I’m going to start this story with Drake.
Specifically his song: After Dark.
The song, itself, ends here:
But this section right after the song ends,
right here?
It’s a story way bigger than Drake.
I’ll play it.
"93.7, WBLK…"
A radio host's voice fades in, it's low and soothing.
"Moving you through the storm at what is now nineteen minutes after ten o'clock."
He lists a handful of upcoming artists.
"Fantasia"
"Chaka Khan"
"My Funny Valentine..."
And then, he introduces himself.
"It's Al Wood and you are safe, soft, and warm..."
...in the loving embrace of the quiet storm exclusively on 93.7 WBLK.
This is Al Wood,
and it’s his voice you just heard.
For seven years in the early 2000s, Al’s voice broadcast late at night through Buffalo, New York,
and crossed Lake Ontario into Canada.
We were the urban station for the Toronto market. Which is how I had a connection with
a certain star by the name of Drake.
“Truth”
At the time of the recording, Drake was known for his role on this show.
But fast forward to 2018, when After Dark was released?
He’s this guy.
And I get a phone call
from Drake's manager saying that,
hey, you know, he’s always loved you, we’ve always loved you,
we’d love to have BLK represented on this next album.
They found an aircheck that I had just put on SoundCloud years ago….
...and they said, wow, you know, that's the guy. That's the voice.
That's what we want on our album.
I had a full minute
uninterrupted
on a Drake track.
The reason Al and I are chatting about this, is that this wasn’t just any radio show...
it was one of many Quiet Storm shows
that had become a staple on Black radio.
"Soft and warm, the Quiet Storm"
"The Original Quiet Storm"
"The Quiet Storm"
"The magic Quiet Storm"
"108"
The year is 1976.
The place is Washington, DC.
And we’re at Howard University.
Specifically their radio station, WHUR.
“11:43 in Washington, wow 17 minutes before midnight here at WHUR radio.”
A lot was happening outside the walls of this radio station in 1976.
For one, the United States was celebrating its 200th anniversary.
On top of that, it was an election year.
Jimmy Carter vs Gerald Ford.
Everything from optimistic political ads...
"I'm feelin' good about America"
...to magazine covers
and comic books
was red white and blue.
But, if you want to really understand Washington, DC, in 1976, you have to listen to this:
"Uh, what's happenin, CC?"
"They still call it the White House, but that's a temporary condition too."
"Can you dig it, CC?"
This is Chocolate City, by the legendary funk band Parliament.
The album cover shows national landmarks stamped in chocolate
along with a Washington, DC, label.
In 1976 Parliament was wildly popular in DC
and this album explains the reason why:
Washington, DC, was a chocolate city.
"Right on Chocolate City!"
George Clinton is really describing the vibe of post-industrial Black urban experiences.
That’s Fredara Hadley, she’s an ethnomusicologist who teaches at the Juilliard School.
Black people have been flocking to major metropolitan areas in the United States
since the early 20th century through the great migrations.
But what feels different as we move deeper into the 20th century is a more pervasive
influence of Black culture in those cities and the identity of those cities begins
to be defined by its Blackness.
This was a big story in the 1970s.
For 150 years the white population in DC held a strong majority.
The first time they dipped below 50% was the 1960s.
By the 1970s, the district’s demographics had completely shifted.
In 1976, Black people totaled 77% of the District’s population.
The seat of this American government sits in the middle of this very Black district.
And there was no question about this fact:
The hub of entertainment, culture, and news in cities like Washington, DC, was Black radio.
Black radio, until we get into the late ‘90s, 21st century, is sort of a town square.
"Whether you realize it or not, Black radio is the most powerful form of communication
in the Black community."
In local news segments like this one, black radio’s growing influence in DC
was dissected and analyzed.
"It plays an informative role for me, and not only does it offer music
but it offers news, it offers things that are happening in the city."
It’s where you can interact and hear all of these things
specifically from a Black perspective.
A lot of these Black radio stations were owned by white people,
including several in DC.
With the exception of one station:
WHUR.
It was owned by Howard University,
the most revered Historically Black University in the United States.
WHUR, Howard University Radio,
even though it is owned by Howard University, it is a commercial radio station
and it's a very important radio station in Washington, DC.
That’s Angela Stribling, a longtime TV and radio personality based in DC.
Although I'm from Buffalo, New York, I consider myself an honorary Washingtonian.
At the time, WHUR was known for playing straight ahead jazz
mixed with broadcasts of speeches, poetry, and news shows.
