8 books like The Motherlode

Iconic feminist, philosopher, and activist Angela Y. Davis put African American women at the center of the story of the blues, expanding our understanding of a genre usually presented as the purview of male artists. Discussing the music and careers of 1920s blues superstars Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith and 1930s jazz vocalist Billie Holiday, who was deeply influenced by the blues, Davis approaches the blues as music innovated, popularized, and consumed by African American women. She pays close attention to the impact of gender, race, and class on artists and audiences, and shows how these artists and their fans used blues music as entertainment, self-expression, social commentary, political critique, resistance, and survival.

One of my favorite memoirs, Rage to Survive is a no-holds-barred dive into the life and times of a powerful singer who traversed the genres of rock and roll, blues, and R&B during her decades-long career. James tells compelling stories about her tough upbringing on the west coast and her teenage immersion into sex, drugs, and early rock and roll (check out her 1955 hit “The Wallflower”); shares her experiences touring in the segregated south during the 1950s; offers gossip about well-known musical figures; and reflects on her development as an artist navigating the recording industry in the fifties, sixties, seventies, and eighties. Throughout she offers insights about love, loss, motherhood, hard knocks, bad choices, addiction, and personal and professional triumphs. James speaks with passion, humor, and honesty. 

When Wald published her thoroughly researched and sensitively written biography of Tharpe, few people outside the world of gospel were familiar with the guitarist and singer or her significant contribution to twentieth-century music. Wald traces Tharpe’s years as an acoustic guitar-playing traveling teenage gospel evangelist, her role as one of the first stars of the fledgling genre of gospel in the 1930s and 1940s, her controversial decision to play gospel music in nightclubs, and her influence as a flashy virtuoso whose intricate licks on the electric guitar inspired musicians in country, rock and roll, and beyond. A well-told story of a fascinating woman, Shout, Sister, Shout! establishes Tharpe as a key figure in the evolution of twentieth-century popular music.   

Daphne A. Brooks’ book is a revolutionary work, centering more than a century of innovations by Black women in popular music who have been marginalized, overlooked, or erased.

Situating Zora Neale Hurston as a sound archivist and performer and Lorraine Hansberry as a cultural critic alongside blues pioneers such as Bessie Smith and Mamie Smith and contemporary artists like Janelle Monáe and Valerie June, Brooks doesn’t merely fill in blind spots.

She exposes how those blind spots reflect the partial, subjective view of white male critics and historians.

Showing us a different way of seeing and listening to culture, Brooks has informed and inspired my thinking, and some of the best work I’ve done as a journalist, including this piece about Elizabeth Cotten, whose music fueled the 1960s folk revival.

Sinéad O’Connor rose to fame in the early 1990s, before social media, when tabloids made millions taking women down, as did the music press.

Back then there were few mechanisms to clap back, so much of what we thought we knew about her, before and after SNL, was warped by that perspective. Left with little sense of who O’Connor really was, we also had limited awareness of the great music she made long after she stopped making hits.

Unlike a lot of celebrity memoirs, O’Connor’s isn’t a victory lap or a bitter tell-all. Nor does it try to gloss over the difficult parts. Instead, it’s a chance for her to tell her story herself, and for us to finally see her for the brilliant and complicated artist she truly is.

Nashville-based singer-songwriter Margo Price is the real deal.

Her beginnings were humble, and her struggles have been many. Her memoir takes you on the road with her through bad low-paying, low-attended early gigs, drinking, and drugs. Price's marriage/creative partnership is tender and beautiful, yet becomes fragile as it shoulders the unbearable loss of a newborn son.

Through it all, you can feel Price’s grit and determination to survive with her soul intact, making it in an industry that pressures artists to conform to its priorities and sets them up to fail when they resist- or simply try to be themselves.

Price’s music is the soundtrack to her courageous story in progress. In the best possible way, this book reads like the liner notes: honest, heartfelt, and profound.   

Living Colour enjoyed an all too brief moment of superstardom at the same time as Sinéad O’Connor.

Grappling with issues such as racism, classism, and police brutality, it fused different musical styles. Yet white critics often saw the all-Black band as a rock anomaly- which was ironic considering that Little Richard and the saxophonist Maceo Parker (who played with James Brown) were among Living Colour's key collaborators! 

Through interviews with the band and key players in the production and reception of its bold, experimental 1990 album, Time’s Up, Mack shows why Living Colour was (and is) musically and politically powerful, and why it remains influential.

For me what makes this book really shine is her presence in the story as a Black girl growing up loving rock, then later as a scholar reclaiming it.

There wouldn’t be hip-hop without the ladies. As a female hip-hop journalist, I love that the definitive book on female rappers exists. 

God Save the Queens is a hip-hop anthology that meticulously chronicles the important (and often unsung) contributions of female rappers. Whether you’re a fan of the old school (MC Lyte) or the new (Megan Thee Stallion), you’ll learn about the notoriously competitive and patriarchal industry and how these women fought adversity, doubt, and the odds to garner respect—and their crowns—in hip-hop.