The poet and musician Gil Scott-Heron died yesterday at the age of 62. In 2000, Tom Horan interviewed the Godfather of rap for the Arts pages of The Daily Telegraph.
Into the faux-Regency lobby of a quiet London hotel drifts a bandy-legged scarecrow of a man, a rangy 6ft 4in frame in unkempt denims, white socks and loafers. With his scraggy grey beard and battered baseball cap he looks like a cleaner who has come in the wrong entrance.
But then the poet and singer Gil Scott-Heron has never cared much for appearances. Hailed as the Godfather of Rap for the observations he first delivered over clipped rhythms in the early Seventies, his satirical gaze has always been trained on America’s underside.
Upstairs, lolling on his bed with his shoes off and his eyes hooded, Scott-Heron appears to be asleep. The Tennessee rumble of his voice, punctuated by laughter, is the only sign of life until he cackles and lights a cigarette.
Heron grew up in the Deep South, where he was an unwitting guinea-pig in the first steps to desegregate the education system: “Forty children signed up to be the first black intake at my school, only three of us showed up, what with the threats and intimidation that was going on. But my grandma said I was going – and that was that.”
He recalls that turbulent time with pride. But to listen to today’s nihilistic rappers – the same artists who tip their hats to him as a pioneer – it would seem that the struggles of the Sixties and early Seventies were in vain.
Scott-Heron comes to life: “You’ve been listening to too many of those rappers. There are more opportunities than ever before. It’s a question of wanting to do better – you’ve got to have initiative, you’ve got to have determination. Colour is not the issue in America, class is.
“That black negativity stuff sells records. It appeals to the kind of people who are not interested in taking advantage of opportunities – the kind of people who have time to sit around and listen to that s—. I don’t.”
He laughs when explaining his life. “Schedule? I have no schedule. There is no hurry. I work when I want to. As for money – when I have it, it’s great. When I don’t, I go get some. I’ve been a dishwasher, a gardener, a cleaner.”
His biggest impact on the British psyche was not with The Revolution Will Not Be Televised but as the voice of the ad slogan, “You know when you’ve been Tango-ed.”
“I’ve been blessed – blessed to span those generations. The fact that the music is still viable, that the ideas are still useful, is a blessing. Every show that sells out is like a hero’s welcome for me. Then, after it’s done, I come back here and play cards with the band and lose all my money.”
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