A Tribute to Greg Tate, 1957-2021: My Friend, Brother & Mentor

In 1993, I was a few years into one of the best decisions I ever made - an M. F. A. program in film Production at Howard University (HU). After experiencing the regret of failing to take full advantage of my college education by way of some apathy, much distraction, and an inconsistent (yet developing) work ethic, I arrived on HU’s campus hungry to master a craft that I would never have imagined I’d pursue. I was also crazy excited to be at a Historically Black College or University (HBCU), in what was then the chocolatiest of major cities, Washington DC. I was ready to learn.

Classic Tate circa 1993.

It was fortuitous, then, that in the spring of that second year at HU, several classmates and I made our way to New York City’s NYU to attend a conference on Black Popular Culture. As an aspiring filmmaker, and a budding intellectual, I completely ate up the main panel I attended, which featured Michelle Wallace, the scholar and author of the seminal Black Popular Culture text, and a 30-something writer for the Village Voice named Greg Tate, who had just recently released his now essential Flyboy in the Buttermilk. I can’t remember much else about that conference other than I found what Greg had to say, and how he said it, hella fascinating. And as a result, I went up to him after the panel was over, and introduced myself and my university. Because Greg was also a Bison (someone who is either attending or has attended HU), we connected over that commonality. But it should be said that Greg was always a kind soul who could and would connect and talk with just about anyone, about anything. Although I didn’t know the extent of Greg’s brilliance or influence then, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to talk with someone I found to be so interesting.

Greg invited me and my classmates to a film that was to play as part of the conference that night. We attended the screening, connected with Greg, and the rest is history, as they say. Greg and I kept in touch, and a mutual admiration and kinship began to develop.

While I was living in DC attending HU, Greg often came down to the District to visit his parents, Florence and Charles Tate, who were just as brilliant and kind as their middle son. Through Greg I also got to meet and get to know his younger brother, Brian, and much later, his older sister Geri. Sometimes I would have the opportunity to visit New York during grad school, and Greg was always one of the main people I wanted to hang with. To this day, I have a vivid memory of watching Greg walk down the street in the Village after we’d connected for dinner. He had a particular, undeniable gait that was part swagger, part hipster, part cool dude, all the way Tate. And at the time, Greg had these thick, playful locs that he often tucked under a beanie or Kangol. You couldn’t miss him in a crowd if you tried.

I’m grateful to say that I was alive and aware when Greg was writing for the Village Voice. I was so impressed by his skills! I had never read anything like what Greg conjured up, week after week. His writing was at once funny, complicated, layered and nuanced. Brilliant. His words could cut, even bite. But consistent to his character, Greg was always fair. And I could sense the more I read his work that he deeply cared about Black people and Black culture. His Village Voice writings, and certainly Flyboy made me want to write, and write really well, in a way that merged intelligence and accessiblity perfectly. Ironically, I was writing music reviews and industry profiles for Jamie Foster Brown’s entertainment magazine Sister2Sister during my years at HU. I often tried my hand at putting a little Tate into my writing in ways that tickled Greg, but Jamie? Not so much.

I remember one review I had to do on the new cd of a particular smooth jazz artist. While I had been a sometime lover of anything jazz, “smooth jazz” quickly irked my nerves. The artist whose music I had to review - and to this day I can not remember his name - happened to have a lot of hair. And these reviews had to be short and to the point. So I made a few critical comments about the quality of the music - I wish I could find that review - and ended it by quoting something Ornette Coleman had been cited to say about another musician: “something, something, something, ‘but I was more impressed with his hair.’”

I really wish I could share exactly what I said in that review. What I’m sharing would hit different if I could. But what I can tell you is that Greg burst out laughing with that raucous, full bodied laugh of his when I read the review to him. At first, I was like damn Greg, you laughing at me? But once he explained that it was the way I delivered the punchline about the musician’s hair that “was so devastating,” Greg’s laughter meant the world to me in that instant. It was validation. I felt like I might just have a knack for writing that could take me beyond Sister2Sister.

The impression Greg made on me extended beyond his writing, though. It was his overall artistry and creative brainwork that I often marveled at. I remember when Greg formed his band Women in Love (WIL), featuring two out-of-this-world singers named Helga Davis and Mikel Banks. My HU bud Brandi Smith and I made the pilgrimage to NYC one weekend to attend a WIL concert, and after I heard Mikel belt out the lyric “Nazi punks fuck off,” I was a woman in love with Women in Love. And if I hadn’t known it before, I KNEW then that Greg was a certified genius. To this day, the debut Women in Love album is one of my most cherished. That band was like lightening in a bottle.

The Women in Love debut. #FIYAH

When it came time for me to do my thesis film, and I decided to do a documentary on the saxophonist and Tate acquaintance, Steve Coleman and his M-Base Collective, I knew almost immediately that I wanted to get some Greg Tate commentary for the film. By this time, Greg had become not only a mentor, but something of a big brother who introduced me to a number of creative, brilliant people, who like him, have gone on to make incredible marks in the world. One of those people is Arthur Jaffa or AJ, Greg’s closest friend and probably the ying to Greg’s yang. I didn’t know it way back then when I interviewed Greg and AJ for what would become my 22-minute short film “Steve Coleman and the World of M-Base,” but their’s would be a model friendship I’ve had the privilege to observe at times close up, but mainly from afar; and a beautiful example of what it can mean to find your soulmate in your best friend.

