It is often said that Blackness is not a monolith. This may be true about most things. But when it comes to soul music, we’re largely a homogeneous group. Soul music is who we are because the music speaks of the essence of the Black experience; how we live, love, and always look forward to a brighter day. On September 10, 2024, we learned that one of the mighty keepers of that tradition transitioned to an ancestor, and African America mourned.
North Philadelphia’s Howard Stanley Beverly, affectionately known as Frankie Beverly, passed away on Tuesday. I am sure others were saddened to hear his passing. But in my experience, by and large, it is African America who reverence Frankie Beverly and Maze the way they should. Because while the music belongs to the world, he and the band belong to us.
Frankie Beverly was our household name.
White folks knew him too. Latinos and Asians as well. Maybe it was Beyoncé who introduced them to him. Or perhaps it was a Black wedding or cookout they attended where they first heard the mellifluous voice over the soulful sounds of the band originally named Raw Soul, but who changed its name to Maze at the suggestion of another soulful crooner, the great Marvin Gaye.
Then again, much of mainstream society may have only heard of Frankie Beverly in passing. But awareness doesn’t necessarily denote understanding and appreciation. Meanwhile, it’s expected that Black folks be aware of the ‘greatness’ of every Springsteen, Matthews, and Bon Jovi. It’s because it is never demanded of mainstream America to know the depth of meaning behind the reverence of our artists and their art, particularly when it speaks of the souls of Black folk.
Everyone can indeed find their experiences in the music, but the music spoke of us.
Frankie Beverly and Maze is more than just the soundtrack of the cookout or the wedding reception. The music and his voice are a part of the African American music book, that is the very tapestry of Black life. That smooth and soulful voice that was filled with the joy and pain of a wise sage captured every emotion and every expression of love and affection that the human spirit embodies. His wasn’t simply love music or people music. It was rhythm and blues.
Rhythm and blues is a sacred African American art form. It is distinctly African American, “drawing from the deep tributaries of African American expressive culture… initially developed during a thirty-year period that bridges the era of legally sanctioned racial segregation, international conflicts, and the struggle for civil rights.”
That speaks to the genre’s marginalization by the mainstream and why some of the greatest acts this world has ever known have gone unknown. The Black Freedom Struggle is seen throughout the nexus of soul singers; from Sam Cooke to Marvin Gaye—who featured Frankie Beverly and Maze as his opening act. Songs like We Are One, have become an anthem for unity; questioning why we pledge our time to sowing seeds of discord:
“Can’t understand / Why we treat each other in this way / Taking up time / With the silly, silly games we play / We’ve got our love / And no matter how it’s said or done / We are one.”
But there’s an even greater lesson that Frankie Beverly’s career can teach us: awards don’t validate one’s work or one’s humanity.
Likewise, not receiving an award doesn’t invalidate one’s work or humanity. How the people receive your art or work according to the work and care you put in validates what you do. To my knowledge, Maze never won a Grammy, AMA, or anything. But Black people… we loved his music because he spoke of love and life through our lens. The mainstream didn’t want him and that’s okay… because he was ours. He was ours in life and know he’s ours as an ancestor.
Whatever you do, whether your profession or passion, do it for the love of the people. Awards are great. Acknowledgment of your gifts by those in power can boost the ego. But all of that is nothing if your gifts don’t impact people… And when they do impact the lives of people, your award becomes twofold: a testimony of your impact and a transfer of your impact to someone else through who you’ve impacted. Frankie Beverly is the embodiment of impact on people and the people continue to shower him with awards and will do so long after his departure.
As for the rest of us, we have to decide what award we want.
Paulo Freire, in his opus Pedagogy of the Oppressed, says that humanization is the vocation of the people. Frankie Beverly humanized Black life, and for that, we love and honor him. We’ll play his music at work. We’ll play it as we clean our homes, and we’ll play it at family gatherings, whether a barbecue, cookout, or wedding; no different than before. But moving forward we’ll do so with even greater intention; with even greater affection.
… And as the sunset marks the end of the day, we’ll remember it’s the golden time of day, just as we remember the golden voice who told us.
