Melanie Charles: ‘I can take nothing and turn it into something’

I don’t remember how I first heard about Melanie Charles, let alone how I became (mildly) obsessed with her. Was it an article on a music site? Could it be a mainstream media outlet? A post from someone I follow? An algorithm suggestion on one of those dreadful streaming services? Who knows? It doesn’t matter. But you know how it is. One moment you click on a link and the next thing you know, you’re down on the floor, in all fours, picking up the scattered pieces of your blown mind.

A vocalist whose singing is like a warm embrace (which allows her to deliver some pretty hard wake-up slaps on your face), a flutist weaving long, winding pathways of sound, and a groove champion who uses sampling as if it’s a jazz instrument on its own merit, Melanie Charles looks up at the star map of jazz and black music, identifies planets and galaxies, and travels from one place to another, her trajectory connecting the dots spread over 6-7 decades (if not more) of music and culture — all through the lens of what she calls her ‘personal diaspora’. I had to ask her about it.

(But I forgot to ask about her podcast/ mission statement Make Jazz Trill Again.)

I’m very interested in your approach to jazz, to the material you work with and what you do with it. Can you guide me through your process?

I consider myself a vocalist primarily, but I have always had a great affinity for arranging music. I enjoy thinking, “Oh, this song is this way, but what if we turned it in a different way?” It’s something I learnt from my mother, who loves jazz. We would play this game together: “this is a song by Ella Fitzgerald, but let’s do it this way!” It’s funny and fun.

So, I put out a project called The Girl with the Green Shoes in 2017; it was my first real attempt at exploring sampling technology like the SP-202 and 303. which was what MF Doom used.

I learned to chop, flip, and manipulate sounds, and as I was learning the equipment, I fell in love with the sample world.

A few years later, Verve Records reached out to me and asked me to be part of the ‘Verve Remixed’ series, which usually features different producers, because they liked what I did with that album. During the pandemic, I tried my best to record and reimagine standard songs. Many of the songs on Y’all Don’t (Really) Care About Black Women were songs connecting to me as a Black woman, like songs by Betty Carter and Abbey Lincoln.

What is your perception of jazz?

I’ve been thinking about that a lot. My definition of jazz has changed throughout the years.

I would say Jazz is a combination of improvisation and swing; swing can be a groove, but either way there’s a ‘pocket’ to it. It is also a connection to the lineage of those who came before us. That’s what jazz is to me: It’s a continuation of the conversation through music.

I believe you must respond to the music the way it’s asking; each song tells you how to approach it, and I try to be humble and answer it the way it needs to be.

So, what a song tells people changes when the context changes?

Absolutely. We experience music differently at different times, depending on where we are, but I do think that nostalgia is always at the centre of all songs we all love, across genres — whether Beatles, punk, or West African music, there’s familiarity. There is a common thread. There are certain ingredients, that can make a song timeless. There’s never going to be a time where we don’t listen to Stevie Wonder.

**But when Stevie Wonder recorded Songs in the Key of Life, or when Ella Fitzgerald put her songs out, they were not being nostalgic, they were contemporary.**

They were contemporary, but there was something in their music that provided a sense of comfort. That’s what nostalgia means to me, it doesn’t have to be old; it means evoking a feeling of familiarity.

How do you turn this feeling into music?

I started researching the way people record music and the difference between analog and digital; that helped me unpack how to tap into nostalgia. I’m currently working on an album called The Lunacy of Not Believing, and I record much of my music straight to tape, because tape already mixes it right away, it sort of crunches the highs and boots the lows in a really beautiful way.

It’s also about the research and the homework that I do when I’m working on my music. I grew up in a musical family, my mum was always playing music, my grandma was listening to Haitian church music, my aunt and my cousin who lived with us were listening to Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. These sounds are fundamentally in my DNA, so when I write, I am channeling all these sounds which add to the nostalgia.

How has your Haitian heritage influenced your music?