Early AJ and Greg via @avantgroidd on Instagram.

When I completed my film, graduated from Howard, and moved to New York, Greg introduced me to his friend Angel Williams (now angel Kyodo williams) who owned an amazing coffee house and internet cafe called Koko Bar not far from my Brooklyn neighborhood. When Angel invited Greg to program the Koko Bar with talks, music and other attractions, Greg invited me to work with him. It was such a pleasure to collaborate with Greg in that way, and the experience helped me to meet people who would become a part of my little NY community. In 1998, “Steve and the World of M-Base” premiered at the Knitting Factory during the Texaco New York Jazz Festival, and Greg was there. And I was there for Greg’s first and only attempt (that I know of) at marriage with a young woman - whose name I can't remember, but who I can see in my mind plain as day - who was as artistically brilliant and free spirited as Tate. When I got married and moved to Raleigh, NC, Greg encouraged his New York born-and-raised daughter, Chinara, to reach out to me while she was an undergrad at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, so that she’d have a local connection. And most times when I made it back to New York and Greg was in town, or he visited in Raleigh, we’d find time to meet up and either break bread or grab a drink.

A screenshot from “Steve Coleman and the World of M-Base.”

When I started working on my first documentary as a professional filmmaker, Greg was a consistent, enthusiastic cheerleader, offering feedback and advice that both encouraged and calmed me. Talking to Greg in many ways was like talking to my mother - he had what seemed an unwavering belief in what I was capable of. His mom, Florence, had a similar gift. But in spite of how special Greg’s support for me made me feel, I believe Greg offered that kind of support to most people; the kindness of sincere respect and encouragement, coming from a giant who was so disarming, gentle, even shy, he made you forget just how large he loomed in what he called the “kulcha.”

The last two times I got to see Greg will probably endure as my favorite moments with him. In 2017, I was invited to present my developing work, “baartman, beyoncé & me,” at Duke University’s Department of African & African American Studies’ “Black is, Black Will Be: On Black Futures” Fall symposium. The second day of the symposium ended with a public talk between Greg, AJ and Duke professor Mark Anthony Neal (M. A. N.). That morning, I picked up Greg from his hotel and drove him the short distance to Duke’s campus. It was always a joy to be around Greg, because he was so easy going, funny, so full of life. And sitting there with him at the symposium, listening to incredibly erudite discussions about various aspects of Blackness, took me back to the Black Popular Culture conference where I first met Greg back in ‘93. When it was Greg’s, AJ’s and Mark’s turn to take the stage, the entire conversation was electrifying. AJ showed his “Love is the Answer, and the Answer is Death” masterpiece, a short film that will bring you to tears with pride and love for Black people, and inspire a rage deep in your stomach over the injustice and brutality Black folks continue to experience. Listening to AJ talk about his film and Greg talk about his work with an equally brilliant M.A.N. made me so grateful to be a witness to it all. That evening, after the symposium had ended and attendees were invited to a reception at a nearby bar, it was Greg who invited me (and I invited my sis, Yaba Blay) to dinner with him and AJ at the home of Duke art professor Richard J. Powell. When I tell you the stories AJ and Greg told over dinner had everybody hollering, words can’t fully express the hilarity that ensued.

I think Greg may have come to Raleigh in 2018 or 2019, but my memory fails me. What I do remember is that when COVID hit, I was very concerned about my New York peeps, who were at the epicenter of the epidemic. I talked to Greg many times in 2020, once on Zoom, but mainly during my long walks outside. Greg always pushed me to think deeply and critically, not because he said anything to me directly about the need to do so, but because he was so damn smart and knew a little something about everything; it could be hard to keep up with his amazing brain. But I learned so much, too; Greg was the constant teacher. What a shame that the students he taught at Brown, Harvard, and what would have eventually been Yale, won’t have the chance to experience his brilliance again. What a shame that none of us will.

The last time I saw Greg was in September of this year. He was in town with members of his enduring band, the Burnt Sugar Arkestra, to play a gig at the Raleigh festival Hopscotch. Greg invited me out to lunch with him and his bandmates, and it felt like my big brother introducing me to his friends. We had a fantastic lunch that Bruce, the Burnt Sugar keyboardist cooked up, and incredible conversation. At one point, Greg dialed up Chinara, who is now 30-something herself with a beautiful pre-teen son named Nile. I had the pleasure to FaceTime Chinara, meet Nile for the first time, and their cute bunny, Hazel Bazel. Before I knew it, it was time for the band to head to their gig and I said my goodbyes. There is no way that I could have anticipated that would be the very last time I would see Greg.

Tate in his element with the Burnt Sugar Arkestra.

Gratefully, I got to talk to him in October and tell him I love him. He died nearly two months later. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Sadly. How much I’m going to miss the exuberance in his voice every time he would call out “NAT!!!!” when he or I answered a call from the other. How much I will miss my brilliant friend. My fam. What a passionate lover and critic of Black culture we’ve all lost.

Rest in Power, Tatum. You are loved. Thank you for everything.

A recent Tate image via @ctatenutrition on Instagram.