The Gray Area of ‘Black’ and ‘White’ Music

I’ve never thought of myself as someone who categorizes music racially. I grew up loving jazz, blues, funk, and soul. I’ve spent my life immersed in music that comes directly from the African diaspora. As a jazz musician in particular, I’ve always been proud to be part of a tradition that blurred racial lines long before the rest of society figured out how to do that.

And yet there I was, guitar in hand, realizing I needed to think differently — not because of fear or discomfort, but because I sensed that the way people listened, responded, and participated might follow a different set of expectations.  I opened with “Lean On Me.”  Within seconds, people were singing. Clapping. Responding physically and emotionally.

My Musical Upbringing

When I was 6 years old, my 2 favorite songs were “Silly Love Songs” by Paul McCartney and “Sir Duke” by Stevie Wonder.   This just goes to show that truly there is no real distinction between ‘black’ and ‘white’ music, as I had no idea what either artist looked like at that age.

Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, my musical world was shaped largely by my older brother and sister. They were in college and had large record collections, and I would spend hours sitting in their rooms listening.

That music was eclectic but very specific in its values: Progressive rock like Jethro Tull and Emerson, Lake & Palmer, folk and singer-songwriter music like Joni Mitchell, and records that rewarded long forms, harmonic color, atmosphere, and intellectual engagement.  This music wasn’t rhythm-less, but rhythm wasn’t the main attraction. Harmony, melody, and structure were.

At the same time, the books and lessons I was studying reinforced that hierarchy. I learned modes early. I spent countless hours playing modally on guitar and piano. I was especially drawn to the Dorian mode — Santana tunes, and later Traffic’s “Low Spark of High Heeled Boys,” fascinated me.

Looking back, this makes perfect sense. Dorian offers harmonic openness, color, and space. It’s harmonically interesting without constantly moving. Even when groove mattered, I was entering it through harmony.  That wasn’t a mistake. But it was a lens.  And like all lenses, it brought some things into focus while leaving others blurry.

How Guitar Culture Under-Teaches Rhythm

Another piece of the puzzle is guitar culture itself.

For decades, mainstream guitar education has emphasized:

• Scales and modes • Fretboard mapping • Chord–scale relationships • Harmonic theory • Licks and vocabulary

Rhythm often gets reduced to:

• Strumming patterns • Metronome use • Counting exercises divorced from feel

What rarely gets addressed deeply is rhythm as a creative domain — subdivision, grouping, phrasing against time, microtiming, and collective groove.

So if you come up through that system, it’s very easy to treat rhythm as a container rather than as meaning itself.

You can be a sophisticated musician and still be rhythmically undertrained — not because you lack ability, but because no one demanded that skill at a high level.

Enter Rhythm, Late but Clear

Fast forward many years.

I’m now studying rhythm seriously with Ronan Guilfoyle, one of the leading rhythm authorities in the world. We’re working on phrasing lines in 7/8, using vocal scanning and instrumental application — not as a math exercise, but as a way of internalizing time.

This is important: what’s changing for me isn’t just technique. It’s perception.

When you train rhythm at that depth, your listening priorities shift. You start hearing structure, tension, release, and meaning in time itself. Groove stops being something that either “works” or “doesn’t work” and starts becoming something you can shape.

That’s when certain musical traditions suddenly reveal new dimensions.

African Diasporic Traditions and Rhythm as Meaning

Much of the music that comes out of the African diaspora — spirituals, blues, gospel, jazz, funk, soul, R&B, hip-hop — treats rhythm differently than many European-derived traditions.

In these traditions:

• Rhythm is central, not supportive • Repetition creates depth, not boredom • Groove is communal, not individual • Participation is a sign of success • Music is something you do together, not something you politely observe

Harmony often serves rhythm, not the other way around. Simpler harmonic frameworks allow rhythmic nuance, interaction, and collective focus to come forward.

When I went to a rehearsal with a funk band in Myrtle Beach whose members were primarily African American, I noticed exactly this. The tunes were harmonically simple. The interest came from the pocket, the interaction, and the way everyone sat in time together.  Is this about race though?

Myths, Misunderstandings, and Why Genetics Is the Wrong Frame

This is where it’s important to be precise.  There is no credible scientific evidence that Black people are genetically better at rhythm, just as there is no evidence that Black people are genetically better at basketball.  These ideas persist because people confuse outcomes with causes.

Skills like rhythm and athletic coordination are embodied and pre-verbal. When someone moves well or grooves deeply, it feels instinctive. But instincts are learned — often very early, and very thoroughly.  Culture trains the nervous system.  In communities where music is participatory from childhood — clapping in church, singing in groups, moving freely — rhythmic skills are reinforced constantly. That creates fluency that looks innate.

But it’s learned.  The proof is obvious: rhythm is teachable across cultures. Jazz musicians of every race learn to swing. Classical musicians learn complex rhythmic structures. I am learning now, later in life, and feeling the difference profoundly.  If rhythm were genetic, none of that would be possible.

Jazz matters deeply in this conversation.  Jazz exists because African rhythmic traditions met European harmonic systems. It is a negotiation, not an erasure. It proves that these musical values are not mutually exclusive — and not racially locked.  Jazz teaches us that groove and harmony don’t compete. They inform each other.  Jazz is proof that the lines are permeable.

Why This Can Feel Like “Black vs White” in America

In the United States, race and culture are deeply intertwined because of history. Musical traditions that developed under shared historical conditions often get associated with racial identity.

But what’s really at play are value systems:

• Groove-centered vs progression-centered

• Cyclic vs linear

• Participatory vs presentational

• Body-first vs abstraction-first

These axes cut across race all the time. But because of how American history unfolded, they often map onto racial lines.

That’s the gray area.

Living in South Carolina has accelerated all of this awareness.  Here, Black culture is not a small minority presence. Audience norms around participation, groove, and response are more visible. When music feels good, people show it immediately. That can be jarring if you’re used to quieter, more reserved listening cultures.

But it’s also incredibly affirming — especially if you care about rhythm, feel, and connection.  I didn’t succeed at that first solo gig because I played “Black music.”  I succeeded because I played communal music.

What This Means for Musicians and Teachers

The takeaway is not that musicians should categorize audiences by race.  The takeaway is that culture trains how people listen.  If you want to connect:

• Pay attention to groove

• Invite participation

• Simplify harmony when needed

• Let repetition do its work

• Understand the social function of the music you’re playing

And perhaps most importantly for me:

• Recognize that discovering rhythm later in life doesn’t mean I was deficient; it simply meant that my environment didn’t stimulate awareness of the power and creative potential of rhythm until now.

Closing Thoughts

The gray area between Black and white music isn’t a biological divide. It’s a historical, cultural, and perceptual space.

And it’s a space where learning happens.

For me, studying rhythm deeply at this stage of my life hasn’t invalidated my earlier musical identity. It has expanded it.

Music didn’t suddenly become racial.

It became more human.

And that, to me, is exactly what this journey is about.