But something changed one summer night in 1976.
An intern named Melvin Lindsey who was a communications major at Howard,
was tapped to fill in for an absent host.
He was covering the 7 pm to midnight time slot.
Right after The Daily Drum, their popular news show.
“11:43 in Washington, wow 17 minutes before midnight…”
Here's Melvin Lindsey, this intern at Howard University, you know,
had never been on the radio. He gets this big opportunity.
I don't think anyone foresaw this becoming such a phenomenon.
That night, he ushered in a totally new style of Black radio
one that was intimate and personal.
"The next couple of songs I’m gonna play have a lot of meaning for me…,
and I want you to listen to the words,
they’re dedicated from me to you..."
It provides not just music, but also feelings and memories.
It was upscale. It was adult.
And it changed the sound of R&B for decades to come.
So, what exactly happened on this radio show?
And why did it strike a chord with the people that tuned in that night?
To know this, you have to understand two things about the 1970s.
One: the sonically diverse world of R&B
It's almost like anything goes. People were just trying things.
And two:
One of the most complicated things about that immediate post-civil rights era
is that of class and socioeconomic status.
These two facts are deeply intertwined, but let's start with the second one.
A lot of what the civil rights movement was concerned with, first and foremost,
making the country safer for Black people to exist in.
But it also aimed for something else.
This push for greater access to education, to employment,
more access to higher education and expansion.
In the 1970s you start to see this finally happen.
More African-Americans are able to go to college.
Corporate hiring rates start to increase.
That Black professional class in particular starts to grow.
And they moved to the suburbs at rates that had never been seen before.
That’s what happened in Washington, DC:
From 1970 to 1980 the Black population in the suburbs increased from 25% to 47%.
And so you see a lot of Black publications, Black media in general, start to pivot
to better reflect, and not only reflect, but to shape the identity of
what that post civil rights era, Black professional class will look like and sound like.
What do people in that class drink? What do they smoke?
Where do they hang out? How do they dress?
They're now saying, well, how do we soundtrack that group of people?
The good news? They had a lot of music to choose from.
On one level, the 1970s feels like an era of profound freedom, musically.
The Fender rhodes became massively popular
Artists overdosed on the synthesizer
Songs were longer and more experimental.
and Jazz and funk became one.
R&B and Soul music in many ways continued the trajectory of the politically charged
music of the 1960s.
Black people, in particular, can't afford
to fully take their eyes off what's happening in their own communities.
And so albums like Marvin Gaye's “What's Going On” and “Inner City Blues,”
all of that makes sense.
"Trigger happy policing"
"Panic is spreading"
"God knows where..."
But a different type of R&B emerged as well,
one that appealed to this growing Black middle class.
We talk about the victory of the civil rights era,
the progress that was made and all that.
But all of that came at an astronomical cost to people's psyche and well-being.
I think there is this thread of introspection
that goes throughout the music of the ’70s, or perhaps self-determination.
Who are we going to be? What are we going to do for ourselves?
I'm thinking about Donny Hathaway and Roberta Flack “Be Real Black for Me.”
"Be real Black for me.”
So many songs about love, but also about community, about family,
I'm thinking about the O'Jays “Family Reunion.”
“It's so nice to see"
"all the folks you love together"
You know, there's a place for Black fantasy and the indulgence of that
in the music as well.
The songs that emerged were slow and smooth
the voices that soundtracked them were warm and intimate.
"I've been really tryin', baby"
"I feel like making love, to you"
"No I'm not dreaming, love has a meaning..."
Right? That kind of introspective, end of day, kind of existence
That makes sense when we think about
the sort of individualistic or the solitary existence that can accompany life in the suburbs.
Dozens of artists released albums with their take on this sophisticated and mellow sounding R&B
Including the soul singer Smokey Robinson.
In 1975, two weeks after “Chocolate City” was released by Parliament
Smokey Robinson released “A Quiet Storm.”
In this article headlined “New Lower Voice Cultivated by Smokey Robinson”
he states, "I knew that I had to change my style to get where I want to go.
So now my sound appears softer and my voice clearer."
The title track started like this:
"Soft and warm, a quiet storm..."
"Quiet as when flowers talk at break of dawn. Break of dawn."
Melvin Lindsey’s show that night tapped into this growing popularity of smooth R&B ballads,
and he mixed it in with previous decades of like minded Jazz.
Think Sarah Vaughn, [Misty by Sarah Vaughn]
And Nat King Cole. [Unforgettable]
but it was all about the music. Melvin would tell a story with the songs.
