In 1960, one year after Nina Simone's first album, “Little Girl Blue," was released, the poet Langston Hughes struggled to put the appeal of Simones music and presence--that dusky voice, that unblinking gaze--into words. “She is strange," Hughes wrote in The Chicago Daily Defender. So are the plays of Brendan Behan, Jean Genet and Bertolt Brecht. She is far out, and at the same time common. So are raw eggs in Worcestershire.
Hughes was just getting warmed up. “She is different. So was Billie Holiday, St. Francis and John Donne. So is Mort Sahl, so is Ernie Banks." He continued: “You either like her or you don't. If you dont, you wont. If you do--wheee-ouuueu! You do!"
Simone soon befriended Hughes, and through him she dove into the beating heart of that eras young black intelligentsia, becoming close to both James Baldwin and Lorraine Hansberry, who would become godmother to Simones daughter. That Simone was absurdly talented was already clear. But her new friends helped crystallize her inchoate political thinking.
Hughes was just getting warmed up. “She is different. So was Billie Holiday, St. Francis and John Donne. So is Mort Sahl, so is Ernie Banks." He continued: “You either like her or you don't. If you dont, you wont. If you do--wheee-ouuueu! You do!"
Simone soon befriended Hughes, and through him she dove into the beating heart of that eras young black intelligentsia, becoming close to both James Baldwin and Lorraine Hansberry, who would become godmother to Simones daughter. That Simone was absurdly talented was already clear. But her new friends helped crystallize her inchoate political thinking.
