Betty Davis, The Independent Artist & Crow
As a transplant from Washington, it’s been difficult to create meaningful connections in Pennsylvania. I’ve moved 29 times across six states and cannot relate to the many generations who’ve stayed in Pittsburgh, never to leave or left only to return. I have a restless spirit and, when tended to, it grants me unlimited access to creative flow. I am a transitory artist, however, I am not immune to homesickness; familiarity tethers me to the present. Without an anchor, it’s easy to feel lost. I seek the wonder and captivity of solitude, the healing mediums of the arts, and the kind of attention only the dead can provide; I commune with grief, a constant companion and muse.
When I learned Betty Davis is buried in Homestead Cemetery, within walking distance from where I live, I was struck by the news of her death; I didn’t realize she passed away in 2022. I discovered her music and Nasty Gal persona in early 2021, when I stumbled upon the documentary They Say I’m Different (2017).
Betty was the first black woman to write, perform, and manage herself. She was described as an enigma; her clothes expressed who she was—an extreme funkstress of jazz fusion—and like most musicians of her caliber, she influenced many. She was “Madonna before Madonna” and “Prince before Prince”, but I had never heard of Betty and wondered why. The rawness of her vocals and in-your-face expression on stage, how she owned her body and moved freely, entranced me. Uninhibited by drugs and alcohol, or by being a black woman, Betty was liberated. Her performances shocked audiences; at the time, there were no other women doing what she was doing. Betty described her music as raw, saying that “anything raw has to be pure.”
Raw is the purest form of innocence.
Betty’s growling voice spoke to the rage in my belly–ancient and sacred, an eternal flame. I wonder, if I don’t speak about it, does it make it unreal? If I don’t speak about it, it doesn’t go away. This woman did what I aim to do in my work; reclaim my innocence by releasing trauma through self-expression in performance and artistry.
Betty’s arrival on the ‘70s music scene was short-lived; she was banned, boycotted, and soon, she disappeared. Her abrupt departure warranted her an “almost mythological reputation for being reclusive.” The decision to step away from the music industry when pressured to conform, mirrors my own struggle against a society that prizes marketability over vulnerability. Her bandmates say she was fed up. She suffered in her liberation; being “ahead of the times” is a heavy weight. Artists are often pushed to change the very thing that makes us stand out; to dilute our voices for commercial gain, reproduce our work for easy consumption, and operate outside of our morals for fame, fans and followers. Disingenuous markers of success.The artists who stand out to me are those who don’t give in—the ones who’ll die to their vision before selling their soul, maintaining independence while navigating the pain of freedom.
Whenever I leave the house, I step into the world as an artist. No one who asks me what I do is surprised when I say I am an artist. It’s when I’m asked “what kind of art” that shifts the conversation. The struggle is being listened to and understood. I can tell when I’m not; I am interrupted and receive unsolicited advice—told what I “should” be doing more of (marketing/social media) and what I “should” make and sell (to become successful). When I comment these things I “should” be doing directly oppose my personal values, my work is dismissed as a hobby. As if what I do have to offer is not enough.
Throughout the film, Betty makes symbolic references to Crow, which signifies the beginning of her self-awareness that she was different. Crow is the heartbeat, she says, and to me it signifies someone under the influence of creative flow. Since she was a girl, Betty felt there was “something inside of her that had to come out”—a similar restlessness to my own. It was the women who sang the blues that connected her more deeply to Crow. “Women who sang about how they felt inside … about things that weren’t right.” Her grandmother’s wise words rang out like an alarm. “You should always know who you are and do what you have to do.” (That’s a “should” I can stand behind; the integrity to rise above, no matter what.) Betty didn’t speak from oppression, she sang knowing who she was and what she deserved.
“In the end,” Betty concluded, “I found I could only be myself. Being different is everything; it is the way forward.”
She inspired me to embrace my journey of self-discovery with boldness, which is why I’m living in PA in the first place. In May 2023, I accepted an invitation to study performance with an artist in Georgia. I was ready to develop Crow for the stage. I moved to Atlanta, but circumstances changed and my study was disrupted; no sooner had I arrived, I was on the road again, heading for Pittsburgh. Even as I wrestled with homesickness, I knew I couldn't return to WA, not yet. Where Crow beckons me to go, I follow.
Betty returned to Homestead after her father’s death and laid her music career to rest 44 years ago. Revisiting They Say I’m Different, the locations are familiar to me now. Listening to her albums while I drive these streets, the borough pulses with the energy of her legacy.
Rest in peace, Betty Davis.
The body that housed the soul of The Queen of Funk calls me to her gravesite.
Her resting place ignites a desire to ritualize my time here, however long it may be. Echoing her spirit of defiance and unapologetic self-expression, I release expectations of being understood. To honor Betty’s life, on the ninth of December, I placed the dying heads of nine cut pink roses at the headstone; I was born on a ninth, and she died on a ninth. Three nine’s divisible by three; a calculation and request to the gods of numerology.
A kinship with Betty continues to develop across time and space. Her return to Pittsburgh signals me to consider a return of my own, to my birthplace in Anchorage, Alaska. I trust Crow, my compass that tells me when to stay and when to go. When I visit Betty, I sense I belong here; wherever I am is home. I can never be where “I am” is not.
“People tell me I paved the way,” Betty reflects in the documentary. “I’m happy about that. I’m happy my music is still alive. For a while I flew high and strong, but the struggle to breakthrough hurt me. Everyone wanted me to be someone I wasn't.”
Being true to oneself can mean standing against the current, and some of us have the bravery to do so. Like Betty Davis, may I also refuse to compromise my creative vision. She chose independence, something difficult for artists, especially women, to have, and I choose it too.