His boss at the time, Cathy Hughes, realized the show’s potential.
Quick sidenote: Cathy Hughes is a huge deal.
She started Radio One, which is now called Urban One,
the largest African-American-owned broadcasting company in the United States.
When she started at WHUR in 1973, her goal was simple:
get the station to the top of the ratings in the DC market.
A huge part of that strategy was appealing to the growing ranks of Black middle class professionals
in the city and the suburbs.
Melvin Lindsey’s show did just that
You know, Melvin Lindsey, very elegant, classy guy.
So I'm sure he was speaking to people like himself.
Within a year, he graduated, signed a three-year contract,
and had a weekly night time show called the Quiet Storm,
named after the Smokey Robinson song he started the show with every night.
Here’s what happened next, in Smokey Robinson’s own words.
"So a guy in Washington, DC, he had a night radio show."
"So he made Quiet Storm the theme of his radio show."
"It took off. In Washington, DC, other guys started to do it."
"And it took off in Baltimore, then New York, then Philadelphia."
"And it became a radio format."
"The Quiet Storm, blowing..."
By 1990, there was at least one Quiet Storm show in every major market.
"Soft and warm, the Quiet Storm"
"You are the spice of life"
"As you may or may not know the Quiet Storm is St. Louis' #1 rated nighttime radio program"
A lot of times they would advertise,
you know, 35 minutes of uninterrupted music.
"And coming up in seconds, another long set of the best..."
You'd get these really nice, long chunks of music
And they were always at night, well except for one station in San Francisco.
They were playing quiet storm 24/7. And they had that station for years
And many of them started with the Smokey Robinson song.
Do you all still open with Smokey Robinson's song?
We do.
That’s John Monds, he’s the current Quiet Storm host at WHUR.
When I hear that first beat, “do do do do do do"
I'm like it just sets my mind to do what I'm about to do.
And within those late night hours, magic happens.
Let me start by saying, so many people have said that babies were made while their
parents were listening to the Quiet Storm.
It's very sexy. The vibe is just very sexy.
That vibe starts with the host.
"Get the blankets out, turn the heat up"
"The landlord isn't turning the heat on until the 15th? Well..."
"I guess you gotta get that body heat from somewhere else."
The key ingredients to a Quiet Storm show are you have to have a DJ,
it can be a man or woman, but someone with a sultry, slow talking voice.
"It's about the music of the Quiet Storm. No matter where we are, that's what we give."
You have to have that.
I'm really just a laid back...
The Quiet Storm is actually perfect for me because it is, that's in my wheelhouse, you know?
Do people ever recognize you based on your voice?
Say something in the quiet storm voice.
"Oh, yeah! That's it! That's the guy I fall asleep with!"
You know, they say "I listen to you every night."
“I have children I have made because of you.”
My voice is, it's a Quiet Storm voice. I can’t get away from it.
Yes, their voices are awesome, but, for Quiet Storm it goes much deeper than that.
They knew how to construct a story through the records that they chose.
That's first and foremost.
"You know what? I'm going to play 'Michael Henderson, Be My Girl'"
"because I think that's just so tender..."
The Quiet Storm is the opportunity for everybody to relax, wine down and listen to
those special moments that come with that song, that Aretha Franklin song that they remember.
"Everything thing else baby..."
That Luther Vandross song.
"But, you're my everything..."
And that Teddy Pendergrass song.
"Turn off the lights. And light a candle..."
My first memory of Quiet Storm Radio is in my childhood bedroom at my parent's house
in West Palm Beach, Florida, where I grew up.
As a kid, it felt like that I was able to eavesdrop on adult conversations,
that I couldn't eavesdrop on my real life.
"Tell me a secret..."
The Quiet Storm song that comes to my head when I think about that is “Secret Garden.”
"Because tonight I want you to learn all about the secrets..."
"In your garden."
By the mid-1980s, Quiet Storm had helped dozens of R&B artists find a home on the radio.
And made massive hits out of earnest and sultry slow jams.
"Play another slow jam this time make it sweet"
But no one quite hit the sweet spot like Anita Baker.
"got some music coming up from Anita Baker."
"Anita Baker. On the Quiet Storm."
Anita Baker was not the standard R&B singer when she came out.
She came from jazz and had a totally and completely unique sound.
And it was so celebrated.
"And the winner is..."
"And the winner is…"
"Anita Baker!"