I am deeply influenced by Haitian music: we have konpa music, which is our popular music, starting from the late 1800s – early 1900s, we have rara music, which is the folk tradition, and we have Vodou, spiritual music. My family is Christian, so I wasn’t exposed to Vodou music.

This is my personal journey that I’m on now as an adult, because I realised that although there are huge spiritual and political ramifications, there’s a great deal of important folklore and information within the Vodou practice, so I am researching in my own ways.

I’m listening to artists like Toto Bissainthe, who is almost like our Nina Simone; she was very political, very radical in her time, and she did a great deal of performance art. I’m also learning about the different lwa, which are the different gods in Vodou, and researching how each one has their own rhythm and symbols. Until the day I die I will be learning more and more about my own personal culture but it’s a fun journey to explore it on my own and in my own time and I’m really having a good time doing it.

Research seems to be an important part of your art.

Of course! The way to find your own sound is to connect to your culture. I’ve been really lucky to do a lot of master classes and workshops talking about how to find your sound.

It is our roots, our ancestry, our lineage, our own ‘personal diaspora’ that informs us how to really connect to our to our true sound.

To me it’s intrinsic to the music that I make, regardless if I’m singing creole or not. It’s the approach, the mindset, that is very important for me.

What have you learned about yourself through this research?

I’ve learned about resilience and my sense of creativity. Haiti is a poor country, but people find ways to enjoy life out of limited resources, simple pleasures, and handmade things — all those things that we would consider mundane, but when you look closer you see the beauty in them. That approach inspires me creatively.

I’m not a rich woman, I’m a regular person and sometimes I want to do some things creatively and not have the resources. But because of what I’ve learned from being a Haitian woman, I know that even without the best equipment or resources, I can take nothing and turn it into something.

I’m not famous, I’m not a household name, but I’ve done honest work, beautiful work, I’ve travelled the world with my music, and attribute much of that to having Haitian blood running in my veins.

**Tell me about your new project, The Lunacy of Not Believing.**

I’m getting very personal with you now; in my family we deal with a lot of issues with mental health. My younger brother has schizophrenia and bipolar disorder; he is very open about his condition. He is an incredible saxophone player — although he is my younger brother, I look up to him, because he can play anything on his saxophone, he is the best. But unfortunately he deals with these issues; he has been homeless, he’s been very sick at times, during the pandemic we were expecting him to die.

But we have Haitian blood, we don’t give up; my mom and I did everything we could to support him to get on really good medication so that he can be okay and he is doing amazing. He’s a married man now, he tours with a really cool brass band called Lucky Chops, he tours with my band, he’s a new person.

Watching his journey really inspired me; because people we consider ‘crazy’ often times are the most brilliant people. Often times, they are the people who can see deeper things that the average people doesn’t see.

The album is a tribute to people like my brother who are a little bit different but have a magic to them. I hope this album helps people feel seen and understood.

The album also addresses imposter syndrome. It is my way of challenging that negative voice that says “no, you don’t belong here, you’re not good enough.” I have so many people cheering me on in my life, but the way I speak to myself can be so mean.

This album is saying “how crazy it is that you don’t believe in yourself? How dare you think so low of yourself?” It’s almost like a mirror to myself.

There’s a song called ‘Letter to Self’, where I’m singing to myself: “You’re great, you’re doing fine, we’re on this path, I got your back.” I think it’s really important to talk to ourselves like that.

We should probably end on this note, but tell me about your upcoming gigs in Australia.

I’m coming with a special trio, these are my two friends — my friend Paul Wilson Bae who is an incredible pianist, producer and engineer; and my friend Ignabu on drums. We recorded a project during the pandemic, and we love each other, we have a really good time. We’re going to be doing some Nina Simone songs reimagined, along with original music. I’m probably going to be doing some solo pieces, songs from my albums. I’ll be singing, I’ll be playing live samples, I’ll be playing my flute. It’s jazz-soul with a punk feeling. I hope the Australian audience is ready to dance!