When They See Us, about the Central Park 5 (beautifully reimagined today as the Exonerated 5). The series is heartbreaking and brutal, detailing the tragic circumstances that led to five teenage Black boys being arrested and imprisoned, wrongly, for raping a white female jogger in New York’s Central Park. Frank Ocean’s ballad is rendered with a melancholy that is hard to shake. It’s a prowling song that won’t let you escape.
“Children’s Story” by Slick Rick Slick Rick is one of hip hop’s most vaunted storytellers. Here he tells a tragic tale that hints at the systemic issues that limit opportunities for many young Black boys growing up in ‘hoods throughout the country. The seventeen-year-old at the heart of the song makes unfortunate choices and meets his fate in a hail of police bullets. Slick Rick ends with the lyrics This ain’t funny, so don’t ya dare laugh/just another case about the wrong path.
“Rewind” by Nas Nasir Jones has been on an incredible run the past few years, teaming up with the producer Hit Boy to create some incredible hip hop albums. Fitting that this run would coincide with the 50th anniversary of rap, because Nas himself just turned 50. There’s a strong argument for him being the greatest rapper of all time, and with “Rewind” he did something artistically and creatively that had never been done before. He told a story in reverse (including, stunningly, the dialogue). An example: Bullets I had plenty to squeeze, plenty for ya/Cause Jungle said, “Block your on enemies the.” Brilliant. This was a beacon lighting my path as I attempted to do things stylistically and boldly in my own writing that may not have been done before.
“The Boss” by James Brown and The J.B.’s Black Caesar, a blaxploitation crime film released in 1973, tells the story of a young Black boy who is brutally assaulted by a police officer and turns to a life of crime. “The Boss” is one of eleven songs on the soundtrack album. In his trademark funky and grunting style, James Brown tells us over and over that he Paid the cost to be the boss and that he’s a Bad mother. Consider me a believer.
“Mathematics” by Mos Def Mos Def (now going by Yasiin Bey) is both a talented actor and musician. Here he tackles a variety of social issues with clever wordplay involving numbers. In addition, the DJ Premier-produced beat includes Premier’s signature scratched samples for the hook. Quiz time. Listen for yourself and see if you can figure out the source material for the samples (see below following this playlist for the answers).
“Midnight” by A Tribe Called Quest feat. Raphael Saadiq Nas is my favorite solo rapper, but ATCQ is tops in terms of a group. On their third studio album, “Midnight Marauders,” we find the trio of Q-Tip, Phife Dawg, and Ali Shaheed Muhammad embracing a bass-heavy sound with an unflinching zealousness. With its layered drums and intentional background noise, “Midnight” is somehow grittier and funkier than their previous efforts. Add in Q-Tip’s frequent refrain that the Night is on my mind, and you have yourself an infectious banger.
“Hold On” by Adele Now we’re veering into the territory that took my initial emotions when writing Smoke Kings of grief, anger, and hopelessness and morphed them into vulnerability, peacefulness, and an almost-optimism. Adele’s soulful voice and the spare piano accompaniment creates something haunting and sticky. This song practically adheres itself to your skin. When Adele wails Hold on, you have no choice but to do just that. Her flourish near the end will give you chills.
“You Don’t Know” by Zacardi Cortez Have to take you to church to close out this playlist. In a thundering tenor, Zacardi Cortez provides us with a compelling message of faith and persistence for enduring life’s most difficult challenges. Here’s the second stanza: You don’t know all the tears I’ve cried/The things I’ve kept bottled up inside/Trying my best to be strong/Waiting on God and holding on. Amen to that!
(Answer Key)
“Mathematics” Samples:
“The Mighty Mos Def…” (from Mos Def’s “Body Rock”)
“It’s simple mathematics” (from Fat Joe’s “John Blaze”)
“Check it out” (The Lady of Rage’s vocals from Snoop Dogg’s “For All My Niggaz & Bitches”)
“I revolve around science…” (Ghostface Killah’s vocals from Raekwon’s “Criminology”)
“What are we talking about here?” (Art Seigner of Flying Dutchman Records interviewing Angela Davis)
“Do your math…” (from Erykah Badu’s “On & On”)
“One, two, three, four” (from James Brown’s “Funky Drummer”)