"Anita Baker"
She could be your big sister, your auntie, like somebody you knew in your neighborhood.
So there was this type of everyday blackness in who she was in the world
but with this exceptional talent.
She's able to really create a niche for herself in Quiet Storm
and make a name for herself in that radio format.
This is Anita Baker’s song “Angel”
And for Fredara it captures exactly what Quiet Storm music was all about.
The music itself is the anchor that allows Anita Baker to really show off and soar.
You feel like you're just witnessing her say this to her beloved.
"You fill me up, baby with the joy of living"
Whether you're begging to get somebody back or you're just affirming just how much you
deeply love this person and how much they mean to you is a hallmark of what happens
in quiet storm radio. And all of that comes out in "Angel."
"you're my angel"
So, you have this smooth and soulful R&B And this relaxing DJ who fades in and out
with the music. But something else happens, that really ties it all together.
The call ins and dedications.
"Did you want to hear something?"
"yes, yes."
"Don't Stop Ever Loving Me."
And this is the part that I think doesn't get enough attention but was really important.
"In just a second your dedications are next."
"If there's a song or someone who stepped into your life recently,
who's made your jagged edges smooth..."
"I wanna dedicate a song to Dave"
Those dedications were often just as vulnerable as the music.
You have the people who were, you know, dealing with some of the toughest times of their lives.
"Well what you're gonna have to do is you're gonna have to call him back"
"so you can un-break his heart."
"Alright." "Okay?"
"Alright." "Alright."
They were also just as flirtatious as the music.
"You know, she's just real special to me." "Uh huh."
"And uh..." "Aside from the fact that you might want some."
"That I might want some?! Nah!"
"What, what? No no no, want some company."
"Oh..." "You didn't let me finish."
"Get your mind out of the gutter." "I said you didn't let me finish!"
And you get these glimpses of the community
And that reminds you that you actually aren't the only one listening to this right now,
that there are people all over your city
"I really do miss him and I don't know how to tell him that."
"Mhm. Well, maybe he's, maybe he's out there listening, huh?"
"I hope so." "And thinking about you."
"Does he have your number?" "Yeah he does."
In 1980, as Quiet Storm was building steam across the country, a new genre of music was
making it’s imprint on America — and on the radio.
Hip-hop.
"44 degrees on the outside, we're going to rock the house down."
"And that's right we've have Dr. Rock and the Force MC's, they're in the house tonight."
Hip hop, especially in the 1980s and in the early 1990s, is representative,
by and large, of people grappling with the complicated realities of the city
that the predominant Quiet Storm intendant audience has left behind.
And this argument starts to crop up
All you care about is these love stories.
These notions of relationships that are devoid from political engagement or the struggle
or the realities of Black life, which, you know, is a high crime in most Black communities.
beacuse of the very real threat that Black communities face.
But there's also, perhaps, another way to look at it.
The realities of the people who were fans of that genre, to need a little space,
and contemplation, and break from talking about the struggle
because the people who were invested in those genres, those older folks
were the people who had been a part of and on the front lines.
But what is interesting is the Quiet Storm is still
really popular among hip-hop generation people.
People love Anita Baker to this day.
"Anita baker, she bring me joy"
"I'm chillin', bumpin' Anita Baker"
"That sweet love Anita Baker was singin' about..."
"Like Elektra let go Miss Anita Baker"
Perhaps this is why on one of Drake’s first mixtapes he sampled Anita Baker.
"But you don't really know me like you think you know me"
And ten years later was still paying homage to the radio format.
"93.7 WBLK. Inside your night at the Quiet Storm. Taking you right there with Hall & Oats..."
Today, Quiet Storm goes by many other names
And perhap more than any other format, it’s not stuck in the past or or beholden to the present.
It’s timeless.
The Quiet Storm allows you the flexibility
because it's all about the music and the mood, not necessarily the time.
If it's a ballad and it sounds good and it tells a good story
is based in the world of RB and jazz and maybe a little gospel, then it has a home
And I think that's encouraging for younger artists that, you know, this is a lineage
to which you can belong as well.
When you say the Quiet Storm, it says so much
so much more than a radio show.
Hey everyone, thanks so much for watching the video.
In the description below, you'll find the full interview that I conducted with Fredara Hadley.
It's something that I didn't want you all to miss out on.
It was so rich with information about music in the 1970s, about the Black experience,
and how both of those things sort of affected each other in really fascinating ways.
If you want to take a look, or listen, please do so, and let me know if the comments what you think.